Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Mrs. Buckle. It was the worst possible scenario. Allison, prepared to face her father, get the harsh words over, the recriminations, the wrath, and then hearing and facing whatever punishment her father had in mind for her, would have to suffer the pangs of uncertainty all the way home. What’s more, she would have to refrain from any discussion of what she had just been through, for one simply didn’t talk about these things with the help. Other than polite conversation, it would be a silent trip. Yet with Mrs. Buckle’s unspoken disapproval between them, the hours would be fraught with tension.

  “Well, Miss,” Mrs. Buckle said after she had picked her way over the ground to Allison’s side, “this is a fine state of affairs, if I may say so.”

  Rather than contempt, such as servants were apt to show when “quality” or well-bred people slipped from their pedestals, there was sorrow, perhaps it was pity, in the housekeeper’s eyes. It shook Allison more than a sneer might have done. Truly she had failed to count the cost of her impetuous escapade.

  Like a small child, she whispered, “My father?”

  “Is at home. Waiting. Get your things together, Miss Allison. As soon as the horses are changed, we’ll head back.”

  Like a small child, Allison packed away the soggy shoes, stood, fastened her cloak more securely, and stepped meekly toward the coach. Mrs. Buckle picked up the bag—which she probably recognized as having come from the attic at Middleton Grange—and followed. Jenks swung down, opened the boot, and stored the bag, still avoiding meeting Allison’s eyes, turned, and mounted his seat again.

  Trying to find comfort of a sort on the hard, tufted seat, with Mrs. Buckle seated across from her, stern and silent, Allison was startled when the door was flung open and the sharp face and gimlet eyes of Buckle appeared.

  “Tell me, Miss—was there a ceremony?”

  The cry that trembled on her lips was, “What business is it of yours!” But knowing Buckle was doing her father’s business, she said quietly, “No.”

  “We supposed not,” Buckle said, “knowing the residency rule. But in case there was—sometimes they do that, you know, to get the fee even though the ceremony isn’t legal—I’d have gone in there—” Buckle looked toward the blacksmith’s shop with tight, grim lips, and Allison knew he would have acted and acted firmly, perhaps harshly, on behalf of her father. Oh, the trouble her rashness had caused; even the poor blacksmith trembled on the brink of severe retribution, for Buckle would have no hesitation in setting the law on him if he had broken it.

  “No,” she said again, protecting the innocent blacksmith and raging again at her own ignorance in the matter of the three-week delay in Gretna Green marriages. She had indeed, as Sarah indicated, read too many novels. “Once upon a time” a Gretna Green marriage had been quick, sure, and binding. It was quick no longer; the authorities had seen to that.

  The trip home would be no shorter, but it would be more comfortable. Allison was no longer crowded; it seemed a sort of dream that she had ever huddled in a corner of the stagecoach, hand in hand with Stephen Lusk.

  She gave one final thought to Stephen Lusk. It was part relief that she had escaped being bound to him forever; it was part regret that the entire scheme was not worth it. She should have been dragged home despairing over the separation from her true love, and with a broken heart. As it was, she would be punished, and punished severely, for a thoughtless, foolhardy act. Allison grew up a little at that moment.

  Mrs. Buckle had warm covers to tuck around Miss Allison; she had a basket of food—if it was to be bread and water only, it was not to begin yet—and Allison ate hungrily.

  Mrs. Buckle produced a damp cloth, and Allison washed her hands and dabbed at her face.

  Eventually her eyes grew heavy; her head nodded, bouncing in rhythm to the coach’s movement. Mrs. Buckle slipped to the seat at her side, and Allison, as in days gone by, put her head in the comfortable lap, and slept.

  If the innkeepers along the route recognized the quiet, unkempt Allison as the same proud, mettlesome girl who had come through a day or two ago, going the opposite direction, they gave no sign. They served the exhausted young woman and saw her on her way, well aware of the outcome of yet another Gretna Green wild-goose chase.

