Outcasts of River Falls (2 page)

Now it was Kathryn’s turn to gape.

Chapter 2

White
K
night
Needed Apply
Within

After a jostling, bumping, bruising eternity, the noisy wooden cart crested a hill and spread out below Kathryn was a lush valley with tall trees and a wide river. The evening shadows spread sinuous purple fingers toward a scattering of dilapidated cabins edging the sides of the road. She shuddered. This must be where hobos and the down-and-out huddled in their tarpaper shanties. She turned about, expecting to see the gas streetlights of the town of Hopeful, Alberta, the town to which she had been banished.

“At last,” the woman Kathryn now knew as Aunt Belle sighed, “journey’s end.”

Kathryn had a shiver of apprehension. “Journey’s end? Surely, you can’t mean those filthy shacks!”

“No, no, my dear.” Aunt Belle gave the reins a shake to encourage the horse forward.

“Whew!” Kathryn relaxed. “You had me worried for a moment.”

“My
filthy shack
is further back in the trees.”

Kathryn gawked at her aunt in stunned silence. Was she expected to live in one of those tumble-down hovels? “Impossible!”

“Not at all,” her aunt went on calmly. “Welcome to River Falls, Kathryn. We wanted the word ‘river’ in our name as rivers have always been important to the Métis. Here, we try to live close by each other so that we can help if needed. I’m a little further out, which isolates me somewhat, however, it means I have the added blessing of being near to the river and in winter, that’s wonderful indeed.”

Still reeling at the news about the dismally sub-standard housing, Kathryn had to ask. “Why would it matter if you live close to the river?”

Her aunt looked at her as though she were a very young child who knew nothing. “Hauling water is tough enough in the summer. Having to cut a hole in the ice and then drag the buckets to the house in a howling blizzard makes you pray the distance is short.”

Kathryn was still confused; then the horror of it dawned. “You mean we don’t have running water
inside
the house? How do you wash clothes? What about bathing and,” she felt her cheeks grow hot, “and other bodily needs?’

They were passing the shacks now, and her aunt waved cheerily to several people who were outside chopping wood or tending gardens. Although her aunt had said these were Métis, Kathryn was surprised at how different they all appeared. There was a tall man with very dark skin and hair like her aunt, while another woman was blonder than Ingrid Svenson back at school and Ingrid was practically an albino!

As they rumbled by one particular boy, Kathryn noticed
the outrageous hat that he wore. It was bright red and sev
eral sizes too large, with a long black raven’s feather tucked roguishly into the band. As she stared, the impudent lad winked at her, then doffed the cap and made a sweeping bow. The gesture was so courtly she had the impulse to curtsey back. Ridiculously, he reminded her of the fairytale character
Puss-in-Boots.

“I told you, dear,” her aunt went on, bringing Kathryn’s attention back to the dreadful conversation, “we haul water from the creek, and heat it for washing clothes or filling the bath. I keep the reservoir on the wood stove topped up for quick fixes.” She laughed gently. “And for those other bodily needs... we have an outhouse.”

“An
outhouse!
Kathryn Marie Tourond does not, not...” Kathryn’s flustered brain searched for the right expression.
“Pee in a pit!”

Her aunt was unperturbed. “Well,
Katy
Tourond will have to! In fact, that name suits a young Métis girl from River Falls. Yes, indeed, ‘Katy’ will do nicely.”

“But, but...” Kathryn sputtered lamely. She was most certainly not a Katy, she was a Kathryn! She held her head up – Kathryn, regal and noble, like Catherine of Aragon,
sad and courageous queen of Henry VIII. There were actually many similarities between her and the great queen
– both exiled to a foreign land and having to live with – she shot her aunt a sidelong glance – unsuitable companions into whose alien world duty had thrust her.

A grasshopper landed on Kathryn’s cheek, its hard wings frantically whirring. With a startled shriek, she batted the loathsome bug away, accidentally smacking her face in the process. Resuming her royal pose, she proffered a cold shoulder to her oblivious aunt, or as cold as one could get crammed together in a rickety Red River cart.

After meandering slowly through a grove of towering evergreens, they finally stopped in front of a small log cabin encircled by a wide veranda.

“Be it ever so humble... ,” Aunt Belle sighed. “Katy, you need to unload your trunk and carpet bag before I unhitch Nellie, then while you’re taking everything into the house, I’ll feed the old girl and put her away.” She indicated a small lean-to near the cabin. Before Kathryn could correct her aunt on the insulting diminutive, Aunt Belle had
climbed nimbly down, and was fussing with the tired nag –
rubbing her wide muzzle, patting her corpulent flanks and cooing over the animal as though it were a particularly perfect specimen.

“What am I, the strong man from the circus?” Kathryn protested, to which the horse replied by noisily expelling a foul burst of noxious gas.

Choking, Kathryn hastily retreated to the back of the cart, offering her aunt some helpful advice. “I’m sure it would be a comfort to all in your River Falls if you took that flatulent beast to a veterinary surgeon!”

Aunt Belle paid little attention. “No money for that, Katy. Putting food on the table is enough of a battle.”

Sizing up her baggage, Kathryn’s anger was soon replaced
with frustration. “How am I supposed to wrestle this into the house alone? There should be a porter to assist.”

This time, her aunt appeared not to hear at all as she went about the process of disconnecting the horse from the cart. Kathryn waited, hoping for a hired man or at least a
passer-by to haul the heavy cases. When no one came to her rescue, she knew she had no choice. Once her aunt un
hitched the horse, the unstable Red River cart would tip forward, making the process of unloading even more odious.

