Trial by Winter

by Anne Patton

  “Any sign of Frank?” Mam asked when Lydia returned with water.

  Lydia filled the kettle. “Frank will wait for the snow to stop.”

  “He most likely slept at the general store,” added Dorothy. “He’s probably waiting for the coal oil. For sure nobody could deliver it in a blizzard.”

  Eventually Lydia served tea and the rest of Mrs. Sutton’s bread. The family gathered at the table in the gloom. Dorothy complained, “We can’t see well enough to do anything. I’ll be so bored.”

  “We could go for a walk,” Lydia suggested.

  “Outside?” Mam looked alarmed.

  “I’m serious, Mam. It’s not very cold.”

  “But we’ll get lost in the snow.”

  Dorothy peeked out the door. “Yes, let’s have a walk. You can see clearly past the dock.”

  Mam looked dubious. “You want to go outside, Dodie, after nearly freezing yesterday?”

  “I’m warmed up now and I don’t want sit around all day in this gloomy room.”

  They all bundled up and stepped into the winter world. Snow fell gently in large flakes that Dorothy caught with glee. Even Mam stretched out her kid-leather glove and brought a snowflake close to her face. “How intricate and lacy it is.”

  As Mam stared, more flakes floated onto her glove to keep company with the first. Her eyes shone as she scanned the pristine landscape before her. “How wondrous is the Lord’s work.”

  Joy bubbled up inside Dorothy. She had never seen her mother forget her worries long enough to revel in the natural beauty around her.

  “I know a game we played in the schoolyard when it snowed.” Dorothy skipped past the fireguard to a sweep of white ground. She traced a large circle with her feet, trampling down the snow.

  “Fox and geese!” With a laugh Lydia started forming cross paths, like the spokes of a wheel. “Come on, Mam. We need three people.”

  Mam stood on the stoop until Dorothy tugged her across the snow to their trampled design.

  “You’re the fox, Lydia!” Dorothy dropped Mam’s hand and gave her a little push. “Run away, Mam. Don’t let the fox catch you.” Dorothy danced along the outer rim to get farther from her sister.

  “Oh!” gasped Mam, looking like she finally got the point of the game. She sprinted in the opposite direction, just as Lydia caught up with Dorothy. Now the fox, Dorothy ran after her mother. Mam darted away with a sharp turn down a sideways spoke, leaving Dorothy sprawled in the snow.

  When Mam came back to pick her up, Dorothy tagged her. “You’re the fox now.”

  Mam’s eyes glowed and her cheeks were rosy. “This fox is going inside to make tea.”

  “Dodie, let’s collect a load of firewood from the stable first,” suggested Lydia.

  Soon Dorothy and Lydia trudged up the hill with armfuls of split logs. They walked quietly, each lost in her own thoughts. Finally Dorothy said, “Mam looked happy playing with us.”

  “Yes,” Lydia agreed. “We have to get her out of that dingy little house more often.”

  “And she looked pretty. Like she must have looked when Dad married her, before she got so grumpy.”

  Lydia squinted at Dorothy. “Mam’s been through some hard times. When you’re older you’ll understand that better.”

  A ball of fire boiled up Dorothy’s throat like it always did when Lydia accused her of being too young. Biting her lip, she looked away. Don’t say anything. It will ruin the fun we just had together.

  The sisters dropped their logs into the wood-box just inside the door. Dorothy didn’t want to stay in their gloomy house on such a lovely day. She needed another outside chore. Spying the emergency water cauldron that Dad bought last week, she said, “We should top up that water barrel while the weather’s nice. I’ll fetch some buckets now.”

  Dorothy followed Lydia’s footprints to the dock. Through the light snowfall she surveyed the long, greyish-blue oval of Button Lake. Every flake landing on the water was sucked inside, as if the lake were desperate for moisture to plump itself up, after shrinking during the hot, dry summer.

  A ring of ice edged the lake, but Lydia had already chopped a jagged hole beside the dock. Dorothy scooped her buckets into the water and trooped up the hill.

