Scare the Light Away (11 page)

Chapter 20

The Diary of Mrs. Janet McKenzie. September 24, 1946

P.S.

We are here. And it is as wonderful as I imagined. I simply cannot get to sleep; my heart is still pounding with all the excitement. He was waiting for us at Union Station in Toronto. He looked so strange dressed in a plain brown suit instead of a uniform. But he is as handsome as I remembered. Now that we are together again, I can admit that I was terrified that he would be different than I remembered—less, somehow. As we came off the platform, there were so many people to meet the brides and the soldiers, such a crowd. Shirley cried out in terror and buried her head in my shoulder. I had a wild thought of running back to the train and telling the conductor to take me back to England.

But then he was there.

And it was perfectly wonderful.

He came in a car to collect us. A car as nice as Mr. Fitzpatrick and Lady Helen’s. And no need for a driver. Bob drove it himself. I was so proud.

He told me that it wasn’t his car; we were to spend the night at his friend Charlie’s family home. Charlie, who walked with us the night Bob asked me to marry him, had been killed in France. He was an only child, and Bob explained to me as we drove north through the neat, tree-lined streets of Toronto, his parents were devastated by his death. They welcomed his best buddy into their home and were waiting eagerly to meet Shirley and me. We would spend the night in Toronto, so I could rest. Then catch a train further north, to Bob’s own home.

I have absolutely no recollection of Charlie. I met him once. And that on the wonderful night Bob proposed to me. So Charlie was gone from my consciousness like the trace of a dream. But I pretended to his mother that I remembered him fondly, and she welcomed Shirley and me into her home and her family. Mr. Lombard is a cold, distant man. I didn’t even meet him until dinnertime. He stood at the head of the table and carved the roast of beef with a face that might have been made of stone. All the while his wife chattered on about what a lovely baby Charlie had been, and what a perfect scholar and athlete. Shirley was asleep upstairs in a lovely bedroom with delicate rose-patterned wallpaper and a maid assigned to watch over her all the night. I wanted nothing but to be with my husband, and close to our baby. Instead we stared at the cold, empty eyes of Mr. Lombard and listened to Charlie’s mother describe his childhood in great detail. It was perfectly horrid.

The dining room was huge; the table would have comfortably fit three times our number. It is only September and still mild, but an enormous fire had been laid in the stone fireplace at the end of the room. A maid, dressed in crisp black and white, slipped silently in and out of the room, changing plates and producing new courses. For dessert she served a pie. I almost groaned in delight at the taste of melting pastry, tart apples and the light touch of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Mrs. Lombard smiled at me. “Apple pie. My Charlie’s favorite.”

Before the war her words might have caused the delicate pastry to stick in my throat. But now I knew the value of a good meal. I smiled at her and chewed.

The maid kept Shirley all night. Bob and I slept in a bed so big it would have filled Dad’s whole bedroom in our house back in Surrey.

This is my diary and I have promised it that I will always be honest, so I will. Bob and I didn’t get a good deal of sleep.

I had been so afraid. Afraid he wouldn’t want me any longer, afraid that he would find me horribly plain and boring. Afraid I wouldn’t belong here in Canada. Afraid that when I saw him I wouldn’t love him any more. That I would be embarrassed that he is shorter than I am.

We have been married for a year and a half; we have a child together. Tonight we made love as if nothing had gone before.

I wonder if this will be the pattern of our lives together: Bob asleep in an enormous four-poster bed, snoring lightly, the baby lovingly cared for by the maid; me still up, taking advantage of the quiet to write in my diary.

January 1, 1947

Shirley is asleep at last. She has been crying for days, probably with her teeth, and Mr. McKenzie has been simply horrid about it. You would think that Bob had never been a baby, but was born full-grown and brought home from a pumpkin patch or something.

We have to get out of here. This horrid house is so small. The baby cries and Mr. McKenzie gets angry. Mrs. McKenzie tries frantically to hush her, and her urgency upsets Shirley even more. Then Bob tries to calm Mr. McKenzie. With as much success as his mother has with the baby.

It is the first day of 1947. A new year. I opened my diary this morning wanting to write something to mark the start of this New Year. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t written in it since the morning after I arrived in Toronto, before we set out to come here. Was that only a few months ago? More like a lifetime.

This ‘farm’ is scarcely more than a patch of what in England we would call ‘wasteland’. Mrs. McKenzie (who I simply can’t call Mom) keeps a few chickens and rabbits and a good-sized vegetable garden of which I caught the briefest glimpse before a foot or more of snow buried it. The house is small, badly heated, and ill furnished. If I weren’t so proud, I would write to Dad and ask him to send me Granny’s tea trolley. Anything to have a decent piece of furniture.

