More in Anger

by J. Jill Robinson

  Georgie was angry and the air was cooler in the house for many months. But Reginald did not budge, and after graduating high school Opal went to work as a secretary at Mr. Tupper’s law firm. She did not want to be the cause of discord between her parents; she was more inclined to peacemaking than trouble-making, and stifled her disappointment. “It’s all right,” she told her mother. “I like working there.”

  “It is not all right,” retorted Georgie.

  When Lillie graduated from high school, Georgie asked her husband again. There was a warning in her voice along with the question. Reginald said no again. But after an abundance of thinly veiled threats from his normally warm and loving Georgie, and an atmosphere of considerable coolness that showed no sign of dissipating, supplemented by pleading by Opal on her sister’s behalf, he finally relented enough to say that Lillie could go if the money did not come from him. So Georgie contributed, and Opal provided the balance from her salary.

  What was turning out to be the frosting on the cake for Opal was that Lillie was far more socially than academically inclined. She did not like being the so-called lucky one, and she wriggled out from under the mantle of a crusader for “women’s rights” whenever she could. She cut classes, slept in, forgot to study, and flirted. If she eventually scraped through with a degree, it would be a miracle. Tiny seeds of resentment were sown in Opal each time she witnessed Lillie’s lack of appreciation for all that was being done for her. Still, she was the perfect sister to have around when there was a wedding—she was funny, and lively, and had such good ideas when it came to the parties.

  China Shower for Bride-to-Be

  Miss Opal Elizabeth King, a bride of early June, was the recipient of many pretty bits of china at a shower given in her honour this afternoon. A large basket was attractively trimmed with white ribbons, and the parcels wrapped in tissue paper were placed therein. The unwrapping, with the reading of messages from Miss King’s many girl friends, formed an interesting part of the afternoon’s entertainment. The reception room was decorated with yellow tulips. The hostess wore a gown of black charmeuse with silk net tunic, the bodice of variegated chiffon. Miss King was wearing a smart costume of rose satin, with white ninon sleeves, and collar prettily trimmed with French embroidery. In the tea room the table was centred with red tulips. Mrs. Harry Johnson poured tea. Miss Lillie King cut the ices. Assisting were Misses Leta and Myrtle White, and Miss Pearl King.

  Opal suspected that Mac’s home life and growing-up years in Scotland hadn’t been the happiest, but he was close-mouthed about his family. He had told her the basics—that his mother and father were still living in Thornhill; that he had a brother nine years younger, and two older sisters, both married. But beyond that he would not go. Only once did he mention that his elder sister, Joan, had married “badly,” but when Opal asked for more, he would not elaborate.

  As their wedding plans progressed, Mac did tell her that he had written to his family in Scotland to inform them of the impending marriage, but he cautioned that she should not expect to hear from them. Also, he said quickly, they were poor: she should expect no gift. “Oh, I hadn’t!” she said, mortified. “I expect nothing at all!”

  When Opal telephoned Mac in Calgary with the exciting news that she had received a letter from his mother, she was broadsided when Mac immediately flew into a murderous rage. He yelled at her into the telephone. How dare his mother interfere with his plans. How dare his mother stick her oar in where it was not wanted. On the other end, Opal felt faint, felt ill, so surprised was she at the hatred in his voice that she dropped the receiver. And when, picking it up again with trembling hands, she tried to break in to explain to him that the letter had been such a nice letter, he refused to listen, refused to let her speak as he continued to shout, and then turned his fury on her. Of course Opal could not see what the problem was, he sneered. Of course she would take his mother’s part. That was a female for you. He spat the words angrily. He demanded that she forward the letter. Sobbing, she promised.

  After hanging up the phone, she collapsed on the carpet in the hallway, where her mother found her. It was three days before she could mail the letter to Mac, because she had gone straight to bed. She had never been spoken to like that. No one she knew spoke like that. And she didn’t understand, she didn’t understand—the letter was just a letter, a nice, warm letter of welcome.

