by Ruth Hay
A small area of a new city by the lake was where immigrants were confined closely together lest a cholera, or other, epidemic should break out and infect the more affluent parts of the city.
Few if any jobs were available to men called ‘dirty Irish peasants’ or ‘niggers.’
Men, unable to feed their growing families.
Women, complaining they should have stayed in their homeland.
It was a melting pot set to boil over in anger and frustration. The unbearable heat of summer adds to the woes of the children and babies. Flies hover and crawl over any small piece of food. A lack of clean water. Sickness and death.
Who is to blame?
Someone must be to blame!
The Catholics retreat to their priest and ask for prayers to save them. They lock the doors of the small church that was the only one in The Ward. The Protestants blame the Catholics for the death of their children and accuse them of hoarding food and water. There are rumours of gold and silver ornaments brought from Ireland to decorate the church.
Men gather, and in their fear, they batter against the church doors. No one emerges to give help. Anger grows. Someone collects dry brush, lights it, pushes it against the bottom of the door to scare the men and women cowering inside and make them come out.
The door catches fire and still it cannot be opened from the outside. Hammering and screaming does not get the attention of the people praying by the altar. When the priest finally opens his eyes, and sees the smoke and flames, it is too late. All the wood in The Ward is as dry as tinder. A wind from the lake comes alive and blows the flames hither and yonder until it seems the whole world is aflame.
The church burns to the ground. In the ashes, the blackened cross is found. No gold. No silver. Just a twisted lead cross, and a few melted cups and bowls.
No one knew which men entered the smoking ruins and desecrated the cross.
It could have been the Protestants, mortally afraid that they were guilty of murder, who further damaged the cross to kill its power forever.
It could have been the Catholics, who survived and blamed their uncaring God, represented by his cross, for not saving His Faithful People from the fires of the heathen throng.
It could have been the City Fathers who, years later, desired to demolish the unsightly sore in the city’s core and mowed it all under, history and mystery together, without concern.
* * *
Jannice O’Connor saw all this pass before her mind’s eye. She could not prove the truth of what she saw. She might give a brief version to Holly Martelle one day, but she had no proof to offer her.
Some things were better left uncovered and unknown.
For a moment, she felt extreme heat from the remnants of the cross that was still in her hands.
She dropped it on the table with a crash and fled from the building without saying a word to anyone.
Chapter 23
Dear Mitchell,
I know you are very busy and hard to reach by telephone. You must make the best use of the time left to you at The Ward site.
I want you to know what has been going on here in Harmony House. There’s a lot to tell.
It’s not only the renovations, but also, the recent startling revelations about our young doctors’ in-house research project.
Jannice stopped here and admired the sentence she wrote. She was sure she used the correct words in a correct way. A flush of pride suffused her.
On second thoughts, that is a long and complicated matter best left to a later time.
What I really want to tell you about is my new work with the artifacts we saw in London. Ms. Martelle has been kind enough to ask my opinion on a number of things she is restoring from the dig.
This all started when I asked her permission to look again at the ones she described as ‘mysteries’.
She gave her permission because she remembered your helpful remarks and your praise of her work when we first went to her offices at the Museum of Archaeology on Attawandaron Road.
Mitchell, I must confess I had an almost ‘out of body’ experience while alone in the viewing room. I was so upset by it, I ran away and had to phone later and apologize for my behaviour. She was most kind and understanding and when I explained what I felt about the damaged cross, she insisted on giving me access to the other mystery objects. She said my interpretation was just as valid as any other. She said my background and beliefs were a key to unlocking the past just as accurately as many scientific methods.
She read that sentence over several times. It was a true report of what Ms. Martelle said to her, and it made Jannice O’Connor extremely proud.
I know you have come to believe these things also, Mitchell. You will now understand how pleased I am at this opportunity to help in the work, although it is in an entirely different way from your scholarly background. Perhaps science and instinct need to blend together to be most effective?
As for other things of concern to us as a couple, I am content here in Harmony House surrounded by those I know and love. When your work and writing finish in Toronto, I hope we can make decisions about our future.
Mitchell, as you know, I love your Quebec City, but living there, even with you, is not an option for me.
I hope there is a compromise for us somewhere. I am old enough to believe our relationship need not be a traditional one to succeed for us.
Please think about this.
I do have a bold suggestion for you, my dear man. I would love to return to the beach in Jamaica where we first met.
You deserve a holiday when all your work is completed. We could walk, and talk, and discuss our future in a place filled with such good memories.
Now you understand why I wanted to put this down on paper rather than in an email or phone call.
I know you will read and consider all of this, probably many times over before we meet again.
I remain, Your Jannice. Friend, companion, co-writer, and much more.
Until we meet again.
* * *
She put down her pen on this last draft of the letter. Three other attempts lay crumpled at her feet.
