Burden of Memory (2 page)
“No reason. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“When I originally applied for this position, I was rejected,” Elaine said, as a tight-lipped Ruth showed her to her room at the end of the second floor corridor. “You wrote and told me that someone else had been hired. What happened to her?”
Ruth shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“It matters if she quit because she felt that she couldn’t do the job expected of her.”
“That wasn’t the case. She died.”
“She died!”
“Drowned in the lake her first week on the job. Dinner is at seven. Be on time.”
***
Elaine was given an enormous bedroom at the front of the cottage, overlooking the expanse of lake and the fiery display of the gentle, rolling hills beyond. The room had been decorated in typical Canadian cottage rustic: good wooden furniture, colorful area rugs, a bright handmade quilt on the huge bed, a bookcase bulging with well-handled old classics and crisp modern biographies. Television, VCR, phone, and a computer complete with printer and permanent high-speed Internet connection seemed quite out of place, but welcome nonetheless.
Elaine sank onto the bed and bounced a few times to test the springs. She could scarcely believe her luck. Although her luck, according to Ruth, had come at a high cost to someone else. But no matter—she was here now. This place was called a cottage, but to any normal person it would pass as a mansion. It was old, probably as old as any other place on the Muskoka Lakes. A remnant of the days when wealthy Torontonians and New Yorkers, with full retinues of children, relatives, and assorted hangers-on, would come north on the train, preceded by an entire network of servants who traveled ahead to ensure that all was in order when the family arrived. In those days, before a network of roads and driveways linked every property to the community, they would catch a lake steamer and be deposited, each group, right at the foot of their own dock. Wives and children, the occasional mistress and all the servants, would spend the summer here, from June through to September, and the “head of the family” would enjoy his bachelorhood back in the city and travel up on weekends to join them.
The bed found to be more than satisfactory, Elaine unpacked in haste, unable to control her impatience to explore more of the old home and property. She stopped in front of her wide window and drank in the panorama. Tough working conditions. Thick storm clouds the color and consistency of steel wool were gathering behind the hills across the lake and moving fast in the wake of heavy winds, and the lake tossed tiny whitecaps in agitation. The tree-covered hills beyond were wrapped in a frenzy of color. Orange, yellow, and auburn, as well as all the shades of green so beloved of nature and the limitless possibilities of red-to-black.
Elaine slipped into her hiking boots, anxious to explore a bit of the property before the fury of the storm crashed down upon them.
The house was multi-storied. A wide flight of stairs in the center led down to the main hall. A device for transporting Moira’s wheelchair was attached to the staircase. Stern and forbidding Madison ancestors eyed Elaine as she made her way down the stairs. She could feel their disapproval. She was an interloper, an outsider. She didn’t belong here, the pictures told her, not in the family wing. If she had any place at all, it was with the servants.
One portrait spoke to her so forcefully that she half expected to see the painted lips move. She stopped at the bottom step and faced him. He was dressed in a severe woolen suit, tie knotted tightly enough to cause the ample flesh on the neck to bulge around it. Tiny black eyes, bulbous red nose and perpendicular ears were almost caricatures. Almost but not quite. Without knowing how she could be so sure, Elaine knew that the artist had hated the subject, hated him with a passion. But he needed the commission. And so proud was this Madison ancestor that he was either not aware of the animosity or considered it to be of no consequence.
“That’s Mr. Augustus Madison, the man who built this place.” Elaine started at the voice. Ruth stood at the bottom of the steps, also staring at the portrait, her eyes unfocused and distant. “Long before my time, of course. He was Miss Moira Madison’s grandfather. A pillar of North American industry. A true visionary.”
“Really? How nice.”
Deep circles the color and consistency of used tea bags underlined Ruth’s eyes, and time had carved sharp crevices into the delicate skin of her throat and around her mouth. The harsh black hair and the glimmer of dislike in her small shrewd eyes accented every crease. She stood firm, arms crossed, blocking the steps, her expression indicating that she had swallowed something exceptionally unpleasant.
