by Michael Rowe
At a rundown-looking supermarket two streets down, I picked up some non-perishable supplies. I regretted not having checked to see whether or not any of the appliances in the kitchen were in working order. I bought canned goods, soups and stews, and sugar for coffee. I bought a small carton of milk and one of cream, not wanting to waste larger cartons in case the refrigerator was hopelessly beyond repair. I also bought a flashlight and some batteries.
At the checkout counter I asked the cashier if there was a library in town. She wore a pin on her red polyester smock that said Ask me! I’m JANICE, and she had the ready smile and plump red face of someone who was born believing that the world was just bursting with new friends she hadn’t yet met.
“Why, there sure is,” she said. “You new in Alvina?”
“Yes, I am. I’m just getting the lay of the land. Where’s the library?”
“Well, I’m Janice. Welcome to town.” She beamed. “Okay, the library.” She frowned. “You take a left on Main Street there.” She waved a plump hand in the direction of where I’d come. “Then you turn left on Nickle Street, then right onto Jesse Skelton Road. The library is right there.”
“You mean this end of Main Street, right?” I said, wanting to be sure. “Not the historic section?”
“There’s only one Main Street, honey. I guess it’s historic. Old, anyway. But I’ve never heard it called ‘historic’ before. Nice, though. Kinda ritzy.”
I thanked Janice, then left the store and loaded my purchases in the back of the Volvo. At the library, which was not, in fact, on Jesse Skelton Road, but one street over on Hymers Street, I asked about reference materials pertaining to a family called Blackmore who had lived in the area in the 1800s and had owned a large property on an island that likewise bore their name.
The librarian frowned. “That doesn’t ring a bell,” she admitted. “Let me look it up on the computer.” She tapped on the keyboard and stared at the screen. “Nothing yet.”
Trying to be helpful, I added, “I believe the owner, Alexander Blackmore, was in local politics. His house was called Wild Fell.”
The librarian looked up at me, her expression nonplused. “Oh,” she said. “How interesting.” She glanced back down at the screen. “Let’s just see . . . well, yes. There he is.” She tapped a few more keys. “Alexander Blackmore, elected to the Canadian House of Commons in the mid-1800s. Tory. Not very much on file here, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “That’s odd. I would have thought there would be more, unless he was a very minor politician. But still, elected to the Commons, there ought to be a bit more biography at least. Hold on, let me ask one of my colleagues if we have anything in the back. When the new library was built, a lot of the older material went to the historical society. They’ve got a more comprehensive archive there. After all, the past is all they do. I’m trying to convince people around here to modernize.” She sighed and stood up. “But I’ll just check, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you very much for the effort.”
She smiled wryly. “There’s not a lot going on here, as you can see. I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, she was in the company of an older woman of perhaps sixty-five who had the authoritative air of a senior librarian, or supervisor of some sort. She peered intently at me through round eyeglasses. She carried a manila envelope in her hand, but to me it looked woefully thin.
“This is the gentleman.” The younger woman indicated me with a nod. To me she said, “I asked Mrs. Beams, my colleague, about the politician you mentioned.”
Mrs. Beams said, “You’re researching the Blackmores?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m trying to learn something about their life here in the nineteenth century. I’ve seen some portraits of the family, and I was curious.”
“To be clear, you are researching the Blackmore family. Of Blackmore Island, in Alvina?”
I was confused. “Yes, that’s right. Is there something odd about that? Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand. Is something wrong?”
Mrs. Beams paused before answering. When she did, her tone was neutral, though I had the impression that the neutrality was forced, as though she were answering under duress. Not rude, but far from inclined to elaboration. “No, far from it. Nothing wrong at all. Unfortunately we don’t have a great deal of information about the Blackmores aside from the barest information about Mr. Blackmore’s political career. But most people in Alvina have heard something or other about Blackmore Island over the years.”
I kept my voice light, thinking of Mrs. Fowler and her happy ghosts. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous,” Mrs. Beams replied. “Just sad, in some ways. We had some deaths here in town in the sixties. It tore apart the town. I guess most people of my generation associate the name Blackmore with that tragedy. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound melodramatic. I was just curious.”
“I heard something about that. The drowning? A young couple, apparently?”
“Yes,” she said. “Brenda Egan and Sean Schwartz. I was in school with them in 1960. I was a year ahead of Brenda. It was very hard on everyone.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been. But I’m really only researching the family—the Blackmore family.”
“So you said.” Mrs. Beams smiled, if a touch grimly. “Well, the past is past, isn’t it? Nothing to do with the present, especially for strangers. No, it’s not really important unless you lived through it.” She handed me a thin folder. “This is all we have, unfortunately. They’re photocopies of some photographs of the family that were saved when the old Methodist church in town burned down in the thirties. The Blackmores were generous supporters of the church, apparently. Pillars of the community, so to speak. Not very lucky folks, from what I’ve heard, but there you have it.” She handed me the envelope. “Please feel free to peruse these. Here,” she said pointedly. “They aren’t to leave the library. We’re not sure where the originals got to, and we’d like to hang onto these, if you don’t mind.”
