Canadian West Collection, page 105
At long last the cooking and baking were finished, and Elizabeth turned her attention to the journey. “Do you think I should wear my gray suit or the navy?”
“On the train?”
“Oh no. I’ll wear the brown on the train. To the wedding?”
“You won’t get a new one?”
“Me? My, no. I hadn’t even thought of that. There is nothing wrong with the gray—or the navy. Either would be perfectly suitable.”
Christine nodded. Either would be suitable.
“Why don’t you take them both along and then decide once you’re in Calgary,” she suggested.
“But I hate to pack both.”
“You may need both.”
“Whatever for?”
“Well—if we go out on occasion. To dinner—or a concert. Then there is church each Sunday. Do you want to have just one thing to wear the entire time?”
“No. No, I guess not. But it does seem rather extravagant to take two for such a short time.”
It was a reminder to Christine of how long it had been since her mother had visited the city.
“What else do you plan to take?” she asked instead of arguing further.
“My black skirt and the navy stripe and a mix of blouses and my cardigan. Then I thought I would take my crepe dress. My newer one.”
Christine nodded. Elizabeth’s “newer” crepe was already four years old.
“That sounds fine,” she responded. “But I do think you might wish to have both suits.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Elizabeth still sounded reluctant.
The day finally arrived when they were going to Edmonton to catch the southbound train. Christine had been very aware that her mother’s eyes had been on the skies for the past days. Like Christine herself, she knew what another winter storm could easily do to their plans. But though an occasional snowfall came their way, it was never enough to delay their departure. The wind did not blow hard enough to send more than shivering snow mists scurrying about the yard.
Elizabeth’s last moments at home were spent informing Wynn of where to find what and how to cope with the contrary kitchen stove. “The oven gauge does not work properly,” she informed him. “So don’t count on it. It must register five hundred degrees if you wish the heat to be at three-fifty.”
“I’ll manage just fine,” Wynn patiently assured her once more. “There’s enough food to last me into the summer, and I thank you for each delicious morsel. By the time that wedding comes, I won’t be able to get into my dress uniform.”
“Pawsh,” retorted Elizabeth. Wynn had never gained a pound in all their years of marriage. It was she who had to watch her weight.
After good-bye hugs and kisses and plenty of promises, they were tucked into the cab of the truck beside the driver, who was making his regular trip to Edmonton and often welcomed passengers. Elizabeth craned her neck to watch as they pulled away, and she waved one last time just as the truck turned the corner onto the highway. Christine fervently hoped that her mother would not become teary eyed.
But once they were on their way, she straightened her back, smoothed one black-gloved hand with the other, and turned to Christine with a smile. “It’s rather an adventure, isn’t it?”
Christine nodded.
“We’ll stay overnight at that Edmonton hotel.”
“The King Edward?”
“Yes. The King Edward. Your father has made all the arrangements.”
Christine nodded again.
“I haven’t stayed in a hotel for I don’t know how long.”
“Have you missed it?”
“Missed it? Of course not.” Elizabeth paused a moment. “Still . . . it will be rather nice.”
Mr. Carter shifted the lumbering truck into first gear.
“You know what I look forward to the most?” Elizabeth whispered to Christine.
Christine cast a sideways glance at her mother, whose eyes were shining with excitement over some anticipated pleasure. “The dining room? Eating something you haven’t needed to cook?”
“That will be nice, I admit. I think I’ll order something totally—exotic.” Elizabeth was smiling now. Just thinking ahead to the adventure was becoming fun.
“Like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a beef steak.”
“Mother, that’s not very exotic,” Christine laughed.
“Well, it will be a change from moose and elk and venison. It’ll taste quite exotic to me.” Elizabeth seemed to muse over the possibilities. “Maybe I’ll even order turkey . . . or oysters. Oysters—that’s it. It’s been ages and ages since I’ve had oysters.” Elizabeth appeared pleased with her choice.
“But what I am really looking forward to is the deep bath—where you can stretch right out in the tub and just soak and soak in all that wondrous warm water. If it starts to get cold, you just let a little out and run some more in. Oh, I can hardly wait.”
“And what am I to do while you are spending your hours in the tub?” Christine asked.
“Whatever you like.”
Christine laughed. It was going to be fun. She was so glad her father had suggested it.
Their driver delivered them directly to the hotel and handed their luggage to the navy-coated attendant, who greeted them with a bow and a smile. “Welcome to the King Edward. Right this way, ladies,” he said with just a bit too much enthusiasm.
He insisted on hovering over their two suitcases as Elizabeth penned her name in the register, and then he was leading them once again. Their room was on the fifth floor, and Christine would have liked to walk up the richly carpeted stairway just to check out all the halls on the way. But the man ushered them to an elevator and waved them inside.
“So what brings you to the city? Christmas shopping?” His eyes were on Christine, but his words seemed to be directed toward Elizabeth. Christine thought it a bit forward of him to ask their business.
But Elizabeth answered without reserve, “We’re only stopping for the night here. We travel on to Calgary tomorrow. We have family there. We’ll spend some time with them before going on to my son’s wedding.”
