Before he left, he handed Larry his list. “Start with the fencin’. That shouldn’t take more’n a day or two if you boys tackle it together. Then I’d get at them buildings. Scrape the trim on the shed and the chicken coop and give it a good white washin’. If you have time, you can start on the barn.”
Uncle Jim told us the whitewashing protected the buildings from the weather and kept the wood from rotting. But he was so particular about us not splashing it over the faded red shingles of the buildings that I wondered if he wasn’t more concerned about their appearance than their preservation. At least he didn’t expect us to get it all done.
“I’ll be back Friday—suppertime at the latest.” He threw his bag onto the back seat and checked the traces. Then he looked straight at me and climbed aboard. “You finish up as much as you can. And like I said, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Just as he gathered up the reins, Helen appeared from behind the house, carrying a pail and heading toward the old well. Uncle Jim slowed up the horse.
“Where d’ya think you’re goin’, missy?”
“I got to water my garden.”
“Oh no you don’t. There’s been plenty o’ rain. You start waterin’ that garden, the roots’ll get shallow and you’ll have to keep on waterin’. You’re just makin’ more work for yourself. And how many times have I told you to stay away from that well—needs fixin’—I’ll get to it when I get back.”
Uncle Jim had been going on about that old well for months. He grumbled about the condition it was in. He went on and on about how he was going to fix it. But he never did. I didn’t see what the big deal was. Fetching water from it seemed a simple enough process: You lifted off the old wooden cover; you tied a rope to the handle of the pail; you dropped the pail down the well and waited for a splash; you checked the tension on the rope; then you pulled slow and easy and tried to keep the pail level so you didn’t spill the water. And you didn’t lean over the wall. If a stone came loose, you jumped back so it didn’t land on your foot. Before you put the cover back on, you picked up the stone and put it back in place. Everybody used that old well, even though Uncle Jim told us not to. When Uncle Jim got busy, Larry and I fetched water for the livestock. When the ice in the icehouse melted, we stored our milk down there in a wire mesh basket. When the well in the basement went dry, Aunt Gert used it and so did Granny. And Helen had been fetching water for her garden for a good month without Uncle Jim saying a word. Now all of a sudden she wasn’t allowed.
Helen watched Lu lope down the drive and pull out onto Northbridge Road. When the wagon disappeared, she continued on to the well and lifted the cover.
Larry and I started on the list, beginning with the fencing by the back pasture. For the next three days, we replaced weak posts and tightened up the barbed wire. We worked morning to night, stopping only for meals. I dug in hard, wondering about the reward and whether Larry was thinking the same thing too. Helen weeded and hoed and fussed over her garden. By late Wednesday, we started scraping the trim on the buildings, hoping to get it all done before Uncle Jim returned.
Granny, Ma, and Aunt Gert applied the same kind of energy to preparing for the church picnic. They baked for three solid days. The flour they flung into bowls and over the kitchen counter made it look like a dust storm in there. They made bread, cakes, pies, and squares. The smell of baked apple and cinnamon collided with the rich aroma of molasses and yeast. By Wednesday afternoon, every counter in the kitchen lay piled with the first real expression of excess I had seen since we left home.
On Thursday morning, they got out the handiwork they had picked away at over the winter. Granny opened her sewing cabinet in the parlour, settled into the wingback chair, and stitched binding onto a patchwork quilt that draped all around her. Ma and Aunt Gert perched on the settee, stitching burlap backing onto hand-hooked rugs. The Amos ’n’ Andy show crackled over the Atwater Kent radio. And Helen pulled on the canvas of a cross-stitch sampler Ma had helped her design. And whined. “It’s all bunched up—it’s ugly.”
“It’s fine,” Ma said. “We’ll stretch it out today and press it tomorrow, you’ll see.”
“Did Maggie make anything?” Aunt Gert asked. “Her mother is quite the hooker. Wins first prize every year.”
Helen’s pout disappeared and her eyes lit up. “She’s coming to the picnic Saturday. She said we could go together.”
By late Friday evening, Larry and I had finished the whitewashing on the smaller buildings and started on the barn. We were lugging a pail of whitewash across the barnyard when we heard the familiar sound of hooves and wagon wheels grinding over the dirt and gravel road. Uncle Jim held the reins high. Next to him sat a pretty woman dressed in a fancy floral dress, matching jacket, and a short-brimmed straw hat. She sat half-turned to him and smiled as he talked a streak.