Ruth said nothing, but neither did she step aside. She filled the wide staircase simply by her refusal to move. Elaine sucked in her stomach and slithered against the polished wood of the banister. “Going for a walk,” she explained where no explanation was needed. “Get a bit of air. Feels like a storm’s about to settle in.”
Ruth’s hostile eyes followed Elaine as she walked down the hall and out the front door.
The instant she saw the view, Elaine was in love. A wide deck wrapped itself around the front of the building. In contrast to the aged stone and wood cottage, the deck was of modern style and materials: stained wooden floor, Plexiglas fronting tucked inside a blond wood frame. The deck was bare and empty, deserted in preparation for the long winter ahead. But in her mind’s eye Elaine could see it coming alive with sun umbrellas the color of tropical parrots, matching cushions on comfortable lounge chairs, terracotta pots overflowing with radiant blooms of petunias and impatiens, small tables holding bowls of black olives and mixed nuts. And relaxed, sun-kissed bodies, toweling off warm lake water, laughing and reaching for cocktails.
She looked over the edge of the deck. Wooden steps were braced against the solid rock of the Canadian Shield to lead down the hill to a flagstone path, which meandered casually along the water’s edge, as if it had nowhere in particular to go. Beside the steps an electric wheelchair ramp cast a discordant modern note into the ancient beauty of stone and wood, trees and water. A wide dock extended a good distance out over the water, and to the right of the dock there were two enormous boathouses, painted the same gray and green as the house, both closed tight against the encroaching cold. Lonely empty window boxes, green to match the trim, snoozed in the wide windows waiting for the renewing touch of spring sun. A staircase curved up the side of the largest of the boathouses, leading to a second story and the flat roof above. Everything was in immaculate condition. Not a fleck of loose paint, chipped wood, or misplaced weed could be seen.
Beyond the boathouses, across a narrow strait, sat a tiny island. A thick barrier of pine and hemlock flowed down to the boulders at the water’s edge. It boasted no signs of a dock or cottage, even of a clearing, but two rowboats were pulled up onto a bare outcropping of rock and a single column of smoke curled up from under the trees to blend into the storm-cloud gray.
The path running along the water’s edge ended at a clump of old white pine and undergrowth so thick that it blocked any view of what lay beyond. Elaine walked forward, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to peer through the curtain of foliage.
The air, heavy with moisture, swirled before her eyes. She blinked. A strange smell rose around her. Perfume. Cheap perfume. Applied with much too heavy a hand.
Through the mist and beyond the trees she saw a cabin. A neat, freshly painted cabin, nestled in the thick woods. Small but clean. Someone’s home. She saw a young, red-headed woman absent-mindedly stroking her flat belly and pacing in front of the window and Elaine sensed that the young woman was consumed with worry that she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake.
One drop of rain landed on Elaine’s nose. Her eyes flew open. The cabin, the pacing woman, the scent of perfume were gone. Leaving only the trees.
A standing-up dream. How amazing was that?
Enough exploring for today. She pushed the strange image out of her mind and dashed for shelter.
Moira Madison watched Elaine Benson stroll along the path beside the lakefront. The young woman stopped and held her arms out to her sides and took several deep breaths. Moira smiled to herself. The land was working its charm.
As with the first woman she’d hired as her biographer, the one who had come to such a tragic end not more than a few yards from where Elaine was now standing, Moira wondered how much to reveal. All she wanted from her biography was an account of the war years and after and what life was like for a nurse in those days. But any biographer worth her salt would expect more than a dull recitation of facts and dates; she would want to get at the feelings and emotions lying just out of sight, the ones too private to be freely committed to paper. Moira had initially rejected Elaine Benson’s application, and instead hired Donna Smithton, because she feared that she would find herself revealing more than she wanted to the woman who had written
Goldrush
with such passion for her subjects. Donna seemed so much safer—more academic.
But Donna’s sudden, tragic death seemed like a rebuke to Moira, and so she had returned to her first choice.
Outside, Elaine picked up a small rock and tossed it into the lake, probably just to hear the sound of it hitting the water. Moira closed her eyes and remembered.