  A faint nicker sounded in the distance. Dorothy stared eastward where the track to their homestead met the north-south road allowance. Two black horses trotted toward her, pulling a wagon. The wagon had the familiar canvas top, but something about it looked strange.

  She deposited her buckets on the stoop and waited. Soon she recognized the horses – Ebony and Midnight. Frank must be there too, but she couldn’t see him. The horses stopped and Frank’s head suddenly appeared.

  Dorothy rushed over to him. “Why are you so low to the ground?”

  Frank stepped off the wagon, grinning like a boy with a new toy. “I’ve converted to a sleigh, dear sister. Now I won’t get stuck in the snow when I do a freight run to Battleford.”

  Dorothy inspected the runners attached under the wagon box. “Where are the wheels?”

  “Stored in my stable for the winter.”

  Mam stepped outside. “I’m glad to see you, Frank. I feared you were lost in the blizzard.”

  “Don’t fret about me, Mam. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Dorothy gazed at her brother proudly. “See, Mam. I knew he would be fine.”

  “Did you bring the coal oil?” asked Mam.

  Frank’s grin collapsed. “Ah, no, the team that went upriver to empty the scow hasn’t returned. But Mr. Herbert sent something else. Why don’t you brew some tea and I’ll bring it inside.”

  By the time Frank stabled and watered his horses, Mam and Lydia had heated soup and brewed tea. Frank entered the house holding a small box. Mam lifted the lid and her face fell.

  “Candles? You want me to make do with candles? What kind of a backward country is this?’

  In an instant the fun of playing outside was erased by the harsh realities of wilderness life. Mercy! thought Dorothy, watching her mother sag into a chair. Will I ever see a look of joy on Mam’s face again?

  9

  A Good Head for Business

  Longing for coal oil, Mam had to make do with candlelight. Every night the family ate by the wavering light of two candles. Luckily, the weather improved. Most days bands of sunlight poked into their house as the sun moved across the sky.

  Sitting beside whichever window was lit, Mam finished a pair of socks for Mr. Herbert. She picked a second skein of wool from the carton to start a new pair. “Sit beside me, Dodie. It’s time to teach you how to knit the cuff. Then I’ll finish the heel and toe.”

  Dorothy’s aversion to needlework burst from her mouth. “WHY ME? Lydia would do a much better job.”

  Mam gave her a scathing look. “Lydia has far too much to do. You made this arrangement with Mr. Herbert so you can help with the work.”

  “But Mam, remember when Gram tried to teach me to knit a muffler? She called me butterfingers because I kept dropping stitches.”

  “No excuses, Dorothy Jean. You’ll do just fine, if you put your mind to it.”

  With a sigh Dorothy pulled another chair close to Mam.

  “Watch closely.” Mam cast stitches onto a needle pointed at both ends. Then she transferred most of the stitches to two more needles so the three needles formed a triangle. “The fourth needle is the working needle.”

  Dorothy tried to focus, even though she had no desire to master this skill.

  Mam tugged to lengthen the strand of wool coming from the skein. She flipped a loop of wool around the extra needle to form a new stitch for the second row. Before long the extra needle was full of stitches and part of the triangle. The first needle was empty.

  “Now this is the working needle.” After an hour of looping wool and clicking needles, Mam had a three inch cuff with tight even stitches. “Now you continue this cuff until it is eight inches long.”

  Mam dropped the knitting project into
Dorothy’s lap, molding Dorothy’s hands into the correct position around the needles. “Hold your pointer finger out.” Mam twisted the wool around it. “Now stick the needle into the loop and drop the stitch onto the needle.”

  Dorothy wanted to scream, IT’S TOO HARD! Remembering the money they desperately needed, she bit her lip. She held her breath and focussed her mind. Around the finger, make a loop, slip the loop to the other needle. Soon she had transferred all the stitches onto the extra needle. Mam peered over her shoulder, murmuring encouraging comments as Dorothy continued to form stitches.

