by Anne Patton
My goodness, it’s a cigarette! Dorothy was mesmerized. She knew lots of blokes smoked but she had never seen Frank with a cigarette. Mam had given him too many lectures about the evils of tobacco.
Frank struck a match, inhaled deeply, then bent over coughing.
“Holy mackerel, Frank, what are you doing?”
Twisting around on the seat, Frank whipped the cigarette from his mouth. “Bloody ’ell, I thought you had left!”
“No, I was lying down. Are you trying to smoke?”
Frank laughed. “All right, I’ll tell you, but it will be our little secret. Yes, I’m trying to smoke and I don’t want anyone mocking me until I get the hang of it.”
“May I try?” asked Dorothy, pressing against the iron backrest of the seat.
Frank looked scandalized. “Absolutely not. Ladies don’t smoke.”
“Proper ladies don’t smoke, but wilderness ladies might.” Dorothy watched closely as Frank took a drag, making the end of the cigarette glow.
“All the local blokes smoke in the pubs,” Frank explained sheepishly. “When I start freighting to Battleford I want to fit in with them, get more respect, you know.”
Dorothy didn’t know at all, but she really wanted to sample the cigarette. She smiled sweetly. “I can keep a secret better if I’ve shared the experience.”
Frank held the cigarette out of reach. “Mam will skin me alive if I let you smoke.”
“She’ll skin you alive anyway, if I report that you’re smoking.”
Reluctantly Frank handed her the cigarette. Dorothy sucked in deeply. Hot smoke burned her throat and swirled into her lungs. She bent over the backrest in a spasm of coughing and gasping, while Frank retrieved the dropped cigarette.
“Are…you…crazy?” she finally choked out between coughs.
“Go to the house and drink some water,” said Frank. “And don’t tell anyone!”
Dorothy climbed out the back of the wagon, still coughing to clear her lungs. The clean, cold air felt so refreshing. Why would anybody take up smoking? We left York to get away from the smoke-filled air. She thought of the coal-fired chimneys that blackened buildings with their dirty fumes.
Just as she reached the house Frank caught up to her, driving the newly-covered wagon. “Tell Mam I won’t be by tomorrow. I’ll head into Lloyd instead to see if the coal oil has arrived.”
Dorothy nodded and waved him on. She was afraid to speak.
Inside the soddie Dorothy poured a mug of warm water from the kettle and guzzled it down. The fire in her throat faded. Tentatively she breathed in and out, hacking into her coat sleeve to muffle the sound. She glanced around, trying to look innocent.
Mam didn’t notice. She was still knitting, although she had changed position. She stood, leaning into the window to catch sufficient light from the increasingly overcast sky. She had rounded the heel and was forming the foot. At this rate she would have all the wool knitted by December 1st.
How will we know when December comes? Dorothy considered this problem for a minute. “Lydia, do you have any writing paper? I need to make a calendar so we can cross off each day. Then we’ll know how much time we have left to make the socks.”
Lydia was peeling potatoes to add to the pot roast simmering on the stove. She shook her head. “Sorry, Dodie.”
Dorothy started rooting through the wood-box. “Maybe one of these pieces is split smooth enough to write on.”
Mam lay the knitting project on the deep window ledge. “The light is failing. I’ll finish in the morning if it’s a bright day.” She donned her coat and went to the privy. When she returned, Lydia was stirring chopped onions into the pot and Dorothy was pushing her pencil stub against a strip of wood.
“It’s no use! I can’t make the numbers clearly.” Dorothy threw the chunk of wood back into the wood-box “I already forget what day it is.”
Cocking her head, Mam studied Dorothy. Finally she said, “I have an idea.”
Dorothy and Lydia looked at her. “What is it?” they both asked.
“First, take those clothes off the trunk.” Mam pointed to the large wooden trunk that had become a catch-all for things they wore regularly and didn’t want to leave on the dirt floor. Dorothy and Lydia tossed jumpers and stockings onto Mam’s bed.
