by Sarah Ellis
But then Mrs. Campbell came in with the little ones. Mrs. Campbell is very large. The baby must be coming soon. Auntie began to tell stories and soon we forgot our chilly toes and numb fingers. She told the story of the bride and the water kelpie. She said the story was for me because it is about a weaver’s daughter. This daughter never speaks, but she catches the eye of a travelling soldier and he marries her because she has hair like the wing of a blackbird and eyes as blue as flax flowers. As soon as Auntie started to talk about romance, Percy and Archie began to giggle. It turns out that the weaver’s girl is bewitched by a water kelpie and that is why she does not speak. Then the soldier goes to an old wise woman for advice and she says that the girl must do this and that to remove the spell and she does and then she can talk. But then the problem is that she can’t stop talking, clackiting all the day long.
When Auntie got to this part in the story, Mrs. Campbell said, “Well, we know a few like that, don’t we?” and then they fell to giggling before Auntie Janet got back to the story. So the young woman and the water kelpie had a talking contest and they both tired themselves out and from then on the young woman talked neither too much nor too little, but just the right amount. And they made the wise woman the godmother to their first-born child. What we learn from the story is not to go out in the gloaming or drink from the fairy well. (Or talk too much?)
We were all happy, thinking about the story and talking about talking, too much and too little. Then the men came home, half-frozen, but merry because they had caught, between them, seventy-six eels! Uncle James seemed to have woken up, to be his old self again.
This is where the day started to go wrong. Auntie Janet and Mrs. Campbell said we should cook some of the eels right away and all eat together. I helped skin and gut them. You have to make a slit around the base of the neck and try to pull the skin off like a glove, but they are slippery, and I started to feel so ill. The worst thing was the smell — horrid, very strong and sweet. We cut them into pieces and then Auntie put them with water in a dish in the oven. When it came time to eat them I just could not. My stomach was turning over just at the thought of them. I could not stop myself from thinking they were large worms. And Uncle James was peeved with me because I would not even try. So I did try and then I vomited. And then Auntie Janet was cross with Uncle James and the Campbells all went home and I am so ashamed.
January 15
Dear Papa and Mama,
Usually Sunday lunch is my favourite meal of the week, but today we did not have very much, and Auntie tried to pretend that she wasn’t hungry, and that made Uncle angry. I am filled with sadness. Also fear. This morning I came upon Auntie trying to line her shoes with scraps of leather. But it was no good. They are too far gone to be mended. “I can tie string around them,” she said, “but I can’t go to church like that.” Then she said that she could borrow Uncle’s boots and then we both started to laugh at the thought of her clumping along in Uncle’s huge boots and then the laughing turned into crying.
Then she talked and talked, saying how many plans she and Uncle James had had, and how they were so excited that I was to come and live with them, and how it had all become so hard and perhaps they should never have taken me away from the Home. I was just holding my breath, thinking she was going to say that I must go back, but she did not say that. Will she?
We did not go to church.
Mungo is pushing his nose into my hand, which means he wants petting.
January 19
Dear Papa and Mama,
This is the saddest I have been in Almonte. Uncle James is in a rage. He has stormed out of the house. Auntie Janet is crying. It is all because Auntie suggested that he write to his brother in British Columbia to ask for help.
Uncle James says that Auntie Janet is trying to humiliate him and that he will not ask for charity. This does not make any sense. Auntie Janet and I cannot earn enough to keep us all. Already we owe money at the store, and how will we pay it? Why is Uncle James acting like this? Surely it is not charity when it is your own brother. Or is this something I do not know about families?
And even if it is charity, what about St. Paul? “And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
January 20
Dear Papa and Mama,
The mill is open again and Auntie and I are back at work. I am glad to be there because it is warm and the clatter drowns out my thoughts.
January 21
Dear Papa and Mama,
Uncle took the splint off his arm today. The stitches are gone and it looks better, but he can’t bend it straight at the elbow. He wears a glove on his hand, even indoors.
It was a payday without much pay. When we got home we discovered that Mr. Boothroyd had been by and dropped off another hamper of food from Mr. Flanagan. There was tea and bacon. Auntie Janet nearly cried and then she said how kind Mr. Flanagan was and that set Uncle off again in a rage talking about Mr. Flanagan sitting around in his huge warm house, making a fortune from our work, and tossing us crumbs. Then he went off somewhere.
Mrs. Parfitt came by this evening with a pair of shoes that she said she could not wear because they pinched her feet and she just wondered if they might fit Auntie Janet. She said that she bought them a size too small through vanity, but that Auntie Janet had lovely small feet and it would be a favour to her if they could be used, rather than sitting in the cupboard looking accusing.
They did fit.
I can see that kindness is a very complicated matter.
Later I asked Auntie if Uncle wouldn’t notice that she had new shoes and she said no, that he is not noticing very much about her these days.
