The Weeping Tree

by Audrey Reimann

  Four hours later, fluttering with excitement, Flora stood at the rails amid churning propellers and the welcome hooting and tooting of tugs. She watched the berthing of the White Empress in the deep harbour that was right in the centre of the old town of Halifax. From the approach she had seen that Halifax was built on three hills. The houses appeared to be constructed in tiers, plentifully dotted with church spires, and towering over all, on top of the highest hill, was a citadel. 'No wonder the first explorers called this land Nova Scotia,' she'd said to Joan as they drew nearer.

  All at once she had a shiver of what she could only liken to stage fright, such as she'd experienced in the ship's chapel when they asked her to sing the anthem last Sunday. Suppose the Murrays, Dorothy and John, did not like her - or she them? Would they resent her arrival when their own elder son was a Spitfire pilot in England, fighting the war? The younger son was at medical school at the University of Toronto.

  'I am going ashore, Joan,' she said. 'Look after Alex. I have to ring Aunt Dorothy to let them know I'm here.'

  She must also write to Nanny to let her know of her safe arrival. Just the one letter, Nanny had said. After that all the information she would receive would come through Dorothy.

  'Go on then,' Joan said with a laugh in her voice. 'You are nervous, aren't you? I told you -you can always stay with me in Montreal.'

  Flora found a phone box and soon she was speaking to a soft-voiced woman who made every sentence sound like a question because of the upward inflection of her Canadian accent.

  'Glad you've arrived,' said Aunt Dorothy.

  'Yes, I am,' Flora replied. 'I mean -thank you.'

  'We'll meet you in Montreal.'

  'No. No thank you,' Flora gabbled on. 'I'll stay with afriend for a few days.'

  The slow drawl came back, 'Gee. You have no idea how worried we were about you, Flora. Now I can tell Uncle John that you'll soon be here. We'll see you in Bancroft, honey. Just as soon as you like.'

  'Did you get the letter? The one telling you that I have a baby with me?' Flora asked. Suppose they could not accept both her and Alex?

  'Yes, honey. My sister told us all about it -you being a young widow with a new-born baby. You are both wanted and welcome here.'

  'Thank you. Thank you so much ...'

  Later she began her letter to Nanny on the few sheets of headed White Empress notepaper she had saved.

  Dear Nanny, The voyage was uneventful and the White Empress comfortable but crowded. Our cabin companions were my new friend Joan and her daughter Mary. It made a difference having Joan. We shared the children though she could not feed Alexander. He is thriving -a really bonny bouncing baby. He weighs 12 pounds and has been no trouble at all. He is such a contented child

  We left Halifax by rail on the CPR to Montreal, setting off at 10.30 a.m. Joan and 1 had separate sleepers and we arrived in Montreal the next day at 10.30 a.m. We travelled through deeply forested country with high rolling hills and a wide, slow-flowing river that Joan says is used to transport lumber in the spring. I loved Montreal but found it a disadvantage that I don't speak French. Joan is fluent. She said, 'Good job you aren't going to Quebec.'

  Left Montreal at 9.30 and reached Belleville at 4 p.m. then changed trains for Bancroft. Thirteen little whistle-stops and four hours later we arrived in Bancroft. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle John met us and drove us home. They are wonderful people. I thank you from my heart for everything. Alexander is being thoroughly spoiled by Aunt Dorothy who says it's nice to have a baby in the house again after all these years.

  The letter was not sent for another week, until Flora was settled, temporarily she thought, in the home of the kindest people she had ever known.

  Chapter Eleven

  Flora threw herself with enthusiasm into the life of the family. Aunt Dorothy, small and slim, with blue eyes like Nanny's and Nanny's quiet strength, was an immediate success with Alexander, who kicked his heels in delight whenever she approached.

  It was odd that Flora had expected to find houses built of stone and brick, made to last for centuries. Here, wood gave the houses and the town a temporary feel, which was liberating to Flora, though the small, tight cabin on the White Empress had at last cured her of her fear of closed-in spaces. She asked why, with so much stone and rock, they used wood. They said that speed was the big factor.' Timber was always to hand and houses, hospitals, schools, shops and factories could be built before the snows came. But she was warned of the ever-present danger of fire. They told heartbreaking tales of the loss of settlers' homes and businesses.