  Nevertheless, when the coach rolled up the driveway of Middleton Grange, Allison put on a proud front. Sitting up, she straightened her clothes, made a useless attempt to bring order to the chaos of her hair (Mrs. Buckle had failed to produce a comb and seemed disinclined to fuss over her charge). Too late, Allison wished that she had asked Jenks to get into the boot and search out her slippers. She needed to walk like a lady, delicately, into the great entrance hall, nodding to whatever maid might be present at the moment, handing over her cloak, and tap-tapping her way, her skirts a-swish, her head up, into the drawing room where, at a glowing fire, her mother and father would be awaiting her. With an apologetic smile, she would pave the way for a merry account of her latest romp.

  As it was, she clumped her heavy-footed way into the house but not into the great hall. And not into the warm drawing room. And not into the presence of her parents. And the jolly report of her high jinks never got past the wishful thinking stage.

  Jenks pulled the vehicle around back; Buckle descended, cramped of limb and short on patience, and opened the door for Allison’s descent, followed by the housekeeper. Mrs. Buckle, now leading the way, entered the rear door, walked up the back stairs, and—without seeing a soul—opened the door to Allison’s own room and ushered her into it. A cold room. Laying aside her wraps, Mrs. Buckle went about lighting a fire.

  Slowly Allison undid the fasteners of her cloak and slid it off. Almost blankly she looked around. The mess she left had been cleaned up; the room seemed barren, strange, almost unfriendly. And there was no Fifi.

  “Fifi—” she questioned, desperately looking for a welcome, needing to hold someone or something soft, loving, caring. It was not to be.

  “In Miss Sarah’s room,” Mrs. Buckle explained briefly.

  When the fire was blazing, the housekeeper—not too tidy herself, weary of face, stooped of form—hesitated for a moment, as though she would speak. Then, apparently thinking better of it, she picked up her heavy cloak, laid it over her arm, and turned toward the door.

  Allison had the impulse to call after her, “Wait! Don’t go!” But of course she did not. Protocol prevailed, and she stood silent and alone as Mrs. Buckle slipped through the door and shut it behind her.

  Shut it, and turned the key in the lock.

  When the last rig had departed, the last farewell salute given, Parker Jones opened the door to his small home, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

  April, and no sign of spring. But it could come at any time now. Tomorrow could be the day of the chinook. There would be the soft wind, the change in the snow—a faint honeycombing of the vast whiteness, a dimpling as the snow grew wet and sank and settled. There would be the first beginnings of the runoff, the building of the countless sloughs in every hollow.

  Next the sounds of honking overhead would bring the winter-weary settler to the door, to the window, to watch the first geese fly overhead, the graceful wedges pointing north. Of a morning, ducks would be found paddling in the sloughs, bobbing on the lakes, skimming the sparkling water with wide, scalloping wings.

  There would be the splendid changing of air from the north to that of the south. Soon the blessed songbirds would follow, ushering in the season filled with sound, where all had been silence for so long. From sky and meadow, fence post and tree, it would lift, tone challenging tone, melody competing with melody—the music of the North.

  There would be a little betting concerning just when the ice would go out on the Saskatchewan River, a river that, early on, had been recognized as the highway of the fur trade, a river vital to the expansion of the Territories. Known as a fickle waterway with its swamps, sandbars, rocks and rapids, and tawny waters—north and south branches splicing Saskatchewan—it was passionat
ely appreciated by the people of the bush, as by the prairie dwellers. Last year it had “gone out” on May 6, and the sound had boomed across the community of Bliss, five miles away.

  Once again Parker had to remind himself that there was no immediate need to hasten to his mother’s side, a good thing, because as yet, the world seemed gripped in a frigid, iron grasp. It was as though winter’s hand, frozen and stiff, would not, could not, loosen.

  At the first sign of a thaw, the first drop of melt from the eaves, Parker would leave the bush.

