Burden of Memory (5 page)

“You must see some of the wonderful photographs of those days. I’m sure they can explain it all better than I. Would you like to use our pictures in the book?”

“With your permission, it would add a great deal.”

“Take whatever you find, as long as you return it.”

“I will.”

“My father would come up for the weekends sometimes, and my grandfather a good bit more as he got older, but usually it was only we children with my mother and grandmother. Better that way.”

“Why?”

Moira looked startled. “What do you mean why? It just was.”

“If you want this to be an honest account, you have to tell me everything.”

“And you think there is something to tell?”

“Of course there is. Most children would welcome their father’s company, particularly when it was sporadic. When they don’t, I have to ask why.”

Moira sighed. She turned her head and looked out the window. A minute passed in total silence. Then the old woman took a deep breath, as if she was coming to some sort of a decision. “Because he was a bully and a tyrant. Because my mother hated him and did everything she could to stay out of his way. Because when he was here she spent the days locked in her room with a headache and a bottle of gin and the maids tiptoed around the place as if the smallest sound would bring it all crashing down around them. We lost at least one maid and one groundskeeper every summer. They would do something my father didn’t like, or be in the wrong place when he wanted to be there, and they would be sacked on the spot.

“It was easier the rest of the year, when we were at home in Toronto. The house was bigger, we had school, and Father didn’t normally come home until long after the children were in bed. We weren’t as close to the servants in the city, even if they were the same people. Things were different. If a maid was gone one morning, no one cared, another would be in her place by the afternoon.”

“Did he abuse you?”

“What an amazing question. Are all you young people so blunt?”

“I am not young, Moira, as I’m sure you noticed. And we are writing your memoirs after all.”

“Oh, I understand that it is quite the thing these days to display all your family’s dirty laundry for a good airing. But please remember I was a nurse, and in the army. Quite out of place for my class, I was. I do know the more sordid facts of life. But my father did not abuse me in any way, physically, mentally, or sexually. In fact, my father didn’t even know I was there. He must have sometimes wondered why the dining room chair was speaking. I was not a boy, nor was I pretty or talented. Ergo, of no consequence.”

“But you went on to do wonderful things. To get out in the world, and to make something of your life.”

“I did, didn’t I? And how shocked they were when I told them I had decided to study for a nurse. My mother once again locked herself in her bedroom with her beloved gin and my father forbade me to even mention it again. I suspect that he had already lined up a junior partner to be my husband. My great-aunt died in 1935. She never married and had no children, and so she left us three girls a bit of money of our own. A wise woman, my aunt.

“I was twenty-one years young. Old to go for a nurse in those days, but at last I had my own money, and all the wonderful freedom and independence it represented.”

Elaine scribbled notes as fast as she could. The tape recorder whirled away. This was great. Better material than she had dared hope for. “Tell me about your grandparents, on your father’s side. I’ve seen their portraits in the stairway. Impressive.”

“They are. My grandmother was a powerful influence on my life. My mother was somewhat…shall we say, uninvolved…in her children. She was happy to leave us to a succession of nursemaids and nannies. But Grandmother Elizabeth would step in and act as mother. Particularly over the summer when we were here, at the cottage. We weren’t quite as close when we were all in the city. We had our own house. Maeve lives there now. Megan and her husband have Augustus and Elizabeth’s home.

“Grandmother Elizabeth was the only truly caring and loving adult I had in my childhood, other than a stream of nannies. I loved her dearly. She died when I was still in Europe, after the war.”

Outside, Alan the gardener strolled past the big bay windows. A streak of mud ran down one side of his face and dead brown leaves were tangled in his hair. He carried a rake and shifted it to his left hand to wave cheerfully at the watching women.

The voice drifted off. Elaine looked up, another question poised on her lips. Moira’s eyes were closed and her head bobbed. A touch of drool slipped out of the corner of her mouth. Elaine cleared her throat. She could see Alan clearing out dead brush from a flowerbed, his slim hips swaying lazily as he worked. Hamlet and Ophelia danced eagerly at his heels.

Moira didn’t move and Elaine coughed again, trying to be discreet. The old woman started and shook her head, blinking her eyes back into consciousness.

“I have more than enough for this morning,” Elaine said. “I’d like to start into your correspondence, if that’s okay?”

