by Janette Oke
Elizabeth tossed a glove her way. “Talk about cheeky,” she said, shaking her own head. “You are almost a match for him.”
They both laughed.
The dining room was not able to supply Elizabeth with her oysters. “It’s the war, you know,” said the dark-suited waiter. “We are unable to bring such items in on the trains. It seems that the train cars are all used for transporting troops and supplies right now.”
Christine wondered if it was the truth or a bald lie to excuse their shortcoming. Elizabeth masked her disappointment and ordered duck instead.
To make up for it, she told Christine, she ordered cherries jubilee for dessert and drank four cups of the rich, strong coffee.
“I’ll never sleep tonight,” she said almost girlishly. Christine was sure she had never seen her mother so . . . so unmotherly.
So relaxed, and enjoying herself.
“The soak in the tub will relax you.”
“Yes. Yes, it will. I just hope I don’t fall asleep right there. You’d never manage to get me off to bed.”
“I’d add a bit more hot water now and then.”
They laughed at the exchange and excused themselves from the table.
“Let’s walk up,” suggested Christine. “I want to see how they have furnished and decorated all the halls.”
“I’m too full to walk,” protested Elizabeth. “I’d never make it up five flights.”
“Then you take the elevator. I’ll meet you at the room.”
“But we’ve only one key.”
“You take it. You’ll be there first. I’ll knock.”
Elizabeth nodded and headed for the elevator. Christine began the long trek up five flights of stairs. She did not rush but enjoyed each new floor with its rich, fine furniture and pieces of artwork. Heavy velvet curtains graced the wide windows at the end of each hallway and shimmering candelabra sent prisms of light over the deep wine-colored carpeting.
It wasn’t until she was on the fourth floor that she saw anyone, a man and woman just leaving their room. They seemed to have been arguing about something and quickly hushed as Christine approached. The woman shot an angry look her way, but the man avoided eye contact with her as he fumbled with the key in the door lock. Christine did not bother with a greeting. She hurried on by, only glancing at the picture of the English countryside that hung near the elevator door. She moved toward the exit sign that announced her next flight of stairs and continued on to the fifth floor. But her little journey had been spoiled by their hostility toward each other and toward her.
Her mother answered the door at the sound of her knock. “There you are. I was beginning to worry.”
“I dawdled. There was so much to see. You’ve never seen such magnificent paintings.”
“Perhaps we should walk down when we go for breakfast in the morning. It’s much easier to walk down than up.”
Christine nodded. She did hope they would not cross paths with that couple again. She had the feeling that their mood would not improve with the coming of a new day.
“I’m surprised you aren’t in that tub,” she noted.
“I had to wait to let you in. Remember?”
“Sorry.”
“There’s plenty of time. We’ve the whole evening to ourselves.”
The whole evening. Christine wondered if it might become a bit of a bore. She hadn’t even brought a book or some handwork. And with her mother buried in the suds of the bathtub, there would be very little to do. She thought of the brazen young man in the elevator, and her cheeks flushed once again. She never would have considered going out with a stranger, but it was going to be awfully hard to think of some way to occupy her time in this luxurious prison.
“Why don’t you call up some of your old friends, dear?” Elizabeth was asking as she moved toward the bathroom. “I saw a telephone right there by that green door to the left in the lobby.”
My old friends, thought Christine. You’d think after spending all those months in the city there’d be some old friends to call. But she could think of no one. The truth was, her days and evenings in the city had been filled with Boyd, the boss’s son, who had captured her heart. She could not even think of anyone from her old church youth group who might still be around and want to hear from her.
“I think I’ll just rest,” she told her mother. “I might even run down to the lobby and pick up the day’s paper.”
“A paper. That would be nice. I haven’t read the news for who knows how long.”
Christine picked up the room key and bounced it restlessly in her hand. It appeared that the paper was about her only entertainment possibility.
But the newspaper did little to lighten her evening. The headlines shouted the news of the conflict overseas. Photographs of smiling, uniformed young men and women, waving the victory sign, filled its pages. There was even a column of names of those who had “shipped out,” sent off to England to be further prepared for the battle ahead. These who had such a short time ago been carefree young people with bright hopes for their tomorrows would perhaps in future lie in some foreign grave—if they had a grave at all.
Christine thought of Boyd. He had joined the air force. Was he still all right? Would she know if something happened to him? Would she be informed? No, likely not. She had no idea where he was, whether he was even alive. She found herself breathing another prayer on his behalf.
From the bathroom she could hear the sound of running water. Her mother was warming up the tub again. Christine tossed the paper on the nearby chair. The news it contained only served to depress her. She had already seen enough. With all her heart she prayed that Henry would not decide to go. Surely, surely, he had already made up his mind. He would not be leaving Amber and Danny.
But what about her? Had she a right to remain behind while other young people gave their lives in the cause of freedom? It didn’t seem right. She had no more to live for than each of them. She was ready to die, should death be required. She knew she was prepared for eternity. Not because she was good, or favored, but because she had made peace with God. Yet she had no desire for life to be cut short.