  He would not wait for the log raising. The timbers that had weathered all winter were water soaked, heavy to lift, making for a slow job. The board’s plan to get them raised would be more delayed than they liked to think. Parker could not afford to wait that long. And anyway, his living arrangements would be torn up for some time; it might be a good time to be gone.

  The supper that had so enticed him now seemed tasteless; his mind was elsewhere, wrestling with thoughts of winter’s bondage, his mother’s need, Molly’s reaction . . .

  Pushing the supper dishes aside, pouring himself a cup of tea, Parker drew a tablet toward him:

  Dearest Mother,

  How my heart aches to be with you. Having just received your letter, I realize you and Samantha have been through a very hard time, and I haven’t been there to be a comfort. It is one price of being in the ministry and going far from home that I hadn’t been prepared for.

  It is my intention to come to you very shortly. I’m sure Molly will understand. . . .

  Would she? Would Molly understand? Did anyone ever understand the delay of dreams coming true?

  Parker threw down the pen, put his face in his hands, and groaned. A double grief was heavy to bear: not only the loss of his father but the loss—in a way—of a wife. Who knew when the marriage would take place now?

  Molly had been patient during his personal battle against uncertainties concerning his “call”; she was patient during the delay until winter should be over and the parsonage put in livable condition.

  Parker thought now of a conversation they had had.

  “I’ll live there as it is,” she had maintained stoutly. “After all, my parents and many like them built structures not so different when they first came west. In fact, I’m told I lived in one—”

  “And that’s one reason I can’t move you back into one, Molly love. After years of work and sacrifice, you’ve finally gotten into a decent home. It wouldn’t be fair—”

  Molly, admittedly often short of patience, had made an impatient gesture. “Oh, Parker, those things don’t count, not if we can be together.”

  “I can’t give you much, Molly,” he had said, and he was infinitely more patient, “but I won’t move you into a shack. And that’s about what it is—crude, chinked, unpainted, small. Somehow, to me, it would put a shadow—maybe even a strain—on our happiness right from the beginning. It would be like being in a box together. In winter we wouldn’t even have the yard to stretch out into.” And Molly knew he spoke the truth.

  “A log house isn’t going to be any palace, heaven knows,” he had concluded, “but it will be much better than a shack.

  “Think what it would be like,” he had continued, “to set up tubs and do a laundry in that small space. Think what it would be like to string lines of clothes around in there.”

  It wasn’t just her own happiness Molly was thinking about. It troubled her, many a long winter evening, to think of Parker, alone and lonely, not a sound to break the heavy silence aside from his own hum or the crackle of the fire. More than one housebound settler, usually a woman, had gone stark, raving mad because of the isolation and the barrenness of days, trapped inside a small square of sod or of logs with nothing to do, no one to talk to for days, weeks, months at a time.

  But Molly—though her dearest dream and fondest hope was to be the wife of Parker Jones—knew when she was defeated, and she gave in with good grace.

  And now it appeared that she would be told the spring wedding was not to take place. Parker Jones envisioned staying at least six months with his mother and sister, getting things in order, settling them physically, financially, mentally for the absence of the men in their lives—their husband and father, their son and brother.

  And the Bliss church? Would it hold the position open for him? Would it agree to a substitute? And could one be obtained that easily—some student, perhaps, who was willing to take the time out of his preparation for the ministry to get in a little hands-on experience?

  No wonder the lonely silence was broken by the heavy sounds of Parker’s groaning.

  Picking up his pen, Parker finished his letter, assuring his mother of his presence very soon and that he would keep her informed of his plans.

  He turned to the mundane tasks at hand, clearing away the remains of his supper. Having learned from experience and knowing full well that uncared-for dirty dishes would be there to mock him in the morning, he filled a dishpan with hot water from the stove’s reservoir, rubbed a little Fels Naptha onto a dishrag, and proceeded with his household tasks, proficiently if not happily.

