Sunny Dreams
Sunny Dreams
Alison Preston
© 2007, Alison Preston
Print Edition ISBN 978-1-897109-20-5
Ebook Edition, 2011
ISBN 978-1897109-74-8
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Doowah Design.
Cover photo of Alison Preston by Tracey L. Sneesby.
Thanks to the Manitoba Arts Council for its generous support during the writing of this book.
Thanks to Bruce Gillespie, Karen Haughian, Betty McKush, John Preston, Jeanne Small and Chris Thompson.
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Preston, Alison, 1949-
Sunny dreams / Alison Preston.
I. Title.
PS8581.R44S86 2007 C813’.54 C2007-905401-3
Signature Editions, P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon
Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7
www.signature-editions.com
for
Jean Adair Fraser Preston
1912-2001
Contents
Prologue
1925
We went downtown in a Plaza taxi — my mother, Sunny, and me — to see our pediatrician. After our checkups with Dr. Maxwell we walked over to meet my dad for a ride home at the end of his working day. We brought the travelling carriage for Sunny because she couldn’t walk yet.
Spring came early that year and the downtown sidewalks were dusty and dry. It was still March, but warm, unnaturally so. My mother and I wore summer dresses. We took sweaters with us, just in case, but they ended up in the carriage, bundled at Sunny’s feet.
I loved the walk down Portage Avenue; there was so much to see. We passed the Rex Billiard Parlour with its no-gooders smoking in the doorway. I didn’t know what it was about pool-playing men that made them no-gooders, but my mother said that’s what they were and I believed her. We passed Mitchell Copp Jewellers where my dad bought my mum’s wedding ring and where my future husband would buy mine if I had my way. We passed the United Cigar Store and Moore’s Restaurant where my parents went for Boston cream pie after shows at the Capitol Theatre next door.
But best of all were the people.
“Don’t stare, Violet,” my mother hissed as I gaped open-mouthed at a woman with lipstick drawn up over her lips to make them appear bigger, I supposed. “And for goodness’ sake close your mouth. You’re going to swallow a fly one of these days.”
We passed the man on his small wooden platform in front of the Clarendon Hotel.
“Why does that man have no legs?” I asked.
His platform had squeaky castors and sometimes he would roll along beside folk until they gave him a coin or two. My mum dropped a quarter in his hat today and said, “Shh!” to me.
My dad’s office was in the Childs Building on Portage Avenue near Main Street. At twelve storeys it was the tallest building in Winnipeg and I bragged about that to whoever would listen. Funny the things I thought were important when I was six years old. My dad’s office was on the seventh floor; I wished it were on the twelfth. A uniformed man named Harvey ran the elevator.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Palmer,” he said.
When my mum smiled at him he flushed beneath his cap. My mother had a way about her.
“Hi, kids.” He clanged the outer door shut and then the brass inner gate. “Where to?” he asked.
I giggled. I was pretty sure he was kidding. He knew very well where we were going.
“Seven, please, Harvey,” I said, to be on the safe side. After a moment’s thought I added, “Sunny can’t talk yet.” I didn’t want him to think her silence was rude. Then I said, “She’s my sister.” I also didn’t want him to think she was a boy. She was too young to look like anything much and I had heard of boys called Sonny.
We were a little early. My dad wasn’t finished work yet so we piled back into the elevator.
“Main floor, please, Harvey,” I said. “We’re going to have a snack while we wait for my dad.” It was what I had been hoping for.
Harvey let us off after aligning the elevator floor perfectly with the floor in the lobby. It amazed me that he was always able to do that.
We went next door to Picardy’s. The restaurant was crowded but we found a table in a corner behind a large potted fern. Mother settled Sunny. She didn’t need much settling; she was sound asleep.
“You stay here with the baby, Violet, and I’ll go up to the counter to choose our treats.”
I was having none of that. I wanted to pick my own. She sighed and gave in to me. My mother wasn’t much of a fighter.
There was chocolate cake and rhubarb pie and banana cream pudding and apricot tarts. I finally chose the chocolate cake. Mother added it to her bowl of pudding already on the tray. Sunny was too young for treats. Her needs were pretty basic, mostly involving milk.
I followed along behind my mother as she carried our tray back to the table. When it clattered to the ground every face in the room turned toward us. Moon-faced women and chisel-faced men and rosy-cheeked waitresses and busboys wearing hairnets. My mother scrabbled through the carriage and raced about the restaurant from table to table.
