The Sister's Tale Read online

  “Why are you all dressed up?” Lucy asked. She offered him the teapot, which he waved away, asking Margaret for coffee.

  “Because I am going to visit Grandfather.” Frowning. Lofty.

  Josephine, watching the exchange, pondered how George bore his father’s death with conscious silence, pained if anyone invoked Simeon’s memory. He asked no questions, was uninterested in doings around town—the vandalism that had occurred on Main Street, the neighbour’s noisy new rooster. He brooded over his food, applying butter to toast with concentrated energy. Perhaps he felt himself as the man in the house and did not know how to behave under such a burden. Perhaps, she pondered, sipping her tea, he protected himself from grief, more easily quickened at home.

  From her desk, later that morning, she watched him depart. The sky lowered, dark with clouds, over the budding trees. George strode down the lane. He carried Simeon’s umbrella, furled, touching down the ferrule like a cane.

  He was gone all day.

  At supper, he sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap and head bowed as he spoke grace. Maud and Lucy exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. They were accustomed to hearing their brother ask the Lord’s blessings on the food they were about to receive. Tonight he intoned the words like a priest.

  Margaret served leek soup, delicately seasoned with dill, perfectly salted. George tasted it, put down his spoon and turned to Josephine.

  “Grandfather told me about your visit to the lawyer, Mother.”

  “Did he?” He had been a stubborn child, she remembered. Serious, cautious. “I didn’t tell you last night because you were late arriving and I thought you would like to go to bed.”

  “Apparently the house belongs to me, Lucy and Maud once we are all twenty-one. Grandfather explained to me that we are the owners of the house and the land and of two-thirds of all the personal property.”

  Lucy and Maud lowered their spoons, slowly, at the same time. Lucy’s eyes, slitted, furious. Maud’s, round, amazed.

  “I feel a great sense of responsibility, Mother.” His voice was pained, as if she should have been making allowances for this new burden which had been added to the weight of his grief. “My sisters and I…we now…”

  “George. George.” Lucy reached forward and grabbed the cuff of his jacket. “You are being so rude. Nothing has changed—”

  He pushed his chair back. “Everything has changed. Grandfather explained it to me. He will pay for my education, and he will give me a job in the family business so I can…”

  “Oh, the family business,” Lucy snapped. “I’m sure I speak for Maud and Mother, too…we are so grateful that you are going to get an education and go to work in the family business so you can take care of us.”

  “Well, I…that is my responsibility now. Why are you so angry?”

  “Don’t you think your sisters might like to go to college? Don’t you think we might like to be offered a manager’s position in the factory?”

  “But that’s—”

  “Absurd, yes, George. Absurd.”

  He flicked his eyes over her, pulled his chair back to the table, and lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth, carefully.

  “Lucy,” Josephine ventured. “Enough.” She glanced at George, picking up her own spoon. Remember, she wanted to say, but did not dare. Remember how you loved hearing your father tell you about commanding his ship? She pictured George, a small boy, listening, entranced; he had played at being Simeon, standing on the veranda, feet spread as if on a tilting deck, barking imperiously into an imaginary speaking tube.

  It crept over her, an added weight to her heavy heart. How, taken under the wing of the men in her family, George would slide away, bit by bit.

  Less a brother. Less a son.

  * * *

  —

  On the day that George left for Sackville, Maud and Lucy, too, returned to school. They wore black dresses, despite the spring warmth, and black straw hats. Flora stepped out onto the veranda, broom in hand, and watched as they walked side by side down Creek Road. They passed the gingerbread shingled houses, in whose gardens protective spruce boughs had been removed to reveal green shoots. They went slowly, not speaking. Lucy stared straight ahead, Maud’s shoulders drooped—like their mother, afflicted with exhaustion of spirit.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, a horse and wagon came up from the depot. The women of the household stood on the lane, squinting in bright sunlight as the depot man lifted Mr. Dougan’s things onto the wagon.