How happy I was, on that long train trip through the endless Ontario panorama of rocks and trees. So different from the farmlands and sleepy villages of Surrey, from the bombed-out shell of London and the slums of the Southampton docklands.

Mrs. McKenzie was there to meet us at the station. Bob stepped off the train, cradling a dozing Shirley in his arms, myself standing proudly by his side. His head was high and his eyes bright and he was so happy.

I was so proud.

Then he saw his mother.

His father hadn’t come, she said. Too much work. Bob passed me the baby and took his mother’s thin shoulders in his hands. Skin in all different shades of yellow and purple colored her face down the left side and the eye was nothing but a slit peering though puffy flesh. She held her right arm awkwardly to one side. She moved as if she wanted to touch the baby, but a spasm of pain passed across her face and the arm fell away.

She looked at her son’s feet. “A fall,” she said, her voice so soft, I had to strain to hear her, “down the stairs all the way to the cellar. The light was burnt out. Lucky I didn’t break my neck, eh?”

“
Heavens,” I cried. “You could have been killed. I hope you’ve fixed that light. I’m sure we will be over to visit all the time, and I wouldn’t want one of the children getting hurt.”

“Not to worry,” my new mom said. She braced against the pain and reached out her left hand to stroke Shirley’s pink cheek. “I’ll make sure she’s kept safe.”

Shirley shifted on my shoulder and opened her eyes wide. She tossed her grandmother a huge, drooling smile.

It was at least a month or more before I noticed that Bob was not talking about ‘our home’. That instead he was full of plans about building an extension onto his parents’ house, to make a bit more room.

We are easily five miles or more from the nearest town, called Hope River. And that is not much more than a couple of dark little shops, a decrepit pub, and a white frame church.

Mr. McKenzie seems to spend a good deal of his time chopping wood, when he’s around, which fortunately isn’t often. I don’t see a sign of fields or of crops (although we arrived here in the autumn, I remind myself, constantly). There isn’t a barn.

In fact, in this whole area I haven’t seen sight nor sound of a prosperous farm. Leaving Toronto, our train passed oceans of beautiful land: tall barns, stone farmhouses, fat cattle grazing, rich black fields ploughed under for the coming winter. I sighed in contentment. Shirley guzzled at her bottle and Bob smiled at me from beneath his thick eyelashes.

Then we passed through the town of Barrie and continued on north past some other towns I can’t name. And almost before I knew it, we might have entered a different world. The fields ended and the dark woods closed in upon the tracks. The open spaces where livestock grazed were gone. Only hard, bare, naked rock remained. For the rest of the journey I waited for the sky to open once again. But the forest and the rock closed in even more. And the train pulled to a stop in a station that is even smaller than the one in the middle of Quebec where we stranded the war bride. And my husband announced that it was time to get off.

A neighbor brought Mrs. McKenzie to fetch us in his truck. Mrs. McKenzie and I (with Shirley in my arms) struggled to fit in the seat beside him. Good thing she is so thin. Bob had to sit in the open back of the truck with my trunk. The man didn’t say a word the whole trip and when we all finally got out, Bob handed him some money.

I honestly thought that he had deposited us in front of the servant’s quarters. But no, this falling-down wreck is my new home.

Mrs. McKenzie went to the kitchen immediately to start dinner; Bob took Shirley out of my arms and showed me to our room. I scarcely knew what to say. My bedroom in England was nicer than this. The bed is small, the wallpaper tattered, and a huge water stain makes an ugly blot on the ceiling. At the foot of the bed there is a crib for Shirley. It is the only nice piece of furniture in the whole house, a rich dark wood, carefully sanded and stained. Covered by a beautiful blanket in cheerful yellow and blue. I had selfishly hoped that Shirley would have her own room, like she did at the Lombards’. So Bob and I could have our privacy.

When Bob’s father came through the door that first day, Shirley was playing on the floor with a pile of wooden blocks Mrs. McKenzie gave her. He scarcely glanced at her, but he eyed me up and down all right. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of me. Examining me like a prize heifer. That is, if anyone in this barren country knows what a cow is. I flushed to the roots of my hair and held out my hand. He continued to look at me, until I dropped my hand in embarrassment.

“You’re a big one,” he said at last. I didn’t think he had been working any too hard. He scratched his belly. “Still breast-feeding, eh?”

I was mortified. It is simply unheard of for a man to mention such a thing. Of course I wasn’t breast-feeding. I had given that up before leaving home. Good thing, too. They didn’t like it on the ship and encouraged all the mothers to switch to the bottle.

“Dad.” Bob’s voice was low and tinged with an anger I hadn’t heard before. “This is my wife, Janet. And my daughter, Shirley.”