  The Murrays' home was not as fancy as those of the rich lumber barons but they lived in comfort in a house that had a sitting room and parlour and a large dining room. There was a pantry and kitchen and a small summer kitchen, all on the ground floor, with upstairs five bedrooms and a bathroom. Flora loved the dean lines of beds and painted cabinets, the maple floors, and even the squirrels that leaped and chased about in the branches of the trees and raced across the roof over the bedroom she shared with Alexander.

  Aunt Dorothy was thrilled with Flora's pleasure in all things domestic. 'Wait till you see this,' she'd say, before showing her one of the latest delights. 'You've never seen these-' of the big American washing machine with its huge rubber mangle rollers that were worked by electricity, on top of its shiny cream and chrome lid.

  'Oh! May I use it?' Flora asked in a hushed, respectful whisper. Already she was astonished at the laundry -the huge furnace and the indoor airing lines where she could dry Alexander's diapers in no time at all. 'Imagine! All this space. The whole cellar for a laundry.'

  'Not the whole of it,' Aunt Dorothy said. 'We have the furnace down here too, and storage space and a big games room. But it's essential in this climate of cold winters and hot summers that the foundations of the houses go deep below the frost line.'

  Around three sides of the house was a veranda - the deck where Flora could put Alexander in the big baby carriage that Aunt Dorothy had saved from her own sons' babyhood for 'The grandbabies we hope to have one day.'

  Uncle John Murray was a big man in his fifties with a weather beaten face, kind eyes and a shock of grey hair. Tough and cheerful, he was the eldest of five sons of an Irish farmer who had come to Canada as an immigrant to find that the virgin land he'd been given was uncleared forest with thin rocky soil. John and his brothers helped clear and work the land and build their home in the summer months; then he and his brothers had gone, with their father, as many young men did, to the winter logging camps in Algonquin Park in northern Ontario.

  The family had prospered, and now Uncle John had a sawmill at Bird's Creek, handy for the York River and only a mile or two from Bancroft. The general store at Bird's Creek sold everything from kerosene and finished planks from the sawmill to ladies' corsets, butter, eggs and cheese. The store was run by Aunt Dorothy, who told Flora she'd have peace of mind knowing Flora was minding the house for her. Flora said enthusiastically, 'I'd really love to.'

  In the evenings, Flora sat and knitted balaclava helmets for sailors, glad to be a part of this happy family, while Aunt Dorothy served supper. Every evening Uncle John told tales of old logging winters; of how sixty men living in one huge wooden hut never changed their clothes, but worked and slept in them the whole winter. He laughed at Flora's horrified outburst of 'Oh! How could they?'

  'They had no choice,' he replied with a hearty chuckle. 'No running hot water. They'd wash their socks and string them up. to dry in the smoke from the big central stove that was used for cooking and heating.

  He told of horses dragging l20-foot logs on sledges and slides down to the frozen rivers and lakes, there to await the spring thaw, when they would begin their slow journey down the rivers Ottowa, Petawawa and Madawaska further north, and the York River that runs right through Bancroft and Hastings county. He told of the dangers of the downstream drives where log jams were a fact of life. He’d seen brave men venture out on to a mountain of logs that sometimes were bac
ked up for miles behind the jam. They had to find and saw through the key logs that were holding the others back. A missed footing or a sudden release of logs and these men did not make it back to the banks but slipped underwater as the logs closed above their heads.

  Flora was horrified and enthralled. 'Will I see the logs?' she asked. 'Do they send them downriver now?'

  'You'll see some. They send logs down the York as far as Baptiste for the electricity poles and railway sleeper ties. But not like the old days,' Uncle John replied. 'Now they have the railways they don't need to send them by river.' He said, 'Would you like me to show you the lakes and forest?'