January 22
Dear Papa and Mama,
It is late afternoon. I am having a cup of human (not fairy) tea and I smell beans and bacon cooking. My heart is lighter. Here is why:
Auntie and I went to church this morning, but not Uncle. Rev. Parfitt preached a very long sermon. Miss Steele and Miss Steele started to nod off. All of the Campbells except Kathleen started to fidget. I lost track of what he was saying and began to look through the hymn book. I never thought about this before, but those hymn writers knew about troubles. They write a lot about fathers in distress and our feeble frame and how we are frail as summer’s flower and the elements madly around us raging. In the hymns there is always an answer to these troubles, but this morning I could not think of any answer to ours.
It was cold, but sunny, and after church Auntie said did I want to walk around to the other side of the river. There was something different about her. I thought it was maybe just the new shoes, but it wasn’t. As we walked she told me that she had a plan, but she needed my help. She needed me to help her write a letter. “We can’t go on this way,” she said. “We have to tell James’s brother how things are with us, but we need to do it without James knowing.”
So we went home. Uncle James was off somewhere, on one of his tramps, so all afternoon we have worked on a letter. In it we tell Wilfred Duncan about Uncle’s accident and how he can only do sweeping at the mill. We talked for a long time about how to describe the way he is and finally we decided on “ailing in spirit.” We asked if Wilfred had any ideas of what we might do. And then we said that James did not know we had written this letter and he must never find out. It took us all afternoon to write the letter, but when we were done I felt like I had sunlight for my load. Auntie said that troubles shared are troubles halved. I will mail the letter tomorrow.
January 25
Dear Papa and Mama,
There is new operative in our room. Her name is Lillie Wyatt. She is twenty years old. She comes from a farm out near Pakenham. She has a sad story. Just before Christmas, her father was walking home from a neighbour’s and he lost his way and froze to death. Her mother and brothers are carrying on with the farm, but they need money, so she has come to work in the mill. She is boarding with a family up in Irishtown.
When I heard this s
tory it made me want to say to Uncle James that he should stop being so gloomy. At least he isn’t dead. But I know this isn’t fair. When you’re sad it does not make you feel one bit better to hear of other people who are worse off than you. It should, but it doesn’t.
Lillie Wyatt seems a shy, quiet sort of person, or perhaps she just hasn’t been that much in company. At the dinner break she asked me if it is always this loud. I said yes, but you get used to it. I introduced her to Smokey. I remember how strange everything seemed to me when I began. Here is something odd: It seems almost forever since I was at the Home, but it does not seem that long that I have been in Almonte.
January 26
Dear Papa and Mama,
Murdo, who does not tire of reminding us that his father knows the cousin of the County Constable, came up at the dinner break today to tell us that there was a dangerous maniac in the Almonte Jail yesterday and that last night he tried to dig his way out and now he has been taken to Ottawa. This was a very unsatisfactory story because we don’t know:
1. What does a “dangerous maniac” mean? What did he do to be put in jail?
2. What did he use to try to dig his way out?
3. How far did he get before he was discovered?
I know if Kathleen had not been hanging around, Murdo would have just invented the answers to these questions. Kathleen is far too keen on facts.
January 28
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today there was an eclipse of the moon. The sky was clear, so we could see it very well. By six o’clock the moon had completely disappeared and then it started to come back, first of all just a rim of light and then bigger and bigger. It went from a new moon to a full moon in just one hour.
I wish time would really speed up like that so we would get a reply to our letter. Every day I think about the letter, on the train across Canada. I think about how fast the train goes. I know it is too soon for a reply from Wilfred Duncan, but I hope anyway. If he answers right away, that could mean that he cannot help. But if he waits too long to reply, it could mean the same thing. This is like waiting for the next part of the story in the newspaper. All week long you try to guess what will happen.
February 1888
February 5
Dear Papa and Mama,
I have not written in a week because I have been ailing. On Monday I woke up with knives in my throat. Even porridge hurt. But I did not say anything because I did not want to worry Auntie Janet. Then as we began work I felt hotter and hotter and my legs didn’t work very well. Then I fainted.
Mr. Haskin let Auntie Janet have an hour off to take me home. At first I was so happy just to be lying down, but I started to feel worse and worse. Granny Whitall brought me tea, but I couldn’t eat anything. The days and nights got all mixed up and so did my thinking. I got words in my head and I couldn’t get them out. Words like the wicked wizard of Mischanter Hill. The words didn’t mean anything, but I kept thinking them over and over again, as though the next time I thought them they would mean something important. Then I got a wee bit better and started to fret about losing my wages. Auntie told me that Mr. Flanagan was keeping my job for me, so that was kind.
One good thing about being sick was that Uncle James went back to work. He can take his bad arm out of the sling for a few hours at a time. He is still gloomy.
But now I am well again and will return to the mill tomorrow.
