The Age of Water Lilies (4 page)

Flora's was a nice house, not simply four rooms like most of the Walhachin bungalows. It was two storeys in fact; an additional two rooms had been constructed at a cost of one hundred and twenty-five dollars per room. But still, it had taken some getting used to after Watermeadows. That house had been in their family for six generations although the original structure had been added to, wings to accommodate large families, expectations. Once, the Oakden family had been very wealthy, though now economies must be made. Henry, the oldest son, had taken a Classics degree and taught part-time at a school in Bath where he also involved himself with an antiquities society. He would inherit Watermeadows when their father died, though no one expected this for decades. George's decision to emigrate was a result of his being the second son. A man who visited their father to acquire graft wood from a very old apple tree told him that the British Columbia Development Association had an office in London and was advertising the sale of acreage in a very promising area of Canada. He showed the brochure to Henry senior, who thought it might be a good prospect for his younger son. George knew something about orchards and their care, and his future in England was rather uncertain, due to his coming down from Oxford with a very poor showing.

George's decision had been met with some relief on the part of their father. He himself had read theology at Oxford but had never needed a living of his own. Still, he had the expectation that his sons would find meaningful work and knew that only the eldest Oakden son, named for him, would succeed him at Watermeadows.

The arrangements, nearly a year in the making, were complicated, but eventually George was the owner of a plot of land and a house. It was a destination to which containers of bedding, clothing, kitchenware, rugs from the attic at Watermeadows could be shipped. (“I am willing to let you have this Aubusson. And some Wilton for the stairs.” “Thank you so much, Mother.” “Once you know the rooms themselves, what pieces will fit well within them and how the windows are sized, we will send window drapes and side tables.”) People were not entirely willing to trust the Canadian shops, and business for the carters was brisk as shipments of furniture and everything under the sun arrived at Pennies or Ashcroft and deliveries went out to the townsite. After George's arrival in Walhachin, but before Flora joined him, an acquaintance of their family, the Marquis of Anglesey, invested heavily in the community, establishing his own estate on the north side of the Thompson River and assuming ownership of the hotel. The senior Oakdens were comforted by the thought that suitable society existed in the colony their son was settling in, for surely there would now be polo.

Sleeping in the bed that had come by such intricate arrangements to a room that overlooked the Thompson River, its changing grey-green waters, and the hills surrounding it, Flora dreamed of Grace that night, the child's mouth on her own virgin nipple. She sang a song she remembered from her nanny, “Lavender Blue dilly dilly, Lavender Green,” while the baby chuckled and urged Flora's breast to let down its milk.

There is a child,
she wrote to her mother,
the colour of hazelnuts, and I spent part of the day
earlier this
week caring for her
. Then she realized her mother would have no idea of what this meant and would only imagine gypsies or savages, so she began the letter again. She thanked her mother for sending the Panama hat and told her she had draped a pretty scarf over it and that it looked particularly fetching with her blue lawn dress. She needed a corset—could her mother send to Dickson and Jones for that? And while she thought of it, could she also order a few Shetland hoods for the coming winter? And six yards of narrow satin ribbon for trimming a bodice. And perhaps some sprigged flannel—for Flora had decided to make Grace some nightdresses.

•  •  •

A message came from Skeetchestn to say that Grace was too ill for Mary to leave her. Flora knew that things must be very serious indeed. So she prepared a basket of things to take to Mary's home—jars of preserved fruit, fresh biscuits, a cold roasted chicken, clean flannel for poultices, barley water, and a jar of boiled sweets that she thought the children might enjoy. There was also a plain muslin nightdress for Grace—the sprigged flannel had not yet arrived—with a tiny matching bonnet. Flora had drawn pink ribbon through a border of hemstitching on both and she embroidered stalks of lavender in French knots among the smocking. George had saddled the grey mare, Vespa, before he left for the orchard and put her in the stall to be ready for his sister when Gus Alexander came by to collect her. For George had decided he could not leave his own work undone and asked Gus to accompany his sister to Skeetchestn.

