A British nurse, Clara had arrived in Canada in 1920 to become the superintendent of the Galt Hospital in Lethbridge, Alberta. That was the same year Arthur Meighen was elected prime minister of Canada. He had been the superintendent general of Indian Affairs before entering politics. At the time, Clara hadn’t understood the power of Indian Affairs. Twelve years later, as the Shingwauk nurse, she was acutely conscious of the influence an Indian agent had over the functioning of the school. The headmaster would have to comply with the Indian Affairs Department or lose his job.
“It will be important for me to learn how the system functions,” Clara had said to the headmaster, Reverend Charles Hives, on her first day at Shingwauk. Standing at the school entrance, she watched the older boys mill around the grounds until their names were called. They seemed downright dangerous, so filled with rage. These were healthy-looking children who had spent the summer in the bush with their parents.
Clara knew she would never forget that first week on the job: boys and girls lined up in the dark, musty, windowless corridor outside the gymnasium, each child waiting to be inspected for lice. Ojibwa, Cree, and other Native languages filled the halls, since Reverend Hives was giving the children a few days to adjust to school life before applying the “speak English” rule.
The lopping off of pigtails, ponytails, and shoulder-length hair continued until all the children were admitted to the school. No one got past the gymnasium without being shorn and deloused. By early September, there were fifty-five boys and twenty girls registered in Shingwauk. The smell of kerosene and burnt hair lingered in Clara’s nostrils.
One evening, she returned home and searched for the blank address book she’d been given by a friend as a going-away gift. At the time of leaving Lethbridge, there hadn’t been many addresses she wished to record. Now she sat at her desk, wondering what to write that would reflect the past few days at Shingwauk. The kid-leather notebook wasn’t a diary, but it did have space to write. However, her thoughts about what to put on paper were interrupted by Lily Barnaby, her thirty-five-year-old niece.
Clara was staying with Lily and her husband, James, who had been a psychiatrist at the Galt Hospital before accepting the position of city coroner in Sault Ste. Marie. Barnaby, as James liked to be called, had written to Clara that an opening for a nurse at Shingwauk had been advertised in the Anglican Bulletin. He had been Clara’s loyal advocate, witnessing the toxic atmosphere in which she tried to run the hospital. Falling on the wrong side of hospital politics, she’d been fired, though the hospital board hadn’t used that word.
Now Lily was holding two ice-filled glasses of Scotch whisky and handed one to Clara. “I thought you might like to chat,” she said, settling on the bed beside Clara’s desk.
Clara put down the address book and smiled wanly. “I still feel discarded.”
“You couldn’t have seen what was happening. Even Barnaby was dismayed at the dishonesty.”
“I certainly knew I was heading for a clash with the hospital establishment. I was the frugal British war widow against the newly rich.”
“Well, they got their comeuppance. There won’t be a new hospital because of the financial crash.”
Clara shook her head. “That’s true. But I won’t forget Dr. Loring’s sarcastic tone when he suggested Shingwauk might be my schadenfreude. The directors have had the last laugh.”
“I’m sure no one’s laughing, Clara.”
“Then why did the board believe the trumped-up charge that I’d gone off on a caper without leaving proper instructions for the covering nurse? My dismissal felt like a physical push, though the directors didn’t actually shove me but made accusations that would require a lawyer I couldn’t afford.”
“I did hear that the nurse who made the accusation replaced you as superintendent. The Depression has clouded everyone’s good judgment. You’ll feel more settled when Ivy arrives and you find a house.”
Clara had been hired at Shingwauk without an interview. Reverend Hives hadn’t asked for references or her reason for leaving Lethbridge. That avoided explanations as to why she’d left, but it also suggested that the headmaster was desperate to fill the post. Jobs in Lethbridge were being lost daily as the economic crisis raged on. Clara knew she couldn’t be picky; her widow’s pension from the Great War was hardly enough to pay for food, and Ivy was still in school.