Really, Mother, fretted Christine. He has no reason to know our whole history.
“That’s nice,” the young man responded, but his eyes still had not left Christine’s face. She found herself flushing. What right did he have to study her so openly?
“Only tonight?” This time he was definitely speaking to Christine. “I’m off in an hour if you’d like to take in a show . . . or something.”
Christine could not believe his nerve. She did not even deign to answer. Just gave him a glance of dismissal.
He shrugged. She assumed he had been turned down before.
The elevator bumped gently to a stop, and the door opened, allowing their escape. The young man managed to jingle their room keys in hands filled with luggage. He soon opened their door and, with a wave of a practiced hand, bid them enter.
“The dining room is on the first floor to the left. Dinner is served from five to eight each evening. They will begin serving breakfast in the morning at six. The lunch hour—”
“We will not be here for the lunch hour,” Elizabeth stopped him. “Thank you for . . . for seeing us to our room.” She dropped coins into his gloved hand and took possession of the open door. He bowed his way out, and she closed the door as soon as she could.
“Cheeky young rascal, isn’t he?” she said as she turned back to Christine. “Imagine him asking you out when you don’t even know him.”
Christine shook her head and crossed the room to lay her coat on a chair. “Well,” she joked, “I guess it would have been one way to put in some time while you’re lounging in the tub for the evening.”
Elizabeth tossed a glove her way. “Talk about cheeky,” she said, shaking her own head. “You are almost a match for him.”
They both laughed.
The dining room was not able to supply Elizabeth with her oysters. “It’s the war, you know,” said the dark-suited waiter. “We are unable to bring such items in on the trains. It seems that the train cars are all used for transporting troops and supplies right now.”
Christine wondered if it was the truth or a bald lie to excuse their shortcoming. Elizabeth masked her disappointment and ordered duck instead.
To make up for it, she told Christine, she ordered cherries jubilee for dessert and drank four cups of the rich, strong coffee.
“I’ll never sleep tonight,” she said almost girlishly. Christine was sure she had never seen her mother so . . . so unmotherly. So relaxed, and enjoying herself.
“The soak in the tub will relax you.”
“Yes. Yes, it will. I just hope I don’t fall asleep right there. You’d never manage to get me off to bed.”
“I’d add a bit more hot water now and then.”
They laughed at the exchange and excused themselves from the table.
“Let’s walk up,” suggested Christine. “I want to see how they have furnished and decorated all the halls.”
“I’m too full to walk,” protested Elizabeth. “I’d never make it up five flights.”
“Then you take the elevator. I’ll meet you at the room.”
“But we’ve only one key.”
“You take it. You’ll be there first. I’ll knock.”
Elizabeth nodded and headed for the elevator. Christine began the long trek up five flights of stairs. She did not rush but enjoyed each new floor with its rich, fine furniture and pieces of artwork. Heavy velvet curtains graced the wide windows at the end of each hallway and shimmering candelabra sent prisms of light over the deep wine-colored carpeting.
It wasn’t until she was on the fourth floor that she saw anyone, a man and woman just leaving their room. They seemed to have been arguing about something and quickly hushed as Christine approached. The woman shot an angry look her way, but the man avoided eye contact with her as he fumbled with the key in the door lock. Christine did not bother with a greeting. She hurried on by, only glancing at the picture of the English countryside that hung near the elevator door. She moved toward the exit sign that announced her next flight of stairs and continued on to the fifth floor. But her little journey had been spoiled by their hostility toward each other and toward her.
Her mother answered the door at the sound of her knock. “There you are. I was beginning to worry.”
“I dawdled. There was so much to see. You’ve never seen such magnificent paintings.”
“Perhaps we should walk down when we go for breakfast in the morning. It’s much easier to walk down than up.”
Christine nodded. She did hope they would not cross paths with that couple again. She had the feeling that their mood would not improve with the coming of a new day.
“I’m surprised you aren’t in that tub,” she noted.
“I had to wait to let you in. Remember?”
“Sorry.”
“There’s plenty of time. We’ve the whole evening to ourselves.”
The whole evening. Christine wondered if it might become a bit of a bore. She hadn’t even brought a book or some handwork. And with her mother buried in the suds of the bathtub, there would be very little to do. She thought of the brazen young man in the elevator, and her cheeks flushed once again. She never would have considered going out with a stranger, but it was going to be awfully hard to think of some way to occupy her time in this luxurious prison.
“Why don’t you call up some of your old friends, dear?” Elizabeth was asking as she moved toward the bathroom. “I saw a telephone right there by that green door to the left in the lobby.”
My old friends, thought Christine. You’d think after spending all those months in the city there’d be some old friends to call. But she could think of no one. The truth was, her days and evenings in the city had been filled with Boyd, the boss’s son, who had captured her heart. She could not even think of anyone from her old church youth group who might still be around and want to hear from her.
“I think I’ll just rest,” she told her mother. “I might even run down to the lobby and pick up the day’s paper.”