“Oh, yes. Let me call Ruth. She’ll show you where we keep everything.” Moira pushed a button on the intercom. “I would come with you myself, if I could.” She shrugged and indicated the wheelchair. The gesture was tinged with so much hopelessness that Elaine felt tears prickling behind her eyes.

“Bring anything down that you want to talk about. I’d love to see some of the old letters and pictures again. It’s been so long. But be warned. Nothing has been sorted. My mother merely stuffed correspondence into a pile and then tied everything up with a ribbon.”

“I’ve been through worse. Believe me.”

Chapter Eight

The winter of 1940-41 was harsh. Not harsh compared to February on the Prairies, or even a cold day in Toronto, but the nurses’ accommodations were, simply, freezing. Try as they might, women used to central heating or roaring fireplaces and thick clothing couldn’t get warm. Moira’s spirits fell with the thermometer and she wrote home, complaining of the cold and the damp. As fast as the mail could travel, her mother wrote back beseeching her to give up this foolishness and come home. For once, her father penned a sentence at the bottom of the letter, echoing his wife’s sentiments.

Of course, nothing could make Moira more determined, and she managed to survive the winter with a minor revival of her spirits.

Some of the Canadian women had a hard time managing in the blackout. It didn’t bother Moira, accustomed as she was to wandering the back roads of Muskoka late into the night. But for women who had spent their entire lives in cities or towns, night outside without a glimmer of light made a fearful place.

Off duty hours passed in a social whirl. The nursing sisters were outnumbered by soldiers hundreds to one, and they were invited by every unit stationed anywhere nearby to dances in the Officers’ messes or out to the pubs. Matron watched over her girls like a jailhouse warden and few of the nurses had the social skills or the nerve to venture out on their own, anyway.

Jean loved every second of the attention and enjoyed a steady parade of admirers. Invitations were constantly forthcoming. She traded her carefully hoarded supply of cigarettes for any luxury that might come her way, a fresh egg, a pot of rouge, even a pair of silk stockings that had the other nurses groaning with envy as they prepared for an excursion to the English Officers’ Mess.

Poor Freddie. A Wisconsin farm boy would have an impossible time trying to compete with all of this.

Shy Susan from Saskatoon made up the last member of Moira’s trio. It was hard to imagine two women more opposite than Jean and Susan. The one bold and forward, always on the lookout for the possibility of a good time, delighting in being the exotic American, the other so shy she practically disappeared in the company of men. But they clung together like the women far from home for the first time that they were.

Bramshott was located close to London, and the women reveled in the opportunity to tour the great city on their leaves.

Moira, Jean, and Susan went to the cinema, as the English called it, to see the wildly popular George Formby in
Spare a Copper
, a film about Nazi spies. They were enjoying the movie enormously, such a treat, when the screen went black and the words
Air Raid On
appeared. The three disappointed nurses filed out and made their way into the tube to await the all clear.

The subway platform was crowded. Lines of bunk beds had been stacked against the walls: whole families spent their nights down here. Makeshift beds were set up on the platform between the bunks and the train tracks. Generally people managed to keep their spirits up and chattered quietly amongst themselves. Groups would spontaneously break into song or ribald laughter. An elderly man with thick glasses and an immaculate suit held a book so close to his face it almost touched his nose.
A History of the Hundred Years’ War
. Some things never do change.

The three nursing sisters stepped in, unasked, to take charge of a restless brood belonging to a sobbing young woman. She had four children under the age of four and was trying to nurse her baby while at the same time keep the older children, including a set of redheaded, freckle-faced twins whose very appearance screamed mischief, sitting still.

The woman was burping her baby, and trying to smile through tear-reddened eyes at her rescuers, when the all clear sounded. They emerged into a sea of destruction. The row houses on one side of the street were gone, nothing remaining but piles of smoldering rubble, while on the other homes stood strong and secure. Emergency personnel were already sifting through the wreckage and the scream of ambulances sounded in the distance.

The young mother settled her baby into the pram, sitting unscathed at the tube entrance, and ordered the other three to grip the handles. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “We’ll manage now.” She herded her family down the road. The sisters watched her go, and sighed with relief as she turned left, into the untouched row, and guided her children through the door of a house, still in one piece.

Others weren’t so lucky and emerged from the shelter to face the destruction of everything they owned.