  Flora was the last to shake his hand, being the one who had known him the least amount of time. Mary ran a few steps behind the wagon, waving, teasing, shouting. Ellen did not watch him leave, but walked away.

  Josephine hurried after her. She slid an arm over Ellen’s shoulders.

  * * *

  —

  Hands in apron pockets, Flora slipped out behind the barn to see the state of the vegetable garden.

  Mr. Dougan had pulled up last summer’s cornstalks and rotting cabbage stumps. Beneath a bloom of weeds, the ground lay soft and tilthy. He had planted no seeds.

  She heard a rattling jingle and the rapid clopping of hooves as a horse and carriage passed southwards on Creek Road, away from town, heading towards the forested hills. A breeze lifted her hem. Her gaze traced the horizon. She picked out a darkness in the folds of the hills, wondering if it was the valley cupping Ada and Henry’s farm. Far, far to the east, farther than she cared to recall, was England. She pictured herself in a desolate, echoing building—chill light, cold air—and saw herself enduring, making herself like an empty dress, a deserted body, expressionless, stepping in the right places, Enid, a tiny imitation in her wake, pattering down the corridors of the workhouse, bowed over the bowls of gruel, agreeing with the assessment of their parents’ wickedness, O dear Lord, please do not mind their present evilness and the evil that brought them to this place, I try to correct them, Matron praying over the dry bread, the rice and suet.

  She would find a shovel, dig up this garden, plant peas, spinach, lettuce, carrots, beets. She would take the vegetables into the kitchen and help Ellen make soups and stews. She would become like a burr attached to Josephine, Ellen, Maud and Lucy.

  She would not be cast away.

  * * *

  —

  By the beginning of June, Margaret and Mary were gone. Their bedrooms were tidied and untouched.

  The barn, too, was empty. No hens. The horse and carriage were sold.

  Maud and Lucy spent the long-lighted evenings in their rooms, studying for their exams. Occasionally, they argued; Lucy’s voice, vituperative, subsuming Maud’s hesitant words. Ellen, in the kitchen, grumbled over the lack of parties or dinners for which to plan.

  George graduated. He wrote to Josephine, telling her he would board with his uncle’s family in order not to burden her. She had expected this; her sister-in-law had revealed her pleasure in “fixing up” the guest room for George, assuming that Josephine would be equally pleased, even grateful. Her mother had asked for George’s various dimensions, collar, waist, pant length; she was going to Fairweather’s to buy her grandson proper apparel, since he would be working in the factory office. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Like a windstorm, sweeping up her son.

  Josephine fretted over Sailor, afraid that he would be hit by a carriage or run away seeking Simeon. She put an oval rug beside her bed for him to sleep on. Afternoons, she sat in the parlour, listless, an unopened book on her lap and Sailor curled at her feet.

  She had a court date to appeal for custody of her children.

  * * *

  —

  Flora had noticed Josephine glance at her with a hint of worry. She knew that as a ward of the province, her keep was paid; Josephine passed on to Flora what she received from the government and gave her more, besides, as wages.

  Flo
ra set a teapot and a cup and saucer on a wooden tray. Wind roared in the trees; lilac branches scratched against the kitchen windows. She carried the tea into the parlour, where Josephine slumped at her desk, head in hands, staring at pages densely covered with spiky words. Beside her, Sailor looked up at Flora, showing the whites of his eyes. His tail stirred, hopefully.

  “Why,” Josephine said, surprised, “that is so thoughtful of you, Flora.”

  “Mrs. Galloway,” Flora said. “You don’t need to pay me. I’ll work for room and board.”

  She wanted to say that she was a good gardener. That she had learned, from Ada, how to barter. How to keep hens. How to milk a cow, make butter and cheese, feed a lamb. She wanted to tell her these things. You will keep me, she was moved to say, but did not. Rather, she sensed a change, as the emptiness of the house allowed what little she did say to have more significance.

