by Anne Patton
Mam stepped up to the stove with an armful of split wood. “This is the last load from the wood-box, Lydia. You’ll have to bring another log inside soon.” She stopped abruptly and stared at Lydia’s open palm. “What is that?”
Dorothy and Lydia froze. Perched in Lydia’s hand, the illicit carving gleamed in the firelight.
Dorothy cleared her throat. “It’s a carving of a meadowlark. Its song makes you happy.”
“Where and when did you get it?”
Dorothy snatched the bird and tucked it away in her pocket. “Uh…Mr. Parenteau gave it to me last summer.”
“Last summer? You accepted a gift from a stranger, and an Indian, to boot!”
Dorothy squeezed her eyes tight. She couldn’t bear to hear gentle Mr. Parenteau dismissed so harshly. “He’s not an Indian; he’s Métis! And he wasn’t a stranger. He helped us several times.”
Mam sighed. “You’re right, Dodie, he did help us out of that dreadful slough. But he is not, well, cultured like the British.”
“At the moment,” interrupted Lydia, “we could use less British culture and more wilderness know-how, like these winter moccasins.” She tossed them toward Dorothy. “We need to bucksaw another pole from the stack.”
Mam retrieved the warming stone and shoved it under the stove to reheat. “I’ll have hot tea ready when you come inside.”
So Dorothy and Lydia faced the bone-chilling deep freeze again. They fought with the frozen poles until one separated from the tipi. They hacked back and forth until they freed the pole from its base buried in the snowdrift.
“Let’s saw off another one right now.” Lydia’s face bore an expression of grim determination that brokered no argument. Finally they carried both trophies inside and gathered by the fire.
“Is the weather improving, Lydia?” Mam asked.
“Not really, Mam. The snow has stopped but it’s still bitterly cold.”
“What will we do if Frank doesn’t come soon?”
“Keep from freezing to death. What else can we do?”
“And starving to death,” added Dorothy. “I’m so hungry.”
“Porridge will be ready soon,” Mam said, getting up to stir the pan. “If you’re feeling ambitious, Dodie, you can fill the washtub with snow again. I want to make a stew later.”
Dorothy had barely warmed up when she found herself outside again. While she collected snow, Lydia and Mam bucksawed the poplar poles into pieces.
As the frozen rounds of wood sizzled and spit on the stove top, Dorothy smiled at her family sitting beside her eating bowls of porridge. “We’re all working together,” she said proudly.
“Yes,” said Mam, “many hands make light work.”
Lydia chortled. “You mean many hands improve the odds of survival.”
With this light-hearted banter Dorothy forgot all the threats outside their door. For a moment she enjoyed a bubble of happiness, chatting with her mother and sister.
“Lydia,” Mam asked, “after breakfast can you get some vegetables and meat from the root cellar?” She set the large pot on the stove and scooped in melted snow water.
“Of course,” said Lydia, finishing her porridge. She walked behind the stove, bent down and tugged the handle of the wooden door to the root cellar. “For pity’s sake, this door is frozen. Bring the axe, Dodie.”
With the blunt side of the blade, Lydia tapped the edges of the door. “Try it now.”
Cold seeped through her glove as Dorothy tugged on the metal door handle. “Still stuck.” She felt a surge of panic. What if we can’t get to our food?
“I hope I don’t have to chop the door to pieces.” Lydia tapped some more. “Try it now.”
Dorothy pulled open a crack directly under the handle. Lydia wedged the axe into the narrow space and levered the planks apart from the door frame. Mam pushed a piece of firewood into the widening gap. Together they grasped the open edge of the door and tugged. The door groaned upward.
Dorothy swung it all the way back on its hinges. She rubbed her gloved hands triumphantly. “Many hands make light work!”
Lydia peered into the hole dug into the floor. “It’s pitch-black down there. Light the lantern, Dodie, and bring it over.”
Lydia brought the short ladder stored against the back wall and lowered it into the dark hole. Then she took the lantern and descended. Holding the ladder steady, Dorothy gazed into the cellar where they stored their winter vegetables. The swinging lantern cast an arc of amber light on wooden crates encrusted with frost.