The man with the book strolled on down the road, stepping over rubble and around vehicles and people, the
History of the Hundred Years’ War
still pressed to his nose.

“Perhaps next week we can come back and see the ending of the film,” Jean said. “I want to find out how it turns out.” Buildings on either side of the movie theatre had been demolished. The theatre was untouched.

Chapter Nine

The next couple of weeks passed in a swirl of work and reminiscences. Elaine met with Moira every morning in the light-filled white-and-blue study. Moira talked about her childhood and her years as a nurse in the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps during World War II. Elaine’s notebook filled up and she had to drive into Bracebridge, the nearest town, to stock up on more tapes.

“We were talking the other day about your grandmother, Elizabeth,” she asked as the autumn rain fell in an unceasing stream outside the bay windows. “But you didn’t say much about your grandfather. Can you tell me more?”

“Augustus. I didn’t know him as well as I did her. Like my father he was always caught up in the terribly mysterious goings on of business. He was a forceful personality. We children were terrified of him, even Ralph. Grandfather was a good deal harder on Ralph than on the girls. He expected so much of him, you see—the solitary boy, The Heir, in capital letters. The only time I ever saw Ralph cry was when Grandfather laughed at him. I don’t remember what had happened. But he called Ralph Missie and told him to go and play with the other girls.

She stopped her narrative and stared at Elaine. The sharp brown eyes burned with remembered anger. “I saw that in the war a great deal. Fools whose idea of a finely toned insult was to suggest that a man was more like a woman. Ha! He should be so lucky. Women have come a long way in my lifetime, my dear, and this is a good part of what I want my story to be about. But you will only know you have indeed achieved equality when to tell a man he is acting feminine will be offered and accepted as a compliment.

“I agree with you there.”

“But, back to the story,” Moira said. “It’s always been somewhat of a wonder to me that poor Ralph turned out to be a semi-functioning human being at all. With all the pressures he had on him. The only son, the only grandson. But we can discuss Ralph another day.

“For you were asking about Grandfather. The force of his anger would put a tropical hurricane to shame. He bullied my father quite terribly. And that was when he, my father, was an adult, with a wife and children of his own. I can only imagine what it must have been like when he was a child. I’m no psychologist, but it doesn’t take a degree to see why my father grew up to take delight in picking on those weaker than himself. Those were the only times I ever saw my grandmother as powerless. When Grandfather was having a go at Father, she would get up and leave the room, or sink her head into her embroidery or the letter she was writing.”

Moira sighed, and her deep brown eyes clouded over. Elaine checked that the wheels on her tape recorder were still whirling.

“My father learned to be a cold, uncaring man from his own father, the master indeed. Strangely enough, or perhaps not, my grandfather could actually be rather fun and kind with the granddaughters. He wouldn’t play with us often, but when he did we had a grand time. I can remember one occasion when he actually got down on all fours to play horsie and gave us rides around the playroom. As we got older Grandfather would even remember to ask us how were doing with our studies or if we’d had a good time at a party. But Ralph always failed him in some regard.

“But, as I have said, we didn’t see him, Grandfather, a great deal. My grandmother, Elizabeth, visited often, and spent most summers here, at the cottage. It was the pattern for many families in those days you know, to send wives and children out of the way all season. The occasional visit to pat the offspring on the heads and make sure the wife behaved herself, and then back to more important matters in the city. But for women such as Mother and Grandmother, it was somewhat of a blessing.”

“Do you know that for sure? That they felt that way, I mean?”

Moira sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead, her eyes closed.

“If you’d rather continue later….” Elaine worried that she had overstressed the old woman.

“No, it’s quite all right. I slept badly last night. I usually do, these days. Do I know for sure what my mother and grandmother thought? Of course not. But I was an inquisitive child, into everything, always hiding behind the bookshelves or under the table. I heard a great deal, and I know that my mother in particular was a very, very unhappy woman. Things would have been so much easier for her had she been able to be friends with her mother-in-law. But there was little or no room for female alliances in such a male-dominated household and they were never allowed to forget their positions: family matriarch and interloping daughter-in-law. They both suffered in silence.”