  'What about Alexander?' she said.

  'Dorothy will be in seventh heaven if you'd leave him with her for a day,' he said. 'It's only a half-day's drive to Algonquin. And would you like to see the sawmill?'

  'Yes.' She would. She would like nothing better than to be accepted, to be useful to this big, cheerful family of uncles and aunts and cousins who had all been to visit and welcome her into their midst, making her feel she belonged, giving her a chance. 'But,' she said, 'I intend to work for my living wherever I can have Alexander with me. I have sworn that never in my life will I be homeless or penniless again.'

  'What are you trained for?' asked Aunt Dorothy.

  Flora looked downcast. 'Domestic work's about it, I suppose. I can cook and sew and wash and iron. I worked as housekeeper to a blind man,’ then she added wistfully, 'I loved that job.'

  'That was before you married?' Aunt Dorothy asked.

  It had been the very last lie she'd told and this one at Nanny's insistence. She had travelled as the young widow of a seaman. Now, Flora did not want her new life to start on the basis of lies, though the biggest secret of all could never be admitted. She knew she was blushing, and felt her cheeks go fiery as she said, 'Would it make you think badly of me if I told you that I was never officially married?'

  Aunt Dorothy's eyes filled quickly with tears. 'Of course not. Thank you for telling us. I won't mention it again.'

  Uncle John could not stand 'tears and talk', as he described women's secrets. 'If we are not too small a start for you, you can work in the store as soon as you are ready,' he said. 'I'll pay you the going wage and you can live here and help Dorothy in return for your board and lodgings. Dorothy goes into the store every day and we need another pair of hands. Take the baby with you. Two of you can manage the work and a baby. We are getting busy now the depression's over. Pity it took a war.'

  'I'm ready now.' Flora wanted to work, to be useful, to do her bit. She finished the letter to Nanny:

  I have said that I will not stay without paying my way, and since they refuse to take the money (I still have nearly £100 left -or rather, $440 -and when you consider that a working wage is $18 a week that makes me rich), I shall make myself useful around the store and house.

  I hear the news and read the papers. We get a few British papers though they come weeks late. And I am afraid for you living with the bombs and Blitz and rationing when I am living in luxury in a land of plenty. I wish you were here, Nanny, out of harm's way. L owe you such a debt of gratitude. It was not until we sailed that I began to appreciate all you have done for Alexander and me. Joan Almond, my friend, told me that there were 210,000 applications for a place on the White Empress and that ugly questions were asked in Parliament, where the organisers were accused of giving places to 'the moneyed classes' while the working class languished.

  Mr Churchill did not approve of the evacuation. He deprecates what he calls a stampede from Britain, but there was really not much that I could have done to help. Alexander and I would just be another two mouths to feed. Now I am here I am going to do whatever I can to help the war effort, as well as praying every night for you all.

  Love, Flora

  She dared not ask of Nanny the question she so desperately wanted to: did Nanny think Robert really was better off with a title and as heir to an estate than with his own flesh and blood?

  She remembered Gran's words -'it's a rare female of any species that will adopt a suckling' and hoped that Ruth never had cause to regret adopting Robert. If Ruth were to have a child of her own, wouldn't she love it more than she ever could Robert?

  She sealed the envelope and on the little rounded flap point, though it would mean nothing to Nanny, drew a weeping tree for Robert.

  1944

  Ruth came-to in a bleak private ward with a tearing pain across her belly and an unbearable thirst for water. Two nurses were holding her. 'I'm going to-' she said, before she was violently sick. 'Oh, no! No!' she managed to moan before another bout of projectile vomiting jerked her upright again.

  'It's all right. Don't panic,' the senior nurse said briskly, while the younger one mopped Ruth's face with some kind of disinfectant-laden gauze. 'It's all over. You had a son. A fine seven-pound boy.'

  Ruth's whole body from the waist down was on fire. Another spasm overtook her and she clutched at the young nurse's arm. 'Drink of water,' she demanded.

  'No water for you. I'll bring the baby to you,' said the older nurse in her bossy, no-nonsense way.