***
“I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I am a Madison and I refuse to disgrace myself.” The nursing sister clung to the rails of the rusty old ship and with the force of her not inconsiderable will calmed the heaving in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a thing since they’d left Halifax three days earlier, and she was starting to fear that she would never eat again. Through the deep gloom of the North Atlantic she could only vaguely make out the shifting shapes of their escorts. Keeping pace with the defenseless old ship, one destroyer on either side watched over them. The rest of the convoy was strung out ahead. No lights marked their passing. Merely a displacement of the darkness, an unusual ripple in the timeless rolling pattern of the waves.
It was full, impenetrable dark. The all-encompassing dark, which the sailors liked the best, a cloud cover so thick there was not a glimmer of moon or stars. Three days out of Halifax and to the nurse it felt more like three months. Ten more days to go. If only she could live that long. The convoy zigzagged across the North Atlantic headed for Liverpool. They were an old ship, bound for England and the war, but so far the only casualties were soldiers and nurses hurling up their innards and cursing the power of the sea with every feeble breath. They slept in their clothes with life jacket and essentials constantly at hand in case of attack by enemy submarines.
Despite her misery, she managed a weak smile at the memory of her new-found friend Susan, a plain, plump girl from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, who, the first night at sea, had demurely slipped into a frothy nightgown all ready for a good night’s sleep in the hard, narrow bunk. The nightgown was fabulously expensive, although Susan didn’t appear to have money. It must have been a gift, a farewell to a beloved daughter or niece leaving for war. A dream of cream satin brimming with pure white lace and pale yellow bows. How Matron had carried on at the sight of it. Hadn’t they been told they would have one minute to get up on deck for the lifeboats in case the ship was hit? And if so how did she expect to survive in the North Atlantic in that garment?
At least they were part of a convoy. It was rumored that the first ships had set out unescorted.
After the passage of several lifetimes on a shifting, watery world, they docked in Liverpool. The Nursing Sisters staggered off the ship, some of the girls as gray as the winter’s snows on a cloudy Toronto day, others down ten or more pounds from the start of their ordeal. Moira had never thought that the solid earth could feel so good. With scarcely time to think, much less notice their surroundings, they were loaded onto a train heading for London. She had assumed that they would have comfortable coach seats at the very least, even private compartments if they were terribly lucky. A relaxing train journey with well prepared, nourishing food would go a long way to help them recover from the sea voyage.
Instead the train was a madhouse. It was bad enough on the platform, crowds pushing and shoving. Soldiers and sailors in British uniforms were clinging to sobbing wives or girlfriends. Many of them with crowds of confused children clutching at their knees. Those from other countries, Canadians, Australians, South Africans, New Zealanders, as well as a myriad of uniforms she didn’t recognize, milled about in confusion. The air rang with a biblical cacophony of languages and indecipherable accents. The Nursing Sisters followed Matron in a neat line, their traditional crisp white veil a sharp contrast to the sea of Army khaki, Navy and Air Force blue, and traveler’s gray.
Bad as the train station was, the train itself was a nightmare. Every available place, and a great many not available, was taken. Soldiers sat on the floor or leaned up against the doors, their rifles and kit at their feet if they couldn’t find room in the overflowing luggage bins. Red Cross workers passed through the cars—how they actually managed to move she couldn’t quite figure out—with dry sandwiches and over-strong, over-sweetened tea. She nibbled cautiously at the edges of a sandwich. The filling was an odd sort of pale gray, and she didn’t dare investigate any further. But her stomach didn’t revolt at the first taste of the food, so she gobbled it up in record time, pushing aside memories of salmon and cress sandwiches served on the lawn by nameless, unspeaking maids in starched white aprons and black dresses.
The Sisters and many of the foreign soldiers crowded around the windows to catch a first glimpse of the fabled city, in those days still the Center of the World, as their train pulled past suburbs and industrial estates.
It was June 1940, and Nursing Sister Moira Madison had arrived in England.
Elaine stood in front of the open closet in her lovely new bedroom, trapped in an agony of indecision over what she should wear to dinner. Moira herself seemed modern and casual but Ruth would have fitted comfortably into Mr. Darcy’s staff. She hadn’t met any of the other residents and didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps Moira would dress to the nines for dinner and expect her guests to appear the same way.
