Burden of Memory

by Vicki Delany

  A breeze blew in through the open door and the candles flickered. They cast a warm golden glow onto the old oak table and caused sparks to fly off the silver flatware and sparkling glasses. Alan tipped his glass from side to side and watched the red liquid swirling around the bottom.

  Lizzie returned with a warm apple pie straight from the oven and a carton of good vanilla ice cream.

  “That was a great dinner,” Elaine said, accepting a plate piled high with pastry, soft sugary-cinnamon apples and melting ice cream. “But Moira hardly ate a thing. Is that normal?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lizzie said. “She had her dinner upstairs, before coming down, like she always does. Her hands are so bad, she can’t eat anything more difficult to manage than a piece of toast or a thin slice of fruit with any degree of manners. Poor thing. Appearances are so important to her. Ruth helps feed her and Moira would prefer to keep that private. Old age, ugh.” The girl shivered.

  “She seems in good spirits, though.”

  “Usually she is. But she has her bad days. And then we all run for cover. I’m looking forward to reading her book. I bet it’ll be great. She has had a real interesting life. Did you know she was a nurse in World War Two?”

  “Oh, yes. Before I agreed to work with her, I needed to have an idea of what she wants to say. You’d be surprised at the number of people who’ve never stepped foot outside of their own dust bowl of a home town but think that the world is waiting with bated breath for them to commit their life story to paper.”

  Alan chuckled. “I can imagine.”

  “And as long as she doesn’t think that it’ll necessarily find a publisher, I’m happy to work with her.”

  “It won’t be published?” Lizzie said, her voice overflowing with disappointment.

  “Unlikely,” Elaine replied, as she attempted to scoop up the last dribbles of ice cream with the tines of her fork. “Although when I see what we have I’ll decide how to continue. But even if a publishing house doesn’t pick it up, Moira understands about self-publishing and she only wants to get her life down on paper for the enjoyment of her family and friends and any academics who might be interested.”

  “I guess that’s all right.” Lizzie nodded towards Elaine’s plate, scraped down to the flowered pattern. “More pie?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she mumbled the time-honored words, passing her plate across at the same time. “Ruth seems a bit out of place here, if you don’t mind my saying so. More formal than the rest of you. A bit old worldly, I thought.”

  “Ruth’s mother was the housekeeper for old Mrs. Madison, Moira’s mother, for years and years, back when God was a choirboy,” Alan said, leaning back in his chair and patting his slim belly. “Great pie, Lizzie. Ruth was raised with the family. She spent her summers here when she was young. Mrs. Madison was quite a tyrant, I understand. Although I didn’t know her, that was long before my time. There was a true division of classes in the household in those days, and Ruth would have been raised among the Madison children, but much apart. Kept in her place.”

  Lizzie laughed. “Like me, the poor lowly cook.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway Ruth got married and left home. Her marriage broke up around the time her mother died, and Moira’s arthritis was getting so bad that she needed full-time personal help, so Ruth stayed on after the funeral.”

  “She’s a funny old broad,” Lizzie added. “Not much of a sense of humor. She still refuses to call Moira anything but ‘Miss Madison.’ Yes, Miss Madison. No, Miss Madison. Three bags full, Miss Madison.” Her voice was tinged with spite and her pretty eyes metamorphosed into ugly slits.

  Elaine was startled out of her comfort zone. She had thought of this bunch as one somewhat unusual but happy family. Relaxed, comfortable and content in their circle. Apparently she was wrong. She changed the subject, looking for neutral ground. “Do the Madisons own the patch of land behind the boathouses, at the end of the path and through a thick stand of pine?”

  “Yes, it’s part of the property. Why do you ask?” Both Alan and Lizzie were staring at her.

  “I had the strangest sensation earlier. Like I’d wandered into a dream or something. There was this cabin and a woman wearing way too much perfume.”

  She was enjoying the last bite of apple pie, and almost missed it. A warning look flashed between Lizzie and Alan. Elaine swallowed a piece of sugared apple without tasting it and when she looked again the glance was gone.