  “I don’t…” Josephine gestured at the page of handwriting. “I don’t know if I can pay you anymore, so I am glad you say so. But I will return the money to you that the government pays me. I insist on that, at least.”

  Josephine slipped her hands over her face. Her hair was stiff and oily. Flora did not know when the widow had last bathed.

  “Mrs. Galloway?”

  Josephine looked up.

  “I could wash your hair for you.”

  Such grief and incomprehension came over Josephine’s face that Flora wondered if she had heard her correctly.

  “Your hair, Mrs. Galloway,” she repeated. “Shall I help you wash it?”

  Josephine cried out, as if putting into words her utmost despair.

  “Oh, Flora. Call me Josephine. Please…just…call me Josephine.”

  SIX

  A Futile Fussiness

  LUCY STOOD IN THE doorway of her mother’s bedroom. Sailor scrambled to his feet, nosed his face beneath her hand.

  “I am going to live in St. John.”

  Josephine slid shut the drawer of Simeon’s dresser. She had been going through his clothing, which she had not yet removed from drawer, cupboard or closet. She sought frayed collars, loose buttons, telling herself she could not give away anything that showed evidence of her own inattention.

  She sat on her bed, frightened by the expression in Lucy’s eyes. Josephine still wore full mourning. Black dress, black shoes.

  “I am going for various reasons, Mother. One, because Uncle Charles has decided to take George as his ‘son.’ Two, because Grandfather has offered to pay for George’s education. Three, because no one has offered to do a single thing for me. You are not even my legal guardian…”

  “But I—”

  “I will go to work.”

  A clatter. Downstairs. Something falling, ordinary.

  “Where, Lucy?”

  “The St. John Cotton Mill. I have secured a room for two dollars a week.”

  Josephine clutched one of Simeon’s handkerchiefs. She had embroidered it herself and given it to him as a Christmas present. She had sewn his initials entwined with hers within a chain-stitched red heart.

  “Oh, Lucy. Oh, my dear. I beg you not to do this.”

  Lucy’s jaw crept outward, her eyes hardening. “Begging is entirely pointless.”

  “Why are you angry with me?”

  Lucy strode to the open window. She, too, wore a black dress. There was no sound but the hiss of rain, the dragging rush of wet leaves.

  “Don’t you miss your father, Lucy? Don’t you…”

  “Of course I miss my father.” She turned and sat at Josephine’s dressing table. She tossed her hands into the air. “I’m used to missing my father.” Her voice rose to a shout. Sailor slunk to his rug. “He’s been gone for half of my life, Mother. He could have been working here, in town. He did have that opportunity. And you could have been learning something. Doing something. Other than…sorting through your calling cards. Deciding what to tell Ellen what to make for your dinner parties. Living in this…ridiculous enormous house. Favouring your son.”

  Her voice was strained, tear-filled.

  “I…”

  “I know what you’re going to say. This is what you were supposed to do. Well, I’m not going to do what is expected of me. I am not going to wait for a man to treat me like a princess, then expect me to behave like one. I will never marry. I will make my own money and I’ll keep it.”

  Josephine folded her hands, crumpling the handkerchief so Lucy would not see the embroidered heart.

  Sailor whimpered, repressing the wagging of his tail to a suggestion.

  Lucy kicked a footstool, sent it skittering. She stalked from the room.

  Josephine unfolded the handkerchief, smoothed it on her lap. Last week, George had made a visit. They had sat on the side veranda drinking tea and he had introduced the idea of selling the house. He was investigating how much money they might receive from the property if they sold it, once all three siblings reached their majority, and how much Josephine might expect to receive for her one-third. He argued that she would be better suited to a smaller house, with less to take care of. She imagined Lucy listening to his opinions, silent, hostile, evaluating.

  What children do not know, she thought. What children can never know. How parents suffer their rage and always, always, always forgive their cruelty.