“Sunny!” she cried out. “My baby!”
The carriage looked the way it always did when Sunny wasn’t in it. There was a soft dent in the pillow where her head had been. I touched it. It was warm.
My mum clutched at her throat where there was nothing but the flimsy collar of her summer dress.
“Help!” She didn’t make a sound but we all saw the word leave her mouth.
A man in a dark suit took charge. He phoned the police from the restaurant phone on the wall next to the cash register. That frightened my mother even more. Surely it was too soon for those kinds of measures, she said. He tried to calm her and told everyone not to touch anything. Everything he said seemed to crank up my mum’s terror a notch. I wondered if I should admit to having touched Sunny’s pillow but I decided to keep it to myself.
“Maybe Will’s got her,” my mother said in an odd loud voice. “Maybe my husband slipped in and picked her up.”
A waitress ran next door for my dad. We were well known at the restaurant: that nice lawyer’s family.
My mother ran out to the street; the man who kept scaring her ran out too and women fussed over me. I stayed with the carriage, guarding it like I should have been doing all along. I placed my hands in the pockets of my dress to keep from touching anything and stared at my cake on the floor.
I don’t think I considered that I would never see Sunny again or that my life would change drastically from that moment in time.
My dad hurried into the restaurant and over to me and the carriage. He seemed to know about the no-touching rule from the man in the suit or maybe he knew it on his own — my dad’s quite smart. He picked me up and squeezed me, a little too tightly, but I didn’t mind.
“Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
The man in the dark suit and my mum came back in at that moment, followed by the police: two street patrollers at first and then others in regular clothes. The man in the suit let them take over from there.
“Thank you,” my mum said.
My dad hurried over to her, not letting go of me, and they clung to each other.
“What happened, Anne?” my dad said.
I wriggled down.
“Oh, Will, I just don’t know,” said my mum through tears as she fell against him. “Our baby’s gone.”
No one knew anything. No one was very sure of having seen anything. There were one or two vague recollections of a tall man in a tan suit near the potted fern, but nothing concrete.
The police were trying to keep people clear of the area. I heard them talk about footprints and fingerprints. The floor in Picardy’s was so clean I could have eaten my chocolate cake off of it, but one young policeman who looked familiar to me was down on his hands and knees looking for something on the floor that would help us to find my sister. It was called a clue. I didn’t know what a clue was yet, but I figured it must be pretty small if he had to look for it that closely. I didn’t hold out much hope for him.
My mum stood by the carriage again, staring into it. I moved to be beside her and I heard little animal sounds coming from her throat. A lady in a pink hat tried to get her to sit down but she wouldn’t or couldn’t.
Dad was on the phone by the cash register. He knew people, my dad. He would know the right person to call to get Sunny back in her carriage where she belonged. But when I walked over to listen, I realized that it was just Mr. Larkin on the line, our neighbour and my dad’s good friend. Dad had called him to come with his car and take my mum and me home. Then he phoned the chief constable, who was also his friend.
The familiar-looking policeman, the one who had been looking for a clue, came over to speak to my dad. He held out his hand.
“Ennis Foote, Mr. Palmer. I live in your neighbourhood. I believe our kids know each other.” He nodded at me.
“Of course,” said my dad and took Mr. Foote’s hand. “Thanks for being here.”
“I just want you to know, sir, that we’ll find your baby. I promise you that.”
“Thank you…Ennis, is it?”
I could feel my dad’s impatience. It was time to get moving and that’s just what the police were doing — calling in more officers and hitting the streets. They were already out on Portage Avenue, Main Street, Albert Street and Notre Dame. The Childs Building where my dad worked was being searched from top to bottom. More calls were made to the bus depot, the train stations and to the provincial police.
At six years old I was too young to understand the intricacies of all that was going on around me but I’ll never forget the smell of my mother’s fear. On normal days she smelled like flowery soap with powder on top, like icing. But on this day she smelled like a skunk — a damp wrung-out skunk. I’d seen skunks and I’d smelled them and that was exactly what it was like. And her dress was black and white.
My dad was a stranger — his talk was of rifles and busting heads. I’d never heard words like that come out of him before and haven’t since.
Mr. Larkin came and my dad tried to get my mum and me into the back seat of his car. My mum looked at him as though he had asked her to please lick the sidewalk with its felty covering of dust. Policemen were examining that dust.