At that my father-in-law stepped toward me and held out his arms. He was welcoming me into the family. He hugged me and pressed his crotch up against my hip. I recoiled in horror, sure I had misunderstood, terrified that I would react badly and embarrass everyone. He only grinned at me and turned to my husband.

“Make sure the next one’s a boy, eh.”

Chapter 21

I left Sampson behind at the house with Dad. Shirley didn’t seem too terribly fond of her, and I expected this visit was going to be difficult enough.

Al opened the door with a beer in hand and a friendly smile of welcome. Shirley didn’t bother to move off the couch or to look away from the TV. She grunted a less than enthusiastic welcome. “Beer, Becky?” Al said.

“That would be nice, thanks,” I replied, more to accept hospitality than because I wanted one. I sat in a worn old armchair; the springs settled under my weight.

“The service was nice,” I said to my sister.

“Yes.”

“And Jackie did a great job of the reception.”

“Yes.”

“She’s a lovely woman. You should be very proud of her.”

“I am.”

Al handed me an icy glass, the deep-colored beer perfectly poured, and grinned widely at the thought of his eldest daughter. “Yup, she’s a great girl. She went to university, you know. University of Toronto.”

“But then she came home, back to where she belonged.” My sister kept her eyes glued to the TV. It was a movie; I recognized the handsome face of Kevin Costner.

“I’ve come over because I thought that this would be a good time to talk about Dad.”

“What about him?”

“What’s going to happen to him, now that Mom’s gone. I’m going home on Saturday.”

There was a long pause. Al went back into the kitchen and returned pulling open an oversize bag of barbecue flavored chips. Shirley watched Kevin Costner.

I’d always fancied Kevin myself, but this wasn’t quite the time. “Shirley, do you think you could turn that off so we can talk?”

She looked at me for the first time. Age had carved deep circles under her eyes, and she looked nothing but tired. “I want to see the end.”

“Please, Shirley. I know how busy you are with your family and your job, so I assumed that this would be a good time to drop over. The movie will be on again. It’s not very good anyway. It was a huge flop at the box office.”

“Oh, pardon me. I should have realized that you would know all about what’s worth watching and what’s not. But I like it.”

I put my beer glass onto the coffee table and struggled out of the sagging chair. “Suit yourself. I’ll be here until Saturday morning. If you find the time, come on over for a visit and we can talk about our father’s future.”

The lovely Kevin was silenced in mid-speech. Shirley glared at Al as he twisted the remote control in his callused hands. “We’ve seen it before. It is awful, but we like the water scenes. Shirl’s always wanted to go to Hawaii, but we could never quite manage it. You two should talk. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“He’s a nice man,” I said once Al left. And I meant it.

“Oh, yeah. Like you’ve ever thought Al Smithers was worth dirt.”

“I didn’t say he’s the man for me. But he’s still nice.” I sat back down.

She leaned across me to pick up the remote. The neck of her dressing gown flapped open and offered an unwelcome glimpse of her limp, sagging breasts. She fingered the device but didn’t turn the TV back on. “So, talk.”

“Do you think Dad can live on his own in that house? He doesn’t cook, probably has no idea of how to operate the washing machine. He left a pot of water on the stove the other day until it boiled dry. I’ve been thinking that maybe we could get him a housekeeper, someone to fix his breakfast and clean up and keep an eye on the place.”

“Well, I’m not doing it.”

“I didn’t say you should. I meant we could hire someone.”

“And who’s going to pay for it?”

“We can work something out. I’ll help if Dad can’t afford it himself.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“You could take him to Vancouver. He can live with you there.”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it. He doesn’t know anyone in Vancouver. He would never want to leave his friends, his home, his routine. He’s lived in this area his whole life.”

“Then you can move back here and take care of him yourself.”

I debated grabbing the remote out of her hand and turning the TV back on. Even that horrible movie made better sense than this conversation.

“That isn’t going to happen, and you know that too. Why are you being so difficult? Why won’t you talk about this with me?”

“Because you left us before. You owe me. It’s your turn to do something for this family. I’ve done enough.” She was yelling now, and Al popped his head through the kitchen door, a question on his lips. Wisely he thought better of it and remained silent.

“You went off to the big city and the good life and left me to rot here in this horrid town.”

“Christ, it’s hardly my fault if you messed up your life.”

“You think you can come in here after all these years and sneer at my husband…”

“You used the word ‘rot,’ not me. And I didn’t sneer at anyone. I said Al was a nice guy.” I looked at him, standing in the kitchen doorway, a bottle of beer in one hand, a handful of chips in the other, and a shocked expression on his face. “I did, really. That’s what I said.”