I thanked the two women and assured them that I wouldn’t steal anything, then located a table far enough away from the main desk for privacy.
I opened the envelope, to which was affixed a sticker that read Blackmore, A./Methodist Church Fire of 1932, and withdrew the sheaf of papers. As Mrs. Beams promised, the images were poor-quality photocopies of nineteenth century photographs that were likely already faded when they had been photocopied in the first place.
Several appeared to be church events, with the easily recognizable Alexander Blackmore presiding in his role of town squire, cutting ribbons and handing out prizes to a group of children.
In one, the banner behind the podium at which he stood read Dominion of Canada Day Children’s Poetry Recitation Competition. Blackmore’s eyes were in shadow, almost invisible, but his mouth was stretched in a wide politician’s smile as he handed out what appeared to be a Bible, or a dictionary, to a small girl in a pinafore, and a boy in plus-fours and a flat cap. In another, he was seated onstage at a Christmas pageant, posing with the boys playing the shepherds and Joseph.
The little girl who was obviously playing the Virgin Mary was seated on his knee. His arm was around the child in a gesture that struck me as oddly intimate and proprietary, especially given the church setting. I frowned. Surely that couldn’t be Rosa playing the Virgin Mary? And, no, it was not: in the next picture, clearly taken on the same night, a young, unsmiling Rosa, perhaps thirteen, posed beside her father. Alexander Blackmore’s hand was clamped on her shoulder. While not actually leaning away from him in the picture, Rosa’s body language suggested tension, even constraint, as though at that moment she would rather be anywhere else than standing next to her father.
The last photograph was a formal portrait of the entire Blackmore family in the nave of the church. Alexander and his wife were seated in high chairs like the lord and lady of the manor. Behind them, Rosa and Malcolm
posed stiffly, Rosa standing behind her mother and Malcolm behind his father. I was struck that in this picture, while Rosa was still not smiling, in this case, very likely due to the formality of the pose, something about her proximity to her brother seemed to relax her. The set of her shoulders was less rigid and, in spite of the degraded quality of the reproduction, the expression on her face seemed markedly less severe.
“Excuse me.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to see an old man in a flannel shirt and a tweed jacket that had obviously seen better days. He wore baggy cotton trousers and ancient running shoes. But when he smiled, it began in his bright blue eyes and lit up his whole face—the kind of smile in the presence of which it was impossible not to smile as well.
“Hello,” I said. “May I help you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to be able to help you, sir. My daughter”—he indicated the librarian’s desk where Mrs. Beams stood watching with an expression I could only read as disapproval, though it was unclear which of us she was disapproving of—“told me that you’re researching the Blackmore family. She told me not to bother you, but I couldn’t resist stopping by an introducing myself. I wondered if I could be of any assistance. My name is Clarence Brocklehurst. I’m retired now, but I ran the Alvina Historical Society for many years. I was born and raised here. I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have. The Blackmores are an odd subject, but as a former teacher, I can’t help but be pleased when young people take an interest in local history.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Brocklehurst, but I don’t want to put you out. Also,” I said, sotto voce, “I don’t want to get you into any trouble with your daughter for talking in a library. I don’t think she’d appreciate that at all.”
“Oh, I’m in here every day, Mr. Browning. I drive my daughter crazy. I’ve read all the books in my own house, and now I’m working my way through these here.”
When he laughed, it was the open, full-throated laugh of a much younger man. Like his smile, his laugh again lit up his face and I suddenly wondered how old he was. He could be anywhere from sixty to eighty, though with the morose Mrs. Beams as his daughter, I leaned more toward the latter figure.
“Quite so, quite so,” he said. He laughed again, more softly this time. “They can be a bit martinet-like in here, can’t they? I have a proposal to make, young man. Do you have a car?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I walked here from my house,” he said. “And I’m feeling a bit worn out. If you would be so kind as to drive me home, I would be pleased to offer you a cup of home-brewed tea and share any information and stories I have about the Blackmore family.”
I was surprised by the invitation from a stranger, albeit an apparently harmless stranger. “Mr. Brocklehurst, I’d be happy to give you a lift home, but you don’t need to give me tea. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Oh believe me, Mr. Browning, it’s no imposition at all. I would appreciate the company. It gets lonely around here sometimes, especially with my wife gone. Please rest assured I don’t run around inviting strangers over to my house, but when my daughter told me you were researching the Blackmores, I just knew we had to talk.” He beamed. “My father, you see, used to play chess with the Blackmore family butler, and he was a bit of a raconteur. The butler, I mean. Well, also my father, to tell the truth. And I seem to have inherited his garrulousness.” He chuckled again.
“At Wild Fell? Your father played chess with the butler at Wild Fell?”
“Yes, at Wild Fell.” Mr. Brocklehurst looked at me with evident surprise. “You know of it?”
“Actually, Mr. Brocklehurst, I bought it.”
He shook his head slightly in confusion. “You bought what, exactly?”
“I bought Blackmore Island,” I said. “I bought Wild Fell.”
He gaped at me with unambiguous shock. “You bought Blackmore Island? From whom?”