  * * *

  —

  June 12, 1888

  Dear Cousin Carrie,

  I write to tell you about Lucy in the hopes you will look out for her. She has taken a position at the St. John Cotton Mill. She left this morning on the train. She will be residing at a boarding house. 15 King Street. She tells me the house is at the bottom of the street overlooking the water. I beg you to go look at it and meet the owner and see whether it is a safe place. I could do nothing to stop her. She blames me for my situation.

  I cannot think what I should do to support myself.

  Love,

  Your cousin,

  Josephine

  * * *

  —

  Carrie stood on her doorstep, pulling on summer gloves. Elms arched over a grass strip dividing the street, where two gardeners knelt, planting geraniums. She set off towards the city centre. As she turned down the hill towards the harbour, brick houses with bay windows and decorative detail gave way to rows of Italianate commercial buildings.

  A few square-rigged ships lay at anchor. She viewed them critically, comparing their shabbiness to her father’s ship, Traveller. Rigging creaked as the ships rocked on the rising tide; and memory came to her of the time Traveller had been boarded by pirates in the South China Sea.

  It was a horror that had awakened her from nightmares all her childhood and, occasionally, did so even now: her nursemaid’s searing wail as she was carried off—Madame, Captain, Madame; her mother, Azuba, forcing her to feign death in a pool of her father’s blood; her mutism, and an English doctor, in Hong Kong, looming over her with an anxious expression, unsure of the cure. She knew that Azuba blamed herself for these terrors and for Carrie’s childlessness, as if the two were related; and yet had never said I should not have gone to sea. Carrie had overcome her resentment of this, respecting the risks her mother had insisted upon taking, understanding how a woman might feel trapped by a life into which she did not fit.

  One day, she thought, Lucy will understand her own mother, as I now understand mine.

  She reached the bottom of King Street. Number fifteen was a shabby, three-storeyed, flat-roofed wooden house. Horses stood in a yard next to it, harnessed to slovens; beyond was a maze of shed- covered wharves where water sucked and slapped, filthy with tobacco leaves, vegetable peelings and dead fish.

  A woman let her in. Thin, unsmiling.

  “First room on the right.”

  Carrie climbed the stairs. Knocked. Lucy opened the ill-set door; she stepped back, startled. Carrie swep
t into the room. Another girl curled on the single bed, sleeping.

  “That’s Min,” Lucy murmured, pulling out a chair for her cousin. “We have to share the bed.”

  Min, evidently a sound sleeper, did not stir.

  Carrie sat, arranged her skirt, surveyed the room.

  “Good for you, Lucy. I’m proud of you.”

  Lucy slipped onto the remaining chair. Her forehead bore a red crease from the elastic of a mill worker’s mob cap. Her face had lost flesh; her dress was loose on her frame. Intense eyes bore the narrowed focus of fatigue. The window was set in a crooked frame, or perhaps the house had shifted. Salt air seeped over the sill, bearing the squabble of gulls.

  “Tell me about your work,” Carrie said. “What do you do?”

  “It is loud. So loud.” Lucy fanned her hands beside her ears. “I can still hear them. The looms.”

  Carrie, along with other reform-minded, well-to-do women, was working to improve the Factory Act legislation, passed but not yet in effect. She had toured cotton mills, rope manufacturers. She had visited confectioners, shoe factories, biscuit companies, box and match makers, brush and paper factories, potteries—all within the city of St. John. She and the others planned to tour the province and speak on the conditions. Lack of separate toilet facilities for men and women. Underage children. Unequal pay, unsafe conditions. Molestation. Punishment.

  “I tend a spinning frame,” Lucy said. “Just one frame, till I learn. I have to draw out the carriage and revolve the spinner. I have to actuate the fallers. Check for broken threads; if there are any, call for the doffers. They come racing down between the looms, the little girls.”

  Carrie nodded. She had seen this, on her tours. Wearing soiled aprons, the gang of doffers scuttled between the looms with their boxes, tearing off the full bobbins, replacing them with empty ones.