The Watercress Girls (11 page)

The end of the school day was imminent and Tommy, who had spent a happy, stimulating day and shown his skill with dribbling and heading a ball during an impromptu game during the lunch-time break in the
playground, now became apprehensive. Edwin didn’t wait to see his teacher, or ask Tommy how he’d got on.

‘Get in,’ he ordered, leaving Tommy to scramble up over the wheel into the trap. He was still smarting from the ticking-off he had received earlier from Mrs Mack. She’d said, while Grace was busy with the baby, ‘Your poor wife is still recovering from the birth, and all the travelling she’s had to endure. I got it out of her that she has women’s problems right now, and I shall ask the mistress to allow her a few days’ rest before she starts work proper. You must back me up, it’s the least you can do.’

Edwin wondered angrily how far Grace’s confidences had extended.

He said now, ‘Watch out as we go, you can walk to and from school tomorrow.’ He expected the boy to be upset at this, for it was a couple of miles each way, but Tommy was relieved. There were still the
afternoon
chores to get through, though.

Tommy was surprised and pleased to see his mother when he went upstairs to get changed. Grace was resting on the bed, cradling the baby in her arms.

‘Mrs Mack says I’m not to work until I’m properly fit. Isn’t she kind, Tommy?’

‘Mm,’ Tommy agreed. The housekeeper had slipped him a sandwich, to ‘keep you going till supper, my dear,’ when he looked in at the kitchen for his mother.

Most of the horses in the stables were highly strung thoroughbreds. They were bred for racing. Fortunately, these were considered too
valuable
for Tommy to have any dealings with. This was a mechanized farm, but there was still the pair of great shire horses, who were kept now for ploughing competitions. Tommy looked with trepidation at the huge hoofs, but he soon realized that these were gentle giants. Inquisitive, yes, but not liable to kick or bite. He’d never been involved with the horses in Newmarket, having shown fear of a mettlesome bay when he first went there.

A very old man, bent and rheumy-eyed, shuffled over and showed him what to do. He shovelled and scraped with a will, glad that Edwin was not watching.

The shires had a small companion, a Shetland pony, long since outgrown by the children of the house. The pony had a thick, shaggy coat, more rust-coloured than black, and a glint in his eye. Tommy was trembling but stood still, as the old man cautioned, when the pony nosed impudently into his coat pocket. Mrs Mack had thought to put a couple of sugar lumps in there. The pony tossed his head, snorted, and crunched happily. Tommy even dared to pat his neck. The expected ordeal had proved nothing of the sort. He couldn’t wait to tell his
mother all about it. Also, he was sure she would be really pleased to hear that Mungo was his new teacher.

Anna found the farm gates open awaiting her arrival. She smiled to see Granny Taylor’s ancient red-flannel bloomers fluttering on the gatepost, a sign which meant, HURRY! She did just that, glad that she had taken her maternity bag to market.

Mr Taylor was splitting logs in the yard. Myra was his second wife, and he had a grown-up family of four girls already.

‘Thought I was past all this,’ he remarked sourly. He jerked a thumb. ‘Upstairs, first door you come to. I couldn’t stand all the racket. It can’t be long now, that’s why I put out the red flag.’

His companion brought down his axe with a flash of the silver blade. He was a handsome young man, of mixed parentage, with jet-black hair and tanned skin. He said nothing, but Anna noted his compressed lips.

Poor Myra, some thirty years younger than her husband, gasped with relief when she saw Anna. She was obviously in some distress. Anna sent the young girl who was attending her to fetch hot water and towels.

She said soothingly to her patient, gently stroking back her hair from her damp forehead, ‘It’ll all be over soon, my dear. I can see the baby’s crown….’

Ten minutes later Anna helped Myra’s little son into the world.

‘I can’t look,’ the girl whispered faintly. ‘Is he … is he, like his father?’

‘He is indeed,’ Anna assured her. ‘Mr Taylor will be delighted that at last he has a son.’ She wrapped the baby in a towel, placed him in his mother’s arms. The tiny boy had a thatch of black hair. She added, ‘Most babies are born dark, but come the summer, he could well turn fair like you.’

‘Thank you, Anna,
thank you
,’ Myra said gratefully.

T
reesa and Lee had not been to work for the past four days. Anna guessed that the baby had arrived. Charlie grumbled a bit, saying Lee could have turned up on his own, that he was surprised that Treesa’s grandmother had not given him a push in that direction.

‘Luckily,’ Charlie said to Griff, ‘I had you, boy, to help me out. You done wonders with the Fordson tractor. I wanted one of those, you know, ever since I heard how useful they’ve proved to be, back home. The first ones were shipped out to Great Britain to get things going again after the war, when there was a shortage of horses and wagons as well as men. At last,
we
can catch up, over here!

‘We were able to make the most of the fine weather, eh? We’ll go into town after milking, to see a motor which has come up for sale. I need your advice. If I buy it, you can drive it back while I foller in the buggy.’