It had become their working habit: when the old woman tired and her voice broke and her eyes drooped, Ruth would pack her off for a nap and Elaine would return to the loft above the storage rooms to examine the boxes of letters, notes and photographs. Then after lunch eaten in the kitchen with Lizzie and Alan and an afternoon spent among the family papers, Elaine and Moira would meet again for luxurious afternoon tea and Moira would resume talking of her life or they would discuss the work Elaine had accomplished.

Nights drew colder and darkness settled in earlier and earlier although the days stayed sunny and warm. Colored leaves fell from the trees and the forest canopy got thinner and thinner. The woods were frantic with activity as squirrels rushed about in a last minute panic to gather as much as they could of acorns, nuts, and seeds.

The first week of October, the week before Canadian Thanksgiving, saw Ruth, Lizzie, and Alan erupt into a whirl of activity. Silver was dragged out of storage to be polished, pies and casseroles baked, groceries brought in by the truck load, the lawn cut one last time, leaves raked, flowerbeds and vegetable plots turned over. Unused rooms were aired, linen shaken out of mothballs and new sheets and towels purchased. Two women arrived from town to give the place a cleaning from the top of the kitchen fireplace to the bottom of the deck steps.

On the Friday morning, Elaine hesitantly brought up the subject on her mind. “With all your family here and Thanksgiving preparations underway and all, should I be planning on spending the weekend alone, Moira? I have plenty of work to do. Going through the tapes, typing up my notes, a bit of research on the Internet.” Elaine had no reason to think much about her predecessor, Donna. And what had become of her on the previous holiday weekend. But the thought occasionally chewed at the recesses of her mind. “I can stay well out of everyone’s way, if you don’t want to continue working. And if you need my room, I’ll take myself to a hotel.”

Moira snorted. “What ever gave you that idea, young woman? I have no intention of letting my overbearing sisters and their horrid children and stuffy husband—there is only one left and as little said about that the better—interfere with the task at hand. I intend to keep on working with as few interruptions as possible.” She peered over the rim of her glasses. “Unless you have Thanksgiving plans, of course.”

“No plans. Nothing at all.”

“Someday you can explain to me why a lovely young thing such as yourself has no family and no friends with whom to spend the holiday. But as you so forcefully reminded me, as your employer that is none of my concern. Let me tell you about Matron. She was the most amazing woman; she ruled us with an iron fist and we were in absolute awe of her….”

***

On Friday evening the extended Madison family arrived in a small convoy of luxury cars and SUVs. Elaine watched from the kitchen window as people and luggage poured out of the vehicles and flowed into the cottage. All day a cloud of depression had been hanging over her, just barely out of reach, too far for her to push it away, but close enough to leap forward at any time. Out of nowhere, it had snuck up on her when she’d been discussing plans for the holiday weekend with Moira. Elaine had realized with a shock as sharp as if she had thrown herself into the cold lake that she really didn’t have anyone to spend the holiday with. Her parents were dead, her brothers didn’t write often, she’d lost her family of in-laws when she lost her marriage, friends hadn’t extended invitations. She didn’t even have a dog.

“As long as you’re standing there, not doing anything, would you get six or seven apples out of the bin and peel them?” Lizzie was up to her elbows in flour as white and fluffy as fresh snow. Elaine turned away from her self-pity and went in search of the apples.

***

Elaine dressed in a blue business suit, put on the gold earrings, and snapped her best (and only) string of pearls around her neck. She dabbed on the faintest touch of blush and lipstick and fluffed her short blond curls, which were, in Elaine’s opinion, her best feature. She took a deep breath and went out to face a room full of strangers.

Drinks, she had been told, would be served in the drawing room. Even after living here for a few weeks, she had absolutely no idea of what constituted the drawing room.

It turned out to be the front room she’d been into many times, the one with wide French doors and a wall of glass overlooking the deck and the panorama of lake and sky and hills beyond. The sounds of livid dogs shut outside, braying their dismay at being banished from the party, followed her as she walked down the hall. She followed the flow of voices and there they all were.

Huge logs crackled and spat, bright yellow flame danced, and red embers glowed in the enormous stone fireplace. The mantle was decorated with a cornucopia of sugar pumpkins, colorful ears of Indian corn, and tiny orange, yellow, and green gourds. Votive candles in crystal holders had been tucked around the vegetables. The rich voice of John Lee Hooker filled the room, emanating from a CD player placed discreetly out of sight.