Muttering obscenities to rival a sailor, Kathryn dropped her carpet bag to the ground, clambered down and undid the gate at the back of the cart. She felt very much like poor Cinderella, one of her favourite fairy tale heroines with whom she empathized completely, as she heaved on the large trunk holding her belongings. Shoving it out of the cart was torture; tugging it up the cabin steps simply beyond her.

The veranda sported a hanging swing, made of logs and rope. Kathryn climbed the steps; then, spreading her
skirt evenly on each side of her as she liked, she sat to catch
her breath while assessing her nemesis squatting so obstinately in the dirt.

What had she packed that was so heavy?

Then her lips crooked up. Of course! She’d packed twelve of the most essential things in life; those that she could not live without. She’d brought...her books.

Well, that made all the difference. “
Some rewards are worth the struggle
,” she breathed, reciting her personal motto. Standing, she resolutely attacked the trunk once more.

Finally, Kathryn manoeuvred the lumpish thing onto the covered porch. Opening the door, she dragged the cases and herself inside. Stretching her aching back, she surveyed the cabin. It was more spacious than it appeared from the outside; and, she admitted, far from being filthy, it was spotless.

Removing her bonnet, she laid it carefully on the trestle table to the right of the door. There were fresh wildflowers arranged in a chipped glass jar and she could smell the beeswax rubbed into the worn wood. Next to the table, a dressmaker’s dummy stood at attention as it guarded an ancient treadle sewing machine. Kathryn wrinkled her nose at another unmistakable odour – that of lye soap, probably used to scrub the floors.

Across the cabin on the opposite wall, a wood-burning cook stove, dry sink with wash basin and two tall cupboards made up the kitchen area. Drying herbs hung from the rafters, their pungent smell wafting pleasantly to her. At the other end of the single room, a large stone fireplace made a grand statement indeed. To the right of the fireplace were two cozy overstuffed armchairs with a round table between and opposite these, a small horsehair settee sat as primly as a spinster at a shivaree.

Against the wall behind the chairs, a lovely old china cabinet, made by a reputable builder if Kathryn was any judge, sat in pride of place. It held what she imagined was the Sunday-best dishes. No doubt a cherished and irreplaceable treasure to be admired, yet never touched, perhaps brought out on special occasions such as Christmas dinner. She smiled indulgently; these country rubes were so quaint.

Bright, multi-coloured rag rugs were everywhere, with a large oval version in front of the fireplace. She had to admit, the place was very homey and nothing like the Spartan boarding school she’d lived at for so many years.

Thinking of school brought a fond reminiscence to mind. With the constant pecking of the nuns, life would have been intolerable if it weren’t for her favourite teacher and
friend, Miss Imogene Hocking. Imogene would take Kathryn
out for lunch or to the theatre or boating on the lake.

If it weren’t that Imogene lived in a boarding house and had limited means, Kathryn would not be here in this cobbled-together town now. Instead, she’d be back home, living with Imogene in Toronto, planning how best to acquire the lofty status of
Lady Lawyer
. For, most wonderful of all, Imogene was friends with Miss Clara Brett Martin, a true trailblazer and Kathryn’s idol. Miss Martin was the first woman to be admitted as a barrister and solicitor to the
Law Society of Upper Canada. In fact, she was the first fe
male lawyer in the whole of the British Empire and Kathryn desperately wanted to be the second.

She dreamed and planned on following in her idol’s il
lustrious footsteps. Clara Brett Martin, this modern-thinking lady, this courageous proponent of women’s rights, was a worthy and courageous role model indeed.
(Somewhere in the back of Kathryn’s mind, she could hear stirring music being played: surely it was a Souza march...)
Miss Martin had not given up in the face of overwhelming odds, or let the rantings of some bearded old fellows, smelling of stale tobacco and brandy, prevent her from achieving her dream and Kathryn could do, nay,
would
do, no less. She would look upon this side trip out west as at most, a minor setback, her first hurdle on the road to glorious success.

It was then that she noticed a faded photograph standing proudly on the fireplace mantle. Her attention refocused as she moved closer. Kathryn was surprised to see
her father smiling out at her as he stood with his arm ca
sually slung around a girl’s shoulders. The girl had to be Aunt Belle. They were both much younger and appeared to be on a picnic. Behind them was a gaggle of strangers. Leaning in, Kathryn peered more closely.

“That’s your papa and me at a box social and behind us is your grandmother, Josephte Tourond. The rest are aunts, uncles and cousins you’ve never met.”

Startled, Kathryn jumped, taking an involuntary step back.

Her aunt continued, a note of regret in her voice. “It’s a problem that Patrice decided to hide his past. What it means is that we should talk about the way your life will be now. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.” She went to the stove and busied herself stoking the firebox, then ladled water from the reservoir into a large black kettle before setting it on one of the lids.

“Who’s Patrice?” Kathryn asked, still studying the photo.

“Your father, Katy. He went by
Patrick
when he moved down east, thought it sounded more English...and more white.” She jammed another log into the stove. “We’ll have tea and then I want to tell you a story.”

The light was failing and Kathryn hoped her aunt had more than feeble candles. She spotted several coal-oil lamps placed around the cabin. “Shall I light the lamps?”

“Yes, please, and would you mind putting a match to the wood I’ve laid? It’s going to rain tonight and that means the temperature will fall. It will be chilly.”