She was pleased and happy. Writing was a new accomplishment in her life. She did it with a dictionary by her side, but she did it and every day it grew easier.
For now, her days were filled with, not only the household tasks she had undertaken, and the work with the artifacts, but also with the secret task of writing her life story.
She had learned so much about writing from Mitchell. She needed to capture the true miracles she had experienced before they disappeared into the mists of time. She felt she had been born into a time of change. A time when the old was passing away with incredible speed, to be replaced with a new world that was becoming almost unrecognizable to prior generations.
She was a part of that change. Vilma brought her into the new world and steered her through it into a confidence in herself that she could only have dreamt of as a lonely child.
Mitchell was a part of it all also. He saw her first as a living historical resource, but as they worked side by side, he too, brought out skills and personality traits she scarcely knew she possessed.
All of it she would write down as a record. Whether or not this record was read, other than by her closest friends, was not important. It was something she knew she must do for herself.
Until she met Mitchell Delaney on that beach in Jamaica, she never knew the power of stories and the power of writing them down for others.
It was a power that captivated her now.
One day she would reveal her task, but for the present time it remained her secret.
With that, she was content.
She would write the envelope, seal it, walk to the nearest post box and enjoy the cooler air. Once her letter was safely on its way, the effect of its contents would be determined by Mitchell.
Mavis saw Jannice set off walking on her own. She wondered if a decision was imminent about her future with Mitchel
l Delaney. It was not a decision Jannice was likely to discuss with Mavis. If anyone shared that kind of confidential information with Jannice O’Connor, it would be Vilma Smith. Mavis had no doubt Vilma kept a close eye on her friend.
Mavis had enough on her mind at present without taking on the worries of any another person in the house.
Hilary had cleared the air with her recent confessions about her mental state. Mavis felt the atmosphere in the house had lightened completely as soon as the doctors explained the exact nature of their research project.
Her mind cast a net over the entire house to see if she could detect any other areas of tension. This survey was accomplished most effectively, strangely enough, while she sat on the bench at the back of the garden with the entire rear of Harmony House in her view. She moved mentally from window to window, trying to sense discontent.
There was nothing to disrupt the peaceful emanations and she sat back, adjusting the cushions to the base of her spine, and breathed deeply of the air.
With the house assessed, it was time to look at the garden. She sniffed the air. The rose arbour above her head held just one or two late roses but these captured, briefly, the last of the summer.
Strong scents of multiple chrysanthemums met her nostrils, a sign that fall was approaching. The asters were growing tall and strong, despite the minimum of time and energy she spent on them.
She noted the gravel paths were free of weeds and knew Grant had been faithfully following her directions. She figured she would make a real gardener of the Scotsman if he stayed around long enough. He had declared more than once that working with earth and plants was the perfect antidote to his mental efforts in the hospital setting. She encouraged him to bring his chanter and play in the garden whenever he wanted to. They had established a kind of friendship based on mutual respect.
She admired his young strong body and the height that made garden cleanup easy for him. He claimed that acquiring the same kind of Mavis Montgomery garden savvy would be appreciated by his mother, when he eventually returned home to Edinburgh. It was a good trade off in Grant’s estimation.
Together they made an unlikely but effective partnership.
Another contribution of the doctors, in a different way, was the singing that Hilary loved.
Mavis could hardly carry a tune and when she first read research about mental acuity and how advantageous it was for older people to sing together, she despaired of it happening for Hilary. She approached Stuart and asked if he would contribute his lovely singing voice if she played piano and rounded up others who would be prepared to sing as a choir for Hilary’s benefit. It turned out to be a marvellous idea for everyone involved. Stuart had choir experience. He rallied the group, including Louise and Dennis Ridley and young Betsy, with positive comments, until they were happily singing old favourites that thrilled both Mavis and Hilary.
The only objections came from Vilma’s dogs. They seemed to want to join in when the volume of singing grew louder.
* * *
Mavis could see the native plant garden to her right. It was a seamless progression from the wild woods to their rear. Vilma watched out for plants growing in the deep woods and took photographs so Mavis could see if they were on the permitted list. The golden rods, a prolific plant, were a great success and covered with tiny bees at this time of year.
Her thoughts turned to Vilma. She would be appearing with the dogs soon. It was a recent advantage having Vilma so close by her tower room. There was the comforting knowledge that no one would ever invade the house without setting off the alarm that the dogs represented. Vilma’s presence was much more than that to Mavis. She thought of Vilma as an old soul in a young body. She had a depth and clarity of thought that came from life experiences that were not all of the carefree kind. Vilma’s elegant exterior belied the wisdom of her soul and Mavis appreciated her advice about anything at all that puzzled her, knowing her words would be considered and appropriate.