Mam lifted the lid and retrieved something packed against one side of the trunk. It was a sheet of stiff cardboard. She gazed at it for a minute, then reversed the sheet to reveal a colour-tinted photograph with a tear-away calendar on the bottom.
“I believe it is November 2nd today.”
Dorothy took the calendar to the window and studied the photo. Two fashionably-dressed girls watched an organ grinder perform while his monkey begged for coins; the colours were unrealistically bright. “Look, in the corner it says Bootham Terrace, York.” Mam and Lydia peered over Dorothy’s shoulder.
“Aunt Catherine gave it to me before we left. She said it reminded her of our childhood. We once lived on Bootham Terrace before…” Mam pinched her lips tight. “Well, never mind. We can use the calendar until the end of December.”
Dorothy flipped through the small pages stapled to the bottom. The months were all there from January to December, but time had moved on; only November and December were current. “Why haven’t we used the calendar until now?” There was a hint of accusation in her voice, which she recognized only after Lydia cuffed her arm.
“What a good idea, Mam!” Lydia returned to the stove to stir the pot. “You be the date keeper, Dodie.”
Dorothy tore off the months that had gone by and marked an X on the first and second day of November. She carefully stacked the ten outdated months on the shelf. “We can use the backs of these little papers for something.”
She examined the metal strip and ring on top of the cardboard sheet. Then she took a long nail from the nail jar and pushed it into the sod wall nearest to the table. Hanging the calendar, she declared, “I will mark it every day.”
When Mam stepped outside for a breath of air after supper, Dorothy took the opportunity to ask Lydia about Bootham Terrace. Lydia shrugged. “Mam never talks about it. I only know that Gram and Gramp had a fine house before Gramp lost his money. When Mam and Aunt Catherine were young, they were part of fine society. I think Mam has been bitter ever since about losing their status.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy. She needed time to ponder this story. She wondered how it felt to fall from rich to poor, like the story of The Prince and the Pauper. Didn’t the prince become a better person after experiencing poverty? Well, actually, he became a wiser man but he also regained his wealth.
Dorothy sighed. That wasn’t likely to happen to her family. When Mam came back into the soddie, Dorothy smiled. She was surprised at the tenderness she felt toward her mother.
Two fashionably dressed girls on Bootham Terrace, York.
7
Winter Shows its Bite
After breakfast Dorothy dressed in her warmest clothes and announced, “I’m walking over to the Suttons to take them some venison.” Mam stared at her in surprise.
To lend authority to her plan she added, “Frank said I can, if I start out in the morning.”
Mam cleared her throat. “Frank is not your mother, I am. Their house is half a mile away through rugged terrain. It’s far too cold to walk there in the winter.”
Rugged terrain? Dorothy scoffed silently. It’s only a coulee I’ve walked through many times. She composed a more diplomatic reply.
“It’s not winter yet, Mam. It’s only November. It scarcely snowed last night and it’s sunny now.” Dorothy pointed to the shaft of bright light slanting in from the window.
“It was quite pleasant when I went to the privy,” Lydia contributed helpfully.
“Did you notice the temperature?” asked Mam.
“I have to go. I’ll check.” Dorothy scuttled outside before Mam presented any more objections. After using the privy she studied the thermometer nailed to the north wall.
; She moved her head until she could see the thin line of mercury. Plus 23. That’s hardly cold at all! The thermometer could record the temperature all the way down to minus 20. According to Dad, it had never been that cold the entire time he owned the thermometer back in York.
Dorothy barged inside. “It’s plus 23; that’s really warm for winter.”
A tiny smile wavered at the edges of Mam’s mouth. “I thought it was still autumn.”
“Right, autumn. And the day has just started. It will warm even more.”
“Yes, you may go, but don’t dally there.” Mam eyed her sternly until Dorothy nodded, then tugged Dorothy’s tam o’shanter over her ears, wrapped her muffler snugly around her face and added a pair of mittens over Dorothy’s gloves. “How will you carry the meat?”