  Finally Mam stood up. “Keep knitting. Your stitches are quite even now.”

  Hunched over the knitting, Dorothy looped and clicked and watched the sock grow. Finally she heard Mam’s voice. “Good work, Dodie. I’ll take over now.” Mam lifted the project from her lap and Dorothy shook out her clenched hands.

  Relaxing her shoulders, she inhaled a deep breath. She wondered if she had breathed at all during the past two hours. It was almost magical how twisting loops of wool over and over could form something sorely needed – like a sock.

  Gram won’t believe this when I write and tell her about it. Dorothy had never felt so useful.

  •••

  After a fortnight of mainly sunny weather they had four pairs of socks to sell to the general store. “Where has Frank been lately?” Mam mused. “We need him to deliver these socks.”

  Dorothy just realized something. “You know what? We haven’t needed him for anything until now. Lydia and I have looked after the firewood and the water.”

  “We’re going to need him soon,” said Lydia, “unless you’re strong enough to use the bucksaw, Dodie. We’re running short of cut firewood.”

  The very next afternoon Frank came by with the provision that had become so precious by its absence. A one gallon jug of kerosene!

  “Praise the Lord!” said Mam, clasping her hands.

  “Don’t I get some praise too?” Frank looked very pleased with himself.

  “Of course you do, my big strong son.” Mam stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, right above the hair that had sprouted along his jawline.

  “That’s better. I had to go all the way to Battleford to get it.”

  “Battleford?” echoed Dorothy. “Is that why you haven’t shaved recently?”

  Frank rubbed the stubble on his face. “At the pub in Battleford all the blokes are growing beards. Keeps your face warm in the winter, they told me.”

  “Did you try out that other thing at the pub?” Dorothy mimicked smoking a cigarette.

  Frank silenced her with a glare.

  “Why did you go to Battleford?” asked Lydia, pouring hot water into the teapot. She set cups and plates and biscuits on the table.

  “I took the mail and brought back a shipment for Mr. Herbert. I left right after I brought you the candles. The trail was so rough after the blizzard, it took much longer to travel. Did you miss me?”

  “Actually yes,” said Mam. “We need you to deliver something.” She showed Frank the finely crafted grey socks. “Dodie knitted each leg and I turned the heel and finished the foot.”

  “Mr. Herbert will be pleased. I tried to get him some socks in Battleford but the storekeeper had none to spare.” Frank looked around the table. “You folks could use an outing. If the weather’s fine tomorrow, we can go to Lloydminster for the day.”

  The next morning Frank arrived with the sleigh. He warned them to dress warmly. “The temperature is pleasant but it feels much colder when we move.” He pulled down the flaps on his muskrat-fur hat and pulled his scarf up to his nose. “Wrap an extra shawl ’round your head, Mam.”

  Outside Frank helped Mam step aboard. “It’s much easier to climb into now,” said Mam, smoothing her coat as she sat.

  Dorothy and Lydia settled themselves on the wooden crate Frank had arranged at the rear of the box. “Goodness, we’re so low to the ground now!” Dorothy bubbled.

  Frank unfolded two rough blankets, giving one to Mam and tossing the other to Lydia. She tucked it around Dorothy and herself as the horses started to trot. While the wagon glided along, the runners made a soft swishing sound. Much easier on the ears, Dorothy thought, than the piercing squeal of wheels.

  The wind chilled her face but Dorothy didn’t care. She peered past the canvas roof at the crisp white landscape. Three weeks ago she had made the same trip, but the countryside looked transformed again. Snowdrifts snaked across white fields, making blue-tinted shadows. Bushes were completely smothered into ghostly mounds. It was eerily beautiful.

  Dorothy shivered. She now understood how dangerous winter in the North-West could be.

  When they reached the village, Frank parked at the end of the boardwalk. “The road ahead is too chopped up. We’ll walk to the store.” He threw the blankets over the horses’ backs.