  Lizzie clambered to her feet and gathered up the dessert dishes. “There are three things we don’t talk about around here: how much we hate the dogs, what goes on out on the island, and most of all….”

  “Speaking of the dogs, watch your footing when walking outside, Elaine,” Alan interrupted. Lizzie disappeared with unseemly haste through the swinging door. “They run wherever they want. I try my best to tidy up after them, but they think the whole outdoors is their private toilet. Good night, see you tomorrow. Nice meeting you.” And he was gone. Elaine blew out the spluttering candles and found her own way to bed.

  ***

  Crooning in soft tones, Moira tossed bits of dog cookies to Hamlet and Ophelia. Her grandfather had always insisted on keeping German shepherds. The best guard dogs, he would say, in the voice that tolerated no argument. And her father would never, ever, contradict anything Grandfather said. The young Moira would have loved to have had a little dog to play with, a spaniel perhaps or a poodle, a soft, fluffy white poodle like her friend Rosalind owned. But they could only have German shepherds who frightened the few children that were allowed to come and visit. All the years of her growing up, Moira promised herself that she would have a little dog, lots of little dogs, a whole kennel full of lively, yapping little dogs. Dogs that were allowed on the furniture and the beds and dogs that you could give treats to without fear of spoiling them. But she had traveled too much to keep a pet, and when the day came that she could travel no longer and it was time to come home, even though her father and her grandfather were long gone and no one had to do what they said any more, Moira went to the breeder and bought two German shepherds. She named them in memory of a long line of Macbeths and Ladies and Horatios and Gertrudes, and even a Puck and a Tatiana.

  For what was home without them?

  Hamlet jumped up on the bed and wiggled in delight against the warm, thin line of Moira’s old legs. He dug his cold nose into her side and his tail flapped like a flag coming loose in a hurricane as he eyed the paper bag on the bedside table.

  “Nothing more for you, you greedy thing,” she giggled. “Down now. Time for bed.” If she did have shepherds she would at least let them be pets. As she did every night, Moira smiled at the thought of Grandfather’s reaction if ever he could see dogs on the beds.

  Paying no attention to her words, Hamlet lunged at the treat bag. Unwittingly he placed the full force of his substantial weight on Moira’s right leg. She screamed in pain.

  The huge dog flew off the bed as if he had sprouted wings and skidded across the floor to hide under the massive dressing table. Ophelia followed, somewhat unsure of why she should, but deciding it was probably a good idea.

  Ruth dropped the container of medication she was handling and scurried across the room. “Miss Madison, Miss Madison. Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m not all right, you fool,” Moira hissed. “The dog jumped on my leg.”

  Ruth moved to shoo the dogs out of the room.

  “Leave them alone,” Moira ordered. “It’s not his fault that he doesn’t know I’m a useless old woman with useless old legs and useless old hands.”

  “Now, now, that’s no way to talk.” Ruth bent to pick up the medicine bottle.

  “How else should I talk? Like all is perfectly lovely and I will wake up in the morning right as rain, as my sainted mother used to say?” She seized the bag of dog treats from the bedside table and hurled them across the room.

  It wasn’t much of a hurl, more like a plonk. The cookies spilled across the carpet and
the two dogs crept cautiously out from under the dresser, noses first.

  “There, there,” Ruth mumbled. “No need to be upset.”

  “Well I am upset. My leg hurts.”

  “Shall I take the dogs away?”

  Moira sighed. She liked to throw the ball for them after they had their snacks, but tonight she was too tired.

  Too tired to play with a couple of dogs. Once she could work all day and then dance all night, snatch a couple of hours sleep and be bright and alert, the first back on the wards for morning rounds. But then she was young and it was necessary. After days spent in the crowded hospital wards, or even worse, canvas surgical tents or heaving ships, she had to get out, to dance the night away. To flirt and party with all the handsome young men, handsome and whole. How else could one forget those that would never be handsome, or whole or even sane, again?