“It’s in Frank’s rucksack at the stable.”
“Have you room for this?” Lydia held the tin with Victor’s sock. “Thank them for the egg.”
Mam pinched her brows accusingly. “You haven’t returned that sock yet? I’m sure Mrs. Sutton has finished the other by now.”
With a huff Dorothy took the tin. No matter what I do, Mam finds something wrong.
Relieved to be out of the house, she ran to the stable. Tucking the tin beside the roast, she hoisted the heavy rucksack on her back. When she left, she latched the door carefully.
Dorothy tramped across the hill into the coulee that ran east-west toward the Suttons’ homestead. In the ravine she was protected from the breeze. She shoved Mam’s red mittens into her pockets and loosened her scarf.
For months the Barr Colonists had been warned about the dangers of winter in the North-West. Look at the blue sky and bright puffy clouds, Dorothy thought, much nicer than the dreary November days in England. The Canadians were just pulling our leg, like Dad said.
She bounced along the deer trail, keeping an eye out for Victor’s rabbit snares. They were probably down in the base of the coulee. The snow was deeper there, but she knew snowshoe hares could bound across the surface with their wide feet.
When the deer path wound into the copse of aspen trees, Dorothy sidestepped to the bottom and trudged through the foot-deep snow. Finally the coulee opened onto the flat plain that was part of the Suttons’ property.
Now the wind chilled her face and she ran towards the Suttons’ sod house. A band of smoke slanted skyward from the stovepipe protruding through the roof. She rapped on the door, then let herself in. An instant later she was hugged by Mrs. Sutton, who smelled like freshly baked bread.
“Dearest Dodie, ’ow long ’as it bin since I seen ya? Did ya come alone? And ’ow is yer mother? And the rest of the family? Let me make tea.” Mrs. Sutton bustled about, hanging up Dorothy’s outerwear, filling the kettle, laying a plate of bread and jam at the table.
Dorothy didn’t answer any of these questions. She just feasted her eyes on her dear friend, the motherly woman who had nursed her when she injured her hip last spring. Finally she opened the rucksack. “I brought you some venison. Dad shot a deer before he left and Frank and I butchered it.”
“Lordy, aren’t you a capable young lady!”
Dorothy felt a bit flustered by the praise. She glanced around. “Where’s Victor?”
“At the dock gettin’ water. ’E be back shortly.”
Soon the door opened. “I knew you were here, Dodie. I saw footprints coming down from the coulee.” Victor sat beside his mother and Dorothy smiled at the likeness in the two freckled faces.
“I brought your sock back, Victor.” Dorothy told Mrs. Sutton about Lydia’s request for an egg to comb through her hair. They laughed at Lydia’s vanity.
“She be a comely lass,” said Mrs. Sutton, “and Patrick an ’ard-working lad. ’Tis a fine couple they make, but they’ll soon learn cooking skills be worth more than shiny ’air.”
“Lydia’s a good cook too. She makes most of the meals because Mam, well, you know…”
Mrs. Sutton did know about Mam’s bouts of melancholy. She reached across the table and squeezed Dorothy’s hand. “Speakin’ of eggs, Victor, might there be an egg at the ’en house today? I could cook it up special for Dodie.”
When Victor left to check the henhouse, Mrs. Sutton moved to the empty chair beside Dorothy. She said softly, “Victor told me yer dad bin strugglin’ with the bottle…”
Dorothy’s breath caught in her throat. She was grateful for Mrs. Sutton’s sympathy about Mam, but this new burden with Dad…it was almost too much to bear.
She sucked her lip to suppress the surge of pain. When Mrs. Sutton drew her close, Dorothy melted into the kind woman’s shoulder and dissolved into sobs.
“There, there, dear, ’tis good to cry it out.” Mrs. Sutton stroked Dorothy’s back. “’Tis a common ’nuff thing in families – nothin’ t’ be ’shamed of.”
Dorothy clung to Victor’s mother until she felt restored. “It’s much better now. Dad made a private pledge to our family, just like Victor said.”
Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Mrs. Sutton wiped Dorothy’s face. “Ya know ya can come ’ere whene’er ya need time away from yer family.” She glanced at the stove. “Lawks, the kettle bin ’uffing steam for some time! I best make the tea.”
By the time the tea had steeped, Victor was back with a solitary treasure. One brown spotted egg. “The hens aren’t laying much. Mr. Snow said they won’t lay at all when it gets colder. Soon we’ll have to, you know, Mum…”
“You don’t have to be delicate around Dodie. She just butchered a deer.”
Dorothy tried to look nonchalant, as if this skill were commonplace in every properly raised English girl.
“Crikey,” said Victor, cuffing her on the back. “That’s my Dodie!”
Mrs. Sutton popped the egg into a pot of simmering water. A few minutes later she presented it in an eggcup. She cut a slice of bread into fingers to dip in the rich yellow yolk. Dodie had never felt so pampered.
Mrs. Sutton finally took a sip of her tea. “How’s Lydia makin’ out with bakin’ bread?”
“Well, uh…” Dorothy didn’t want to tattle but Lydia had pretty much given up on yeast bread. “She prefers to make scones. Baking powder is so much faster than yeast.” Dorothy savoured every bite of Mrs. Sutton’s bread dipped in egg yolk.
Beside her Victor looked equally happy, munching on bread spread thick with jam.
“After tea can you show me your rabbit snares in the coulee, Victor?”
“I’ll teach you how to make one too.” Licking jam off his fingers, he found his spool of steel wire and snipped off a piece the length of his arm. He coiled the wire and tucked it into his coat pocket.
“Shan’t ya stay for dinner first, Dodie? I’ve a fine pot o’ soup simmerin’ on the stove.”
Dorothy felt sorely tempted to dally with her two dear friends. Then she remembered Mam’s instructions. Dally. That’s exactly what she promised she would NOT do. “Thanks so much Mrs. Sutton but I’d best get home, else Mam will worry.”
Mrs. Sutton kissed her cheek. “You’re growin’ up, Dodie.” Mrs. Sutton packed a loaf of bread in the empty rucksack and slipped it over Dorothy’s shoulders after she buttoned up her coat.
The young people tramped across the open field towards Dorothy’s homestead. “It seems colder now.” Dorothy pulled her muffler higher across her face.
“The wind has picked up a bit is all,” Victor said. “We won’t feel it in the coulee.”
Inside the small valley Dorothy felt warm again. She walked in Victor’s footsteps, so she wouldn’t accidentally trample a snare. Beside a rose-bush thicket Victor knelt in the snow. “There’s a lair in here. See those rabbit tracks. They’re hard to recognize under the fresh snow.”
Dorothy picked out a line of fuzzy dents leading into the thicket. “I don’t see a snare.”
Victor pointed away from the dense brush. “Follow the footprints back.” Finally she caught a glint of wire hanging in a small space between two bushes.
“
When the rabbit runs toward his den,” Victor explained, “his head goes through the wire circle, which pulls tight and chokes him.”
“There’s no rabbit there now.” Dorothy felt a bit disappointed.
“The tracks are covered with new snow. Obviously nobody came this way since I laid the snare yesterday.”
“Don’t they come home to sleep every night?”
Victor rolled his eyes. “If prey animals ran the same way every day, coyotes would just sit and wait for them. They have different dens; that’s why I have twelve snares out.”
“How many do you catch each day?”
“Usually none. And if I do catch one, a coyote might eat it before I get back to check the snares. On a lucky day I might get two.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy. Snaring rabbits was harder than she had imagined.
Victor nudged her. “Let’s see if they have a back door.”
They found a place where the thorny bushes thinned enough to squeeze through. On the far side Dorothy pointed to fresh tracks leading into a rough hole under the snarled branches. For a minute she felt like an animal tracker, wise to the ways of nature. In the next instant she was overcome with remorse, imagining a frightened snowshoe hare huddled inside at this very moment.