Beholden

by Lesley Crewe

  Praise For Lesley Crewe

  Mary, Mary

  “A funny and charming story of a dysfunctional Cape Breton family, and the irony of the “white sheep” who stands out like a sore thumb.”

  —Atlantic Books Today

  Amazing Grace

  “Amazing Grace is a fast-paced novel written in Crewe’s breezy, chatty style as if Grace were talking over tea in her trailer...Crewe has a gift for creating delightful characters.”

  —Halifax Chronicle Herald

  “From the first page to the last, the novel is warm-hearted…It’s also funny, alive with Lesley Crewe’s trademark wit and ear for dialogue.”

  —Atlantic Books Today

  Hit & Mrs

  “Crewe’s writing has the breathless tenor of a kitchen-table yarn…a cinematic pace and crackling dialogue keep readers hooked.”

  –Quill & Quire

  “If you’re in the mood for a cute chick-lit mystery with some nice gals in Montreal, Hit & Mrs. is just the ticket.”

  —Globe & Mail

  Relative Happiness

  “Her graceful prose…and her ability to turn a familiar story into something with such raw, dramatic power are skills that many veteran novelists have yet to develop.”

  —Halifax Chronicle Herald

  Also by Lesley Crewe

  Mary, Mary

  Amazing Grace

  Chloe Sparrow

  Kin

  Her Mother’s Daughter

  Hit and Mrs.

  Ava Comes Home

  Shoot Me

  Relative Happiness

  Copyright © 2018, Lesley Crewe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Vagrant Press is an imprint of

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill Street, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Cover design: Heather Bryan

  Interior Design: Jenn Embree

  NB1391

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Crewe, Lesley, 1955-, author

  Beholden / Lesley Crewe.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-656-1 (softcover).

  —ISBN 978-1-77108-657-8 (HTML)

  I. Title.

  PS8605.R48B44 2018C813’.6C2018-902861-0

  C2018-902862-9

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  For the grandmother I never knew, Bridget O’Gorman

  Prologue

  1950

  It was habit now, that George switched off his car’s headlights when he turned from the main highway and travelled along the dirt laneway to Nell’s house at the top of the hill.

  “No one needs to know our business,” she’d say. “The town gossips seek fuel for their fire every morning, and I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

  It was nearly nine o’clock, and the stars were beginning to peek out from behind the clouds on this warm night in mid-September. George had spent the day fishing in one of his favourite spots just outside St. Peter’s, Cape Breton. Whenever his busy medical practice allowed it, he’d leave his family in Sydney and travel back to his hometown to spend a day or two by the river.

  River water was the finest water there was, as far as George was concerned. Always moving, breathing life and carrying momentum along its journey to the ocean. Sometimes it would slow and calmly gather in soft pools, where tranquil fish would hide under the rocks away from prying eyes. At other times, the gush and force created by strong winds and rain would create white foam as it gurgled and roared past.

  A river was the only place George found peace.

  A river, and Nell.

  He knew the laneway by heart and drove the car around the house and parked in the back. Usually Nell had the outdoor light on, but tonight it was dark. She knew he was coming, so that was odd. He was a little later than he’d intended, but she always waited up for him.

  George got out of the car and walked up to the back door, giving a quiet tap as he opened it. He eased his way through the screen door into the kitchen and turned on the light.

  “Hello?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  Her supper dishes were still on the table and her beast of a cat, Cat, was licking his chops in the middle of the mess.

  “Do you ever stay off the table, Cat?”

  Cat gave him a grim look and continued to lick his paw and rub his face with it.

  Nell was not a good housekeeper. She said that was for drudges. But there was a fascinating beauty to her parlour, which wasn’t a parlour at all.

  “Why would I keep a room for company, when I have none?”

  It was her dressmaking studio, with rolls of fabric standing in groups at every corner and against the furniture and her wide work table. There were two dressmaker’s dummies at opposite ends of the room, which always made George uncomfortable. They looked like they were staring at him. Condemning him. And always, her fragile paper patterns were blown about in a chaotic order that only Nell understood. Her large black sewing machine was in the middle of the mayhem.

  George quickly looked around, then started up the stairs. “Nell. Where are you?”

  No answer.

  And then his eyes rested on the gin bottle by the open front door. He slowly pushed the screen door wide and stood on the covered front porch. Nell was sound asleep in her big rocking chair, a wrap around her shoulders and an empty glass on the floor beside her.

  She always denied she drank and would cut him off if he pursued it. “It is none of your concern. You don’t live here.”

