Elixir (6 page)

“Sorry we have nothing more fancy,” Dr. Banting said.

“We do the best we can under the conditions,” Mr. Best said, returning with the tin. He paused and looked as though he was thinking something through. “I hope you don't mind, but may I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” my mother replied.

“I don't mean to offend,” he said, “but you're working here …”

“As a cleaning woman,” she said.

He nodded.

“A job of this sort is certainly something I would never have imagined for myself, but the work is honest and I'm doing the best I can under the circumstances. For those that remain, life must go on, and one must support oneself. Certainly there are many widows nowadays who find themselves in my position.”

“But doesn't the university or the government provide some sort of pension, some sort of widow's benefits?” Mr. Best asked.

“A small remittance,” she said, “but not sufficient to live on.” She sounded a bit angry—but why shouldn't she be?

“Hardly seems fair,” Dr. Banting said.

“Fair?” my mother asked. “What in life is fair?”

“And worse yet, what in war is fair? It was a horror beyond horror,” Dr. Banting said.

“And yet songs about the war are never actually about the war—why is that?” my mother asked. “They all seem so happy and bright rather than being about the savagery of the fighting, the death and destruction.”

“I believe the songs were written so that those men rushing off to battle could forget, for a few minutes, what lay ahead,” Dr. Banting said.

Dr. Banting and Mr. Best exchanged a look, but did not speak immediately.

“Song or no song, there are things we'll never be able to forget,” Dr. Banting finally said.

“And other things we don't
want
to forget,” Mr. Best added. “We were united in a common cause. There were acts of courage. Fred received the Military Cross for his bravery.”

“The Military Cross. That is an honour,” my mother said.

“I was wounded … nothing that serious—”

“Not that serious!” Mr. Best exclaimed. “You took a piece of shrapnel—you almost lost your arm!”

“It didn't seem that bad at the time.” Dr. Banting held up his arm slightly and rotated it so that a large L-shaped scar was more visible. “The piece of shrapnel was removed by another surgeon. I was ordered to evacuate to receive more treatment. I refused. I couldn't leave while other wounded soldiers remained—many of those far worse off than I. I simply continued to tend to the wounded soldiers as long as I could … until I was finally forced to stop.”

“He stopped because he passed out from loss of blood,” Mr. Best said. “But he didn't stop until he'd treated every single wounded soldier … every one.”

“That's incredible,” I gasped.

“Perhaps lucky is a better term. The supply of wounded soldiers ended just in time.”

“That is heroic,” my mother said. “Saving lives is always something to be proud of … noble. My husband was called a hero too.”

“Wait a second … did your husband not receive the Victoria Cross?” Mr. Best asked. “I remember the
ceremony here at the university.… I couldn't attend because of classes.”

She nodded. “I was there. It was awarded after his death.”

“The Victoria Cross,” Dr. Banting said. “There were fewer than a dozen awarded to all the Canadians in the entire war. It is the highest military award given. Your husband must have been very brave.”

“Brave?” my mother questioned.

“That medal is given only for
extreme
acts of bravery.”

“Acts of bravery or
foolishness
?” she asked.

Both Mr. Best and Dr. Banting looked shocked. I was a bit shocked myself. I'd always heard that my father was a war hero. Was my mother saying he wasn't?

“The official report said he valiantly, against far greater numbers, led his men into battle … they killed hundreds of Germans … it led to a great victory in Cambrai, France,” she explained.

“Cambrai? I served in Cambrai,” Dr. Banting said. “That's … that's where I was wounded.”

“He died leading his men. But why did he have to go off to war to begin with? He was not a young man. He could have stayed here with us. Instead he volunteered to fight.”

“As did many of us,” Dr. Banting said.

“Yes, we fought for King and Country,” Mr. Best added.

“King and Country?” my mother asked. “What about for daughter and wife? What about the people who are left behind? I am not naive. I know wars have
happened since the dawn of time and will continue to happen.”

“It appears to be part of human nature,” Dr. Banting observed.

“Human nature, or man's nature?” my mother said.

“Perhaps man's nature,” Dr. Banting agreed. “Some people think that because women now have the right to vote, they will cast their ballots against their men ever going off to war, no matter how just the cause.”

My mother scoffed. “Has there ever been a war where both sides didn't think they were fighting on the side of right and justice? In every war
some
men must fight and
some
men must die. I just want to know why it had to be my husband.”

Nobody said anything. What could anyone say to that? “That scar must be a continuous reminder to you of the war,” my mother said, pointing to Dr. Banting's arm.

“It is,” he agreed.

“I have scars too,” she said. “Scars so deep that they're not visible to the eye, but just as real. For you the war is over. For me it never will be.” She paused, and I could tell she was close to tears. Tears rushed to my own eyes and I had to blink them back.

“Thank you for the tea, but I must get back to my work now.”

CHAPTER SIX

SILENTLY, IN BARE FEET
, I padded along the hall. I'd left my sandals behind downstairs. The granite floor felt cool, almost cold, against my soles. No matter how hot the building became, the floors were always cool.

“Mother?” I called out. There was no answer. She couldn't be very far away. I knew she was on this floor, though I didn't see her cleaning cart.

I turned the corner and started down another hall. There was no sign of her at all. Up ahead I saw that the door to one of the offices was partially open. I went over and tried to peer inside.

“Mother … are you in there?” I called. There was no answer. I put my hand against the door and gently pushed it. It slowly swung open to reveal an enormous desk, three fancy leather chairs, and a finely woven rug, but no mother. I stepped inside to grab the door in order to pull it back, and then I stopped—this office seemed
so familiar … was it because it looked like Professor McDonald's? No, that wasn't it. Then I remembered. It looked just like my father's old office, or what I remembered it looking like. Funny, there was so much about him I could no longer recall, but this I could.