He was a man she had seen from a distance, a man who kept his distance in fact, and she could not remember him present at a dance or a tea following a polo match. He was a labourer, employed by the Anglesey Estates, but he also did work for individual orchardists; she had seen him pruning earlier in the season, for instance, and George implied that he often did repairs on the flume system and spoke of the man with admiration. When he arrived on his horse, a pretty chestnut mare who danced a little before obeying the command to stop at the gate, Flora introduced herself and quickly brought out her mare, accepting Gus's assistance in securing the basket to the pommel of the saddle.

“Miss Oakden, you must let me know immediately if you find the pace too fast or the heat too uncomfortable. My mare, not named Flight for nothing, would rather race than walk, regardless of the heat. I promised your brother I would care for you as I would my own sister.” There was a tiny smile on his lips as he said this, a smile almost cheeky, which said, almost as clearly as words, that this was what one would say to a toff. It was a moment when Flora sensed something important although she could not then have said what it was exactly.

Riding away from the houses, Flora felt her lungs open to the morning air. It was not yet very hot, but the sun had warmed the rocks, the drifts of sage, and she could smell the lemony leaves. Gus rode ahead a little to open a gate, but once over the bridge, where they paused for a moment to watch the osprey in its nest on the bridge's high trestle, they let their horses trot along the road, side by side. Flora noticed how easily the man held his horse's reins, resting his hand on the saddle, and how the hairs on his wrists were golden. The tiny smile came and went on his lips quick as bees. He was handsome, with a profile such as one might have seen on Greek coins. His sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows and the golden hair continued up his arms. She had never really looked at a man's arms before. Pale freckles dappled his skin. And when he turned his reins idly this way, then that, she glimpsed the underskin of his forearm, milky and clear. She looked away, hoping he hadn't seen her. And then her face was suddenly hot, her neck quite damp with heat; a little shudder worked its way across her shoulders in the way she had always thought of as someone walking over her grave. Flora put one gloved hand to her cheek. She could not believe that Gus Alexander didn't realize her agitation; how on earth would she explain herself? That she had grown quite warm at the sight of his wrists, the hair on them delicate as new grass? And how happy she was at that moment that she was
not
his sister.

Glancing back to the settlement, she could see teams of horses at work in the fields being prepared for planting. A hawk circled above, watching for the mice that would scatter as the horses approached. Far away, she could hear the sound of the train approaching. It would stop at Pennies to leave the mail and other provisions for the hotel. It was something to look forward to—letters from home, a few newspapers now months old but containing news of her county, the text of a particularly well-received sermon given at Chippenham, the program of a choral evening at Trowbridge, an afternoon of recitations in a home on the Royal Crescent at Bath, the price of wholemeal loaves at the bakery in Bradford-on-Avon.

Just before noon they reached Skeetchestn. They had followed the river and let their horses lope along its banks under sparse cottonwoods. Flora was easier now with the sight of bare arms and she didn't feel so tongue-tied. It was nice to listen to Gus talk. He noticed things, pointing out a clump of vivid yellow flowers he said were called balsamroot, and the tracks of a rattlesnake in sand along the river. There were neat fields of tall grass for hay, shadowy turns in the river where it passed under the red rock cliffs, a long gravel bar where some cattle stood ankle-deep in water, swishing their tails back and forth in a vain attempt to keep away flies. Gus asked a man sitting on a big rock where they might find Mary and Agrippa's house and he led them to a low cabin near some cottonwoods by the river. A little curl of smoke inched its way out of the stovepipe and a dog briefly barked, then returned to its cool nest by the trees. Mary came to the door. Three children clung to her legs and stared at the strangers.

“Mary, I know things are difficult right now, so I've brought you some small offerings. Can the children have a sweet?” Flora dismounted and handed her reins to Gus, who had indicated he would tie her horse before going off to talk to some men who were needed later in the week for ploughing.

