All Saints (18 page)

In those days, you see, a single woman had to somehow minimize her unattached state, as she might a deformity. It was such a two-by-two world. I understand from my newspapers and magazines that things have changed in that regard for young women, that being single has turned into something of a badge of honour. I assure you that it wasn't so, in my day.

The men, at least, could in time get to the point of joking about it and, in spite of baldness or a thickness through the middle, still be regarded as something of a prize. “Confirmed bachelor” had a ring to it, and managed to convey a sense of a choice being made. Not so “old maid.” Even now, that sounds like something that has been done to one. Or not done.

Of course, by the time we got to the old maid stage, we didn't much need the confirmed bachelors any more for camouflage, for all we might sometimes yearn for them. We had found some way to earn our living, and could lose ourselves, virtually disappear into our work. It was a comfort, of a kind.

Still, sometimes I couldn't help wondering what my life would have been like if I had encouraged one of those camouflage boys. There was a line with them too, you see. A thigh pressing against one during a dance. A sweaty palm sliding from one's shoulder blade down to where a thumb might graze the side of one's breast. And you either crossed that line, by doing nothing and allowing whatever was happening to happen, or you stiffened in his arms and took a small but decisive step back. In extreme cases, you might even remove your hand from his, walk off the floor with an air of injured dignity and sit the rest of the dance out, ankles crossed. I never had to do that. But I did, on more than one occasion, take the small step back.

And now I am coming to the end of my allotted pages and time. My minder is glancing at her watch, no doubt looking forward to her coffee break. So I will write this last bit quickly. Simon, I sense there are things you want to say to me. Questions you want to ask. So I am going to extend to you the permission you granted me in your first letter. Say or ask whatever you wish. As long as you are writing from the place in you that is most genuine, I will not take offense, and will attempt to respond, in turn, as genuinely as I am able. Nor will I ever again consider putting an end to our correspondence. Though I feel I should warn you that you yourself might wish to do so.

 

Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Alice Vipond

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Well. It would appear that our true correspondence has begun. Thank you for your question—the first of many, I hope.

I will address your question, Simon. But first I'm going to give you a little exercise to do. A bit of seat work, if you will. I want you to write down the names of your public school teachers—Kindergarten through Grade Six. In chronological order, if you wish. Or randomly, as they come to mind.

Done? Good. Now. There was one you hesitated over, wasn't there? One whose face or name emerged slowly, as if out of a fog. Because she was neither the first nor the last. Neither the kind one nor the cruel one. Neither the comedienne nor the crashing bore.

What you've forgotten is that when you were actually in her class, she was your sun. You revolved around her. If she smiled at you, all was warm and bright. When she was cross with you, your whole day darkened. Her knowledge was boundless and her word was law and the classroom you spent your days inside smelled of her cologne. You made offerings to her. Apples you had polished bright. Flowers you had snipped from your backyard and whose stems your mother had wrapped in waxed paper. But then the school year ended. And when you returned after the summer, you were in the next grade up. Someone else was your sun. Your all in all. And so the years passed. Grade Six. Junior High. High School. Every now and then, in the grocery store or at a bus stop, you would catch sight of—who was she again? Oh yes. Miss Vipond. Look how much older she is. How much smaller. You would say hello and make some excruciatingly polite conversation, all the while praying for the bus to come and take her away. You would mind your P's and Q's. Avoid telling her anything personal, anything remotely interesting, for fear of offending her strange teacher's sensibilities. And above all, you would never ask her anything about herself, her own life. What could you ask, after all? And what could the poor thing possibly have to tell? In time, especially if you caught sight of her when you were with your friends, you would stop even saying hello. You would pretend not to see her. Then tell yourself that she hadn't seen you. As if she had gone conveniently blind. Or become possessed of some benign stupidity that kept her from knowing you were avoiding her on purpose.

But what, you are no doubt wondering, Simon, does all this have to do with what you asked me—that is, do I feel remorse for what I did? A true clergyman's question. And part of the ritual of confession, if I'm not mistaken.

In preparation for writing this letter, I requested to be escorted to the little lending library in the visitors' lounge. I needed to consult a dictionary. I suspected that remorse was more than just a matter of feeling sorry, or wishing one had not done something because the consequences had proven painful. And sure enough, according to the rather dog-eared dictionary I found, remorse is defined as a “deep and painful regret for wrongdoing.”

Well. It would be a simple thing to say, in answer to your question, no. I do not now, nor have I ever felt any such thing. But I suspect the real answer is more complicated. Which is why I had you do that little exercise about your teachers' names. The word I kept snagging on is “wrongdoing.” Is there such a thing as “rightdoing”? Or is there simply doing?

It's that line again, Simon. It's not so much a matter of crossing the line. Crossing the line is almost an afterthought. A formality. No, it's more a matter of having taken each of the steps leading up to it.

For example. You plan to have the class do a project on spring flowers. So you go to the public library to read up. That's one step. And while you're reading you come across foxglove. Pretty plant. And that clever shape. You've always been rather intrigued by it. So you read a little further and learn that it's not actually “fox” glove in reference to the animal. It comes from “folks'” glove. Folk as in fairy folk. And then you read a little further still. And you learn its Latin name. Digitalis.

That's one time when you could stop. When you are suddenly very aware of the line. But you don't. You take the next step toward it. You ask yourself where you've seen a clump of fox glove growing. Recently.

And that's when you could stop again. Because you don't have to try to remember. You could put it completely out of your mind. But you don't. You close the book. Put it back on the library cart. Smile at the librarian on your way out. She's known you for years and is always so helpful.

