Burden of Memory (13 page)
Eventually she turned and reluctantly headed back to the cottage. The sun that had been so warm a few short minutes ago disappeared behind a bank of heavy, black storm clouds. The probing touch of an icy wind crept under the collar of her coat. Under a patch of ancient white pine, a dark shape shifted and tried to form substance, like black smoke an instant before breaking into flame. It hovered in the crisp autumn air, as indistinct as fog rolling over the lake in the early morning, or sunlight shining through falling snow. Elaine slowed to a stop, her head moving to the right of its own accord, her heart accelerating to a rapid pounding in a fraction of a second. Her skin prickled with that sixth sense of knowing that someone was surreptitiously observing her. She watched in return, tightening her heart and her fists in preparation for flight.
Before she could move, either to run backward screaming for help or forward yelling in defiance, she hadn’t yet decided which, the shape dissolved into nothing. Behind the spot where it had been, a red squirrel dashed down the oldest of the trees, a precious nut clenched in its tiny jaws. Elaine heaved in relief, cursed herself for her over-active imagination, gripped her coat collar tightly around her neck and ran down the path, while her heart settled back to its normal rhythm. Warm yellow lights were flickering to life in the kitchen, a buttress against the gloom of the evening and the primitive forest.
Several months, and much correspondence, passed. The nurses were kept busy outside of their regular duties. Day after day, they marched the Suffolk countryside, now awakening to spring. Wearing battle dress of baggy brown trousers and jacket, and carrying their full kit: small pack, large pack, a respirator, a tin helmet, water bottle, suitcase, and purse. The nurses were abuzz at what all this activity could mean. They had been stationed in Bramshott for almost three years and most of the nurses, like the soldiers all around them, were anxious to be on their way. As was Moira only a few short months ago. Now she lived in fear that they would be gone before she saw Grant again.
But they were still marching the neat, hedge-lined roads of southeast England when Moira received a letter with news that had her heart racing. Grant had a few days’ leave and invited her to go bicycling with him the following Saturday. She rushed about in a mad flurry to exchange duty rosters. She had never before tried to get out of a shift and was always agreeable to switch with any nurse who asked. It was no trouble finding someone to take on her Saturday workload, and (just in case) she arranged for a Sunday replacement. Of course the first person she asked hurried to relay the news to the others and good-natured speculation flew through the hospital.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning in April of 1943 when Moira pushed her bicycle out of the storage shed. Getting the bike was harder than getting time off duty. Made even more complicated, she was sure, by her co-owners’ good-natured desire to watch her squirm. She had had to do some serious negotiating to get the use of the machine for the entire weekend.
Grant Summersland waited for her at the junction in the roads, dressed in a tweed bicycling outfit that would have been fashionable when his father was a boy. His smile at the sight of her lit up his face with the intensity of a searchlight. Several of her fellow nurses had followed her, and watched with open-faced interest as Moira wobbled down the road, cycling with legs that had, for unexplained reasons, turned weak and rubbery.
He smiled at her from a face that had turned the color of a pomegranate like one that she had eaten at a summer party on the lake. So long ago it might have been in another world.
After the initial burst of awkward conversation and exchange of weather and health information, Grant’s face returned to its natural color and they traveled in companionable silence. They cycled through the gentle English countryside, the sun warm on their backs. A proper wicker picnic hamper had been tucked into the basket at the front of his bicycle.
All around them the farms were busy. The farmers and their Land Army worked so hard. To put crops into the ground to feed a desperate England through what could only be another bleak winter.
Early in the afternoon they crossed over a rickety old wooden bridge, its planks protesting the weight of their bicycles. A gurgling, rapidly moving brook passed under the bridge. It was so perfectly, traditionally English that Moira almost expected a fairy-tale troll to leap out from the far side and demand they pay the toll.
“This looks like a nice spot for a bit of a rest,” Grant said.
“It does.”
They dismounted and walked their bicycles to a copse of ancient oak standing back from the roadway. The ground was level and firm and Grant unloaded his picnic basket.
With much fanfare he pulled out a large blue blanket and spread it in the dappled shade under the widest of the trees. He gestured for Moira to sit.
“Let me help,” she protested, only because she had been taught to say so.
“My pleasure,” he said. “You relax.”
“Before I sit, I would like to have a look at that creek. I’ll be right back.”