“Giving Ivy more time in Lethbridge was the compromise I needed to get her to the Soo,” Clara told Lily. Three weeks at Bow Lake near Calgary with Katherine Iverson, Ivy’s friend, and her parents was the deal she’d made with Ivy. Clara was sure Etta, Katherine’s mother, could keep track of two high-spirited seventeen-year-olds.
“I know Ivy wanted to complete her last year of high school in Lethbridge,” Lily said kindly. She and Barnaby had acted as surrogate parents while Clara had fought to keep her job as superintendent of the Galt Hospital. Glancing at the address book, Lily added, “A light Scotch will help you put your thoughts on paper.”
September 9, 1932
Does hair have a ceremonial meaning for Indian boys? Is a ponytail a rite of passage to Indians as baptism is to Christians or circumcision to Jewish boys? I didn’t relinquish my culture when I came to Canada, and I’m sure these children don’t wish to relinquish theirs. They are outdoors children. They don’t want to lose their language any more than I want to lose my British accent. Culture is the way we face hardship and loss as well as happiness and celebration.
CHAPTER 2
Two weeks after the hair-shearing and delousing were accomplished for all incoming students, Dr. Andrew McCaig, the medical officer of health for Northern Ontario, bustled into the infirmary, apologizing for being late. He was a man of about sixty whose blue eyes smiled. Dressed in a navy-blue-striped linen suit, bowtie, and well-polished oxfords, he looked incongruous in the rundown school. Dr. McCaig was slighter in build than the muscled Native boys and not much taller. Clara soon discovered the doctor had a simple manner of speaking that invoked trust. She also noticed he didn’t use big words that the children couldn’t understand.
Being a British-trained nurse, Clara stood at attention in her starched white uniform.
Dr. McCaig slipped into the white coat she offered him and placed some instruments on a tray, rubbing his hands with a jovial air. “Are we ready?”
Clara nodded and opened the door. A custodian stood in the hallway to control the flow. First, the teenage boys were led into the infirmary two at a time. One sat while the other was being examined.
Dr. McCaig put the otoscope in the first boy’s ear, saying something that caused the child to laugh and show a mouthful of bad teeth. Then the doctor repeated the procedure on the second boy.
“It took Indian Affairs six months to send us toothbrushes,” he said, handing one to each of the boys. “Now you must use it or the dentist from Ottawa who comes once a year will pull out your teeth.”
The boys shrugged and stuck the toothbrushes in their back pockets.
“Use it,” he called after them, and the next pair was ushered in.
This examination was more complicated because the boys needed eyeglasses. They squinted at even medium-sized letters on the chart.
“Eyes, like teeth, are another problem with the government,” Dr. McCaig said. “By the time the prescription is filled in Ottawa, the child needs a new pair. It can take as long as a year. We’re asking Indian Affairs to pay a local optometrist, but until that happens I’ll pay for him myself.”
“Is Shingwauk your missionary work?” Clara asked after the last examination.
Dr. McCaig smiled. “I’ve been doing this for many years.”
“And you speak their languages,” Clara said admiringly.
“Caring for these children over time, I’ve learned enough Oji-Cree to be understood,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.
Other than the headmaster, there’s no one else in the school speaking the Native tongues, Clara thought. “It’s nice that you add
ress the children by their Christian names,” she said. “Most of the custodians identify a child by his number.”
“I make a point of remembering their names. Christian is a misnomer, however. Most of these children aren’t baptized. The unfortunate reality of keeping track of a residential school population is that a number is easier than a name. The more students enrolled, the bigger the government grant to a residential school.”
“I see,” Clara said doubtfully. “Numbers, not needs, determine the grants.”
“It’s complicated. Last year the Indian school in Spanish had more than thirty children escape. The government threatened to reduce funding unless the children were returned. A number rather than a name makes it easier to track a runaway, especially if a family name can be spelled several different ways. Sadly, this led to severe corporal punishment for those runaways who were returned. They were blamed for lowering the subsidies to the school.” The doctor put his hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Matron. I’ll need your help to keep these children healthy.” He was about to leave the gymnasium when he turned back to her. “I almost forgot. Reverend Hives asked to speak with me when I finished my examinations.”
