Flower (8 page)

“Dad refused to say another word on the subject after that and retreated into his customary silence. But we should be getting home. Gran will wonder where we’ve got to.”

“The story sounds like it happened yesterday,” I say. I’m full of questions, but I can tell Grandfather has closed up too, exactly like his dad.

It’s really warm in my room tonight. The window’s open, but there’s not a breath of air. I read a bit, write down some of Great-grandfather’s story in my journal, and throw off the quilt before I go to sleep.

I
can smell the storm brewing. Heat hangs in the air, lingering like dust mites in the rooms as if they haven’t been cleaned. Where I sleep near the roof, it’s as hot as the big kitchen stove.

It’s early when I go out to clean the henhouse, feed the birds, and gather the eggs. The hens cluck and flap their wings, running round in circles as if trying to tell me something. Perspiration trickles down the back of my dress. I’d twisted my hair up this morning to keep it off my neck. If only there was a breeze, just for a minute. What wouldn’t I give to lie in the grass under the apple tree? The leaves on the big maple hang so still, they look as if they’ve been painted on.

Back in the scullery I wash the eggs, hating the sight of the specks of blood on the eggshells more than usual.
I’d better watch myself today; heat makes adults irritable, quicker to find fault.

Mrs. Dunn is keeping to her room with a nervous headache. That means extra trips up and down stairs with cold compresses.

I sweep the dining room and hall and wipe down all the woodwork, upstairs and down, with a damp cloth. It grows warm in my hands in seconds. Just as I’m finishing, I hear Mrs. Dunn’s little bell. I empty the bucket hurriedly, rinse out the cloth, hang it to dry, and go up to see what she wants. Her face is blotched red with the heat, or temper, or both. “Didn’t you hear me ring, girl?” she asks, impatiently.

I’m sent on an errand to Madill’s Drugstore on George Street to fetch her medicine. She orders me to hand the sealed note to Mr. Madill himself, and to come straight back. It shouldn’t take any more than twenty minutes, she tells me.

Miss Alice purses her lips when she sees me getting ready to leave–there are vegetables to peel. She decides she needs lemons, and hands me a dime to buy six from Hamilton’s Grocery. It’s a very grand place, with food from every part of the world. This is the first time I’ve held a Canadian coin in my hand. Mrs. Dunn always tells me to charge everything.

I wish there was time to sit by the river and take off my boots and cool my feet in the water, but today I don’t
even dare to look in the windows of the fine shops. I know Mrs. Dunn will be lying back against her pillows–embroidered with the words
Good Night
and
Good Morning–
waiting for her medicine. She’ll be eyeing the hands of the big clock, under its domed-shaped glass case, that sits on the mantel next to the photograph of poor Mr. Dunn.

I dust the silver frame every day of the week, so I’m getting to know his face quite well. I think he died to get away from the sound of Mrs. Dunn’s voice and the sight of her long face, not of a heart attack at all. He’s been dead for fifteen years, but she talks as if he’s about to come in through the door for supper any minute. No one dares to sit in his chair at mealtimes.

There’s hardly anyone out on the streets now, and I’m out of breath because I ran almost all the way back along the dusty boardwalk. Mr. Madill warned me to get home because we’re in for a big electric storm. I get back indoors just before the first peal of thunder.

Miss Alice sends me up with beef tea for Mrs. Dunn. I put her medicine on the tray, bracing myself for a scolding, but a big clap of thunder silences her, and I excuse myself and go downstairs. Miss Alice points to a heap of potatoes that I’m to peel for tonight’s supper. When I’ve finished those, there’s rhubarb to prepare for pies.

Miss Alice goes upstairs to sit with her sister and I do my chores to the sound of the scullery windows rattling.
I count ten lightning strikes before the rain begins to come down in great big welcome drops, barrels and buckets of it.

It’s the first night I’ve waited at table that Mrs. Dunn hasn’t come down to supper, which is served punctually at six o’clock. My place is by the sideboard, where I’ve carried the dishes of food. Miss Alice is always the last to enter, her round face flushed, her hands smelling of flour and cinnamon. Then Mrs. Dunn says, “At last you are here, sister,” as if she’s been out walking instead of cooking and baking. We lower our heads, while Mrs. Dunn says grace.

Mrs. Selena Dunn is not at all like Miss Alice, who loves to cook and eat and is as plump as a pudding. Mrs. Dunn is pale, thin, and stern, and her opinion is law. She will not be interrupted or contradicted. They refer to each other as sister, but you can tell who is in charge. Mrs. Dunn sits at the head of the table. Miss Alice sits beside her sister, and Mr. George Bell, who works at the barbershop on Simcoe Street, sits between Miss Alice and Miss Emma Bartley. Mr. Bell’s hair is very shiny and black–there is always a ring of grease on his pillowcase, which has to be boiled extra long to remove the stain. Miss Bartley, who shares a room with Mrs. Minnie Pratt, works as an alteration hand at Turnbull’s Department Store. Mrs. Dunn has instructed me to tell her if I find any pins on
the floor of their room because she says, “I will not permit my premises to be used for business purposes.”