“She was so proud of you.” Shirley’s thin, lined face was turning an unattractive shade of splotchy red, and spittle gathered at the corners of her mouth. I rose to my feet again and took a few steps toward the door. She stood up as well. “Nothing but ‘Rebecca this’ and ‘Rebecca that.’ Year after goddamned year.”

Al found his voice. “Stop this, Shirley. That’s ancient history.”

“I looked after the old man, did you know that, did you? After Grandma died Mom wouldn’t go near him. She hated him. Did you know that? She absolutely hated him. So who else was there to look after the old goat? Good old Shirley, that’s who. Jimmy was living in the big house again, but you couldn’t ask Jimmy to wash the sheets or clean up the mess, now could you?

“He was a pig. He felt me up one day when he was collapsed sick in his bed. Apparently he wasn’t as sick as he appeared.”

That did shock me. As much as my brother mocked and ridiculed me, he’d never laid a hand on me. “Jimmy abused you?”

“Are you a total fool? Of course not. The old man did. It was disgusting. Disgusting.” She burst into tears.

Al reached for her, but she swatted him out of the way. “No one from around here would look after him, for love or money. Dad would come in sometimes and try to clean up a bit. But he was working long hours, and not around much. So it was up to Shirl, good old Shirl, to clean the house and listen to Grandpa complain about what a bad job I did, to step in his vomit in the morning when I came in to fix his breakfast, and to feel his filthy old hands on me when he pretended to be too sick to get out of bed to reach the toilet.

“It was the happiest day of my life, the day he died.”

“For God’s sake, why did you never say anything?” Al’s words were a cry of anguish. He dropped his chips onto the floor and they crunched under his feet as he reached for his wife.

“You don’t talk about your family to outsiders. Never. No matter what. Isn’t that the way we were raised, Becky?”

“I’m your husband. I’m not an outsider. I remember that year, when you were looking after your grandfather. You went over there every day, you never complained.”

She glared at him in contempt and swatted his hands away.

“Why did you think I never let the girls come with me? They were old enough to help. I didn’t want them anywhere near the old bugger.”

“Dad’s not Grandpa, Shirley,” I said. “You know that. And he’s not going to turn into Grandpa all of a sudden, just because he’s old.”

“That’s right,” Al said. “Becky’s right. Bob’s a good man.”

Her legs gave out under her and she collapsed into the couch, tears running down her face, sobbing in great gulps. “And where were you all that year, Miss High-and-Mighty, Miss B.A., Miss M.B.A.? You would have known that Grandpa couldn’t look after himself.”

“No one told me. Mom never told me. I guess I assumed he was okay after Grandma died, or that Mom would take care of it. Mom told me that Jimmy went to live there after he left Margie.”

“After Margie kicked him out, more like. But never mind that, whatever you thought, you thought wrong.” She blew her nose on a paper napkin. “And now you can get out of my house.”

Al sat beside her on the couch, and finally she allowed him to wrap his arms around her thin shoulders. She buried her head into his chest and wept.

I left.

***

I went back to the house long enough to collect Sampson, grunt a greeting at Dad, and hit the road. I wasn’t leaving, not yet. I hadn’t picked up any of my things, only my dog, my companion, but I needed to think, and the dark country roads seemed a good place to do it.

I would have to call the airline and move my departure back another week. They wouldn’t be too pleased at work; I had some important meetings scheduled for the following week, and a major project waiting for the go-ahead based on the results of those meetings, but I couldn’t leave Hope River now.

I had felt like a piece of dirt standing in Shirley’s living room as she lashed out at me with thirty years of bottled-up anguish. But as the night woods rolled past my windows and I felt the hot wind of Sampson’s breath on my neck as she leaned over my shoulder, sniffing at heaven knows what, I scrubbed most of the dirt away.

Shirley had been an adult when Grandpa died in 1982. More than an adult—a married woman with grown children. She could have refused. She could have told Mom and Dad and Jimmy that she wouldn’t do it. Don’t make me feel guilty for not helping out. If they’d asked me, I would have told them to let the old bastard rot in his own filth.

But Shirley knew him better than me. Grandma and Grandpa lived in the little house with them throughout most of her childhood, only moving to the big house when I was young. I have almost no memory of my grandmother, never anything more substantial than a shadow. But after all these years, I still hated my grandfather. What memories of him did my much older sister have that I (thankfully) had been spared?

I was surprised to hear that Mother had let Shirley bear that burden alone. She’d done so much to protect me from him, why did she let Shirley face the beast on her own?

Regardless of what had happened in the past, I decided, turning the car back toward home, it was now up to me to make arrangements for my father.