The Haweaters Page 7

  Anne upends her basket, dumping weeds onto the compost pile, then heads for the house, pausing by the garden gate to breathe in the lilacs. Did she remember to tell Ellen to sugar some blossoms for the cookies tomorrow? Maybe not, but she most certainly did tell the hired girl to tie the Virgin’s Bower to the trellis and that clearly hasn’t been done. Anne will have to repeat her instructions, lowering her tone and adding menace to her voice. If you want a job done right, it’s best to sound like you mean it.

  Anne sways. She’s certain she’s going to pass out or vomit or both, but no, she steadies herself, then steps up into the summer kitchen and flicks her eyes around the room. The oak table hosts dozens of jars of freshly preserved berries. She steps forward and touches the closest one. It’s still warm – will be for hours – but Anne keeps her fingers where they are to remind herself that none of this has been done by magic. No, it’s been done by Ellen, who’s currently grunting and heaving as she scrubs the surface of the stove with sand. “Ellen.”

  Ellen jumps and spins, her gritty hands pressed to her heart. “Mrs. Amer, thank goodness! Thought for a second you was the ghost from down the swamp come to claim me.”

  Ellen and her superstitions. One day maybe a ghost really will float in here and won’t she be surprised then? “It’s lucky for both of us that isn’t the case. Did I mention the pastor will be dropping by tomorrow for tea?”

  Ellen looks concerned. “Not so’s I remember, ma’am. Will it be the good china then?”

  Of course it will be the good china. Does the silly girl think Anne will be serving Pastor John from the trough like a pig? “Yes, Ellen, that would be appropriate. I think we should also serve the same lilac sugar cookies that you made for the social this past week. I’m assuming it won’t be too terribly much trouble to make another batch.”

  Ellen shakes her head with an irrational vigour that Anne chooses to ignore. “Also, I think we should serve the tea I brought in special from Toronto two Aprils past. You know the one I mean. It’s in the blue tin on the top shelf behind the biscuits. Does that sound like something we can do?”

  Ellen gives a dim nod. Then she brightens. “Still some cordial in the pantry, ma’am. Preacher the sort who likes a tipple?”

  Anne frowns. “Heavens, we best assume not. It would be nice to have finally found a holy man who can stay upright through an entire sermon.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Both women turn towards the back of the kitchen where George’s farmhand, Sam, is stacking freshly split wood. He glances up, notices the women staring, and gives them a quick nod. Then he heads around back to fetch more firewood.

  Sam. A foundling if ever there was one. He came to the island with them from Owen Sound. The poor boy is from one of those families with too many children to count, all of them expendable. Her husband took the boy on when he let Oswald go for reasons that were never fully explained. Not that they needed to be. It wasn’t Anne’s place to question her husband’s decision. Besides, Sam is a better fit than Oswald ever was. He’s a hard worker and loyal as a hound. She has no doubt he’s the rudder her son needs to make something useful of himself.

  Speaking of which, Anne had seen Laban and Sam mending the gate down by the government road earlier today. It’d gotten damaged by some foolery she doesn’t know the truth of. George told her he didn’t know the truth of it either, but her husband often tells her things like that regardless of whether they’re strictly speaking true. Whether it’s to protect her or appease her, Anne does not know. She feels for her bottle. It’s there, thank goodness.

  If Sam is back, Laban should be too. Anne pivots and heads for the door, but stops short when Annie tromps through it with insolence on her face. “Annie, darling, it’s time for you to practise your melodies.”

  Annie pushes past her. “Oh, Mother, I’m absolutely certain you meant to say it’s time for berries.”

  Anne slaps the doorframe and lowers her voice to a rumble. “I’m afraid that chore has already been done, dear. If you allow your eyes to adjust to the light, then maybe you’ll see the truth of what I’m saying.”

  Annie makes a big show of inspecting the jars neatly lining the tabletop, then huffs. “Well now, doesn’t that beat all? I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing I love more than slaving over a hot stove on an even hotter summer’s day. I dare say the Lord in all his cruelty has seen fit to thwart me.”