“Oh, my Lord, everything down here is frozen!” Lydia’s gloved hands lifted a head of cabbage as hard as a rock. Then a white-coated turnip that appeared to be covered with mould.
Mam’s face was grim as she took the vegetables, but she said brightly, “These will be fine in the stew, Lydia.”
Lydia reached up again with a cut of venison they had retrieved from the stable three days ago. It had not even begun to thaw. “Put this in the stew pot, Dodie. It’ll have to simmer for hours.”
Dorothy took the frozen slab of ribs. She studied the flat, slightly curved bones before lowering the meat into the pot. Two hours later the merest whiff of a meaty aroma rose from the bubbling broth.
By this time the vegetables were partially thawed. In spite of Mam’s assurance, they did not look fine at all. The cabbage leaves were limp and translucent. The turnip was mushy. Without a word, Mam cut them into chunks and dropped them into the cooking pot.
Dorothy was not looking forward to this meal. As things turned out, she didn’t have to eat it for a long time.
To use a bucksaw you grasp the handle (bottom left) with both hands. If needed, another person can push from the other side as well. Bucksaw courtesy Saanich Historical Artifacts Society.Photograph by Anne Patton.
14
The Trials of Job
Whack! Lydia embedded the axe in a thick round of wood. For several minutes Dorothy stirred the stew to the familiar rhythm of wood thudding the floor, as the axe chiselled deeper.
Abruptly, the thud stopped.
“BLOODY –!” Lydia stood stock still. Her mouth agape, she stared at a ragged rip in her skirt. The axe fell from her fingers. “My leg! My leg!”
Dorothy rushed over just as Lydia crumpled to the floor.
“Dear God,” cried Mam, leaping from her chair. “What happened?”
Dorothy frantically rolled up Lydia’s skirt. Blood gushed from her left leg, soaking her woollen stocking. “Mam, we need a towel!”
Mam was already rooting through her trunk. She hurried over with a fine linen tea towel and wrapped it around the wound. “Press firmly on this, Dodie. We need to stop the bleeding.”
“It hurts,” Lydia sobbed. “Oh Lord, it hurts.”
“I’m so sorry, Lydia.” Dorothy’s hands shook as she tried to keep pressure on the injured leg. Blood oozed through her fingers. Panic churned inside her. “It’s still bleeding, Mam.”
Mam washed her hands at the basin. She gathered more clean cloths and a pair of scissors from the trunk. She poured hot water into a bowl and sat on the floor beside Dorothy.
“Take the cloth off. I have to wash the cut and see how deep it is. And bring that large towel to put under Lydia’s leg.” Mam nodded toward a striped bath towel hanging on a peg.
Dorothy dropped the blood-soaked linen cloth into an empty bucket and grabbed the large terrycloth towel. It wasn’t exactly clean but it would have to do. She folded it in half lengthwise and laid it in place as Mam lifted Lydia’s leg. Mam snipped away Lydia’s stocking from the injured area. Blood still flowed from the gash on the inside of her calf.
Lydia winced each time Mam dabbed a warm damp cloth on the cut. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Mam said encouragingly. “Your skirt took the worst of it.”
Lydia choked out a feeble laugh. “I hope Mr. Herbert has some dress material in stock.”
Mam glanced around the dimly lit room. “Bring the lantern, Dodie, so I can examine the wou
nd carefully. And look for something for us to sit on. The ground is freezing.”
Dorothy dragged a chair beside Mam and placed the lantern on it. Then she pulled the groundsheet off their makeshift tent, doubled it over and laid it beside Lydia. Together they helped Lydia and the towel shift onto the rubber sheet.
“Oh Lord, that’s better,” groaned Lydia. “I am frozzed from head to toe.”
Lydia pressed her lips tight as their mother wiped fresh blood streaming from the wound. Mam peered intently at the gash. “The axe blade missed the bone completely. The cut is in the fleshy part of your calf. It’s bleeding a lot but that’s actually good. It will wash out any clothing fibres that might have lodged inside.”