Uncle Jim directed Lu up the drive and across the yard toward the house. Then he jumped down from the wagon and offered the woman a hand. When Ma had told us that Gen MacCormack was a schoolteacher, I had imagined a short, fat, grey-haired lady with glasses, like my old teacher back home. But this one was tall and slender. Curly wisps of light brown hair framed her face. She took my uncle’s hand and stepped down off the wagon in one easy motion.
Larry and I waited in the yard. Granny and Aunt Gert burst through the back door, followed by Ma, Helen, and Alfred.
“Gen MacCormack.” Granny threw her arms wide open. “Good to see you again.”
We stood and watched everyone surround her. Alfred craned his neck and stuck out a hand. “I’m Alfred. Pleased to meet you.” Ma must have worked on him all day.
Gen MacCormack smiled down at him and shook his hand.
Granny invited Gen into the parlour for tea. Larry and I washed up and changed our clothes, then joined everybody.
The good china sat on the coffee table next to a plate piled with sweets. Uncle Jim picked up a cup and saucer and poured the tea. His hand shook as he fussed over the placing of the spoon on the saucer.
Alfred inched toward the coffee table, grabbed a sweet, and took a huge bite. He looked straight up at Gen and asked the question that had been on everybody’s mind all week. “Are you gonna marry Uncle Jim?”
“Kids!” Uncle Jim turned red. “You never know what they’ll come out with.”
Early Saturday morning, we loaded the box wagon and hitched up the horses. The plan was for Uncle Jim, Larry, Aunt Gert, and me to make an early delivery of food to the church hall. Uncle Jim would return for the others while we stayed to help set up for the picnic. Helen wanted to wait for Maggie and would come later with the Giddingses or Uncle Ed and Aunt Kate, whomever had room. It seemed a loose arrangement—Ma leaving it up to my sister to decide how the two girls would travel to the church grounds when she had been so strict since Dad died. Normally, she would have insisted on Helen knowing what time Maggie would be arriving and with whom they would be travelling. Then she would have insisted someone make an extra trip home to fetch them anyhow. But since everybody knew each other on Northbridge Road, maybe Ma figured that leaving Helen and Maggie to find their own way to the church grounds wasn’t such a big deal.
When we reached St. Paul’s, Percy Giddings’s old Ford truck stood in the circular drive amidst several horses and wagons. Men were lugging boxes past the huge sandstone church and into the hall. The smell of newly cut grass mingled with the pungent smell of horses and fresh manure. A low mist drifted across the lawn and would burn off later under the midday sun. To the left of the church, toward the centre of the grounds, Percy Giddings stood gripping the halter of his Percheron, Ginger, steadying her. William had attached one end of a rope to her yoke and was tying the other to a heavy wooden pole that lay on the ground beside them. A large octagonal swing and its supporting wires lay over it. Several yards away, toward the edge of the grounds, Old Dunphy was carrying a bundle of alder switches and a ball of twine toward a woode
n booth. It looked like a fish pond; it was painted blue, with a large, black fish whose mouth opened into a big, wide hole. Old Dunphy hummed as he ambled across the lawn. The undercurrent of anger that usually surrounded him seemed to have disappeared. To the right and close to the back of the church, Father Mullaly and Pat Giddings Jr. were unfolding a large canvas tent. We unloaded the box wagon and lugged the baking into the hall, our arms loaded down. Uncle Jim sent Larry and me over to help with the tent and then returned home for the others.
We hurried the short distance to where Father Mullaly was attempting to force a long pole under the heavy canvas. Larry rushed up to him, took the pole, and disappeared under the canvas. Pat Jr. and I rushed over to help. Soon, we had the tent off the ground. Father Mullaly started hammering in the pegs. Larry and I lugged tables and chairs from the hall and set them up for the luncheon.