“What good will it do for me to go home?” she asked.
“There are hundreds of men looking, Anne,” Dad said. “It only makes sense for you to take Violet home and wait there for us to find her.”
“Was her blanket gone?” my mother asked.
I noticed that her face was greasy looking. I’d never seen my mum with a greasy face before and it scared me more than anything that had happened so far. She reminded me of the lipstick lady.
“What?” said my dad.
“Was her blanket gone from the carriage?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please check.”
Dad went back inside Picardy’s and came out again carrying my sweater over his arm, but not my mum’s. “Her blanket is gone,” he said. “They took her blanket.”
My mum didn’t ask about her sweater so I didn’t mention it either. I guessed that whoever took Sunny and her blanket took my mother’s sweater as well.
Mr. Larkin and my dad finally succeeded in getting us into the back seat of the automobile. My dad kissed us both and Mr. Larkin drove us home.
His wife was waiting at our house. She came in with us and made tea and sandwiches. No one ate anything.
“Maybe someone just borrowed Sunny,” I said to no one in particular.
“That’s a nice thought, Violet, dear,” said Mrs. Larkin.
“I’m going back downtown,” said Mr. Larkin. “Will you be all right?”
His wife nodded and my mum and I were silent.
Mrs. Larkin helped my mum to change into clean clothes. She wouldn’t have a bath but she accepted a cool washrag for her face.
No one outwardly blamed me, but I knew it was my fault. I should have stayed with Sunny and let my mother pick out our treats on her own. I would have liked whatever she brought me. But I wanted to see: the looking and choosing part was almost as good to me as the eating. I thought about my chocolate cake lying in a gooey mess on the floor in Picardy’s. At the time, in the moments before I noticed my mum smelling like a skunk, I clearly remember mourning my chocolate cake more than my baby sister.
“She’s such a good baby,” my mother said now.
And I’m such a bad child, I thought.
“She never cries,” Mother said.
I often did. It went without saying.
“She has a lovely disposition, our Sunny.”
“What’s a disposition?” I asked, glad my mum was talking, even if it was about how great Sunny was compared to me.
“Temperament,” my mum answered. “She has a lovely temperament.”
She stuck her slender arms into the fresh white blouse that Mrs. Larkin found in her bedroom closet.
“What’s a temperament?” I asked, knowing I should be quiet.
Mrs. Larkin looked scared but my mum didn’t seem to hear me.
“That’s why I called her Sunny,” she said. “I’ll tell you a secret, shall I?”
A strange small smile curled her lips as she looked at neither of us and I felt very afraid. That smile was new to me.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Larkin as she buttoned my mother’s blouse. “Please tell us.”
“Sunny’s real name is Mary. That’s the name on her birth certificate. We named her for Will’s maternal grandmother. But it never suited her. I started calling her Sunny and Will did too.”
The phone rang downstairs. My mum raced to answer it and Mrs. Larkin and I followed more slowly. It was my dad. He had nothing to report. He was just checking in. How were we? Fine, my mum said.
I think her explanation about Sunny’s name contained the most sentences she uttered on any one day after Sunny’s disappearance. My mother didn’t talk a lot at the best of times. I remember thinking that an amazing number of words were coming out of her mouth under the circumstances. I don’t think I was listening so much as just watching.
She sat in the kitchen and waited. She sat very straight. Mrs. Larkin didn’t know what to do or say and neither did I.
“Thank God it’s spring,” she said at one point.
My mother didn’t answer.
Mrs. Larkin stood up to put the kettle on for more unwanted tea.
The search party looked all day and all night. My dad came home and went out again and came home and went out again. He phoned my Aunt Helen and asked her to come stay with us. She was in Winnipeg, anyway, on a short vacation from her home in the Queen Charlotte Islands. She was staying downtown with a nurse friend who lived in an apartment on Carlton Street. The friend’s name was Grace Box and she and Aunt Helen had been in the war together. They had nursed injured soldiers at Vimy Ridge and Passchendaele. My aunt had risen to the rank of Major.
My dad must have felt guilty leaving us on our own and Mrs. Larkin wasn’t someone we knew well. Mr. Larkin was the good friend and he was out searching with my dad.
Aunt Helen was better than Mrs. Larkin as our companion. She hugged me a lot and made us food that was easy to swallow, like tapioca pudding and macaroni.