The Other Side of the Bridge
Page 31
Ian saw the scene so clearly he might as well have been there. Arthur standing in front of her, his hands hanging empty at his sides, desperate to be sure of her. Preferring her to go, rather than stay and be unsure. Unable to endure the thought of any more doubt, any more deceit.
Ian nodded. He had a question too, one that he could never ask, a question that next to Carter’s death was the hardest thing he had had to live with. It was this: had she been sleeping with Jake that summer? Because if she had not, if the scene he had walked in on was all that had taken place between them, then how much greater was his guilt? He remembered Jake as he had been at the inquest, his face ashen, looking straight in front of him, meeting no one’s eyes; it was when he saw the state Jake was in that it came to him, in a sudden, shocked moment of clarity, that Carter was Jake’s son. The verdict had been accidental death, but that had been no comfort at all.
He turned his mind back to what Laura had said. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him I was sure,” Laura said, her face still flushed with the pain of remembering. “I said I wanted to stay with him. I told him that I did not love Jake; I loved him. It was true, it had been true for years. I knew what sort of man Jake was—how could I not know? And I knew Arthur was worth ten of him. I think I’d always known that.”
She lifted her hands, fingers spread, as if she were trying to hold something, or understand something. “I don’t know how to explain it, Ian. There was something about Jake…excitement, I suppose. I remember the first time he spoke to me, the feeling that he had singled me out—me, out of all the world! I thought he was the most exciting, fascinating person I’d ever met. I was very young, and of course I fell in love with him, and didn’t see how little else there was.”
She stopped for a moment, and looked at her hands. Then she looked back at Ian and said, “The incredible thing is, Ian, when he came back, all those years later, he still had it. Whatever it was. That…spark. I didn’t love him—in fact, I almost hated him by then—and I knew exactly what he was. And yet, still, he had it.”
Listening to her, seeing her distress, her urgent need to explain, Ian suddenly found himself thinking of his mother. He wondered if she had ever regretted what she had done. Over the years he had come to understand her a little better, but he had been unable to forgive. He feared it meant that he had an unforgiving soul.
“I wish…” Laura said, her voice unsteady again. “I wish I knew that he believed me.”
“Arthur?”
“Yes. I wish I knew for certain that he believed me, when I said that I loved him. And that he still believes me. I can’t stop thinking about it. I hope he does. I think he came to, over the years. I’ve told him so, many times. But after all that happened…. maybe he doesn’t. It worries me so much now, when he’s close to the end.”
“He does,” Ian said. Here at least was one question he knew the answer to. “He believes you.”
She gave him a strained smile. “That’s very kind of you, Ian, but you don’t need to say that. I wasn’t…you don’t need to say anything.”
“It’s true,” he said. Her smile made him feel sixteen years old again, and foolish.
There was silence. She studied his face.
“It’s true, Laura. I know, because in spite of…everything, that is not an unhappy man up there. I’ve spent enough time with him lately to know.”
She was searching his face. “Are you sure?” she said at last.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure.”
He went up to see Arthur again before he left, suspecting that it would be the last time. He thought at first he was still asleep, but he opened his eyes as Ian came in.
“Hi,” Ian said. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” A trace of the old shy smile. He was a big man still, not reduced by his illness. A big, powerful man, with a heart that was on its way out. From long habit Ian touched his fingers to his pulse, felt the faint, uncertain heartbeat, weaker now than even an hour ago.
He sat down in the chair by the bed, turning it slightly so that it faced Arthur more directly, and as he did so, suddenly he saw the two of them, sitting on burlap bags at the side of a field, scalding themselves on hot tea, the horses beside them, cropping the grass. The image was astonishingly clear and strong. It made him wonder if maybe, given time, an image like that might come into his dreams, instead of, or at least alongside, the ones of Carter. So that he could look back without such pain on the time he had spent on the farm; set the peacefulness of those days against the tragedy that brought them to an end.
They sat in silence, comfortable apart from Arthur’s labored breathing. Once, looking out the window, Arthur said, “You reckon it’s gonna rain?” and Ian turned and looked and said, “It could, all right. Did March get the oats in?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s okay then.”
Arthur nodded and they settled back, Arthur thinking about the harvest, Ian guessed, and he himself thinking that he was lucky—unimaginably lucky—to have had this time with him.