  Anne grabs her daughter’s arm and yanks her close, trying hard not to notice the weeds dangling from Annie’s unkempt hair. “I’m so sorry you’re disappointed, my darling, but let’s not drag the Lord into things that are clearly the devil’s doing. Where’s the post?”

  Annie wrenches free and plucks what’s left of the bannock from her apron pocket. She tosses it to Ellen, who has to lunge to catch it one-handed and with a curse on her lips. Annie looks disappointed until she remembers her mother’s question. “Well, Mother, as it so happens, Mr. Boyer’s got the diphtheria up at his place. Dr. Francis informed me not two hours past that the fetching of the post will have to wait until the situation over there improves. He’s absolutely certain it will be two weeks or more before that happens. If you see fit to rush it, I dare say we’ll all catch our deaths. That’s the God’s honest truth of the matter.”

  So that’s what the excuse is to be. Anne knew there would be one. Maybe it would be elaborate and maybe it would be lazy, but it would definitely be loaded up and ready to fire. Why? Because Annie had no intention of fulfilling her mother’s instructions when she rode out of here this morning. Anne knew that the moment she spotted her daughter’s shoes abandoned beneath her bed. The stockings she couldn’t locate, but it’d been easy enough to guess, correctly, they too hadn’t made it onto her daughter’s body. Wilful child! Not hardly fit for society.

  Anne drops her voice to its lowest register and tries to sound menacing, knowing even as she does this that what works on Ellen often does not work on her daughter. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. But seeing as how that’s the case, I would’ve expected you home hours ago. Where could you possibly have been all this time? You better not have been mooning over that Bryan boy again because in a million years that won’t ever happen.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Mother, but I was mooning over no one. Sadly, my tardiness is due to my having been kidnapped.”

  Anne considers slapping her daughter. At the last second she chooses restraint, but only by the grace of God. “My poor child. Were you kidnapped by anyone in particular?”

  “Would you believe it was by an entire passel of bears?”

  “Okay, Annie, that’s more than enough. The melodeon is waiting for you in the drawing room. I expect to hear music by the time I draw my third breath and it’s going to continue until I say otherwise. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Annie storms through the summer kitchen on her way to the parlour and Anne immediately regrets not smacking the back of her daughter’s head. It’s too late now, so she spins and punches open the door, then thumps down the steps, pausing to listen for the melodeon. She hears it all right. Her daughter has launched into an elaborate version of “Three Blind Mice.” That’s not what she’s supposed to be practising and there’s nothing her mother can do about it without altering her plans, which she’s loath to do.

  Anne makes a mental note to upbraid her daughter as soon as she gets back. She rounds the corner of the house, hoping to find her son bucking up logs alongside Sam. Instead she discovers her husband slamming a maul into the end of a log, then kicking the split pieces off to the side. Anne steels herself for a fight. She and George had rough words this morning owing to her husband bringing back candy from Manitowaning for their insolent beast of a daughter. If he continues to spoil that child with undeserved treats, she’ll end up a spinster for sure. There’s no worse fate than that, or at least none that Anne knows of. She tries to sound cheery. “Hello, my love. I thought you
were gone for the afternoon.”

  George lowers the maul. “Day unfolded in unexpected ways.”

  “Good, I hope.”

  George weighs his answer. “Not good nor bad. I’ll be taking Sam up to the woodlot tomorrow. Lyon’s boys are coming first thing next week for all the pine we can down. Cedar too. Southern market’s heating up. The more we cut, the more we sell, the faster I secure the patents on all our lots.”

  Anne is distracted by a milky X imprinted on the front of her husband’s shirt. It’s from the business end of a butter churn. It has to be. But whose? And why? She doubts George will tell her the truth so she doesn’t bother to ask. “Please promise me you’ll be careful, my love. The bush families will take up arms if they catch wind of what you’re up to.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Catch wind of what you’re up to or take up arms?”

  “Either.”