Again Mam dabbed the blood dripping down Lydia’s leg. Then she folded a clean linen tea towel and laid it across the cut. “Dodie, press firmly on this. I want to look for something to elevate Lydia’s leg.” Mam’s composure and quick actions soothed Dorothy’s panic. Her drumming heart slowed to normal as she held the cloth in place.
Mam returned with a heavy sweater from her trunk. She rolled it into a tube and pushed it under the towel to raise Lydia’s lower leg. “How’s the patient looking, doctor?”
Mercy! thought Dorothy, I’ll see wounds like this every day if I become a real doctor. She lifted the bloody linen and peered closely at Lydia’s cut. Blood was still oozing out. And the red stuff that’s glistening under the blood? Is that …muscle?
Dorothy cleared her throat. “Um, it’s not bleeding as much now, Mam.” Her previous experiences with doctors spun through her mind. When she had typhoid fever, she’d overheard a doctor telling Mam to always speak hopefully to the patient. She added, “You’ll be right as rain soon, Lydia,” because that’s what Mam had told her several times over a month of fever.
“That’s right.” Mam sat on the groundsheet and patted Lydia’s clenched hand. “Dodie, bring the roll of gauze from the medicine kit.” Dorothy lugged the heavy steel box from its shelf and opened it on the table. She took a small cardboard box labelled gauze and handed it to Mam.
“I wish we had some alcohol to use as a disinfectant,” Mam said.
“Would Dad’s whisky do?” Lydia asked between clenched teeth.
Mam’s eyebrows jumped. “Did Dad give you his bottle?”
“No, Frank told me to hide it. Said it was too valuable to throw out. It’s under my bed.”
Dorothy scampered to retrieve the bottle. The light was too dim to see under the slats where Lydia’s pallet used to be. She brought the lantern close and caught a glint of glass in the far corner. With the straw broom she fished it out. The slim glass flask was frigid, but liquid still sloshed inside.
“It’s not even frozen!” Dorothy handed the bottle to Mam and plunked the lantern back on the chair, now functioning as a bedside table.
“Alcohol freezes at a much lower temperature than water,” Mam explained. “We’ll have to warm it up before pouring it on Lydia’s leg.” She lay the flask down in the bowl of warm water.
Lydia smiled wanly. “Frank was right. He said we might need it for medicinal purposes.”
Dorothy nodded. “Frank’s always right.”
In a while Mam lifted the bottle from the water. “Feels warm now.” She nodded towards the bowl. “Dodie, get some soap and wash your hands. They’re filthy after poking around under the bed.”
While Dorothy scrubbed her hands, Mam held the flask near the lantern and peered into the dark brown glass. “A third of a bottle left. Enough for our needs.”
When Mam unscrewed the lid, a powerful odour assaulted Dorothy’s nose – the same stench she had inhaled from Dad’s clothing. “That smells terrible. I’m so glad Dad promised to give up drink!”
“We’ll see about that,” Mam commented, half under her breath. She added in a cheery voice, “Buck up, Lydia. This’ll be unpleasant, but it will prevent an infection which would hurt much longer.”
Lydia sucked on her lower lip. Her eyes opened like saucers when Mam poured whisky onto the four inch gash. She gasped, then shrieked, “LORD SAVE ME!” Mam seized her flailing leg and held tight while Dorothy squeezed her hand.
Lydia’s face pinched into a fierce grimace. In a minute she released Dorothy’s hand and drew in a long breath. “It’s better now.”
Dorothy looked at the gouge marks in her palm, where Lydia had sunk her nails during that intense wave of pain. Another thing doctors have to put up with, she thought.
“Dodie, wrap the gauze snugly around the cut.” Mam pushed both sides of the gash together and Dorothy wrapped the two-inch wide gauze around and around until Mam said to stop. Mam snipped the gauze and secured it with a safety pin from her sewing box.
Lydia shivered. “Can I sit up now? The cold is coming right through the groundsheet.”