She walked down to the water’s edge. It was a tiny creek, but moving rapidly. The rocky bottom forced the water to bubble and froth as it came into contact with the stones. The rustle of quickly moving water as it forced its way over unyielding rocks was perhaps Moira’s favorite sound in all the world. Well, perhaps her second favorite, after the crunch of feet stepping through the decaying forest floor in a Muskoka autumn. Then again she also loved the impact that new fresh snow made underfoot as one placed the first exploring footsteps onto unplowed city streets or through the black and white Ontario woods.
She pulled off her shoes and stepped tentatively into the tiny brook. It was freezing. She almost pulled back, but decided instead that this was a day to be brave and passed from one slippery stone to another. The water was clear, and she watched her toes swell to strange gray shapes as she placed one foot gingerly before the other. A few tiny fish scattered in the wake of her invasion. She looked over her shoulder to see Grant standing at the water’s edge, smiling broadly, a smile so bright that it almost made him handsome. The sun shone behind him and caught in his fair hair, still standing up from the force of the wind and the bicycle ride. A poor man’s halo. Moira’s breath caught in her throat and she almost fell. Arms swinging wildly, she managed to keep her footing.
The blanket lay on the grass, holding two china plates and two crystal glasses that shimmered in the light.
“Lunch is ready.” Grant choked on the words.
Moira picked up the hem of her skirt. In honor of the occasion she had discarded her usual cycling clothes of pants and practical shirt and wore the dress her grandmother had sent for her birthday. Knowing that anything too extravagant would be rejected instantly as out of place and inappropriate, Elizabeth had sent what she thought of as a simple cotton dress. The simplicity of which was a threat to the meaning of the word. This was the first time Moira had worn it, and she had lain awake the previous night for a long time, wondering if it were suitable. One look at Grant’s face and she knew she had made the right decision. It was a pale blue, with a pattern of tiny white and yellow daises, a tidy Peter Pan collar and white belt, falling into a full skirt to just below the knee. Moira knew she wasn’t beautiful, but she also knew that blue was her best color.
“That all looks quite wonderful.” She walked barefoot through the soft grass, feeling it tickle her toes and tender soles, and sank to the ground at the edge of the blanket, her skirt spreading itself out around her.
Grant sat opposite. “My mother went somewhat overboard, I fear. She hasn’t had much to celebrate lately, so she was delighted to be able to put this together.”
“Your mother is very kind.”
He pulled out half a roast chicken, one hard-boiled egg (Moira actually gasped aloud), thick slabs of homemade bread and fresh butter (another gasp). Green pea pods and a thermos full of tart lemonade completed the meal.
“Oh,” she sighed, chomping on a chicken leg like a woman possessed. “This is wonderful.”
“I told you Mother went to some trouble.” He grinned around his half of the precious egg.
“Well, thank her for me.”
He reached into the basket and pulled out a slab of cake, thick with raisins and currants and even a few nuts and a sprinkling of bright red cherries. Moira groaned in delight. Her mother had taught her daughters that a lady always ate delicately when in the company of a gentleman, and left most of her serving tucked to one side of her plate. It was not the first time, nor the last, that Moira ignored her mother’s advice.
They talked about matters of little consequence. Grant was an only child; his mother doted on him, much to his embarrassment. She wasn’t finding the war too hard: the men and women who had been with his father and the aircraft factory from its beginnings made sure she was looked after. Of course the factory had been geared up to operate around the clock. His voice softened as he reflected on how proud his father would be, if he’d lived a few more years. Moira talked about her brother, Ralph, somewhere in England. They discovered that they both adored American jazz, described by Mr. Hitler himself, Grant told her, as “a barbaric and bestial music of the sub-human Negro exploited by Jewish capitalists.”
Moira laughed whole-heartedly.
“I do know,” she said, sobering, “we are at war for freedom and against tyranny and such. But it is good to remember that we’re fighting as much for the right to listen to jazz.”
“’ere, ’ere.” Grant lifted his glass of lemonade. “And therefore as part of the war effort we must visit a jazz club in London.”
She clicked glasses in return. “Done.”
“We must, Moira.” His basset hound face folded into serious lines. “Let’s do that. We must plan a leave together, and go to London. And see the shows and have dinner in a restaurant. Say you will?”
“I would love to, Grant.”