  George isn’t that naïve. “Well, dear. I can tell by the things the neighbour women half-say that their husbands are wise to you doing business on the soft side of the law and a certain kind of person resorts to violence when they feel they have been wronged. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Anne scans the property for her son as George hauls another log from the pile. “They’re guessing. Gossiping like old women because they don’t have the foresight to do things the way they need doing. Not my fault they can’t see the only thing of value on this godforsaken island is its timber.”

  Anne returns her eyes to her husband. Sam is less than half his age and yet George is having no trouble keeping pace with him. No one can ever say her husband lacks fortitude. Compassion, on the other hand, is another matter. “You know I would never question a conclusion you’ve so thoughtfully drawn, my love, but I can’t help wondering if it has yet occurred to you that maybe you had access to information they didn’t?”

  This isn’t an idle question. Anne had seen the surveyor’s documents spread across the kitchen table when George was plotting their escape from Owen Sound. Whether he purchased them with money or favour she does not know. What she does know is that only those in an official capacity were supposed to have access to those documents and she doubts being a councillor in a neighbouring district granted her husband any such privilege. No, a deal had been struck, the details of which had not been shared with her.

  George grunts. “That’s a fault?”

  “It’s not about fault, dear.”

  George once again drops the maul to his side. “Became a constable for all the right reasons. Sydenham was a cesspool back then. Drunkenness. Brawling. Killings. Helped clean the place up. Glad to do it, but I took risks others were content to avoid. Deadly risks. Was owed more than I was paid. Others saw it the same. Made sure I got my due. Not for you to question how I’m compensated for my years of hard service.”

  Sydenham. George calls Owen Sound that sometimes. It’s still a backwards village in his mind, a place for a man to make his mark, then flee when his deeds threaten to bring harsh consequences. Anne raises her fingers to her temple. She isn’t stupid. Her husband had been saying for decades that if Owen Sound was ever going to prosper, it needed to find more efficient ways of accessing the larger markets to the south and the only way George felt that could be done was via a railway line connecting Owen Sound to Toronto. The logic had caught, the tracks had been laid, and the profits were expected to start rolling in and then, abruptly, they headed for the bush. There’s more to all this than Anne knows. She can guess at the edges of it, but the heart continues to elude her.

  Anne waves to Laban, who’s just now loping in from the back pasture, his faithful dog Twist nipping at his heels. George turns to see who’s siphoned off his wife’s attention. When Laban spots his parents, he averts his eyes. George calls out. “Field them horses?”

  Laban nods. His father scans the horizon. “Any sign of the Bryan men skulking around back there?”

  Laban addresses his response to his feet. “No, Father, not back there. I did see Charlie out on the settlement road arguing with one of the Porter boys just past first light, but I’ve not seen him since. I saw the old man take off around noon or so on foot and he looked to be headed for Sloan’s.”

  George looks grim. “Never good when we don’t have eyes on those two. Listen for the report of a firearm. Always be prepared to fight. Hear me? They’ll come at us from behind if we let them. Best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Anne lets out a heavy sigh. She’s heard these instructions too many times to ever forget them and she knows her son has heard them more than her. Always be on the lookout. It’s not nature that will kill you, it’s the neighbours. Anne feels rage rising in her blood. Why does it always have to be this way? Never peace, always war. The only thing that ever changes is the name of the enemy.

  Her husband’s mind continues to churn. “What was Charlie fighting with the Porter boy about?”

  Laban leaves off affectioning the dog, but continues to stare at its fur. “I couldn’t quite catch it. It sounded like a cart ended up in the creek, but I’m not sure whose cart or which part of the creek. Charlie seemed pretty steamed about it though and the Porter boy was having none of it. I thought there were going to be fists, but tempers played out quick enough.”

  George takes in what his son has said and so does Anne. She senses Laban isn’t telling the tale straight, but she’s unsure in which direction the lie falls. Charlie Bryan being steamed makes sense since that boy has never been calm a day in his life. The Porter boy standing up to a teenager twice his size also makes sense owing to those children being tougher than hogs. It must be the subject of the argument that hides the lie. Anne will get the truth from her son later. Better yet, she’ll send Annie to get it. Her daughter may be as defiant as a bullet-stung wolf, but she has a way of working things out of her brother that her mother can only envy.