She hated the war. Hated the selfishness, the greed that caused one country, one person, to feel superior to another. It wasn’t right. Someone had to help stop this awful war.
But did she have to be involved? Was it her war? But neither was it theirs—the long list of volunteers who were the next wave of new recruits being “sent over.”
Christine picked up the paper again and studied the smiling faces, searching carefully for one that might look like John or Wynn, their two young Indian friends. But many of the faces were a blur. She could not tell if there were any Cree among them.
She could hear her mother stirring in the next room. Evidently she had finished her long soak in the tub and would soon be coming out. Christine took a deep breath to help calm her churning feelings and questions. She hoped her face would not give her away. The evening would not be pleasant for either of them if she didn’t get herself in hand.
She went to the window and swept back the heavy drapery. The night looked still and cold. Few hurried along the sidewalks. The scene brought no comfort. It was as barren and cold as her own heart felt right now. Somehow . . . somehow she had to find her way and some sense of what was taking place in the world. But for the moment, it made no sense at all.
CHAPTER
Four
When they caught the train to Calgary the next morning, Christine thought she had never seen her mother so excited. Elizabeth chatted on and on about Jon and Mary and her time with them when she first came west to teach. She reminisced about each of their children—William, Sarah, Kathleen, and Lizbeth—recalling cute childish sayings and funny anecdotes. Christine wondered if her mother would be terribly disappointed to see her beloved children now as young adults.
As winter mornings go, it was a pleasant one with the sun reflected off the drifts of new snow, causing an intriguing play of shadows and l
ight. Pristine fields stretched for miles, inviting someone—something—to be the first to string a thread of beaded track across the expanse. The distant hills rose in the crisp morning air, their tall pines like frosty sentinels against the blueness of the sky.
Christine found it hard to pull her eyes from the view rushing by the window. Even her mother’s voice served not to distract her but rather to lay a background for the mood the scene evoked. The troubled thoughts about her future from the evening before had vanished. Looking out on the world at hand, how could anyone not deem it good? she wondered. The vastness. The perfection. The beauty. All spoke to her heart. She was glad to be alive. Glad to be a part of it. She felt her heart grow with joy. This . . . this is what life is meant to be.
A warning whistle sliced the morning air with a shrillness that was both melancholy and invasive, and they pulled into a small town. Christine leaned her head against the cool window and watched a scurry of activity. Horses stomped and blew great drafts of frosty air. Men called and pulled and heaved and loaded, their whiskers whitened by frozen breath. There were few women or children about. An occasional hand stirring aside a curtain was about as much indication that they, too, occupied the town. But Christine knew they were there. She saw it in the smoke that curled slowly up from the chimneys. In the small sleds leaning against woodsheds. In the snowmen in fenced yards and the brooms that stood beside the doors, inviting one to sweep the snow from boots and clothing before entering the kitchen.
She even thought she saw it in the scurrying of the men, for why else would they rush about in such inclement weather if not to provide for someone dear who shared the home?
The act of stopping, of observing, of moving on once again, was repeated throughout the day. Christine thought her mother paid little attention to the hustle and bustle, so was surprised when Elizabeth leaned forward, her entire face alight with excitement.
“Look,” she cried. “We’ve reached Lacombe.”
Christine had heard enough family history to know that Lacombe was the area where her mother had taught school. She had, on two occasions, visited her grandmother Delaney and her aunt, uncle, and cousins who still lived on the family farm outside the small town. Still, she was not prepared for Elizabeth’s reaction.
“Oh, I wish we could stop. How I’d love to visit the school again. And the little teacherage. The dear little teacherage. I was so happy there.”
Christine chuckled. “From what you’ve said before, I always thought you were quite miserable.”
“Miserable?” The word seemed to shock Elizabeth.
“Yes. Wondering just who Dad was and if he cared at all for you.”
To Christine’s surprise, Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed. “Well, he did keep me guessing,” she admitted. “I thought he was Lydia’s husband. It annoyed me because he . . . he seemed to . . . to pay some attention to me as well.”
“But you wanted his attention.”
“Not if he was a married man, I didn’t.” Elizabeth was emphatic.
“But you flirted—just a little bit.” Christine couldn’t help but prolong her mother’s obvious discomfort a little further.
Elizabeth’s face was now rosy with color. “I did not flirt. Well, I . . . I wished him to notice me . . . at first. But when I . . . when I thought he was married to Lydia, I certainly did nothing . . . nothing at all to draw his attention.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes and played with straightening her already smooth skirts. Christine could not hide her smile. She had never seen her mother so disturbed. She reached out and took Elizabeth’s hand.
“Mama,” she said, “if I’d seen him, I think I might not have been as honorable as you. I might have flirted—even if I had thought him a married man. He is so . . . so handsome . . . and in his uniform—”
“You would not have,” declared Elizabeth, chin lifting. “I have raised you better than that.”
She must have recognized the teasing in Christine’s eyes and realized she’d been baited. She gave the hand on hers a little shake. “You silly child,” she said with a bit of a laugh. There was no chiding in her tone or words.