He touched her hand lightly and then pulled back, as if afraid that he had overstepped himself, and turned his attention to returning the dirty dishes and naked chicken bones to the basket. There were no leftovers.
Blanket folded, basket re-filled, Moira’s shoes on her feet, the picnic site cleared, they made their way to their bicycles, walking slowly, almost but yet not quite touching.
“I was wondering,” Grant said, trying not to look at her as he loaded the basket onto his bicycle. “Are you free tomorrow?”
Moira tried to look thoughtful. “As it happens, I am. I don’t have to be back on duty until Monday morning.”
“Would you like to come for Sunday lunch at my home?” he said. “My mother will be there, of course.” His tongue fell all over itself in a hurry to make excuses to permit Moira a graceful escape. “She isn’t all that well. The lunch might not be quite what you get in the nurses’ mess and all that.”
“I’d love to come,” she said.
He dropped his bicycle to the ground and took two large steps to gather her into his arms. Unnoticed, her machine also crashed to the earth as she lifted her arms and face to his.
Dinner that Thanksgiving Monday was Elaine’s favorite meal of them all: leftover turkey, with re-heated gravy and all the trimmings. Ever since she was a girl she had loved the day after more than the event itself. Some of the greatest disappointments of her childhood involved having Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner at the home of relatives, with nothing to look forward to the next day.
Lizzie had prepared everything exactly the way Elaine liked it, and she attacked her plate with gusto. Charles turned his patrician nose up, ever so slightly, but Moira murmured happily, “the best meal of them all,” as if she were reading Elaine’s thoughts. A sliver of white breast, with a teaspoon of cranberry sauce and a single slice of potato, graced the old woman’s plate.
Due to the change of the family’s plans, Alan had earlier been dispatched by rowboat to the island to regretfully uninvite the islanders to dinner.
Phoebe passed the stuffing bowl to Elaine, who dug as much out of it as possible without appearing to be too much of a pig. “I went for a walk this afternoon,” Elaine said, out of nowhere. “It was warm and sunny, but as I passed the stand of old white pine, the ones up from the boathouses a bit, it turned so quickly. Before I could blink, it was dark and cold and somewhat unpleasant.” A forkful of mashed potatoes paused half way to her mouth, Elaine looked at the faces around her. Meal forgotten, they were all staring.
“Cool,” Amber said, the word almost a sigh.
“A trick of the forest,” Moira said, her voice thin and cold and tight. “The wind gets caught in the trees, and cools down. It’s always been that way. Pay it no attention.”
“More wine, dearest?” Charles asked Megan, signaling Alan to fill up his wife’s glass, still more than half full.
“That’s so cool,” Brad echoed Amber’s statement. “I’ve never seen anything out there, but I’ve heard….”
“Bradley and Phoebe,” Moira interrupted, “aren’t you two missing a day of school if you go back tomorrow, rather than today? Can you afford to miss a day?”
Brad sighed mightily. “Yes, Aunt Moira. One day off won’t kill me.”
“Indeed it won’t. But it might kill your results,” Charles said.
“We decided to avoid the holiday traffic and go home a day late,” Elliot said from behind a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
It was a bit of a surprise to hear Elliot actually speak. He had to be one of the most reticent people Elaine had ever met. She had wondered if he actually possessed the power of speech.
“I’m doing fine, Uncle Charles.” Brad scowled and his fingers were white where they gripped the dinner fork.
Phoebe dashed to her cousin’s defense. She told them of the importance of the work she was doing to help Elaine. They all spoke with a rhythm that told the newcomer they had had this conversation, or ones very similar, before, a great many times.
***
It was only many hours later, when she put aside her book and switched out the bedside light, that Elaine realized how neatly the conversation had been turned from her experience in the woods. And it wasn’t the first time, either.
Elaine slept badly, disturbed by the vision under the white pines. She couldn’t explain it, not to herself. She was no stranger to the wilderness (not that this was what anyone would call the wilderness) and usually the solitude of the forest had been comforting. While researching
Goldrush
in the Yukon, she had taken the opportunity to spend a few gorgeous summer days camping and canoeing on her own. She had experienced no strange apparitions or uncomfortable feelings on the Teslin River, where she was indeed truly, absolutely, delightfully, all alone.
Why would she here, only steps from companionship, luxury, and all that is called civilization?