“A paper. That would be nice. I haven’t read the news for who knows how long.”
Christine picked up the room key and bounced it restlessly in her hand. It appeared that the paper was about her only entertainment possibility.
But the newspaper did little to lighten her evening. The headlines shouted the news of the conflict overseas. Photographs of smiling, uniformed young men and women, waving the victory sign, filled its pages. There was even a column of names of those who had “shipped out,” sent off to England to be further prepared for the battle ahead. These who had such a short time ago been carefree young people with bright hopes for their tomorrows would perhaps in future lie in some foreign grave—if they had a grave at all.
Christine thought of Boyd. He had joined the air force. Was he still all right? Would she know if something happened to him? Would she be informed? No, likely not. She had no idea where he was, whether he was even alive. She found herself breathing another prayer on his behalf.
From the bathroom she could hear the sound of running water. Her mother was warming up the tub again. Christine tossed the paper on the nearby chair. The news it contained only served to depress her. She had already seen enough. With all her heart she prayed that Henry would not decide to go. Surely, surely, he had already made up his mind. He would not be leaving Amber and Danny.
But what about her? Had she a right to remain behind while other young people gave their lives in the cause of freedom? It didn’t seem right. She had no more to live for than each of them. She was ready to die, should death be required. She knew she was prepared for eternity. Not because she was good, or favored, but because she had made peace with God. Yet she had no desire for life to be cut short.
She hated the war. Hated the selfishness, the greed that caused one country, one person, to feel superior to another. It wasn’t right. Someone had to help stop this awful war.
But did she have to be involved? Was it her war? But neither was it theirs—the long list of volunteers who were the next wave of new recruits being “sent over.”
Christine picked up the paper again and studied the smiling faces, searching carefully for one that might look like John or Wynn, their two young Indian friends. But many of the faces were a blur. She could not tell if there were any Cree among them.
She could hear her mother stirring in the next room. Evidently she had finished her long soak in the tub and would soon be coming out. Christine took a deep breath to help calm her churning feelings and questions. She hoped her face would not give her away. The evening would not be pleasant for either of them if she didn’t get herself in hand.
She went to the window and swept back the heavy drapery. The night looked still and cold. Few hurried along the sidewalks. The scene brought no comfort. It was as barren and cold as her own heart felt right now. Somehow . . . somehow she had to find her way and some sense of what was taking place in the world. But for the moment, it made no sense at all.
Chapter
Four
When they caught the train to Calgary the next morning, Christine thought she had never seen her mother so excited. Elizabeth chatted on and on about Jon and Mary and her time with them when she first came west to teach. She reminisced about each of their children—William, Sarah, Kathleen, and Lizbeth—recalling cute childish sayings and funny anecdotes. Christine wondered if her mother would be terribly disappointed to see her beloved children now as young adults.
As winter mornings go, it was a pleasant one with the sun reflected off the drifts of new snow, causing an intriguing play of shadows and light. Pristine fields stretched for miles, inviting someone—something—to be the first to string a thread of beaded track across the expanse. The distant hills rose in the crisp morning air, their tall pines like frosty sentinels against the blueness of the sky.
Christine found it hard to pull her eyes from the view rushing by the window. Even her mother’s voice served not to distract her but rather to lay a background for the mood the scene evoked. The troubled thoughts about her future from the evening before had vanished. Looking out on the world at hand, how could anyone not deem it good? she wondered. The vastness. The perfection. The beauty. All spoke to her heart. She was glad to be alive. Glad to be a part of it. She felt her heart grow with joy. This . . . this is what life is meant to be.
A warning whistle sliced the morning air with a shrillness that was both melancholy and invasive, and they pulled into a small town. Christine leaned her head against the cool window and watched a scurry of activity. Horses stomped and blew great drafts of frosty air. Men called and pulled and heaved and loaded, their whiskers whitened by frozen breath. There were few women or children about. An occasional hand stirring aside a curtain was about as much indication that they, too, occupied the town. But Christine knew they were there. She saw it in the smoke that curled slowly up from the chimneys. In the small sleds leaning against woodsheds. In the snowmen in fenced yards and the brooms that stood beside the doors, inviting one to sweep the snow from boots and clothing before entering the kitchen.
She even thought she saw it in the scurrying of the men, for why else would they rush about in such inclement weather if not to provide for someone dear who shared the home?
The act of stopping, of observing, of moving on once again, was repeated throughout the day. Christine thought her mother paid little attention to the hustle and bustle, so was surprised when Elizabeth leaned forward, her entire face alight with excitement.
“Look,” she cried. “We’ve reached Lacombe.”
Christine had heard enough family history to know that Lacombe was the area where her mother had taught school. She had, on two occasions, visited her grandmother Delaney and her aunt, uncle, and cousins who still lived on the family farm outside the small town. Still, she was not prepared for Elizabeth’s reaction.
“Oh, I wish we could stop. How I’d love to visit the school again. And the little teacherage. The dear little teacherage. I was so happy there.”