The walls on two sides were lined with shelves, filled with books. There was a map on the wall and a gigantic globe on a pedestal in the corner. I took a few more steps in and the cold granite under my feet was replaced by the soft wool of the rug. A big circular ceiling fan buzzed overhead, pushing around the hot air, creating a breeze and at least the illusion that it was cooler.

There was also a smell—something familiar. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It smelled good. It was a combination of the leather chairs and the books … I did love the smell of books. It always reminded me of my father.

“Hey, what are you doing in here?” an angry male voice demanded.

I startled out of my dream and spun around. A man was standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing in my office?” he shouted.

“I was just … just …”

“Just about to steal something, no doubt!”

My eyes widened in shock. If I was having trouble saying something before, now the words seemed completely locked in my throat.

“Did you think you could get away with stealing things forever?” He started across the room toward me. “Didn't you think I'd ever catch you?” He reached out and grabbed me by the arm.

“Oooww … that hurts!” I whimpered in pain and struggled to get my arm free.

“Not as bad as it's going to hurt if you don't stop struggling!” he yelled, and his fingers sank even deeper into my arm. I stopped squirming, but the pain continued.

“Now let's have it … what have you taken?”

“I … I … haven't taken anything,” I stammered.

“Then what is this in your hands?”

He let go of my arm and grabbed my book. He looked at it. “Dickens?”

“It's mine,” I said.

He put the book down on the edge of his desk. “Now empty your pockets!”

I looked down at my skirt. I had two little pockets but I knew they were empty already.

“Empty your pockets!” he yelled. He moved so close to me that I felt the heat of his breath against my face. I shuddered and fought to stop myself from breaking into tears.

He roughly thrust a hand into one pocket and then the other. He pulled out a humbug that had been sitting in there since Mr. Mercer had given it to me that morning.

“I didn't take anything … honestly,” I stuttered.

“Didn't take anything because you didn't have
time
to take anything. I got here before you could steal any more of my things.” He grabbed me by the arm again and then reached over and grabbed my book. “I'm taking you over to campus security and they can call the police and toss you in jail!”

He started to lead me away. I tried to dig in my heels and struggle free, but he held firm and just dragged me along the smooth granite floor, out of his office and down the hall.

“I didn't steal anything … honestly.”

“Why should I believe you? You're probably a liar as well as a thief.”

“I'm not a—”

“I don't want to hear any more of your lies! One more word and I'll give you a cuff across the side of your head!”

Suddenly the tears I was trying to keep inside just exploded out of me and I began sobbing.

“Don't think I'm going to be fooled by a few crocodile tears. You should have thought about what you were doing before you broke into my office!”

“I didn't break in! The door was open and—”

“I warned you not to say another word!” He raised up his hand, the hand holding my book—he was going to hit me!

“Stop!” yelled out a voice. It was Dr. Banting!

“What do you think you're doing, sir!” demanded Dr. Banting as he rushed toward us.

“It's quite all right,” the man said. “I'm merely taking this—”

“Let go of her!” Dr. Banting bellowed. “This minute!”

“You don't understand. I found this girl in my—”

“
You
don't understand. Unhand her immediately!” Dr. Banting demanded as he crowded into the man. He looked fierce and frightening.

The man released his grip and I stumbled forward. I threw my arms around Dr. Banting, burying my face in his chest.

“It's all right, Ruthie, nobody is going to hurt you.”

“I wasn't hurting her!” the man protested.

“You were or she wouldn't be crying,” Dr. Banting snapped. “And you are very lucky that I came along when I did, for if you had struck her, I would have more than threatened to hit you!
Nothing
is more
detestable
than a man who would hit a child, especially a young girl.”

“I caught her in my office, stealing things!” he protested.

“Ruthie?” Dr. Banting asked.

I took my arms away from him and stepped back. My legs felt shaky and I was having trouble catching my breath. “I didn't steal anything … I would never steal.”

“Then why were you in his office?”

“I was just looking for my mother.”

“She was looking to steal something,” the man argued.

“And did she take anything?” Dr. Banting asked. “Did she have something of yours in her possession?”

“No, but that was only because I came in and caught her.”

“And speaking of possessions, isn't that
her
book you're holding?” Dr. Banting asked.

“Well, yes, but I wasn't taking it … just holding it until … until …”

Dr. Banting reached out his hand and the man gave him the book.

“You know, this isn't the first time things have been taken from my office,” the man said.

“There have been other thefts?” Dr. Banting asked.

“Yes. Small quantities of money, some pens, and other personal items. They seemed to stop when that last cleaning woman was dismissed. I believed at the time that she was responsible, but now.…” He pointed at me. “If this girl is innocent, then why was she skulking in my office?”

“As she said, she was looking for her mother. Her mother is the new cleaning woman.”

“But she wasn't looking for anyone. She was simply standing there, looking about for what could be of value.”

“I wasn't trying to steal anything. I was just remembering,” I tried to explain.

“Remembering? Have you been in my office before?” he demanded, sounding even more angry.

“Not your office. My father's.”

“Your father's office? And just who is your father?” the man asked.

“John Williams.”

The man stared at me. “Your father was Professor Williams?” he said slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard.

I nodded. “Did you know him?”

“Of course I did. Everybody knew him.” He paused. “The cleaning lady … your mother … that is Professor Williams's wife … his widow?”

Again I nodded.

“I had no idea. I didn't recognize her … I really didn't even
notice
her … not dressed like that and pushing around a mop and pail.”