  'Don't you dare!' Ruth tried to shout but her voice sounded squeaky. It would be the chloroform. It was coming back to her now. She had demanded hospital and this Caesarean operation though the doctors had tried to dissuade her. How dared these women order her about?

  Yesterday she'd read in the papers about the free health service the country was to get when the war was finally over. Once that was imposed it would make little tyrants of the doctors and nurses. The patients would become supplicants. Well, it had not happened yet. Now they should be reminded of who was paying whom. She said, 'I’m paying for this! Don't tell me what I will or won't do.'

  'All right, mother,' the nurse said, but the hectoring tone had gone. She turned on the junior instead. 'Bring Lady Campbell a feeding cup with two fluid ounces of water. Be quick.' Then, to Ruth, as she laid her back against the pillows, 'Try to sleep, Lady Campbell. You can have your baby when you are rested.'

  Ruth fell back against the pillows, closed her eyes for a second or two then said, 'Before you go, Nurse, something for the pain, please.'

  Five minutes later she felt the spout of the china drinking cup on her lips and this time obeyed the order: 'Take it slowly, or you'll bring it all back.'

  She added, 'Your husband and son are here. I told them you must not be disturbed until you are ready. They are with the baby.' Then she gave her an injection at the top of her thigh. Funny, Ruth thought as she drifted off, funny thinking of the nurse as old - she might even be younger than I am.

  Ruth was thirty-seven and considered herself too old for this child-bearing nonsense. She remembered as she drifted into the limbo between sleep and wakefulness that her age was the reason she'd given to the team of specialists and surgeons that they cut it out of her. She would not, could not, contemplate the ruin of her body that a normal delivery would entail.

  So Gordon was here at the Simpson Maternity Hospital and had the other brat with him? He would be satisfied now, she hoped - and she hoped too for his speedy recall to naval duties. She put her hand down to her middle, wanting to feel the old flatness, but pulled away fast as an agonising pain shot through her. Her body had been bound with tight bandages - at her own insistence. Losing one's figure was to be expected, Gordon had said and had added, 'It doesn’t matter. Just as long as you and the baby are all right, my dear.'

  She would be all right and the baby was a healthy weight, so her duty was done. Thank the Lord. At Ingersley a new, younger nurse had been engaged. Between the new girl, Bessie and Nanny, who had closed Ivy Lodge and moved back into the house to look after the brat, they should be able to cope with two children. Ruth had no interest whatever in either of them. All she wanted to do was to get back to normal, to the riding and the civic duties which to her surprise she enjoyed. She'd taken to the work of JP as a duck to water.

  One nurse would be enough for the baby. Beside
s, it was all the estate could afford. The evacuees had gone and plans were afoot to build estates of council houses and prefabricated houses using German and Italian prisoner-of-war labour. Nobody wanted to live in hamlets and villages and isolated farm cottages. Ruth's income had dropped. The Great War had started the decline in their fortunes. Elizabeth's legacy had revived them for a time, but half of Ruth's own money was now gone.

  The war, changing attitudes and the obscene wages that labouring people now expected had drained all the big estates. Ingersley and the Campbells were not alone. Any number of landed families were in worse trouble than they were. When it was over and everyone counted the cost, many estates would go to the wall…Many. But not hers. Ruth would not budge.

  There was a commotion outside her room when Ruth came to and looked at the clock: 3 p.m. She had been asleep for an hour and could have slept for longer. She looked down at herself. They had put her own pink silk nightgown on her and the angora-trimmed bed-jacket was draped prettily across her shoulders.

  She heard Gordon's voice and the brat, Robert, clattering his feet on the polished floor outside her room, tapping at her door. 'Come in,' she said in a faint voice, and slid lower in the bed.

  Gordon had evidently seen the baby, for he came to her misty-eyed, with arms outstretched. 'Darling! How was it?'

  'Hell,' she replied, closing her eyes and turning her face away from his lips so that they brushed her ear. 'There will be no more.' She meant it -and he'd know now that his married life was over.