Elaine tossed and turned under the thick quilt. Almost as upsetting as the feelings experienced in the woods was what appeared to be the family’s effort to force the conversation in other directions. But Brad and Amber were interested. Perhaps she’d have a talk with them tomorrow.
She focused her mind on more immediate problems. Moira had to open up more. The old woman talked competently of people she worked with (most of whom she held in the greatest of admiration, some with barely disguised contempt), the deprivations of the war years in England, and the hell on earth that was the Allied push through Italy. But to date she had said nothing of her feelings, her personal hopes and private terrors. Elaine had to get Moira to reveal more of herself, if the memoirs were to have any hope of taking on energy and soul. Passion.
She crawled out of bed, her bare feet recoiling as they came in contact with the chilly hardwood floor. She slipped her dressing gown over her shoulders and her slippers onto her feet and opened the door of her bedroom. The old house lay quiet and still. The only sound the creak of ancient floorboards settling under her weight. One light, kept on all night, stood sentinel over the dark stairway.
Augustus Madison frowned at her, brimming with disapproval, but Elizabeth was on the verge of a wink as Elaine crept down the stairs, a tight grip on the banister. A picture of Ralph also hung in the hallway, but from his portrait she sensed nothing, never had. He was just a not very good painting hanging in a dark stairway. If she were an imaginative woman, she would believe that this house didn’t have the pull on him that it did on his grandparents.
Full of false bravado, she stuck her tongue out at Augustus as she passed. Trapped in his gilded frame, the family patriarch could do nothing but glare back.
At end of the hallway Hamlet and Ophelia scratched and whimpered at the kitchen door, alerted to the sounds of an intruder in the house. Once Elaine reached the bottom of the stairs, she could hear more sounds coming from the kitchen, the murmur of low voices and a woman’s laugh, cut short. Not in the mood to exchange pleasantries with another nocturnal wanderer, she walked silently down the dark hall, making her way by the dim light over the stairway.
She hadn’t been in the library before; the loft was more than enough to occupy her time. But on this restless night, it seemed like a good place for exploration. Elaine pulled open the door next to Moira’s study as silently as a ghost moving through the autumn woods.
The single, black, all-seeing eye of a large screen TV occupied pride of place. The books were for the most part modern paperbacks, the kind that could be found in any bookstore. The few legal texts concerning property and estate law would have bored her within seconds.
A disappointed Elaine left the library without venturing any further. The dogs were rising towards a full chorus. Damn fool creatures, she mumbled under her breath. Have the whole household up in a minute. She hissed at them down the length of the hallway, knowing it would accomplish nothing.
Sleep still far away, she decided to go over to the storage cabin, up into the loft, to smell the old papers and mold, perhaps find a letter or two to take up to her room.
She punched the security code into the alarm console by the door, and slipped outside into the velvety night. There was no moon and the Milky Way sparkled like lost diamonds scattered across a cloak of black velvet.
A whiff of smoke crossed the perimeter of her consciousness.
The door to the outbuilding wasn’t kept locked and Elaine stepped inside. She flicked on the light.
The smoke was more than a whiff: it caught in her throat. She walked towards the loft stairs, her nose twitching as she went. It was getting stronger. That unmistakable smell of smoke slipping its bounds. There were several fireplaces in the main cottage. One in the kitchen, one in what the family called the drawing room. She didn’t know about the bedrooms, and there must be a furnace somewhere, the place was heated well within the bounds of comfortable temperatures. Perhaps the scent had drifted over from there—it wasn’t far. Elaine hadn’t seen one person smoking, who thus might have left a cigarette burning as they drifted into sleep. Only Mr. Josepheson with his phallic cigar, but that had been two days ago.
Perhaps a bonfire on a neighboring property. She put her foot on the first step.
The odor of smoke was stronger, and above the single light the air was distinct, almost hazy. Elaine rubbed her eyes. It was even thicker, perhaps, at the top of the steps leading up to the loft.
Drawn by nothing but curiosity, not yet worried, she climbed the narrow steps. The smoke was gathering; she could see it in the air. Soft clouds of ethereal white and gray, gentle fingers of smoke swirling before her eyes. Her head popped above the level of the loft floor and she saw a flicker of fire. She watched in horror as the flame stretched towards the ceiling.
Fire! The loft was on fire.
The letters, the documents, the memoirs!
Elaine screamed.