  April 2, 1915

  My dear Opal Elizabeth,

  In this, my letter of greeting and welcome to you, on the eve of your becoming one of us, I have intentionally dispensed with any formality, and will therefore seek no excuse for the form of my address, and greet you in terms that I would a daughter, for is that not the position you are about to assume? To do otherwise would seem to me strangely not in keeping with the spirit in which this letter is written, nor would you, after reading it, take away the promise and feeling of a warm, and kindly reception, which I do here extend to you, and which spirit I am so desirous this letter should breathe throughout.

  To compliment you upon the happy event which is about to take place, would be out of place here: your combined good sense and personal knowledge of one another necessarily dispense with the need of remarks upon my part. Sufficient is it for me to say, that the qualities which have proved James to be a good son, and an excellent brother, give good promise of the future.

  Nor, indeed, will it be necessary for me to define any position for myself, or for the others. United, as a family, in the past, we have always been, united, in the present, we are, and for the future, we must remain so. Intermingled, in our lives, has been the loving desire to aid one another, in weel, in woe, and such, you will find, will be our desire, my dear future daughter, in the years that lie before us, when you will become one of our number.

  Finally, I extend to you a mother’s love, and with that, my duty is done.

  In conclusion, I would sign myself if not as yet, then, in the future, my dear daughter,

  Yours affectionately,

  Mother—Margaret Graham Macaulay

  Mac would later confide in her (without letting his eyes meet hers—his eyes skittered off her shoulder, and down onto the knees of his trousers, and the floor, and then back up to the cameo at her neck) about his relationship with his mother. Opal stayed still as he spoke, didn’t move a muscle lest he stop, lest the slightest movement interrupt this fragile, rare intimacy. “My mother’s primary occupation,” he told her, “was getting me, her elder son, educated; she was that desperate that I should escape the poverty we lived in. She saw to it that I stuck to my books, and to that end she kept a whip handy.”

  Opal was horrified. A whip! He continued. It had been his mother’s idea from the day he was born that he should go to Edinburgh University and become a lawyer, and she never let him forget what she expected of him. If he forgot everything else in his life, he said, he would not forget the look of grim determination on his mother’s face as she refused him affection and denied him indulgence. He recalled that as a child he had brought her treasures he found on his walks. Flowers. Pebbles. Yet nothing was ever enough for her, or right, and she had hit the flowers from his hands.

  “I am unable to think of her,” he said, “without choking in anger.” As he had on the telephone. She might remember that time.

  “Yes,” she said. But was his mother always unkind? she dared ask. Was she never good to him?

  “Not that I recall,” he said. “My father was the one for kindness, not her, and she held him in contempt for it. She was always unreasonable,” he went on, words tumbling irregularly now from his mouth as he unburdened himself. “Always. I would have tried my best to please her,” he said angrily, pain in his voice. “I didn’t need her constant threats.” After he dutifully finished law school, he had gone home to Thornhill one last time, to tell his parents his news: he was leaving for Canada. His father had looked sad, but had wished him well.

  “And your mother?” asked Opal.

  “If revenge were s
weet,” he said, “it should have been candy-coated by the look on her face when I told her. For once, she could barely speak.” Mac chuckled bitterly. But that didn’t last long. Soon enough, she had found voice, and told him he couldn’t go, she wouldn’t allow it. She told him she would not contribute a penny to his leaving Scotland. “I told her I had never expected her to contribute.” And that was the end of that.

  Poor Mac. Opal felt melancholy as she undressed for bed and brushed her thick brown hair a hundred strokes before plaiting it into a braid. She would be gentle, and kind, and a good wife to him. She pledged that he would always feel loved with her.