  For now, Anne would like the subject dropped. “As fascinating as this story is, I, for one, have not seen a cart anywhere near the creek and I’m guessing neither of you have either, so what do you say we refrain from telling tales that spring from conversations half heard?”

  Laban shrugs. George, on the other hand, turns to his wife with reprimand in his eyes. Anne takes this opportunity to change the subject to one her husband will like even less. “By the way, dear, did I mention that Pastor John will be visiting us tomorrow afternoon? It will do both of your souls good to sit with us a few hours and hear the Lord’s message.”

  Her words strike like lightning. Both Laban and George look set to protest, but Anne raises her hand. “Don’t neither of you heathens speak. Not once have I asked you to attend services since we arrived in the bush nor have I protested when you’ve done your chores on Sundays against the Lord’s command, but this you’ll do for me and I won’t hear a word against it.”

  George kicks at a log. Anne knows what he’s thinking, but she also knows he won’t defy her on matters of the Lord for fear she’ll start bringing him into every conversation.

  George gives Anne a brisk nod. “Me and Sam will set out at dawn. Aim to be back while the sun is still high.”

  “No, dear. I’m afraid you’re going to do better than aim. You’re going to give me your solemn word.”

  George stares at the horizon for longer than is comfortable, then draws a cross over his heart that eerily matches the chalky one imprinted on his belly. The truce is too much for her son to bear. “You always take Sam to the north lots. Why never me?”

  Anne winces. Laban’s insolence is as mistimed as it is uncharacteristic. The boy isn’t prone to outbursts. Normally, he is quieter than a church mouse. In all his twenty-one years, he’s never talked back, not like this, and certainly not on this subject, so why is he doing it now? His words can only have one possible effect and that’s to spur George into pointing out what a disappointment his son is, which he does without hesitation. “Because Sam i
s capable of doing ten times the work you can in half the time. That translates into greater profits. When you can hold pace with Sam, you can be the one I take to the north lots. Not before. Don’t make me say it twice.”

  Laban looks gut-punched. Anne shoots her husband a look and, to his credit, George abides it. He smooths his tone. “Besides, I need you to finish replacing the rails our ingrate neighbours made off with. Was convinced it had to be that devil Porter. Now I’m thinking the Bryan boy did it so he could steal water out from under my nose. Probably borrowed the Porter boy’s chore cart to do it. Fair bet he’s doing the thieving at night while we slumber.”

  George raises the maul over his shoulder and brings it down heavily on a waiting log, sending shattered wood in all directions. For her part, Anne blinks at her husband. She’s certain he’s weaving together strands that belong to different blankets. Charlie Bryan could’ve been fighting with the Porter boy over just about any cart for just about any reason and still had energy enough to pick a dozen more fights with a dozen more people on a dozen more subjects. Fighting is like breathing to that boy. Besides, Twist would surely have barked up a storm if Charlie Bryan or anyone else had gone near the creek and night after night she’s heard nothing but crickets.

  George grunts. “Hard to reckon why that Bryan boy is so dead set against me.”

  Anne can’t quite believe her husband just said that and yet she hasn’t swilled enough medicine to have hallucinated it. Her husband knows full well why Charlie Bryan would want to steal from him or worse. It’s fair to say the whole island knows why. George had the boy charged for his intemperate behaviour towards Laban. Her husband was justified, of course. Charlie should never have laid a finger on her son and George had no choice but to act as any father would. Charlie Bryan was just lucky that George did him the kindness of paying the resulting fine. He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve let those wretched Bryans sink further into debt, but Anne had pleaded with her husband to intercede and he’d grudgingly agreed, knowing full well in advance that he’d get no thanks for the doing of it. But thanks wasn’t the reason she’d asked her husband to calm the situation. Eleanor’s continued good health was.