In early summer, Ruth had interviewed Elaine for the job of helping the formidable Miss Moira Madison with the writing of her memoirs. Even Elaine, who tried hard not to pay the slightest bit of attention to the business or social news, had heard of the Madison family. Fingers in every pie from airlines to discount grocery-and-drug store chains to gas stations; it was hard to avoid them. And now the Matriarch herself wanted to write her memoirs. It was difficult for her to travel, so Ruth came in her place, to check out Elaine and ensure that she was at least moderately presentable.
Which apparently she hadn’t been as she was rejected in favor of another candidate. She had forgotten all about the Madisons, and was still trying to figure out what to do with her life, when Ruth called to tell her that the job was again vacant and did she want it. With the understanding that Miss Madison would have the final say.
Always the optimist, Elaine sublet her apartment in Toronto, loaded a season’s worth of clothes into the BMW, and put the rest of her belongings into storage. If this job didn’t pan out, she intended to simply keep on driving. And decide at the intersection of the highway whether to turn left or right.
But she was here, for now.
She looked at herself in the wood-framed mirror over her dressing table and cocked her head to one side. Should she wear her gold earrings or keep the silver hoops she’d worn all day? Like all those well bred but impoverished governesses so beloved of Gothic fiction, she struggled to understand where she fitted into the household. She was not a servant, but she was here as an employee. Would her PhD in Canadian History rank her as equivalent to a guest?
Better to keep the gold for a more formal occasion, if one should arise.
Her reflection frowned and chided her for trying to squeeze herself into the social hierarchy. Writing the memoirs or cleaning the toilet, it was all work. She chose a denim skirt, and paired it with a brightly patterned Navajo blouse, a gift from Elaine’s late mother, who before her death had spent her winters in the dry sun of the American Southwest. She added a set of clattering gold bangles, and jaunty costume earrings, and set out for dinner.
No one had told her where to find the dining room, but this was, after all, a cottage. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate. Elaine nodded to Augustus on her way down the stairs. Scarcely noticed on her previous trip, a matching portrait of a woman adorned his upper side. The same painter, beyond a doubt, for the technique and style were identical. But this time the artist had a kinder eye for his subject. The woman was not attractive, and never had been, with a large nose much too prominent for her face and a chin too small. But the slight grin at the corner of the thin lips, the wisps of gray hair escaping the severe bun and the brown eyes, looking to be constantly on the verge of a wink, offered clues to a gentle, loving personality. The eyes were identical to those that had earlier greeted Elaine across the antique wooden desk.
She tiptoed down the silent hallway, listening for the sounds of people gathering for dinner. The light was poor, but the beauty of the art collection broke through the gloom. She recognized several of the paintings—Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven, the most famous school of Canadian art.
Somewhere in the distance a door opened, ushering in the sounds of frantic barking. Two enormous German shepherds bounded down the hall and took positions on either side of her. Their lips curled back to display rows of no-nonsense teeth. Pointed ears stretched flat against their heads and thin tails stood tall, flicking ever so slowly, back and forth, back and forth, full of warning and menace.
Art forgotten, Elaine sucked in her breath. “Nice doggy? Nice doggy?” She stretched out one hand, palm upward. She loved dogs, always had. One of the greatest bones of contention in her divorce had been, of all things, the custody of the beloved border collie. Elaine sacrificed a lot to keep her. Only weeks after the papers were finalized, a car hit her pet while they were visiting friends in the suburbs. Two thousand dollars’ worth of vet’s bills had not been able to save the dog.
These two growled in unison, a sound beginning deep in their throats and edging past the bared teeth and curled lips. Elaine drew her hand back. “Nice doggy?” Her eyes darted around, checking out possible escape routes.
“Hamlet, Ophelia, down. Down!”
She looked up from the dogs to see a man descending upon them. He was in his early forties, with plain but even features, a tousled mane of curly black hair liberally streaked with gray, cheeks ruddy from the cold, and eyes, an unusual shade of olive green, sharp with stern authority as he stared down the dogs. Dressed in a brown-checked flannel jacket, practical jeans, and heavy work boots, he looked as to be as much a part of the forest outside as the trees themselves. “Leave the lady alone. Now!”