Lizzie had piled her hair into a severe bun on top of her head and put on a demure black dress covered with a stiffly-ironed white apron. She winked at Elaine as the older woman paused at the entrance into the room, hesitant and self-conscious. Alan, dressed with equal formality, manned the bar set up in front of the French doors. He looked quite the part in black suit, starched white shirt, and cheerful red bow tie with matching cummerbund. Only his tumbling mop of curly salt and pepper hair contradicted the image of the picture-perfect butler.

Spotting Elaine, Moira pulled away from the group in front of the windows. No wheelchair today: the elderly Miss Madison gripped a pair of steel arm braces and staggered across the room bravely. She looked spectacular in an evening gown of pale yellow wool, plain and unadorned, which fell in gentle folds over her skeletal frame to float around her ankles. Her only jewelry was a pair of glistening diamond earrings that reflected white and yellow light from the array of candles scattered around the room like a star going supernova.

“Do shut your mouth, my dear,” Moira chuckled. “You look rather like a fish wondering how she came to be in this particular aquarium. I can manage to get around. Although with a bit of effort. But Ruth is nearby, as always, to ensure that I don’t fall, or otherwise disgrace myself. Let me introduce you.”

Moira led the way, her twin crutches balancing the frail body. Ruth, dressed as an extra playing the part of a maid in the movie version of a Jane Austen novel (although the skirt was a touch shorter), hovered within reach.

If she’d passed them on the street in a blinding snow storm Elaine would have recognized the two elderly women standing by the makeshift bar as Moira’s sisters. The same tiny frame, the same awful teeth, the same striking brown eyes. But where Moira exuded confidence and authority whether in wheelchair or arm braces, these two blended perfectly into the background.

“My sisters, Maeve and Megan,” Moira made the introductions. “My biographer, Elaine Benson.”

Elaine stepped forward, hand outstretched in greeting. The sisters each took it with as much enthusiasm as if they had been asked to hold a fish plucked fresh out of the lake. Maeve’s hair was dyed a youthful red and rolled into tight curls. She might be Moira’s younger sister, but her face was so tired and lined that she looked ten years older. Megan had chosen to go blonde. Elaine vowed right there and then that when the time came she would let nature have her own cruel way. Megan’s perfume was Chanel Number 5, which Elaine’s mother had always worn, but Megan had applied it with far too heavy a hand.

“I hope that you’re not digging up any of our family skeletons,” Megan said, waggling one painted claw at Elaine. “This family does have a reputation to protect.” She stretched her wineglass out behind her, and without a word Alan filled it with a soft, golden liquid. Moira and Maeve scowled matching expressions of disapproval.

“I intend to tell the truth,” Elaine said.

“However you find it, I am sure,” Megan replied. She took a gargantuan gulp of her wine and turned to her older sister. “I really don’t approve, my dear, of the modern fashion of letting it all hang out.”

Elaine stifled a grin. “Letting it all hang out.” She hadn’t heard that expression since her university days, and that was more than a few years ago.

“Some things are best kept private,” Megan continued, “I have always maintained. Didn’t I say that to the previous girl…what was her name…? Dianne? No, Donna.”

Unasked, Alan handed Elaine a red wine. The glass was huge, handcrafted to crystal perfection, dwarfing the drops of scarlet liquid that filled the bottom. She nodded her thanks and sipped the drink gratefully. She looked up from her glass to see Alan smiling at her. When he smiled he could be almost handsome. She felt herself blushing and looked quickly away.

An elderly gentleman approached their group. He nodded to Moira and smiled at Elaine. “You must be the writer of whom we have heard so much. I am Charles Stoughton, and am delighted to meet you. I quite desperately wanted to be a writer myself in my younger days. But, alas, it was not to be.”

Elaine extended her hand, expecting to receive a polite shake. Instead Charles lifted it to his lips and kissed it. She was enchanted. He was well into his eighties and so emaciated that the bones of his aristocratic face protruded as if they were a finely crafted sculpture of stone or marble covered by a paper-thin layer of skin. The candlelight reflected off an almost bald scalp with a few wisps of white hair high above a pencil-thin gray moustache. His jacket was brown tweed in a herringbone pattern, with leather patches at the elbows. A cheerful red cravat accented the long patrician neck. “If you’re in need of any assistance with the war years, I would be more than happy to help in any small way that I can.”