Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (24 page)

“The half-breeds were afraid, of course—and rightly so—that the surveying of the country by the Dominion government would dispossess them of their land—” Birdie the teacher explained.

“And little good it did them. They all gave up, finally and forever—”

The two women were silent, recalling the execution of Louis Riel and appreciating the comparative quiet that had prevailed in the territories ever since.

“Well, we certainly wish better for the Polchek child, I’m sure,” Lydia said, concluding her brief philosophical discourse.

Lydia and Birdie turned their attention to cheerier subjects, like tea and leftover scones warmed and buttered and jammed. Their tired backs relaxed, their dull eyes brightened, their spirits lifted—and all through the magic of teatime.

Lydia struggled to her feet, her brief respite over. “I’ll have to do something about those feathers,” she said sturdily.

Feeling guilty, Birdie rose to her feet, prepared to help.

“No, my dear, sit still. Or go read your book. After all, you pay for your board. These are my things to do.”

“But—”

“I’ll call on you if I need you. How’s that?”

“But—”

“And thank you so much for the help with the geese. It’s a oncea-year job, thank goodness. People that don’t have feather beds don’t worry about it, of course, though everyone needs pillows, and no one has come up with anything to take the place of goose down. Tell you what—you might like to go with me when I pick berries—chokecherries are ripening, and then there’ll be cranberries. Would you like to go with me to the river to pick cranberries?
It’s a pleasant experience, I think I can say. Different. I look forward to it every year.”

Lydia trudged off to the completion of one more task on her list of things-to-do-before-winter, and Birdie went to her room to remove her shoes, lie back on the goose-down pillow with new appreciation, and read.

Almost reverently she picked up the first of two volumes of
Les Miserables
, “library edition, complete and unabridged, 650 pages to the volume, 10 inserted illustrations printed on plate paper, durably bound in extra silk finish cloth, stamped in gold (neatly boxed),” priced at $2.50 but offered by the catalog “our price $0.95.” A bargain!

When she was finished reading them, she thought, she would have to consider carefully who would benefit from them. For pass them on she surely would; such treasures were too good to keep to one’s self.

She recalled her schoolhouse conversation with Wilhelm “Big Tiny” Kruger, his mention of the fact that he read what he could put his hands on. Perhaps he would enjoy Victor Hugo.

Big Tiny had mentioned the possibility of a class in the fall. Laying the book aside for the moment, Birdie let the idea take root in her mind. And grow.

She could use her summer to contact the community. She was accustomed to walking; she’d map out the district and the farms and begin a systematic survey, making a list of those who might be interested in such a venture... perhaps a reading circle.... It could be called the
Penny Reading Society
because of the penny fee, which would go toward purchasing books
...

Birdie’s head nodded, her eyelids drooped, and she drifted off to sleep full of vague plans for the dissemination of fine literature and the flourishing of adult education in Bliss. One last, rather uneasy possibility drifted into her fading consciousness: If the plan meant letting down barriers and opening herself to the scrutiny of... certain people...

Birdie was too nearly asleep to wonder why in the world she would care about what Big Tiny Kruger might think.

L
ong cold winters, short hot summers—the people of the park belt were accustomed to both and adjusted their lives to fit.

In the long cold winter, small cabins were like burrows, and their occupants, like beavers in a lodge and bears in a cave, holed up for the duration. If, like the squirrel, they had hoarded and stored enough food, and if they had hauled and chopped and stacked enough wood, they made it through, self-reliant in most respects. For emergencies, there were neighbors. For encouragement, there was the pastor. For strength, there was the Bible. Winters were times of hibernation for man and beast alike.

Summers, those short hot summers, were times of feverish activity. Driven by a need to garner and to store, every man, woman, and child bent their energies toward making it through another winter.

June, July, August—the growing time for cereal grain. The time allotted was short; everyone hoped and prayed for one hundred frost-free days. That meant ceaseless efforts during every hour of the day.