  “Yes, take them away. That girl has worn me out. What do you think of her, Ruth?”

  “Nothing to think,” Ruth replied. She dragged Hamlet across the room by his collar and Ophelia followed. She shoved the dogs into the corridor and slammed the door after them. Someone would find them wandering around, eventually.

  “Nothing? You must have some opinion.”

  “You know what I think, Miss Madison.” Ruth returned to counting out the pills. “The same as I thought when the other one came: it’ll do you no good to be working on these memoirs. It’ll tire you, that’s all. And for nothing. No one cares what happened in the war anymore.”

  “And what else would you suggest that I do with my time, pray tell?” Moira’s voice cracked as she fought back the tears. “Will it keep me from perfecting my tennis game, or detract from swim practice?”

  Ruth placed the collection of multi-colored tablets into her employer’s open mouth and offered her a glass of water. “You’re old, Miss Madison, old and arthritic and no one cares what happened in the war anymore.”

  Moira swallowed the pills in a gulp. Her eyes brimmed but she would not allow the tears to flow.

  Chapter Four

  The Canadian Army General Hospital Number 15 was assigned to the site of a brand-new British Army hospital in Bramshott, Surrey. The hospital, in fact, was so brand-new that it wasn’t actually finished. The nurses stepped over gaps in the partially-laid flooring as they moved through the wards in their working uniform of white shoulder length wimple—a memory of the days when nurses were also nuns—white apron over a plain dark dress with a double row of buttons, stiff white collar and cuffs. The sound of hammering and sawing accompanied them on their rounds.

  At first the hospital was rather a pleasant place. The work was not hard. There were a few casualties from training incidents, but most of the patients were either ill or accident victims. There were a disproportionate number of accident victims. The enthusiastic Canadian boys were having a great deal of trouble managing their army motorcycles on the narrow English lanes, particularly at night under blackout conditions.

  But all in all, it was not much different than the nursing Moira had done in Canada. The accommodation was surprisingly nice, close to the hospital, only two women to a room (tiny and damp though it might be), meals served in their own mess. And the social life was beyond compare. Women surrounded by a sea of men, they were constantly being invited to parties and events held either in the town or any one of the many nearby military bases of numerous nationalities.

  Unlike a good many sons and daughters of privileged families, Moira had always known that she was gifted only through an accident of birth. And that the attention her youthful self received at dances and parties back home had much less to do with her own wit and charm than her family’s influence and wealth. But here, where no one knew who her grandfather was, or that her father could seal a million dollar contract on a handshake, it was lovely to watch the other girls, from the working class suburbs of Montreal and Winnipeg or the farms of the Prairies or the fishing villages of the Maritimes, delighting in the attention. And it was nice also, she admitted to herself, to be asked to dance because some fellow liked her rather than because of how much money or influence her grandfather and father might have.

  The only thing about which the women had to complain, and most of that was good-natured, was the quite dreadful food. Plentiful but dull in the extreme. Meals were identical from one day to the next, a tiny quantity of tough meat, lots of potatoes, boiled to the point of dissolution, and limp vegetables. Not much in the way of fresh vegetables (fresh fruit even rarer), dairy products, or eggs.

  Moira Madison thought that for every morning of her life she had been served an egg. Sometimes the eggs were soft-boiled and presented in a beautiful china cup, alongside slim fingers of toast or fluffy scones and pots of homemade preserves, taken in the morning room which overlooked the roses of her mother’s prize winning garden. Or they might be fried to the consistency of rubber and served with burnt bacon and toast that had been sitting in the kitchen for ages before being brought to table, as they were in her rooms at Nursing College. If she had been asked, at home in Canada, if she would miss her morning egg, she would have laughed until her thin shoulders shook and her eyes teared with humor.

  After only a few weeks at Bramshott, Moira Madison thought that she might well kill for a simple boiled egg.

  But the work was light and the Sisters had plenty of free time. Time to write long letters home, travel into the nearest village, or explore the countryside.