  In the custom of the bush, he went to bed early; it saved coal oil. But before banking the fire for the night, before blowing out the lamp, he turned to his Bible. He found himself comforted by David’s assurance of the Lord’s deliverance: “Their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits’ end. Then they cry unto the LORD in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven” (Ps. 107:26b–30). Desired haven—Parker dared hope for it even now.

  Quiet in heart and spirit at last, he slept.

  Mornings in the north, in winter, were times of desperation. Pity the husband and father, the man of the household, to whom was assigned the fire-building task.

  Gritting his teeth, Parker slid from the cocoon of his quilts, thrust his feet into his shoes, and shivered his way to the stove.

  Happy the dawning when a few live coals remained from the night’s fire. This morning Parker wasn’t so fortunate. First shaking down the grate and removing several scoops of ashes, he crumpled an old newspaper, placed it in position, covered it with fine chips and specially cut kindling, so called because it “kindled” or lit quickly, and set a match to it. Leaving the stove open for the moment, Parker huddled at its side, absorbing the first promise of warmth, feeding the fire with suitably sized wood until it was blazing brightly and popping cheerily.

  The cold receded grudgingly, inch by inch. Soon the nail heads nearest the stove were free of frost; eventually the ice in the kettle thawed, the hot water began to steam, and a first washing of sooty hands was possible. Shaving would come later; baths were reserved for Saturday nights.

  The day—when he started out later for the Morrison place—was sunny, bright with promise. Parker’s boots slid and stumbled over the rut-frozen roads, but if the schoolchildren could navigate them day after day, in fair weather and foul, so could he. It was with relief, however, that he turned in at the gate and trudged the lane to the house. Smoke spiraled from the stovepipe, and Parker anticipated a hot cup of tea and perhaps an oatcake or scone, usually forthcoming from this Scottish family.

  The door swung open while his gloved fist was still raised to knock, and Molly’s fresh face and welcoming smile greeted him; her hand pulled him into the room. Her warm cheek was pressed to his cold one, and then she was unbuttoning his wraps, helping him out of them, hanging them up.

  “Come to the fire,” she urged and led him to the favored spot.

  Mary, gentle Mary, Molly’s mother, greeted him warmly, and soon Mam, beloved grandmother, came in to offer her cheek for a kiss. It was from Mam Molly got her abundant head of lively hair, though the one head was white now, and the other coal black; it was from Mam Molly got the bluest eyes imaginable, fading ev
er so little now in the lined face and sparkling with life and vigor in the other. Parker thought of his womanless estate and envied the life and warmth and beauty so abundantly displayed in the Morrison home. God willing, he would, one day soon, rob the house of its sweetest and best.

  As he had anticipated, a hot cup of tea and a buttered scone were soon daintily served, along with a snowy serviette to cover his knee. Molly, lithe and lissome, restless with winter’s restrictions, folded herself on a braided rug at Parker’s feet, cup in hand, her eyes raised to his and filled with love and longing.

  “What brings you tramping over here this time of the week?” she asked, knowing there had to be a reason in this weather.

  “We need to talk, Molly,” Parker said, handing her his cup and drawing a deep breath.

  Mary was instantly alert. “Mam and I have things to do,” she said with a twinkle, and the two—mother and grandmother—left for one of the bedrooms that had been added to the original cabin, making a sprawling and not unattractive log home.

  “What is it, Parker?” Molly asked, eyes shadowed with the dread that, once again, her longed-for wedding would not take place.

  “First of all,” Parker said, his voice a little unsteady, “it’s my father. My mother’s letter reached me yesterday, telling me that he . . . he died.”

  “Oh, Parker—” Molly raised herself to her knees, her arms going around the seated Parker. For a moment their tears mingled for the man he would never see again and she would never know.

  “Sit down, Molly girl,” Parker said finally, and she did so. Still her eyes were fixed anxiously upon him.

  “It’s like this,” he said. “My mother needs me—it has to do with my father’s affairs, selling the business, settling property rights, and so on. I’ve got to go, Molly.”