Finally he said, “I should go.” He badly wanted to stay, but the morning was progressing and he had other calls to make. He got to his feet, resisting the impulse to check Arthur’s pulse yet again. He knew what it would tell him. “Is there anything I can get you?” he said, fighting hard to keep his voice light.
Arthur shook his head. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah.” The smile once more. “And Ian…thanks for comin’. Not just now. All those times, back then.”
By the time he had finished his calls and got home, it was late morning. He and Helen divided the office hours between them and it was her morning for the baby clinic, but she must have seen the car pull in because she stepped out into the hall to see him. It was a weekday, so their daughters were at school.
“How was Arthur?” she asked.
“Pretty bad.”
“I’m sorry.” She studied his face. He smiled at her, and she said, “It’s quiet this morning. Do you want to go out for a while?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am. Really.”
“I will, then. Ring the dock bell if you need me, okay? Or if Laura phones.”
“I will.”
He went down to the dock and slid the canoe into the water. It was full daylight now, but quiet and still. He paddled slowly around to Hopeless. The Queen Mary was there as usual, Pete bent over his jig like a patient vulture.
“How’s it going?” Ian said. There was a fair-sized pike sloshing around in the bottom of the boat, teeth grinning wickedly.
“So-so,” Pete said.
“Any sign of him?” He tied the canoe to the rowboat and climbed in.
“Nope. But he’s down there, man. He’s down there.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The town of Struan is an invention, but in my mind it is located at the northern edge of the vast and beautiful area of lakes, rocks, and forests known as the Canadian Shield, in northern Ontario. I imagine it west and a little north of the real—and much larger—town of New Liskeard, and I would like to thank the people of New Liskeard and the surrounding area for their help and advice about how things were “up there” in the past. In particular, thanks are due to George Dukovac for answering many questions and for parting with a rare copy of Northern Doctor, by Clifford Hugh Smylie, M.D.
For sharing his knowledge and memories of what it was really like to be a family doctor in the Canadian North in days gone by, I would like to thank Dr. Jack Bailey of Manitoulin Island, Ontario. The reality of such a life lies in the details—the bell on the dock, the volunteer system for person-to-person blood transfusions—and those details I could have obtained only from someone who had been there.
For further help with medical information, my thanks go to Jane Bremner, of Lakefield, Ontario, and to Dr. Oscar Craig and Drs. Alison and David Elliman, all three of whom live in England. Any errors, medic
al or otherwise, are my own.
I found the following books particularly helpful:
Ten Lost Years 1929–1939: Memories of Canadians Who Survived the Depression, by Barry Broadfoot
Six War Years 1939–1945: Memories of Canadians at Home and Abroad, by Barry Broadfoot
Up North: A Guide to Ontario’s Wilderness from Blackflies to Northern Lights, by Doug Bennet and Tim Tiner
The Way It Was, by Dave McLaren
In the Beginning: The Story of New Liskeard, by Edna Lillian Craven, MBE, and its twin publication, Now, by Nora E. Craven
Home Farm: A Practical Guide to the Good Life, by Paul Heiney
The “Paper of Record” Web site, surely one of the most useful research tools for authors ever devised, provided access to back copies of the Temiskaming Speaker dating back to 1906. The title of the newspaper changed over the years, but for the sake of simplicity I have referred to it as the Temiskaming Speaker throughout the book. I am grateful to that newspaper for its headlines, as well as for providing much information and a wonderful picture of life in the Temiskaming area.
Thanks are due to my agent, Felicity Rubinstein, of Lutyens and Rubinstein, and to my publishers, Alison Samuel at Chatto & Windus in London, Louise Dennys at Knopf Canada, and Susan Kamil at the Dial Press in New York, for their patience and encouragement.
Gratitude also to Amanda Milner-Brown, Norah Adams, Hilary Clark, and Karen Solomon, for their insightful comments and many heartening words along the way.
And, above all, huge thanks to my family: To my brothers, George and Bill, for their help with all things relating to the North; without their knowledge and assistance I would not have attempted this book. To my sons, Nick and Nathaniel, for their unwavering support (and thanks for finding the “Paper of Record,” Nick). And finally, to my sister Eleanor and my husband Richard. For both of them, thanks are not enough.
Mary Lawson, 2006
Also by Mary Lawson
Crow Lake
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BRIDGE
A Dial Press Book / October 2006
Published by
The Dial Press
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 by Mary Lawson
The Dial Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006048483
eISBN-13: 978-0-440-33637-2
eISBN-10: 0-440-33637-6
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