  She slipped her nightgown on over her head and slipped off her slippers. She was feeling a little anxious, because lately Mac was becoming less and less real to her. He needed to appear, to confirm for her and the world that he was the flesh-and-blood man she had fallen so deeply in love with, and he with her. Really, all she wanted now was to be alone with him, away from the limelight that was claiming so much of her. Some days the stream of celebrations seemed more like hurdles and duties and less like fun, there were so many of them. And over the past few months doubt had been creeping more often into her thoughts. What if he no longer loved her? What if he didn’t come? What if he abandoned her and stayed in Calgary and never gave her another thought and she was made an utter and complete fool of like Pearly K had been, only much, much worse?

  She stood before her mirror with her hands on her hips, turning herself sideways and back, and thinking about Mac and hoping he would like what he saw. She had found herself wondering more and more about the physical part of married life. How was she going to manage? was what she was thinking, meaning the making of children, and all that went with it. The most intimate details of married life. Allowing him to put that in her—what would that be like? Putting his body against her body. Perhaps they would at some point be completely naked. The thought of his seeing her, and her him, made her blush deeply with embarrassment. She didn’t really know what “it” on a man looked like, let alone how it would feel inside her. Would it be pointy like his nose, or cute and pudgy like a baby boy’s? She had bathed her little brothers, but a man—she had never seen a man’s. Would it feel strange? Repulsive? She was both excited and afraid.

  Opal knelt beside her bed and said her prayers. Then she climbed into bed, where she recalled, as she always did before sleep, Mac’s few short, hard kisses, the occasional touches of their hands, and their betrothal day on the riverbank. He was romantic. He did love her, he must, and she was foolish to doubt it. But the small store of memories she carried in her heart was getting worn from too much handling. She sighed, and turned out the bedside light.

  Lying in her bed, Opal thought about the chest of silver that had arrived by train that afternoon from her mother’s family in Truro. Her father had made a special trip home from the hardware store to bring it to her. She herself had used the clawed hammer to open the crate, and she and her mother had hoisted the chest up onto the dining room table. Now she imagined herself setting the table for their dinner together each night. The silver gleamed, the crystal sparkled. She pretended she was meeting him at the door when he came home from work, taking her apron off and laying it aside. He would take her in his arms and smile, then kiss her in greeting. She saw them dining together by candlelight, and then sitting companionably together before the fireplace the way her parents often did. She smiled a sleepy smile. Their marriage would be at least as long, she predicted, as her parents’ was, and as happy.

  Bride-elect Receives Clock

  Last Monday evening the choir of Zion Methodist church met at the home of Mr. and Mrs. A. Monkman. Mr. Stanley Osborne, choir master, read the address, and Mrs. Monkman presented Miss Opal King, a bride-elect of next week, with a beautiful brass clock from the choir. The rooms were decorated for the occasion with marguerites. Miss Phene Rowden and Miss S. Monkman assisted in serving the refreshments.

  Soon! Mac would be here soon! He was on the way, he was on the train right this minute, coming to her. Opal stood in the dining room doorway picturing what he would see when he stood here right beside her. Last night she and Lillie had arranged the wedding and engagement gifts on the sideboard and the table—so many lovely presents to help her and Mac build their home together. The clock was on the mantel. She had placed the pretty silver teapot that had arrived from Mac’s family in a place of honour in the centre of the dining room table. She loved the teapot’s low-slung body, its ebony handle and graceful spout. It was the first thing she wanted Mac to see when today, yes today, in only an hour, he arrived in Winnipeg for their wedding. Finally! This time—the teapot time—she had written, not telephoned, the news that a present had come from his brother Michael on behalf of the family.

  When they returned home from the train station, she took Mac’s hat and coat, hung them up, then tried to take his hand to lead him, but he pulled back and away from her. “I’m coming,” he said, “but I’ll take my own time.” She felt shame flush through her. He hadn’t so much as touched her arm since he arrived, while she—she had longed to hug him, hard, to bury her face in his chest, to feel his arms around her. Instead she felt bereft, a fool.

  Wedding Announcement

  On Wednesday evening, June 9th, at 8 o’clock, in Zion Methodist church, the marriage of the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald King, to James Macaulay, M.A., LL.B., of Calgary, will take place. Miss Lillie King, sister of the bride, will be bridesmaid, Miss Norma Johnson, flower girl, and Mr. John Allen, best man.