“Follow me,” Clara said. “Headmaster Hives and his wife, Jean, are living in the staff lounge.”
“There’s nowhere in the school that’s safe to walk,” Dr. McCaig said. “The school structure is crumbling as we speak.”
Clara glanced at the cracked walls and nodded. “The school directors are looking for a nearby house they can rent. In the meantime, home is the staff lounge.”
Dr. McCaig knocked on the lounge door, and Mrs. Hives responded with a finger on her lips. The doctor slipped into the room, followed by Clara. The headmaster was rocking in a chair. The spindly brown legs of a child asleep on his lap could be seen beneath the girl’s thin cotton dress.
“She has a fever,” Reverend Hives whispered, pushing the child’s matted black hair off her damp forehead.
Dr. McCaig opened his medical bag and pulled out a stethoscope, warming it with his hands. “How old is she?”
The reverend held up four fingers.
The doctor frowned. “Too young for residential school, I’d say.”
“Jean and I both agree.” Reverend Hives smiled affectionately at his wife. “Gordon Sims, the Indian agent for our area, brought this little girl by train from Chapleau. Sims is normally a crusty man, but this time he returned from the reserve quite shaken. We learned he arrived to find a police officer trying to get to the bottom of a fight that killed the girl’s parents.”
Dr. McCaig winced, thinking the child understood the cruel words.
As if reading his mind, Reverend Hives said, “She understands only French and Cree.”
“She’s ours for the moment,” Mrs. Hives added. “Her name’s Violette Dumont.”
CHAPTER 3
Clara had been separated from her daughter for a few weeks, but it seemed much longer. Ivy was to arrive on the four o’clock train. Initially, she had fought Clara’s decision to move to Sault Ste. Marie, arguing that she had one more year to graduate in Alberta whereas in Ontario it would take two because that province had five years of high school instead of four. However, the argument didn’t hold up, especially after the principal of Ivy’s new school in the Soo, who had come from the Alberta system, assured her that she could do two years in one. He offered to personally oversee her accelerated program.
Since Clara didn’t own a car, Lily offered to drive her to the train station to meet Ivy.
“She’s in the third car!” Lily said, waving energetically.
Ivy pushed back her long blond hair as she pressed her face against the window.
“And she’s smiling,” Clara added, not disguising her relief. The battle with Ivy over their move to Northern Ontario was still raw in her mind.
The moment the train ground to a halt, Ivy, ignoring the porter’s extended hand, jumped onto the platform and embraced Lily first.
“I’m glad you’ve arrived,” Clara said, not letting her daughter’s slight spoil her own joy that she was finally in the Soo.
Several family friends had offered Ivy a place to stay while she finished the last year of high school in Alberta. In a moment of hurtful candour, Ivy had said to Clara, “Moving to the Soo will be less humiliating than facing my friends whose fathers are doctors at the hospital.”
Clara put the rancour behind her and enjoyed the moment of greeting her daughter. Families wandered around searching for loved ones getting off the train. An elderly black man pulled the baggage cart to the end of the platform, helping passengers identify their luggage. He smiled broadly and offered a cheery comment as he removed a bag.
“That’s quite a load for you,” Clara observed.
“Doing this for thirty years,” the man said. Ivy identified her suitcase, and the old man smiled. “Home for a holiday?”
“I’m not sure I have a home,” she retorted. These words ripped at Clara’s heart. Home had been elusive for Ivy. Living in the nurses’ residence at the Galt Hospital had made it difficult to make friends. Leaving England had been an economic decision because the Galt Hospital had offered room and board for herself and Ivy. Ivy was five at the time and too young to appreciate Clara’s sacrifice. Clara had sold her wedding ring to pay for their passage.