  The bell hanging over the door sounded feeble indeed as she entered the village shop. The man behind the counter looked up from his ledger and grinned. The smile split his face in two and for the first time she understood the saying “from ear to ear.” He was well past middle aged, almost old, heavily wrinkled, back stooped, a few thin strands of greasy gray hair stretched across his shiny head. His eyes were red and watery but nothing could hide the sparkle of delight that lit up his face at the sight of her.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he beamed. “Ladies, we are so happy to see you here. Betty, Betty. Come see who’s here.”

  Moira looked over her shoulder to see who might have followed her in, but it was only Jean, who had tagged along, uninvited.

  An elderly woman bustled out of the back of the shop, wiping her hands on a faded apron. She also broke into a huge smile at the sight of the customers and nodded with enthusiasm.

  “I’m Bert, and this is my wife Betty,” the man said. “What can we do for you lovely ladies today?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Moira said, almost lost for words under the force of the welcome. “We thought we would see if you have a few candies—sweets—for sale. We’re from the Canadian Army Hospital, you see.”

  “Of course, of course,” Burt said. “And more than welcome all you Canadians are.”

  At last Moira understood. It was neither she nor Jean that the old couple were so happy to see, but Canadians. Any Canadians, and probably any foreigners, would do.

  Someone had made an attempt to make the shelves look full, although they didn’t have much to work with and hadn’t had a great deal of success. What Bert and Betty offered for sale were mostly dry goods and tins, and precious few of those. But Burt smiled a sly smile and reached under the counter to come up with a bag of humbugs. Plump and brown with white stripes. “For my Canadian friends.” He held up the bag as if it were an offering to the god of peace.

  “But shush.” Betty touched her lips with one finger. They were suffering from no shortage of lipstick: Betty’s mouth carved a dark red slash across her face. The edges of the stick had missed the outline of her lips by a wide margin. Thick pale face powder accented the crevices in her face and the deep lines around her mouth. Moira chastised herself for being nasty and tried to pay attention and smile at the woman.

  “We mustn’t let the word out that we have such delights.”

  “Indeed not,” said Burt. “Or they’ll be banging down the doors. Now, is there anything else I can get for you lovely young ladies?”

  “
Cigarettes?” Jean said, to Moira’s surprise. She had never seen the bold, friendly Sister smoke. The only American among their group, Jean, with the flat tones and hearty manner of a Wisconsin native, had come to Canada to join the effort almost as soon as war broke out in Europe. Her family, so she told them all, had been simply horrified. But Jean knew that she had to go—she was a nurse, and the Army needed nurses.

  “Only for you, my sweet,” Burt beamed, displaying two rows of rotten and missing teeth. He disappeared under the counter once again.

  A girl bustled into the shop through the back door. She was in her early teens, horribly plain but with enormous, delicate eyes an unusual shade of green. They were the color of an olive dropped into a crystal clear martini, and went a long way to soften the effect of her sharp face, thin lips, and much too long nose. Those pretty eyes and a ripening figure scarcely contained beneath her stiff print dress.

  “And here’s our beauty.” Burt beamed, grabbing the girl in a hug that her posture indicated was not at all welcome. “This is our daughter, Catherine.”

  Betty smiled as proudly as her husband. The menopausal offspring of an ageing couple. A blessing for the parents. A curse at times for the child.

  Catherine shrugged her father’s arms aside. “I’m off to Millie’s, Dad.”

  “Be back in time for tea,” Betty trilled as the girl slammed the door of the shop on her way out.

  “A lovely town you have here,” Moira said, not meaning it.

  “Why thank you, dear. We like it,” Betty replied as Burt reappeared with the precious cigarettes. “But not quite as exciting as Montreal, I expect.”

  “Actually, I’m from Toronto.”

  “Toronto! What luck. My brother Eddie emigrated to Toronto, must be twenty or more years ago. Perhaps you know him, Eddie Burton?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh well, too bad. But Toronto’s a big place, I gather.”

  “Indeed. Well, we must be off. Thank you for the humbugs, and the cigarettes.”