The dogs, Hamlet and Ophelia presumably, paid him not the slightest bit of attention. The larger, and if possible the meaner, moved a bit closer and growled a bit louder.
Involuntarily, Elaine stepped back. Show no fear, let them know who’s boss, wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Easier said than done. She pressed her back up against the wall. Nowhere else to go.
The man grabbed the dogs’ collars and jerked them back. They snarled. Wait until next time, they seemed to say before allowing themselves to be tugged into a sitting position.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m Alan Manners, and I guess you’d be Elaine, who’s come to help Moira write her memoirs.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. “I’d shake hands but they’re kinda busy right now.” He nodded at the two dogs sitting by his feet, still held by their collars and bristling with resentment.
“Nice to meet you,” Elaine mumbled.
“Don’t mind these two,” Alan said. His voice was soft and pleasant, a nice contradiction to the rough country exterior.
“They don’t seem too friendly.”
“They’ll do you no harm. They like to look tough, that’s the extent of it. Over-bred like crazy and way too indulged, if you ask me. Never quite sure if they’re supposed to be frolicking family pets or ferocious guard dogs. Messes up their already dimwitted heads.” His tone wasn’t entirely joking. “I’ll take them back into the kitchen for their dinner. Cook shot a deer this morning. That should keep them happy for a few hours.”
Elaine tried to smile.
“Just kidding. They eat nothing stronger than Purina. See you at dinner. It’s the second door on the right, if you’re looking.” He grinned once more and dragged the dogs down the hall.
Elaine blushed. She wasn’t sure why.
But she pulled open the second door on the right, to find a formal dining room laid for dinner. No one else had arrived yet. She’d been careful of the time and was, even after studying the paintings and the encounter with the dogs, a good five minutes early. If punctuality was prized here, Elaine Benson would be punctual.
There were five places set at the long table, each marked by sterling sliver flatware, dishes that at a glance appeared to be Royal Doulton (she would have had no compunction in lifting one up and examining the bottom but for the potential embarrassment of discovery), heavy crystal wineglasses, one for red, one for white, and a matching water glass. An ornate silver candelabrum, filled with tall, fresh white candles, unlit, occupied the center of the table. A huge old oak sideboard, scarred and stained by years of heavy use, empty except for a glass bowl of tired pink roses, filled one side of the room: the other was taken up by a wide expanse of glass. The thick curtains were pulled back, so that the room showed off the breathtaking view of the dark lake and the black outline of gently rolling hills beyond. A set of French doors led out to the deck.
It was heavy dusk and the storm had passed. The long limbs of trees swished in the dim glow cast by the house lights. Through the darkness of night and weather, a touch of flame as if from a campfire flashed up, then fell back to earth and disappeared. It came from the scrap of an island, but although Elaine watched for a while, the fire did not show itself again.
The dining room door opened and Moira’s wheelchair, pushed by Ruth, came in.
“Settled in nicely?” Elaine’s new employer asked, with a bright welcoming smile.
“Very nicely, thank you. My room is a delight. I could admire the view forever.”
Moira beamed, genuinely pleased. “As could I. I am happy that you like my home.” Ruth placed her at the head of the table, where there was no chair, and slipped into a seat of her own.
“Sit down, please. Dinner will be here shortly. We usually eat in the kitchen, but for your first night I thought something more formal would be nice.” Moira smiled. She hadn’t changed clothes, except to loop a set of brightly colored beads around and around her thin neck. They matched the African tree-planting shirt in color and in theme.
Elaine was about to comment on the necklace when a heavy-set young woman bustled in, her eyes sparkling above a giant tureen from which rose the most superb odor. Alan, keeper of the dogs, followed, carrying a wooden platter of rough-cut brown bread, several types of yellow and blue cheeses, and a colorful assortment of fruit.
The platters having been plunked down without ceremony, the chubby woman smiled at the newcomer and extended one hand. “Hi and welcome, I’m Lizzie, better known as the Cook.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lizzie. Elaine.”