February 6
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today I came across Mr. Longfellow’s poem. I had forgotten about it. There is one last verse:
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
February 9
Dear Papa and Mama,
Uncle does not seem to listen when I read the newspaper to him, except when something makes him angry. But I read it anyway and try to figure out what might make him angry and I don’t read those parts. Today I read about a trapper who caught a forty-eight-pound beaver. And how in a place called Ohio they dug up a grave and found out that the woman in the grave had turned completely to stone except for her feet. This is called “petrification.” It took ten men to lift the body.
Then there was something quite mysterious right in Almonte. Uncle didn’t care, but Auntie and I wondered about it: A young woman has appeared twice at the skating rink in male attire and she is promised a visit to the magistrate if she repeats the performance.
February 10
Dear Papa and Mama,
No letter. Auntie says it is still too soon to get our hopes up. But my hopes are already up.
February 11
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today Uncle James and I were walking along the railway tracks and we saw two little boys jumping out of a slowly moving stock car onto the snowy slope beside the rail, and then sliding down. Uncle just roared over and grabbed them both and gave them a loud talking-to. He used some words that I will not write here, but mostly he asked them what they thought would happen if they slipped and rolled onto the track. Uncle James is fearsome when he is angry and both boys were speechless and unmoving. I think you could say they were petrified. Then Uncle made them tell him their names and where they lived and he went off with them, holding them by their ears.
I went back home alone, thinking two thoughts. Sometimes being angry is a good thing. And Uncle scooped up both those boys like someone with two strong arms. He must be getting better.
February 12
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today we had Psalm 148. This is the one where everybody gets in on the praising and it is one of my favourite bits of the Bible. I think this means that we will have good news this week.
February 13
Dear Papa and Mama,
Oh ye spindles and bobbins, boots and bacon, mosquitoes and maniacs, turtles and toboggans, praise ye the Lord! Praise him and magnify him forever! The letter has come.
This evening I started to read the paper aloud when Uncle James pulled a letter out of his pocket. “Could you read this instead?” he said. He was trying to look as though he didn’t much care about it, but I could tell he was curious.
“It is from Wilfred Duncan,” I said. “Yes,” he answered, “I could tell that much. We already had his letter, didn’t we? What’s he doing writing again so soon?”
Auntie Janet and I did not look at one another.
I read the letter. It started out from his wife Nellie. She said that the town where they live has a chance of getting a school if they have ten children to attend. But they only have nine in the town. “Unless someone moves here we’ll have to wait two years for Joseph to reach school age before we can have a school. I was delighted, therefore, to hear your good news of Flora. If you were to move here and be with us we could get a school.” Then she said how she has been lonely for family and company. She said that the children are lovely, but too small for a good conversation.
Then Wilfred took over the letter. He said that he had 130 head of cattle and was looking to expand by getting more land, but that it was very difficult to get good help. He said that he remembered how good James was with animals, even when he was just a boy, and he needed a reliable, hard-working man that he could count on. He said he realized that James probably had his own plans, but would he at least consider a move, because the future lay in the west.
There was more about building us a cabin and how they were only twelve miles from Kamloops, which was a fine place. He ended the letter saying that he would have no peace from Nellie until there was a school, and of course James knew what wives are like when they get an idea in their heads.
The letter did not give one hint of our having written him about Uncle James’s injury. That Wilfred Duncan must be not only kind, but clever with it.
When I finished reading, there was a long pause. I did not dare look at Auntie Janet. I don’t think that either of us i
magined such a big idea.
But when I looked at Uncle James I could see right away that it was good. There was a real person looking out of his eyes. He was the first to speak.
“What do you think?” he said. “Are you ready to be a pioneer in the wild west?” Auntie Janet did not even pause. She just smiled and said, “Whither thou goest.” I knew this meant yes because it is in the Bible, “Whither thou goest I will go.”
Then Uncle James did the most amazing thing. He turned to me and asked if I was willing to move west. Nobody has ever asked me such a thing, if I was willing to go here or there. I was so surprised that I could not say anything from the Bible or anything at all so I just nodded.
Then he looked at Auntie Janet in a way that made me think it would be a good thing for me to come down and thread some needles for Granny Whitall, which is where I am now, writing by the light of her candle.
February 14
Dear Papa and Mama,
Today I nearly fell asleep while doffing. Last night I could not sleep for excitement and this morning I read the letter aloud again and we talked about all our questions. Did they have a garden? Auntie Janet hopes so. Are there animals other than horses and cattle? Uncle James hopes so. We talked so much we were nearly late for work.
After supper Uncle James had me write a letter accepting the invitation and saying we would come as soon as we could give notice at the mill and arrange our travel.
Thoughts pop into my mind that could be worries. What will school be like? What will it be like living out in the bush? (Is it bush?) Will there be wild animals? Will I have to take care of the children? (Nappies and dripping noses, crying and tempers.) But, strange to say, none of these are really worries. Why not? Because I could go anywhere with Auntie and Uncle and it would still be home. A family is like a home that you can pick up and carry with you. So that’s one more thing to add to my list of what I know about families. They tease. They don’t give up easily. They ask each other before they make decisions. You can take them with you.