  He looked down at her face, so hard and soft at the same time. She wore her auburn hair as she’d always worn it, in a messy bun to keep it out of her eyes. She had no time for combs and toiletries. “A lot of vain nonsense. I can think of better ways to spend my time than prancing about trying to impress a man.”

  George knew if she was in her rocking chair, she was worried about something. She said that chair was her friend. George understood what she meant. What was troubling her? It bothered him that she was always alone with her demons, but drinking gin wasn’t going to solve anything.

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her upstairs to her room, shutting the door behind him with his hip. He placed her on the unmade bed, took off her shoes, and loosened the top buttons on her blouse. Undressing in the dark, he covered them both with a sheet and snuggled into her back, with his arm draped over her breasts, his face buried in her soft curls. She always smelled of sunshine and ironed linen.

  He was asleep in minutes.

  His eyes opened to the far-off rumble of thunder. The bedroom looked dim and gloomy even though it was sunrise. He’d be driving home in the rain. George turned over, expecting Nell by his side, but she was already up.
A tinge of disappointment fell over him. He got up on his elbow and called out, “Nell?”

  “Yes?” She sounded like she was in the kitchen.

  “Are you coming back upstairs?”

  “No. Get dressed.”

  George flopped back on the bed. She didn’t sound like herself. He wondered what was going on. So much for being together this weekend.

  His shoes sounded loud on the wooden steps. He ducked going through the kitchen doorway. Nell was sitting at the head of the table, presiding over the mess.

  “No breakfast? Would you like me to rustle something up?”

  “No, George. Sit down. I have to talk to you.”

  Before he pulled up a chair, he leaned over and kissed her full lips. “I’ve missed you.”

  She didn’t respond.

  George’s brow furrowed. He reached in his jacket pocket and took out his pipe and pouch of pipe tobacco. “Okay. Let me light up first. I think more clearly through a cloud of smoke.” He gave her a saucy grin and lit his pipe with a stainless-steel lighter, taking long drags to make sure it caught. When he snapped the lighter shut and returned it to his pocket, he said, “Shoot.”

  Nell reached up and tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “You are going to do something for me, George. Whether you like it or not.”

  “Okay.”

  “You may find this request outrageous, but I have my reasons for it. I think you’ll agree that I’ve never asked you for anything in my life. True?”

  “True.”

  “I’m asking now. Look out the kitchen window.”

  George took a few puffs of his pipe before he got up and went over to the sink. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “There’s a girl in your car.”

  George’s head leaned forward. She was right. There was a young girl sitting in the front passenger seat of his station wagon. His head whipped around. “What’s going on? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Jane and she’s fourteen years old. I want you to use your resources to find her a good home, make sure she continues her education, and then find her a job so she can support herself and she never has to come back here again.”

  George put his hand to his head. A wicked migraine was peeking around the corner of his inner eye. He sat on the nearest chair and took a deep breath. “You want me to kidnap a child and take her from her family?”

  “She has no family.”

  “Why don’t you take her in?”

  “She deserves more than I can give her. I don’t want her in this town.”

  “Nell, do you know what you’re asking?”

  “Yes.”

  “How am I supposed to explain this to Mavis?”

  Nell jumped up impatiently. “Do I have to do all your thinking for you? Tell her she’s a cousin who lost her family and you feel an obligation to protect her.”

  “And this child is going to go along with that?”

  “What choice does she have?”

  George shook his head. “This isn’t right, Nell. You’re playing with people’s lives here.”

  Nell pounded her fist on the kitchen table. “You will do this for me, George. You owe me. Or are you just a man who gets his thrills by cheating on his wife?”

  A visual aura exploded inside George’s brain. He knew what was coming next so he lurched to his feet, slammed open the screen door, and headed around the back of the house to vomit in the long grass. It didn’t make him feel better. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but almost instantly he was in the middle of a downpour, and that was real enough. He ran back into the kitchen, shaking the rain off his clothes, and went to the sink to rinse his mouth out. Nell was where he left her, standing defiantly, although it appeared she was shaking. With outrage? Fear? He wasn’t lucid enough to figure it out.

  “There’s got to be another way. This is ridiculous.”

  “If I could think of another way, I would, but I can’t.”

  “Call the authorities.”

  “They won’t listen to me.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, do you? Well, I’ve tried, and it’s no use. This girl has been neglected for almost her whole life. George, you may never understand why, but I’m asking for your help. I’ve never asked anyone for anything in my entire life. I want you to trust me when I say that this child needs a second chance.”