Miss Emma is very pretty, with long golden corkscrew curls. Mr. Bell is most attentive to her. One evening, when Miss Emma spilt some water on her skirt, Mr. Bell helped her mop it up with his napkin, and then they both blushed crimson when Mrs. Dunn told me to fetch a dry napkin.

My favorite boarder is Mrs. Minnie Pratt. She is a widow; her husband died only three weeks after their wedding day. He was killed in a hunting accident at Fenelon Falls. A wedding picture is on a dresser in her room. He looks such a happy young man. Mrs. Pratt moved here to take a business course at Peterborough Business College–that’s the big building on the corner of Hunter and George Streets.

Mrs. Florence, who comes in on Mondays to do the heavy laundry, mutters about the boarders as we scrub away. She doesn’t expect a reply, not that I’ve enough breath to speak after carrying steaming pots of water into the scullery and pulling sheets through the wringer, but I do enjoy hearing her gossip.

Mrs. Pratt is a very new widow, only nineteen years old. Sometimes I see her eyes fill with tears at the table, for no reason at all, and then she wipes them with an embroidered handkerchief. She sits on the other side,
between Mr. Don Mason and Mr. Andrew Norman, who thinks he’s grander than the other boarders. He works in a bank, where he wears a black suit, with a gold watch and chain on his waistcoat.

Mr. Mason is a driver for Stock’s Bread. Stock’s delivers all over the city in smart black horse-drawn carriages. I wonder if Mr. Mason guesses that Miss Alice often serves day-old bread to the boarders for supper. She showed me how to plunge the loaf in cold water, then squeeze it out and put it in a baking tin and bake it again in a hot oven.

Every time I bring the basket of warm bread to the table, Mrs. Dunn repeats the exact same words: “Ah, fresh baking. How Mr. Dunn used to enjoy a good fresh loaf.” One night I swear I saw Mr. Mason turn to Mrs. Pratt and wink. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he asks her to go and hear him play at one of the summer band concerts. He’s a trumpeter for the Peterborough City Band.

Because of the storm giving her a migraine, I carry Mrs. Dunn’s supper upstairs to her tonight.

After Miss Alice finishes saying grace, I place the big platter of cold glazed ham in front of her to serve. She carves thick slices, giving more to the gentlemen than the ladies. I pass the plates round, then put dishes of potato salad and jellied salad in the center of the table.

Miss Alice serves up my dinner before she leaves the kitchen, deciding what I’m to eat. My plate is kept warm
for me on the oven rack, or, on a hot night, cool in the larder. After I’ve brought in the pudding–dessert, as it’s called in Canada–I clear away the dirty plates and cutlery and put them to soak before I sit down to my own supper in the kitchen. Sometimes I’m almost too tired to eat, knowing I’ve still got all the dishes to wash and wipe, the kitchen to sweep and mop, and the breakfast table to set. Most nights there are boots to brush and polish.

I refill the water glasses, holding the heavy pitcher with both hands so as not to spill a drop.

Mr. Norman smiles toothily at Miss Alice, who sits opposite. “A delicious repast, madam, perfect for such a sultry evening.”

As I go about my duties, the boarders are full of stories about the storm. Mr. Mason says he’d heard that a horse left sheltering under a tree was electrocuted and one of the newly put in telephone poles on our own street, Water Street, was struck. Minnie Pratt gives a little scream and Mr. Mason pats her hand to calm her. She’s what Miss Dodds would call high-strung. Mr. Bell says one of his customers told him that many people took shelter in basements and closets.

“For once I was glad the alteration hands work below the main floor at Turnbull’s,” Miss Bartley says. “I don’t mind admitting we were all afraid.”

“Almost an inch of rain fell today,” Mr. Mason says. “That must be some kind of record. I had a real job
trying to settle my horse down. I was late with my deliveries, I’m afraid.” He always has something of interest to contribute.

“We are ready for dessert, girl. What are you waiting for?” Miss Alice reminds me sharply. “Clear the plates and bring in the pies.” I’d been standing there, listening to all of them, longing to join in and tell how I’d run away from the black clouds, my boots clattering on the wooden boardwalk … about how the rain drummed on the roof of my little room and sounded louder than thunder. I’d quite forgotten my responsibilities.

My chores done, I’m free to go to bed. Too tired to sleep, I stand staring out into the darkness. The howling of the wind reaches into the corners of the attic; black rain streams endlessly down the glass.
Am I the only person in the world still awake?