“I’m about to make an offer on a duplex close to your school and far from my work,” Clara said as soon as they settled in Lily’s blue Rambler. She raised her finger to make a positive comment. “But the headmaster of Shingwauk has offered me the use of the school car.”
Ivy leaned forward, draping her arms over Clara’s shoulders as she laughed. “Mum, you don’t know how to drive.”
“Then I’ll have to learn,” Clara offered with a chuckle, warmed by the hug. “We’re going to see the duplex now!”
“Does James like being a coroner?” Ivy asked as they headed north on Pim Hill. “It was a big decision you made last year to move to the Soo.”
Lily shook her head. “Only the good Lord knows why my blessed husband finds working with the deceased less depressing than counselling unhappy veterans who wish they were. We both enjoy living in the Soo,” she added, taking her hand off the steering wheel to wag her finger at Ivy. “You will, too.”
Turning left at the top of the hill, Lily stopped in front of a white stucco house with green shutters on the west side of the street. A black car was parked across from the duplex.
The realtor, a woman named Maggie Stone, bounced out, smiling broadly. “You must be Ivy,” she said, extending her hand. “This is a perfect location to bring friends home. Sault Collegiate is just a block away.” The realtor pointed in the direction of the intersecting street.
Ivy glared at her mother. Clara knew her daughter believed she had spoken to the realtor about Ivy’s difficulty making friends in Lethbridge. Then her daughter followed the agent reluctantly into the vestibule leading to the duplexes.
“The single front door with a common foyer makes the duplex look like a one-family home,” Maggie offered as an added feature.
“We’ll have the lower duplex if you like the house,” Clara said. “If I buy, Sergeant Robert Stuart would love to rent the upstairs.”
“Mum, you’re not telling the truth,” Ivy said.
“She is,” Maggie interjected. “I understand he was your riding instructor in Lethbridge. The city has hired two RCMP officers to stop liquor smuggling across the St. Marys River to the Americans.”
“And why did Sergeant Stuart apply?” Ivy asked, tossing a cheeky glance at Clara.
Maggie hastily opened the door to the lower duplex and let her clients step in.
Clara felt a wave of sadness at the sight of the overstuffed dark blue furniture the owners had left. The pieces reminded her of the matron’s apartment she’d inhabited at the Galt Hospital where Mayor Alistair Harwood, chairman of the hospital board, would come for a drink and sometimes a round of two-handed bridge at
the end of a long day. The mayor had been changing the way Lethbridge was run, while Clara had been transforming the culture in the hospital. They were both battlers and had often commiserated during their card games. Alistair appeared to have healed from a stomach ulcer when Clara left for England in 1929 to visit her family. Before she returned, she received a message that he was admitted to hospital during her absence. Alistair was found dead in Clara’s apartment. She only learned once she was back in Lethbridge that he had scribbled a note on a bridge-scoring pad: “You were my oasis.”
Maggie broke Clara’s sombre reminiscence to discuss financing. “The Bank of Montreal would be amenable to a loan for an income-producing house.”
“I don’t wish to be hasty,” Clara said. “Perhaps I should see more houses.”
“This one is the most reasonable price and best location of any I can show you,” Maggie said.” “It will be snapped up in no time,” she added, peering out the front window at a large vacant lot on the other side of Hilltop. “One of my clients has already bought the land opposite and has plans to build. I can’t give details because the buyer has asked for confidentiality.”
Ivy wanted to see the upstairs where Sergeant Stuart would live. Lily climbed the carpeted stairs behind her.
Ivy chuckled. “Sergeant Stuart can be Mum’s personal chauffeur if he moves in.”
She and Lily grinned, conscious that Clara had rebuffed the poor officer’s advances.
“I’m sure it’s coincidence that the officer moved from Lethbridge to the Soo,” Lily said.
Ivy yawned and rubbed her eyes.
“You must be tired after your travels,” Clara said.
“Why don’t I take Ivy home and you can tour the neighbourhood with Maggie?” Lily offered.
“A sensible idea,” Maggie declared, wanting to improve her chance of a sale.
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