Pursing her lips, Dorothy surveyed the room. “I’ll push two chairs together so you can prop up your leg.” She lugged two chairs close to the fire, folded a comforter across the seats, then placed three pillows at one end. Mam added the bath towel to protect their bedding from oozing blood. Lydia started to struggle to her feet.
“Don’t get up,” Dorothy cried. “Mam and I will pull you over on the groundsheet.” After tugging a few steps Dorothy was out of breath. “You’re a lot heavier than the sawhorse,” she puffed.
“You’ve been well fed,” joked Mam, helping Lydia settle onto the chairs. She lifted Lydia’s leg onto the stack of pillows.
Lydia exhaled, “This is better.”
Dorothy returned the lantern and the extra chair to their proper places at the table. Mam sank into the chair, suddenly looking exhausted. “Can anything else go wrong? I feel like I’m being tested with the afflictions of Job.” She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands.
Dorothy’s heart catapulted. Please don’t fall into melancholy, Mam, not now! She took a deep breath, cleared the lump in her throat and said aloud, “Things are bound to get better, Mam. Remember the end of Job’s story. He got his happy life back and so will we.”
Mam looked up in surprise. “You know your Bible stories well, Dodie.”
Dorothy silently thanked Mrs. Davis, that strict teacher in York who had seldom been satisfied with Dorothy’s work. She’d be impressed right now, Dorothy thought wryly.
“Dodie, can you make Mam a pot of tea?” suggested Lydia.
“No, I’ll do it,” said Mam. “I found something special in the trunk, wrapped inside that heavy sweater.” She filled the kettle and moved it to the hottest part of the stove. Then she rummaged in the trunk and produced a large, cream-and-gold teapot which she set on the table.
Speechless, Dorothy stared at the fancy china teapot. It had been given to Gram for her wedding and was her pride and joy. Dorothy remembered many celebrations in Gram’s parlour where tea had been served from this glamorous teapot. Gram had presented it to her daughter during their last Christmas together, three months before they sailed. Dorothy had not seen it since Christmas Day.
Dorothy rubbed her fingers across the shiny fluted surface, feeling the embossed gold curlicues. “I didn’t know you brought it.”
“In truth I had forgotten about it until I rummaged through the trunk today.” Mam gazed wistfully at the teapot. “I’m amazed it survived the journey unscathed, so I don’t want to break it on its first day of duty in the New World.” She dunked her finger in a pan of water sitting on a cooler corner of the stove. “I’ll fill it with lukewarm water first to warm up the china.”
Mam stirred the stew on the stove and added wood to the firebox. “We’re almost out of split wood again. Can you chop some, Dodie?”
Dorothy wasn’t keen on wielding the axe after witnessing Lydia’s accident, but someone needed to size wood for the stove. She pulled the washtub from its corner and set a twelve-inch round next to it. Holding the axe, she stepped into the tub and positioned herself to chop. Wham! The axe lodged in the log. She whacked it on the ground until the axe sank deeper and
cracked the block in half.
“Bravo!” called Lydia from her front row seat.
“I’m not taking any chances,” giggled Dorothy. “Dr. Amos recommended this back in Saskatoon, when so many blokes were gashing their legs.”
“Well that’s a consolation, knowing I’m not the first clumsy oaf.” Lydia scowled. “I’d like to ask them how long it takes before the gash stops throbbing.”
“I wish Mr. Parenteau was here to give you some of his poplar-bark tea.”
Mam looked sharply at Dorothy. Oh dear, thought Dorothy, and started chopping vigorously.
After Dorothy had quartered several more logs, Mam asked her to set the table for tea. Dorothy laid out two mugs and two porcelain cups and saucers. Mam glanced at the setting. “Why are there four places?”
“One is for Gram.”
Mam studied Dorothy’s face and her voice softened. “Right, then.” She poured condensed milk into four cups and topped them up with hot tea. Mam took a mug to Lydia and returned to sit at the table with Dorothy. The elegant teapot and the steaming cup radiated Gram’s calming presence.
After downing both cups of tea, Mam bowed her head and murmured softly for a few minutes. Then she smiled. “We have survived Job’s trials. I feel hopeful now. God will take care of us.”