After the men departed Lee and Treesa appeared. Treesa carried her precious papoose on her back, leaving both hands free. Anna and Mattie ushered the new mother into the cosy kitchen for a cup of tea. Lee was despatched to the cowshed, clutching his mug. He didn’t mind. ‘Women talk,’ he muttered, but with a grin.

‘I have to go to work, too,’ Mattie said regretfully. She was enjoying her new job, but wouldn’t have minded the morning off to become acquainted with little Mai – named for Doc Pedersen’s Swedish wife, who’d provided comforts for mother and baby.

‘Holda baby first,’ Treesa looked up shyly at Mattie. She’d laid the papoose on the table while she quaffed her tea. She lifted the baby out of her snug hollow and handed her to Mattie.

There was a strange fluttering in Mattie’s chest. Mai didn’t resemble the babies she’d had limited dealings with, like her plump nephew Robbie, or fretful, pink Lydia, Grace’s child. Mai had peachy-gold skin, with dark eyes which seemed to follow any movement Mattie made. She gently kissed the baby’s forehead.

‘She’s beautiful,’ she managed, aware Treesa was awaiting her reaction.

Anna smiled knowingly. ‘Pass Mai to me now, or you’ll be late and Ollie will be wondering where you are.’

‘Yes, I must go,’ Mattie agreed reluctantly. She buttoned her jacket, and left.

The men had cut plenty of wood for the stove, and the water in the reservoir tank alongside was bubbling merrily. Treesa fetched the laundry basket. ‘We do washing? I get tub? Turn mangle? Good wind for drying, Missus.’

‘No scrubbing on the washboard for
you
today, Treesa. Did you get to lie in at all after having the baby?’ Anna wondered.

‘Women must work,’ Treesa said reprovingly.

‘And men must be allowed to admire a Model T Ford or two,’ Anna said wryly.

The trading post owed none of its success to window-dressing, for goods were piled so high on the shelves that they covered over the small panes of glass. The interior was lit by hanging kerosene lamps. The overriding odour was of the oil, mingling with that of serviceable clothes, stiff with dressing; rubber boots, sacks of animal feed, a cartwheel of strong cheese wrapped in muslin, and the side of hickory-smoked ham suspended on a stout hook, from the low beam. Fly swats were kept at the ready.

It was one of Mattie’s tasks to lift the ham down on to the counter on request, to ease back an inch or so of the rind with a sharp knife kept specially for this purpose, then to slice thinly before weighing portions on the brass scales. The top slice was always greyish, and this was put aside to be made into sandwiches later for Mattie’s and Ollie’s lunch. This ham was mainly sold to the bachelor farmers, as those with womenfolk, whether wives, mothers or sisters, ate their own
home-produced
bacon.

The local self-sufficiency meant that Ollie did not stock staples, such as bread, milk and perishable foods. Most homesteads, however humble, had their ice boxes: the men cut blocks of ice from the lake when it froze in winter, dragged their loads home on sleds and stored the ice in an ice-hut outside, insulated with straw, or in a dug-out cellar.
Ice-carts
might deliver to townsfolk, but this service must be paid for. The rich had refrigerators, but most of the community had never even seen one of these.

The drought that had begun in 1919 continued in 1922. Old Wives Lake, south of Moose Jaw, was almost devoid of water. There were high winds and already it was predicted that this could be one of the driest years on record.

However, Ollie’s store had everything needed for preserving produce, as Mattie discovered, including isinglass for buckets of eggs, as well as canning and bottling equipment.

It was a fairly slack morning, so they set the dented old coffee pot to boil on the primus stove ‘out back’ in the tiny kitchen area. It was Mattie’s job to grind the coffee beans. If customers came, they announced their presence by ringing the handbell on the counter. They’d have time to look through the pile of old-fashioned sun bonnets which Ollie had on offer, now that it was summer.

Mattie and Ollie sat on three-legged stools which had price tags attached, so might be sold at any time. They sipped the scalding black coffee; nowadays Mattie could drink it without a grimace.

‘How long have you lived here?’ Mattie asked. It was difficult to judge Ollie’s age, as well as her gender, she thought.

‘Must be forty years. I didn’t grow up in these parts; my father was a fur-trapper for the Hudson’s Bay Company. He was not often at home; my mother said that was why I was an only child. She was the local teacher, so I got to go to school.’

‘What was it like in that part of Canada?’

‘You’ll think it cold here when winter strikes again, but
there
– you had to be tough to survive. My father deserted us when I was ten. I believe he went to California, had a new family, but I don’t know. Mother decided we’d pack up and find a more hospitable place. I was sixteen then. She thought I might have more chance to find a man and get married on the prairie. But I had no inclination in that respect. We set up in the trading post, and four years later Mother died. I’m still here, as you can see. I think she would have been pleased.… More coffee, Mattie?’

‘Better not,’ Mattie said, as the bell clanged. ‘I’ll go, shall I?’