  Mam picked up her canvas tote-bag containing the socks and slipped the drawstring over her arm. Taking Frank’s hand, she stepped down to the snow-covered boardwalk. For a minute she just stared at the buildings. “My heavens, it’s a real town!”

  Dorothy jumped out and skidded on the slick boards. Plunk! Her best serge skirt fanned out in the dirty snow.

  “Dorothy Jean,” gasped Mam, “we are in civilization now. Try to act like a lady.”

  With a laugh Frank pulled Dorothy up. “A frontier lady is the best you can hope for, Mam.”

  Mam brushed the snow off Dorothy’s skirt.

  Lydia stamped her feet. “I’m getting cold. Shall we move on to Mr. Herbert’s store?” She slipped her arm into her mother’s and guided her past the Land Titles office and a hardware store.

  Mam’s footsteps slowed as she approached the general store. Dorothy took her other arm.

  “Mr. Herbert will be so happy to get these socks, Mam.”

  Mam came to a full stop just before Mr. Herbert’s window. She slipped the drawstring bag onto Dorothy’s arm. “You made the arrangements, Dodie. You deliver the socks.” Her mother looked back the way she had come. “I saw chairs in the Land Titles building. Come and keep me company, Lydia.”

  “You, uh, don’t want to collect the money, Mam?” Dorothy glanced at her sister, but Lydia appeared equally puzzled.

  Finally Lydia sighed, “All right, Mam. I’ll sit with you.” Dorothy heard the disappointment in her sister’s voice. She knew how much Lydia wanted to explore the merchandise at the general store. “You and Frank go ahead, Dodie.”

  They all looked around for Frank who had disappeared from the street.

  Dorothy was still confused. “Don’t you want the money, Mam?”

  “Tell Mr. Herbert to apply it to our bill.” Mam turned on her heel and walked crisply back to the government office. Lydia ran to catch up, leaving Dorothy standing on the boardwalk with the bag of socks dangling from her arm.

  Reluctantly she pushed open the heavy door and stepped into Herbert’s General Store. Mr. Herbert emerged from behind a row of shelves, brushing off his jacket and straightening his tie.

  “Hello young Dorothy,” he said pleasantly. “What brings you here today?”

  “I have four pairs of socks that my mam knitted, well actually I helped, and you said you’d pay us 50 cents a pair.” The words came out in a rush. Dorothy shuffled from foot to foot as heat flushed across her face. She felt like she was begging.

  Stop thinking like this! We earned the money fair and square.

  Mr. Herbert examined the socks. “Fine work,” he said, glancing around the store. “Where is Mrs. Bolton? I’d like to thank her.”

  “She’s, uh, down the street. She’s too uh, shy –”

  “Say no more, Dorothy.”

  Leaning on the counter, he scribbled on a sheet of paper. He handed the folded note to Dorothy and opened the door. “Run and give this to your mother. Come right back, mind, because I have a treat for you.”

  The note felt hot in her hand. She knew she shouldn’t read other people’s mail but a quick peek wouldn
’t count. She squeezed into the tiny alleyway next to the general store, in case Mr. Herbert was watching out the window.

  Dorothy opened the note. In a loose scrawl it said:

  Mrs. Bolton, please join me for tea. I so seldom have an opportunity to visit with a gracious lady. I have the kettle on the boil.

  Dorothy doubted this strategy would lure her mother into the store. Mam often boasted that she wasn’t taken in by salesmen with their smooth tongues. But it was Dorothy’s job to deliver the message. Outside the Land Titles office she hesitated. She considered the mission from Mr. Herbert a lost cause. A bell above the door tinkled as she pushed it open.

  Mam sat ramrod straight on a pressed-back chair lined up with three others against the wall. Lydia was examining a large photograph on the wall of a formally dressed man wearing a crown. It looked like King Edward at his coronation.

  “Mam, Mr. Herbert sent you a note. He wants –”

  “Were you born in a barn, young lady?” interrupted a gruff voice behind a long wooden counter. “Close the door!”