  “It looks like Christmastime in here,” Mac said, and turned towards the fireplace where her father was standing. “But where is the tree? Where is the ‘blazing Yule before us’?”

  “Oh, you are funny! It’s June!” Then, “Mac?” She tried to sound cheerful. “Come and see!” Reluctantly, he allowed her to steer him towards the table. “Look! Isn’t it lovely?”

  He didn’t pick up the teapot. He moved to the sideboard instead, where he opened the lid of the chest of silver then closed it again. “Very nice,” he said.

  “But Mac, do you like the teapot?” She had picked it up and held it out to him.

  “It’s a nice enough piece, I suppose. It must have set them back.”

  She gave him the letter, and that was all, until she was bringing in a lunch tray and caught him putting the teapot down.

  May 7, 1915

  My dearest James,

  In accordance with an old and invariable custom, it is the habit for all relatives and friends to mark the occasion of such an auspicious event as an impending wedding with a gift—a mark of esteem—if not also partaking of the nature of a remembrance of former happy days, before you left us to go to Canada. Nor would I desire, at this time, to be an exception to the general rule. Would you therefore accept of a present, sent by me on behalf of all our family, which I trust will reach you safely, accompanied, as it is, with all the best wishes that one brother could entertain for the other, and with the hope that it may long serve to grace the table of your future home.

  More need not be said at this juncture—feelings rest in the heart, and have only their echo in words, but if sincere and heartfelt wishes for your health and prosperity in the married state may express to you my utmost desires at the present moment, then I am content, and can truly sign myself,

  Ever your affectionate brother, Michael Edward Macaulay

  Later that evening, at the dinner table, dabbing lemon meringue from his mouth with his serviette, Mac said, “I should perhaps mention something.”

  He was in good humour, Opal was glad to see; he must have liked his brother’s letter, he must like the teapot, for before dinner he had taken her aside and kissed her, tenderly.

  “I have purchased something for you, Opal. Which I hope will bring you pleasure while you are home alone while I am at work.” He looked at her across the table.

  “Yes?” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “I have acquired for y
ou,” he said, “a piano.”

  “Mac!” Opal burst into tears. All her hopes and fears of the last few weeks and all the panic inside her collapsed. The kiss, and now this. She cried openly in joy and relief. “Mac! Mac!” What a ninny she had been for doubting him. For her fleeting loss of faith in him.

  There was no doubt that Mac was pleased to have pleased her, in spite of his evident discomfort at the emotional outburst. “It’s a grand piano,” he added. “A small one, but good quality. German.” He raised his hand. “I know, I know. The war. But you can’t deny they make good pianos.”

  “Get hold of yourself, Opal,” said her father.

  “Yes, pull yourself together, Opal,” said her mother disapprovingly, her eyes smiling. Lillie and Pearly K were both grinning now.

  Melville was rolling his eyes. “Now you’ll have to learn to play decently, sis.”

  “She already knows,” retorted Pearly K. “She plays beautifully.”

  “Beautifully for a rhinoceros,” giggled Melville.

  Lillie kicked Opal’s chair. Jimmy laughed into his glass and spilled his milk.

  “I have heard her play quite nicely,” said Mac.

  “Well, Mac, that is quite the grand gesture,” quipped Reginald, and everyone groaned.

  But there was more, and Mac made his biggest announcement while the wave of excitement over the piano had not yet ebbed. “I have made another purchase as well,” he said, regaining their attention. “Somewhere to keep the piano. I have purchased … a house.”

  Opal, Lillie, Pearly K and even Georgie gave squeals, while the men and boys made deeper sounds of pleasure. Reginald and Georgie exchanged smiles, and looks. They were impressed. First that diamond ring, and then the piano, and now this.

  “A house?” Opal exclaimed, sitting back down in astonishment. “A house!”