It always bothered her that Vilma and Andy could not make a go of their relationship. It was not, however, a topic that she could question Vilma about. She possessed a steel-trap expression when anyone ventured too far into her private life. She did share her concern about the dogs with Mavis. As fellow animal lovers, they had a common interest in how Oscar’s arthritis medication was working and whether or not Astrid would eventually succumb to the same ailment. Mavis observed that if she felt any twinges in that direction, she could always borrow some of Oscar’s medication since human and dog ailments were treated in much the same way.
They laughed about that, and many other things, but Mavis felt there was sadness at the heart of Vilma.
In her quieter moments, like now, Mavis could project into the future and see what Vilma’s dilemma was. Time would change everything. There was a point at which Hilary and Mavis would be gone and Vilma would inherit the mantle of responsibility for Harmony House. Not that Mavis had any doubts about Vilma’s capabilities. It was only that it could be a lonely job. She had always had Hilary. Who would step up and take Hilary’s place for Vilma?
It was the one thing that opening up the house to male strangers had taught to Mavis. Younger, stronger men like Grant, and Braden before him, brought more to the community than Mavis would have believed possible. Trustworthy men of goodwill, that is. Men like Andy Patterson. Not, however painful it was to admit, not men like Hilary’s son Desmond. He would have been a disruptive force of the first order had he succeeded in persuading his mother to allow him to move into the house.
A good man by her side would relieve Vilma of the lonely burden of running Harmony House.
Of course, there were other male options in the wind, so to speak. There was Honor’s Jared, a quiet person who was a good match for Honor in not only name. Mitchell had stayed briefly with Jannice and seemed to fit in, despite their very different lives. There was uncertainty in both these situations.
What Mavis would prefer, if she had the choice, was a resident physician like Stuart. He was a more amenable and acceptable person than his fiery partner, Grant, but she could not see a match for him among the women of the house, and his eventual return to Scotland was not in debate.
She breathed out a long breath and shook her head. No matter how much she would like to order the world of the future, she had no power to do so.
Change was inevitable.
The city was encroaching on their quiet crescent day by day. Sifton’s West Five subdivision, was growing exponentially and when it was finished a host of millennials would move in to the solar-powered, community living style, the developer offered them.
* * *
Mavis was about to begin the wider mental exercise of removing herself from local issues and placing them against the background of a world perspective, when she saw Vilma and the dogs emerging from the woods.
Saved by the bell!
She called out to Vilma and saw her approaching, her face bright with rosy cheeks from the exercise. Mavis welcomed the interruption as did Vilma.
“Let’s get inside, Mavis. These two are running me into the ground. I need a dog-walker!”
Mavis got up slowly, but gladly. She had done more than enough thinking for now.
A final interesting thought occurred to her, but she tucked it away for future consideration and went willingly for coffee and a chat with Vilma.
Chapter 24
Dear Jannice,
How pleased I am to get your letter this morning. There is so much to consider, and so much to comment on, that I have elected to follow your lead and write back.
Fortunately, there is heavy rain in Toronto and work on the archaeological site has halted for the day. This gives me time to concentrate on us, rather than on the lives of the people who once lived in The Ward of old Toronto, or York, as it was known then.
I am truly impressed, Jannice, by your initiative in approaching Holly Martelle. She is wise to capitalize on your innate instinct for history, an instinct that goes far beyon
d anything I have read in books or historical records. You have the ability to see into the hearts of people of Irish or Scottish descent and tell their stories of longing to make a better life in a new land far from home. You are a unique woman and I am so glad you came into my life.
This brings me to your suggestion about returning to Jamaica. I cannot imagine anything I would enjoy more. Leave it to me. I will contact the travel agent who obtained my booking on the first occasion, and I will let you know as soon as I have the date. We both deserve a holiday after all the work we have done together.
I noted your concern about other developments in Harmony House. I trust nothing untoward has occurred with the young doctors. My opinion, from our short acquaintance, was that they were focussed on their medical careers and grateful for the superior accommodations supplied by the house’s facilities.
If you, or others of the ladies, are in any doubt about my assessment, please call on me to stand with you in the event of any trouble.
In the meantime, my dear Jannice, be assured I am longing to see you again. My writing is going well. I believe the new book will complement the two others now on the market and possibly lead to more sales for the Ontario book. Or so my publisher claims!
Before we meet again, I must take a quick trip to my family home to see my mother. I hear she is failing in health of late. I am sure you will understand this and be patient with me as you have been so often in the past.
We have Jamaica to look forward to now, and that alone will keep our spirits up.
Do write again if you feel the need. I must say it is rather nice to communicate in this old-style way.
It feels far more satisfactory than the rapid pace of email and text. Letters allow more time to think and compose, using words that are considered and meaningful.