Further down the lawn, Old Dunphy stood in front of his booth, tying fish hooks to lengths of twine. Just below the Glebe house, Father Mullaly was dropping potato sacks in a neat row. The Murphys were setting up a quoits game near the tent. The swing was the central attraction and the most difficult to assemble. Percy Giddings was tugging on Ginger’s lead line, coaxing her to lift the heavy pole. William was shouldering her huge rump, trying to get her to move. By mid-morning, horses were pulling wagons in off Northbridge Road. People were spilling from them and onto the church grounds, dressed in their Sunday best.
The plan was for us kids to amuse ourselves until noon; then we were to meet the rest of the family under the tent, for lunch. That gave us two full hours for games. The minute Percy got Ginger in place, kids started piling onto the swing, squeezing in between its wire stays, taking up every space. Others formed a line that stretched halfway to the fish pond. I scanned the potato sacks, the fish pond, the game of quoits, and Ginger and the huge octagonal swing. It was tough deciding where to start. The rich aroma of roast pig and boiled potatoes drifted from the hall and reminded me how long it had been since breakfast.
I searched the grounds and saw Alfred standing on the bluff in front of the Glebe at the end of a line of older kids. Below them, Father Mullaly paced between the potato sacks, counting the steps between each one. Satisfied that they were evenly spaced, he climbed the bluff. Then he pulled out a small purple bag—one that I recognized from Sunday Mass—and opened it. He moved along the line of kids, handing out coins. The minute Alfred stuck out his hand, I ran.
“No, Alfred.” I pulled him away. “We’ll find Uncle Jim.”
“It cothtth five thentth,” Alfred said. “Father Mullaly gotth a whole bag full.”
I hissed into Alfred’s ear and dragged him across the lawn. “We’re not to take money from Father Mullaly. Ma said—it’s from the collection, it’s for the poor.”
“Where’th Ma?” Alfred asked.
“She’s likely in the hall, helping out,” I said. “We’ll find Uncle Jim.”
Uncle Jim was steadying Ginger by the swing, which now sat motionless and was loaded down with kids. Percy had disappeared. Alfred slipped my grasp and ran up to Uncle Jim.
“We need thome money.” He dove for a pocket. Ginger stomped her front hooves and snorted.
Uncle Jim grabbed Alfred’s hand and pulled it away. “Go easy ’round this ol’ horse—she’s skittish.” Uncle Jim slapped Ginger’s lead line against her chest. “Steady there.” He turned back to Alfred. “Stand back; wait for ’er to settle. And I need some manners or youse don’t get a penny.”
Alfred backed away and waited.
“You got to say please, Alfred,” I said. Alfred hated it when I bossed him around—it only made him worse. But I knew Uncle Jim would hold out on us if we didn’t show some manners.
Just then, Percy and Aunt Gert stepped out of the church hall. Percy preceded her, held out a hand, and helped her down the stairs. He cupped her elbow and guided her across the lawn. There was a look of triumph on his face.
Several yards away, by the fish pond, a group of little kids circled Old Dunphy. He smiled and directed them into a straight line. Then he pulled out some coins from a pocket and handed them around. I had to admit that the old codger seemed pretty good with the little kids. Still, when he placed his hands on Bridget MacGee’s shoulders and coaxed her toward the booth, Mrs. MacGee, who was standing nearby, put a hand to her face and stared at him. Further up the field, Mr. MacGee fixed his eyes on Old Dunphy and sauntered toward the fish pond. Something told me they were wary.
Old Dunphy turned to grab a fishing rod and line. He glanced up briefly and noticed Percy Giddings escorting Aunt Gert toward the swing. His face darkened and his jaw clenched. He nudged a startled Bridget aside and edged around the others. The kids stood there, bewildered, and watched him hobble toward the swing, a hand almost punching the air. When Percy pulled out a hankie and wiped a seat clean, Old Dunphy picked up his pace.
“Would you like to try the fish pond, Miss Lanigan?” Beads of sweat dampened his forehead as he panted and puffed toward her.
“Maybe later, Charlie.” Percy Giddings turned to my aunt and touched her arm. “She’ll take a ride on the swing first…that is, if you want to, Miss Lanigan.” Before Aunt Gert could reply, Percy manoeuvred her toward a seat, easing her onto it. Then he sat down beside her. “Youse can get old Ginger goin’ now, Jim; we’re ready.”