The children came out to stand before her, two boys and a dear girl, all under ten. She gave them each two barley sugars and they solemnly thanked her. Then Flora turned to Mary, who still stood in the doorway.

“I'd like to help, Mary. Is there something I can do? Look, I've brought a chicken—the mean hen, the one whose neck George kept threatening to wring? He did, I'm glad to say, and I've roasted it for your family. Can I come in?”

Mary nodded and stepped aside. It was a very small cabin but cozy too. It smelled strongly of bitter herbs; Flora saw a pot of them on the stove, steaming. Mattresses were leaning against the walls to make more room for the day's activities. In a corner, near one of the two windows letting in a little light, Grace was asleep in a large rush basket. Her face was very flushed.

“Missus, Grace is worse. I'm afraid she will die. The doctor came, but he couldn't tell us she will get better. Agrippa has gone for the priest.”

“Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. But she's sleeping—that's a good sign, isn't it?”

“She can't eat or drink, Missus. Nothing stays down. She will die.”

Flora unpacked her basket, putting the chicken in its wrap of greaseproof paper on the table. She unfolded the nightdress and bonnet and draped them over the back of a chair. Then she stood, holding the flannel cloth in her hands, turning it over and over. She was remembering the sweet smell of Grace as she carried her around the garden after her bath, the soft skin of her shoulders, her voice. The weight of Grace in Flora's arms had been something she had waited for all her life; that was how it had felt. But this was Grace's home, her mother, her family. Their knowledge of her was much more profound than an afternoon, a single bath.

“Are there dishes I could wash for you, Mary?”

“No need, Missus. My mother will help.”

Agrippa came into the cabin, saying that the priest was on his way. If he was surprised to see Flora, he gave no sign and poured himself a cup of tea, indicating the pot to the women. Both of them nodded and accepted the mugs he handed to them. Putting his own cup down, he took Mary in his arms and held her while her body shook. She made no sound and quite soon pushed her husband away and finished her tea. Flora was not accustomed to intimacy between couples—her own parents never kissed, only embraced on Christmas morning when her father handed her mother the customary jeweller's box from London—and was moved to tears herself. She excused herself, putting her mug by the basin on the table. Outside, laundry from the household was spread over bushes near the water, clematis unfolding its white blossoms, serviceberry, chokecherry; so much of the linen consisted of Grace's bedding, stained with her illness. Gus was standing by the river, watching the children attempting to coax their dog to fetch a stick in the quiet flow. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows in question.

“It doesn't look good. Mary says she can't eat or drink anything and the doctor has given them no hope. I feel so helpless, as though there's something I ought to be doing. But they are so stoic and it is clear that they will cope with it as best they are able to. Agrippa went for the priest and now he's back.” Flora reached up her sleeve for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Gus said gently, “Ah, that's it then. The priest means it's very serious.”

“Might it mean that they are trying everything? I hate to think of a child dying. Oh, anyone dying of course, but a child . . .”

“Lots of children die on the reserves, Miss Oakden. Well, not just on the reserves but perhaps more of them than white children. Agrippa and Mary lost one only a year ago. We have brought so many diseases to them, smallpox being the worst, I guess, but even measles or influenza will sweep through these villages, killing far too many people. My father . . .” and then he stopped, looking surprised that he had gone this far, and to a complete stranger.

“Your father . . .” Flora prompted, curious. One did not think of the men who ploughed and fixed fence posts as boys with fathers, young pups trailing the wake of an older man with a pipe, a shooting stick, the only kind of father Flora knew; they seemed to have sprung from the landscape fully formed, ready to work in their dungarees and worn shirts. “What about him?” She took some of the bits of laundry from the bushes and turned them so the stained parts would bleach in the sunlight.

“He's a doctor, you see, in Victoria. He's worked with Indian people a lot—a lot of them live near Victoria, in fact the whole inner harbour was until recently a village site—and it's made him bitter at our interference in their lives, not to mention the diseases we've brought, the foods we insist they eat.”