The steps are small. Easy to take. A book from the neighbourhood library. A clump of flowers growing nearby. A pair of kitchen shears. Some string. And then just a matter of time. While the bunches hang all summer in your kitchen, withering and greying and swaying in the breeze through the window.

It's time to stop now, Simon. But I will continue to ponder your question about remorse. And please do feel free to pose any additional questions in your next letter, to which I am already looking forward.

 

Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Alice Vipond

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Thank you for attempting to help me with the remorse question. Yes, phrasing it differently, making it more concrete, does serve to make it clearer. But I'm not sure that it will bring us any closer to an answer. However, I will try.

You ask if I ever wish I could have that morning back again. Specifically, the moment before I began to pour the lemonade.

Simon, I really am not being deliberately obtuse here. But again, things are just not that simple. I might as well wish to have back the moment before I made the lemonade. Or the moment before I picked the foxglove. Hard to know exactly where the line is, isn't it? Maybe my birth was the line. My conception.

The theories put forth by the clipboard-wielders are endless. Did I perhaps hate the children? That's a favourite one of theirs. No. Of course I didn't. Why would I have hated them? There's nothing to hate at that age. They're all eyes and fingers and questions. “Miss Vipond, may I? Can I, Miss Vipond?” Big heads on little shoulders. And so kind to each other. A half-awake, unseeing kind of kindness. They don't differentiate, the way older children will. They hardly distinguish between themselves and others. You, the teacher, are the only Other in their eyes. And you are wonderful in their sight.

It's in Grade Three that the growth spurt happens. Like an explosion. Some of them become unrecognizable. And they start to sort themselves into groups. Factions. They learn the cruelties of childhood. They see each others' weakness. Ugliness. And they turn back and see yours too. But in Grade Two, all that's still tucked inside. And you are still Miss Vipond. Their all in all.

Simon, it occurs to me that your question might in fact be masking a different question. I do not imply that you are being less that truthful. But I wonder if you yourself are fully aware of the unasked question to which I refer.

No, I'm not going to spell it out for you. The teacher in me knows all too well the value of your working it out for yourself. But here are a few things you might consider, as a help:

Think back to whatever motivated you to volunteer for this correspondence program. Of course, you are by nature and profession a compassionate person. But was your compassion pure? Or was it mixed with—one might even say tainted by—something else?

Secondly, try to remember first looking at the list of possible correspondents you were given to choose from—their names, and the paragraph or two that no doubt followed each name. You would, naturally, have recognized my name. You might even have remembered the news story breaking all those years ago, and some of the things your parents had to say about me. When you were surveying the list, Simon, you had a choice. To reject Alice Vipond, as all the others did. Or to accept her. Approach her. Engage with her. It might be useful now to review precisely what it was that moved you to make the choice you did.

And once more our time is up. As always, I look forward to your next letter, Simon.

 

Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Alice Vipond

 

*

 

Dear Simon,

 

Although I will keep my promise about welcoming and trying to answer your questions, forgive me if I pose one of my own first. I can't help wondering if you took my bit of friendly advice and have declared yourself yet to your friend Kelly. Again, though I understand the need for discretion, surely you can ask her to be discreet too. If she is everything you say she is, then she will want only what is best for you.

Forgive that little intrusion. I just felt that we needed to relax a bit before we tackled what seems to be the rather difficult task we have set ourselves. And since absolute truthfulness is part and parcel of that task, Simon, I must tell you that I am slightly worried about you. Your handwriting has altered somewhat, and there is, for the first time, something like desperation in your tone. I refer, specifically, to the way you ask whether or not I ever considered stopping, once I had started handing round the lemonade. Your sentence fragment, “So that at least some of the children would have had a chance” doesn't sound like you. You've always presented yourself in such a professional manner. This is the first time you've let that professionalism slip just a little. So I am concerned, Simon.

But let me get on with addressing your question. Which, again, is not as simple a matter as it might at first appear. Perhaps it would help if I were to reconstruct that morning for you, as faithfully as I can.

I always gave them their choice of a song to sing while they were having their little refreshment. I had established a mid-morning juice routine to pep them up. A cup of juice and a song—quite a treat at that age. And that morning, they were unanimous in what they wanted to sing. “The October Song, Miss Vipond! Oh please, Miss Vipond! The October Song!” Do you know it, by the way, Simon? The October Song? It starts, “This is Oct-o-o-ber, good old October, sing, oh children, sing!” I don't remember the precise lyrics, but it goes on about pumpkins and witches and leaves turning and so on. But back to your question: Did I even once consider putting a stop to what I had started to do?

Oh dear. I keep bumping my nose against the same difficulty. Because once again, it's a question of when, exactly, I crossed the line. Once you've done that, you see, you can look back. But you cannot go back. I remember looking at the closed door of the classroom. I'd told them I was closing the door so our singing wouldn't disturb the other classes. I suppose I could have run and opened it. Screamed for help after the first few sips. Maybe, if I had, some of them could have been saved. But again, by then I had crossed the line.

A few of them, the bigger ones, got as far as the second verse before they began to slur their words. I wonder if they thought it strange that their classmates were going to sleep so early in the day. One by one, they were putting their heads down. One by one, the plastic cups were falling from their hands and bouncing on the floor. The juice was making sticky little pools at their feet. After a while, I was the only one left singing.

Simon, I'm going to beg your indulgence. I didn't sleep well last night—bit of a digestive upset—and as a result I'm rather tired. So I'm going to sign off a little early this time. Please forgive me, and please rest assured that I look forward, as always, to your next letter. Which I promise to answer at greater length.

 

Yours sincerely,

Alice.