Old Dunphy fumed. He turned and retreated to the fish pond, the foot of his good leg landing heavily, his neck flushed red. He grabbed an alder pole and practically threw it at the first kid in line. Mr. and Mrs. MacGee stepped closer and fixed their gaze on Old Dunphy.
At lunchtime, we found that Ma had saved us seats next to the Giddings at the end of a table in the back corner of the tent. We were closely packed. Granny sat between Alfred and me. Uncle Jim and Larry sat opposite us, with Uncle Ed, Aunt Kate, and Thomas. Ma had found a place next to Gen MacCormack and Jaynie Giddings. She looked flushed and squeezed in against the table. The smell of hot food mingled with the heat that gathered under the heavy, sloping canvas. We had our dinner in front of us and Granny was telling Alfred to wait for Father Mullaly to say grace, when Ma scanned the tent.
“Where’s Helen?”
“I thought she and Maggie were supposed to meet us here,” Uncle Jim said. He looked straight across the table at Gen MacCormack and Jaynie Giddings. “Didn’t they come with you ladies?”
“We thought they came ahead with you,” Gen replied.
We scanned the sea of heads lining the two long tables under the tent and forgot about our food. Ma pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m going to look for them. They’re probably at the swing with Gert and Percy.”
“I was just there,” Uncle Jim said. “Didn’t see ’em. You sit down, Martha. Get your dinner into you. I’ll take a look around. Perhaps they’re over to the games and lost track o’ time.”
Several minutes passed, then Ma got anxious and got up to leave.
“I’m comin’ too,” Alfred said.
“You stay put,” Ma said. “We don’t need to lose you too.” She signalled for Larry and me to come.
Ma and Uncle Jim searched the grounds and the church hall. Larry and I checked the church. I eased open the confessionals and peeked inside. Larry circled around behind the altar and checked the sacristy. “They aren’t anywhere,” he said.
“Maybe Maggie didn’t show up and Helen’s gone into one of her sulks,” I said. “Maybe she decided not to come.”
“You’d think she’da told somebody.”
Larry took long strides down a side aisle, trying not to run. When he reached the inside door, he plunged his fingers into the holy water, faced the altar, blessed himself, and dipped a knee. I did the same, then bolted out the front door behind Larry.
Gen and Ma waited by the buckboard, searching in every direction. Uncle Jim stared down the stretch of Northbridge Road, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Maybe they decided not to come,” he said.
“Well, they should have told us.” Ma sounded annoyed.
“I’d best go check,” Uncle Jim said.
“The boys can go too,” Ma said.
I climbed onto the buckboard behind Larry, feeling reluctant, annoyed. Thinking about the roast pork and potatoes going cold. And the apple pie and ice cream that would soon disappear. If Helen’s the one who decided not to come, why are we the ones missing out?
Uncle Jim directed the horses onto the road and urged them into a trot. The box wagon rumbled past the graveyard and several fields of timothy that were approaching bloom. The road rose slightly in the near distance. Soon we saw a speck run onto it. As we converged on the object, I saw feet flying over the gravel road and stick legs caving in at the knees. And it was wearing a dress. That Dodger barked and chased at its heels confirmed it was Helen. Uncle Jim urged the horses into a full-out canter. Then we heard her.
“She fell in!” Her face was raw and swollen. “I can’t get her out!”
Uncle Jim reined up the horses long enough for Helen and Dodger to scramble aboard the wagon. Then he urged them into a full-out gallop, slowed them into the turn up Granny’s drive, and raced them across the yard toward the well. A ladder lay nearby.
He whoa’d up Big Ned and Lu, and tossed Larry the reins. “Tether them, wouldja?”
Dodger bounded off the wagon toward the well. We all rushed after him. The minute Uncle Jim noticed the gaping hole in the well and the rock and mortar strewn around it, he put an arm out. “Stay back, there—this ain’t good.” Dodger danced and yelped around him. Uncle Jim swiped out a hand. “Go ’way with you, Dodger.” He leaned cautiously over the shaft and cupped a hand. “Maggie—you down there?”
“I’m here.” Her voice was faint and hollow. “I’m cold—I can’t get out.”
“Hold on there—we’ll get you out.” He turned and glared at Helen. “How the devil did this happen?”
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