Lizzie pulled up a chair and unfolded her napkin. Alan lit the candles, dimmed the lights and disappeared. He was back with an uncorked bottle of Australian Shiraz in one hand and five glasses dangling, in an apparent feat of anti-gravity, between the fingers of the other.
Through the closed door they could hear the whining dogs, begging to be allowed to join the festivities.
While Alan poured and the women accepted, Lizzie dished up steaming bowls of thick red lentil soup and passed them around. The platter of bread and cheese and the tray of apple slices and red and green grapes adorned with a sprinkling of cashews had been placed in the center of the table.
“Welcome to our little household.” Moira extended her wineglass towards Elaine. The candlelight caught the liquid and reflected back the richest shades of ruby and scarlet.
“I’m happy to be here.” Elaine lifted her glass in response. The others at the table smiled broadly.
With one notable exception. Ruth scowled into her drink and mumbled the tightest of greetings.
Moira made the introductions. The platters were not passed to her, but instead Ruth sliced a bit of bread and placed it, with a piece of cheese the size of a thimble and a scattering of grapes, onto her plate. “Alan is our gardener and handyman. Absolutely essential for keeping the place running. Unfortunately the gardens don’t look like much at this time of year, but they are a joy come spring and summer.”
Alan smiled shyly at the compliment.
“Dear Lizzie here is my cook. And the best I have ever had. At last, no more thick, grossly-overdone steaks with béarnaise sauce, tough roast of beef, boiled vegetables, and enough greasy bacon and fried eggs to sink a battleship.”
“Here, here,” said Alan.
“Well this soup is great,” Elaine said. “Not what I was expecting, after that lovely tea.” This whole house, from the people to the décor to the food, was a fascinating contradiction of the old and the new.
“Let me guess,” Lizzie chuckled, “you were expecting roast beef.”
“Actually, yes.”
“I rather like roast beef,” Ruth mumbled, her mouth set in a tight line.
“Lizzie cooks Italian food as well as any Italian. I have always loved real Italian food. Can we have pasta tomorrow?” Moira asked.
“Of course.”
Elaine cut herself a sliver of the blue cheese and popped it into her mouth. Stilton. Real English Stilton. Comfortable at this table already, feeling like she didn’t have to be unnaturally polite, she served herself a much larger slice. “Do you live here all year, Moira?”
“Yes, I do.” The old woman picked up a grape in her crooked fingers and lifted it to her mouth with great care. “I love it here and I’m quite comfortable. If I went back to Toronto, I’d only end up boarding with one of my sisters like a charity case, but here I can have my own household.”
“Does your family come up much?”
“On occasion. My sisters’ grandchildren like to spend a good deal of their summers at the cottage, as I did when I was a girl. And they are welcome indeed. It’s wonderful to have children underfoot; they do bring the old place back to life. The family can usually be expected for holidays. They were all here Labor Day weekend. When….” Moira coughed.
Elaine looked around the table. Alan made patterns of wine in his glass, Lizzie ate her soup with great concentration, and Ruth watched Elaine.
“When…” she prompted.
Moira took a deep breath. “When, sadly, Donna died. I should warn you: They will all be here for Thanksgiving. Bit of a chore, really. But I can’t tell them to stay away, even if I wanted to. Under the terms of my father’s will, my two sisters and I own the cottage jointly. Fortunately for my peace of mind they don’t like to be far from the city lights for long. In that way, as in so much else, they haven’t changed a bit from when they were girls.”
“If I can put up with them, Moira, so can you,” said Lizzie, with a stiff laugh, clearly relieved that the conversation had moved on.
“You’ll earn your wages this year, with that crowd expecting a Thanksgiving feast,” Alan said, the green eyes twinkling with mischief.
Lizzie tossed her head. She was young and quite pretty, shining blond hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail, perfect teeth set into a wide and generous mouth, large brown eyes and the lingering traces of a summer’s tan. Only her excess weight threw her out of the modern definition of beautiful. “Like I don’t every other day of the year, looking after you bunch.”