  What could he do? There was no use standing here arguing with her. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t going to change her mind.

  “If I do this,” he said, “I don’t want you to contact me. I’ll ring you.”

  “I never have contacted you. Why would I start?”

  “Because now I’ll have someone you care about. Do you need to say goodbye to her?”

  “No. We did that earlier.”

  “I better go then.”

  “Yes.”

  The worst part was not kissing Nell goodbye.

  He ran to the car and got in the front seat, slamming the door behind him. A very young-looking girl stared at him with big blue eyes. He held out his hand. “I’m George.”

  She kept her hands firmly on the carpetbag in her lap. She nodded. “I know.”

  “Did Nell tell you what’s happening?”

  “She said you were going to make everything better.”

  George winced and gripped the steering wheel as he started the car and headed down the driveway. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth, trying to get rid of the torrent of rain. As they turned onto the highway, George put the headlights on. A voice in his head said to turn back, but he couldn’t. He was stuck.

  As the miles rolled by, his head pounded to the rhythm of the wipers. The girl didn’t talk. He wondered if she was slow. Every so often she’d squirm in her seat, but she spent most of the time looking out the rain-streaked side window.

  George wondered if this was the worst day of his life.

  And then, suddenly, it was.

  He didn’t see the buck until the last second. He swerved violently and instinctively threw his arm across the girl’s chest as the car skidded across the waterlogged road and careened off the edge, disappearing.

  1

  Nell

  1915

  The worst day of my life was when I was five years old and my parents told me we were moving into town to live above the store my father bought.

  “But there’s no grass.”

  “What do you need grass for?” my mother said. “You’re not a cow.”

  I ran out the door and disappeared into the woods behind our house, down to the brook that bubbled through our property. All my imaginary friends lived there. There was LouLou the good fairy, and old Hank, who lived under the mushrooms by the juniper tree. A family of moles liked to come by and nibble at my toes if I was very still. The wind would rustle the leaves above my head and the sun would play hide-and-seek with me through the birch trees.

  I’d made a kitchen with flat rocks as plates and twigs as cutlery. There was a piece of bark hanging off one of the trees, and that was my stove. I would mix up grass and mud and acorns and put it on a rock and bake it in my oven. The Forgetful Sisters would eat all my cakes and tell me stories about how they forgot their way home and had to live in my woods.

  I cried for a long time, and in the end I didn’t tell my friends I was leaving. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because it was quite dark when I heard my mother yelling for me. When I eventually emerged from the trees, I saw her march towards me with a switch in her hand. She grabbed my arm and hit the back of my legs with it, over and over again.

  “You ungrateful child! Scaring me half to death. You come when I call you. Do you understand me? Now get in that house and stop causing trouble.”

  Living over the store was every
thing I’d thought it would be: miserable. My parents worked every moment of the day and I was left alone to play in my room. I wasn’t allowed to play with other kids, for no reason I could figure out. It just made life easier for my mother not to have to look for me. I spent years with friends I made out of rags and buttons and old socks. I’d line them up on my bed and we’d play school, or princess, or witches. I liked the witch stories the best. Princesses were a lot of trouble, but being a witch was powerful.

  By the time I was fifteen, in 1925, I spent my weekends washing down the store windows inside and out while the rest of the kids at school came by and bought candy bars or pop, or picked up a can of corned beef or a chop for their moms. The girls usually travelled in groups of two or three. One girl, Myrtle, always gave me a bright smile.

  “Not going out today, Nell? Too bad, you’re going to miss my dance party.” She’d snicker and the other girls would follow suit. I’d daydream about lassoing her with rope and tying her to a railroad track.

  The boys were just as awful. It was like they could sense I was different and had to come sniffing around to see for themselves. Three of them surrounded me in the schoolyard one morning.

  “How come you don’t talk, Nell? Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?”

  “I won’t waste my breath on the likes of you.” I tried to push pass them, but they blocked me. Angus reached out and tugged my hair. “Bet you never been kissed, Miss Nell. Why don’t I show you?”

  George Mackenzie pushed his way between us. “W-w-why don’t you leave her alone?”

  The other boys started laughing. “W-w-w-w-why here’s the mighty stutterer, George, comin’ to the rescue. Looks like you got an admirer, Nell.”

  I reached out and slapped Angus across on the face. He pushed me and then George and the other boys went at it. The teacher came out then and we all stayed after school. George got the worst of it, with a black eye and bloody nose. I swore I was going to get Angus back someday by putting a personal hex on him.