Christine leaned back in her seat again. “Tell me about it,” she invited. “What was it like to live all alone in the teacherage in the country? Was it lonely?”
The flush left Elizabeth’s face, and in its place Christine could see a thoughtfulness. A looking back on those years with fondness.
“Lonely? I suppose it was . . . in a way . . . at times. But no, not really. I missed my family. Dreadfully at first. I had never been away from home before. But . . . but even so I always had this strange and . . . and very real sense of peace that I was right where I should be. I’d sit in that lumpy old chair and sip my tea from my china cup at the end of the day and see those faces of the dear children I was privileged to teach and . . .”
She stopped. A pensive look caused her eyes to shine with unshed tears. “I suppose they are all adults now with families . . . and struggles . . . and rewards of their own.”
Christine nodded silently.
“But I . . . I still like to think that somehow . . . somehow I made a difference in their lives. The little I could teach them—the love that I could not help but show them—I like to think that it helped in some way to . . . to shape them into whom they have become.”
“I’m sure it did.” The words were not more than a whisper.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Christine assumed her mother’s full attention now was being given to the loading and unloading of goods on the platform of the Lacombe station, so she was surprised when Elizabeth spoke again.
“I’ve often thought of going back. Of inviting myself to a community picnic or a Christmas program. Some . . . some community event where I could see the most people in the shortest time. Someplace where they gather. But I’ve . . . I’ve never had the opportunity. Nor the courage.”
“The courage?”
The train’s whistle blew, long and loud. With a shudder that rattled the adjoined cars, the wheels began to turn once again. They were moving on.
“Things change so over the years. I guess . . . I guess I was afraid that I might . . . well . . . discover something that would damage my precious memories. Memories are so fragile, you know. Sometimes I feel they are best left undisturbed.”
Christine thought about the words. At length she dared inquire, “Is that why you have never accepted Dad’s invitation to take you back to the North?”
She saw Elizabeth’s chin tremble. No answer was immediately forthcoming. When she turned to speak once again to her daughter, there were tears in her eyes.
“It was not easy making a home in the North. But I . . . I grew to love it. I suppose partly because I loved your father so. But I would never claim it was easy. At first I was so lonely. And a bit fearful too. The people were so . . . so different. I didn’t know how to understand them . . . nor could I communicate with them.
“And then a strange thing happened. At least it seems rather strange when I look back on it. I began to make friends. Not just . . . just acquaintances but real, deep-down friends. I loved the people, Christine. The women. The darling children. And of course there was our precious Sammy. . . .” Elizabeth could not speak for a moment. Christine knew the story of the little Indian boy whom Elizabeth and Wynn had taken into their home and their hearts. And then, much later, his father had returned to claim him. . . . Christine had a lump in her throat as her mother wiped her eyes. But Elizabeth took a deep breath and continued, “Those Indian women’s lives were so . . . so hard. They endured so much.
“It was hard to leave them. I felt like . . . rather a traitor, actually. I was going back to many comforts. Many amenities. And they . . . they just had to stay where they were—as they were—and cope. I felt like I . . . deserted them.”
“But you didn’t.”
Elizabeth raised her head. “When your father was injured and we thought we were going to lose him, something happen
ed inside me. Before . . . before when I was afraid . . . or troubled, I always had him. He was my strength. My comfort. As long as I had that I could go on. But when I thought I might lose him, I realized that I had no strength of my own. Not really. If I lost him . . .”
Christine reached for her mother’s hand again.
“The North nearly took him from me, Christine.”
“But, Mama . . .”
“I was the one who pushed to get him back to a place that was more civilized. I don’t think your father really wanted to come. He would have stayed right there, injured leg and all, and trekked the miles and camped in the cold and exposed himself to more half-crazy men. I . . . I think his heart is still in the North. If we went back—”
“I’m going back,” Christine said impulsively. “I don’t blame Dad for feeling that way. For loving it. He was . . . was needed there. Loved. The North was where he belonged.”
She spoke with such vehemence that both of them were surprised.
“You are angry with me?” Elizabeth spoke softly.
Christine stirred on the worn plush seat, her sudden outburst now controlled.
“I’m not angry. Just . . . just a little upset, I guess. I love the North. You . . . you not only took Dad from it, but us . . . Henry and me too. It . . . it just doesn’t seem fair.”
Elizabeth toyed with the gloves in her lap. “I guess I did,” she admitted. “And I’m sorry. But no . . . no, I’m not sorry. It was time for you to come out. Both of you. You needed to . . . to learn about the rest of the world. You needed to see things and hear things and—and grow up. And your father. He needed to be able to sleep in a bed at night. To have regular hours of work. To walk around without watching his back.”
“Walk without ‘watching his back’?” Christine was stirred to remonstrate, “But he was loved. And respected.”
“By most. Yes. But there were always a few—those who had broken the law and been made to pay for it—who watched for opportunities to . . . well, let’s just say your father had to be very vigilant when out on the trail.”