The Tin Lizzie was in good condition and Charlie seemed impressed as he circled it a few times, while the garage owner extolled its virtues. When he learned that Griff was an experienced motorist, he said: ‘I can leave it to you then, boy, to show old Charlie how to handle her – she’s a bit temperamental, like all women. I gotta customer honking his horn for gas. Take your time. Go for a little drive, if you want.’

‘He ain’t usually that obliging,’ Charlie said suspiciously.

‘I’ll tell you why,’ Griff told him. ‘These motors are the very devil to get started.’

Charlie took his time, as the garage man suggested. ‘Magneto ignition – you say, this here lever is to do with the spark?’

‘Shove that up – that’s it. Now, look right and pull that lever
down
– cautiously, mind – that’s the gas – next, turn on the ignition while I put the gear into neutral.’

‘Is that it?’ Charlie asked hopefully.

‘Not quite,’ Griff admitted. He wondered how he could explain the dangers of cranking up the car, after blocking a front wheel to prevent the Tin Lizzie creeping forward when it throbbed into life. There was a great deal more to tell, including the possibility of an electric shock. Charlie couldn’t be taught to drive in one easy lesson.

‘Still here then?’ The man was back. ‘Decided to buy her?’

‘You get her started, ready to drive off, and Griff’ll hop in. A dollar deposit now and if he arrives safely, we’ll come back tomorrow and pay you in full. All right?’

They shook hands on it.

The journey back to the farm, cruising at around fifteen miles an hour, was without incident until the car began to bump along the dirt track. The old horse, of course, knew every pothole along the way, as did Charlie; the buggy overtook into the lead when the Tin Lizzie hit a hole and tipped sideways, with Griff clinging on grimly to the steering wheel. It was fortunately only a half-somersault, as the car bounced off the stock fence, righted itself and Griff scrambled out, mercifully unscathed.

Lee appeared as if from nowhere; he’d actually been having a smoke under a tree. ‘You all right?’ he asked, as Charlie reined in the horse, jumped out and walked back.

‘I am, but I don’t know about the motor.’ Griff inspected the car. ‘A couple of scratches, no dents, thank goodness.’

‘We’ve got some black paint, don’t worry. So long as she still goes,’ Charlie said. ‘Leave her where she is for now. You’ve had a shock. Damn motor can go back to the garage tomorrow – chap didn’t warn us this might happen.’

‘It was my fault. I haven’t driven on this sort of surface before. Look, if you feel you’d rather not buy it, why don’t I? I’ve learned my lesson, after all!’

‘Can you afford it? I’m sorry I can’t pay you for what you do, but—’

‘I don’t expect you to – I’m just glad to earn our keep, Charlie! You’ve helped me realize that this is not the right time for us to chance setting up on our own. However, the car will be an investment; we’ll need
transport
when we move on….’

‘Not going yet, boy, I hope. We’ve got used to having you around,’ Charlie said.

During the summer, the church ladies’ sewing-circle met on Friday evenings at the farm. They sat out on the veranda and chatted while they sewed. At 8.30 they folded their work: garments for the missionary box and layettes for babies of needy parents in the parish. Then Charlie
would appear, beaming, with a tray of glasses, a big jug of home-made, iced lemonade and oatcakes.

When Mattie was asked to join the working party, she hesitated. ‘I’m not very skilled at sewing, Anna.’

‘Look, my dear, we use the simplest, free materials. We save our flour sacks and boil them white. You’d be surprised what we can make from ’em! Pillowslips, petticoats and underwear, children’s nightdresses, tea towels, and hankies, from the scraps. It’s the embroidery that makes them special. You can do daisy-stitch and a french knot or two, surely? And you must have learned to hem!’

‘Not without sore, pricked fingers,’ Mattie admitted ruefully.

‘Persevere with a thimble! Making do and mend is what we learned to do in the old pioneering days. They say times will be as tough again, so best be prepared! You’ll meet a few neighbours; you’d like that.’

So Mattie joined the group. She actually enjoyed sewing the soft cotton and making the garments pretty with embroidery.

Her first success was a tiny gown for Mai. With much encouragement from Anna she edged the cuffs and neckline with fine lace. One of the older ladies had hands twisted with arthritis. She couldn’t sew because ‘my fingers are too stiff’, but she collected scraps of lace and pieces to appliqué to share among her friends as her contribution to their efforts.

Mattie wrote to tell her family of her prowess. Evie wrote back:

Mattie read the letter out to Griff, omitting the bit about ‘a baby of your own’. She knew he was keen to start a family, but they were still considering their future. If they stayed over winter here, Griff said he would have to get a job in town, or their savings would dwindle rapidly. They had to adapt to their circumstances. There was more chance of succeeding if they bought land and by a miracle struck oil. They were heading for a world-wide recession: the papers were full of gloom and doom.

‘Christabel must miss you, Mattie,’ he said quietly. ‘You were good friends.’

‘We still are, but you were her friend before me,’ Mattie reminded him gently.

‘Will you write to her from both of us?’ he asked.

She nodded, not trusting herself to say more, in case she cried.