“It was offered for sale. Apparently, the property reverted to a family in England who are related to the Blackmores somehow. I bought it a short time ago. I bought the island and the house.”
“Good Lord,” he said. “Good Lord. You must have very deep pockets, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I got your name. How rude of me.”
“My name is Jameson Browning, Mr. Brocklehurst. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, too, Mr. Browning. Well,” he said. “This puts an entirely new complexion on the matter. Perhaps you can enlighten me, as well, rather than just listening to an old history teacher give a lecture.” Mr. Brocklehurst favoured me with a conspiratorial wink. “Were you interested in taking me up on my offer of a cup of tea? If so, we should probably go. And don’t mention it to my daughter. She gets a little bit tense when the topic of Blackmore Island comes up. I believe she mentioned poor Brenda Egan to you, and what happened in ’60?”
“She did, yes. Very sad. I’d heard about it before, but I’d never spoken with anyone directly connected to the drowning. I’m afraid I may have upset her a bit. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Brocklehurst said, patting my arm. “It’s her way. It’s all our way, really. Small towns, you know. These things get written into our DNA, almost. Collective consciousness or something like that. The farther you get from the city the stronger that experience is. Something can happen in a small town fifty, a hundred years ago and, in some cases, folks who weren’t even born yet will share in some part of it. Does that make sense to you, or is it terribly quaint?”
“It makes sense to me,” I said, thinking of the Blackmore family portraits in the cellar. “I could see how the past would live on in a small town. It’s likely inevitable.”
He rubbed his hands in excitement. “Oh, you are a wonderfully intelligent young man,” Mr. Brocklehurst said with delight. “I’m looking forward to our talk very much. Intelligent conversation in Alvina is so rare. Shall we go?”
“My car is outside,” I said. “After you, Mr. Brocklehurst.”
Chapter Seven
THE HISTORIAN’S TALE
Clarence Brocklehurst’s house on the outskirts of Alvina was an educated man’s house, a teacher’s house. Every available wall was occupied with either floor to ceiling bookshelves overflowing with books of British and Scottish history—as well as a significant number of volumes on Canadian history and works of classic English literature—or antique maps of Canada and the British Isles.
Next to the living room fireplace there was an easy chair with a neatly folded dark green crocheted afghan draped over the back. It was obviously his favourite, regular chair. Behind it was a long-necked lamp with a dusty rose shade that still likely provided more than enough light for reading. It was here that Mr. Brocklehurst repaired after making a pot of tea and carrying it into the living room, placing it on a low coffee table between us.
He explained that he’d been a widower for twenty years now, and that he still couldn’t make proper tea like his wife had. It didn’t taste the same when he made it, he said by way of apology. “That’s my Bella,” he said, pointing to a silver-framed photograph of a slender older woman with fine, kind features. “Isn’t she beautiful? Cancer. We’d been together thirty years. When it happened, I didn’t want to go on living. But then one day I remembered how she’d pushed me out of my shell when we were dating. I was a regular wallflower and Bella was the prettiest girl in Alvina. One day about three months after she passed, I realized I’d spent almost a week wearing pyjamas all day. I kept telling my daughter and son-in-law not to bother me and that I had the flu, or some such lie. Well, that day I was sitting here in this chair and I looked at her photograph. The light fell on it just so, and it was almost like she was in the room. I practically heard her say, ‘Clarence, get off your G.D. fat duff and get out of those ugly pyjamas and brush your G.D. teeth. Your breath stinks.” He laughed again, and at that moment, right on cue, the sun shone into his l
iving room. “That’s just the sort of thing she would have said, too,” he added softly. “Well, that was the day I got my life back on track, got involved with things like the curling league. And of course, the historical society. Which,” he said, “brings us to the subject of your visit.”
“Yes, Mr. Brocklehurst.”
“Please, call me Clarence,” he said kindly. “Shall I call you Jameson? Or do you go by something else? James? Jamie?” In that moment, Clarence Brocklehurst reminded me so much of my father before the illness took him away that I felt my heart clench.
“Please call me Jamie, all my friends do.”
“I will. Now,” he said. “You say you bought Blackmore Island. First, if I may—and please forgive me in advance for my vulgarity—are you very rich? Or are you crazy?” His blue eyes danced. “The land alone must have cost a fortune. And the house is a ruin. It would take a fortune to renovate. What were you thinking?”
“Actually, the house is in remarkable shape. As for how I was able to afford it, I came into a rather large sum after an accident. My father is in an Alzheimer’s clinic in Toronto. The money provided for his care and left me enough for an investment property. When the real estate agent sent me the photographs, I realized that Wild Fell had some potential as a vacation property, or guest house.”
“Well, you must be a very enterprising young man. It’s been a lot of years since I’ve been near Blackmore, but it was pretty run down. Frankly, it would take a lot of money to fix up, in my opinion. And I’m very sorry about your father,” he added. “Alzheimer’s is a filthy bugger of a disease.”
“Thank you.” I paused, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I said, “What can you tell me about the Blackmore family, Mr. Brocklehurst?”