Nature—so often cruel and heartless—compensated for the short growing season by ordaining long days. The sun came early, poured out its light and its strength, often fiercely, and lingered late, as though loath to allow for any rest at all before it swung into place in the east again, calling slumberers to another sixteen-hour day. People in the park belt rose at four o’clock and accomplished a day’s labor by noon. No wonder the midday meal was called dinner; it had to invigorate an already overworked body with enough strength for another eight hours’ work.

The land’s production, under these conditions and given proper rain, could be phenomenal. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” a weary parent would read, putting a drowsy child to bed, knowing the answer all too well: quickly, very quickly indeed. Weeds also.

Ellie was out in the garden early, picking green beans before the sun made the task unendurable. When finished, she would take the full pan of beans to the shade of the porch for snapping, then on into the house where the jars were washed and waiting. Beans took a long time in the hot water bath; more than one home had been stricken with poisoning from a batch of undercooked or improperly sealed beans. Ellie dreaded the thought of the kitchen’s heat on bean-canning days.

Yesterday she had put down sauerkraut; her shoulders had ached fiercely before enough cabbage was shredded to fill the five-gallon crock. Her mother had sprinkled coriander seed along with salt over the layers of cabbage, and Ellie followed her mother’s recipe. At the last, a plate wrapped in a clean towel was placed on top and pressed down with a heavy rock. Her father took the crock to the cellar, and there, in quiet and in the dark, it would “work” until it was ready for consumption.

Tomorrow she would do pickles. As she picked the beans, her eyes wandered to the cucumbers and noted their size; she knew they were ready. “Never put pickles into vessels of brass, copper, or tin,” Ellie remembered her mother warning. “Acid on metals can result in poisoning. Porcelain or granite-ware is the best.”The voice of experience echoed in Ellie’s memory, as it had echoed in
her mother’s, having heard it from her mother who heard it from her mother... and back and back, as long as pickles had been made, Ellie supposed.

“Make a brine that will bear up a fresh egg,” her mother always advised. Heated to boiling and poured over the cucumbers, the mixture was allowed to “stand” for twenty-four hours. Then it was discarded and the whole business was to be done over again—change the vinegar, add one pint of white mustard seed, one quart of brown sugar, one half cup of white cloves... pickles were a hassle! “If one peck of cucumbers is more convenient to handle,” her mother had jotted in the recipe, “use one-fourth the same ingredients.”

A peck... one-fourth. Ellie sighed. Arithmetic never had been her best subject. Now she wished she had paid more attention, for truly—as her teachers had warned—there had come a time when she needed that skill.

But all that learning, all that studying—for canning? Something in Ellie rebelled; something in Ellie would far rather have been counting out pills, measuring doses of paregoric; something in her would feel more fulfilled if she were mixing powders for a headache—healing bodies, not feeding stomachs!

And yet the work, whether canning or baking or washing or weeding, had to be done. Her father counted on her. And even if she were free to do otherwise, what, where, how?

It was a dream without a chance of fulfillment; the nightmare was the reality. The work by day, the nightmare by night.

Ever since Ellie had released Tom, her nights—even when the nightmare didn’t emerge full blown—were restless, as though she hovered on the verge of slipping into the torment of the nightmare itself; as if a shove, a hint, one more step, a single deep breath, would tumble her into its heat and flame. Consequently, she rose and faced her days without vigor, without her usual enthusiasm, without hope. Without a future.

Now, picking beans, filling her mind with what needed to be done rather than what had already transpired and what would never transpire, Ellie heard the sound of a passing rig—it was Tom.
Often and often across the years she had looked up at the sound of his passing, happy to see him, to wave, perhaps to run to intercept him, to warm herself for a few moments at his quick smile, his ready response. Now it was different, so different.

She paused, straightened her back, lifted her head and watched steadily as he came abreast of her... as he drove past. But she made no attempt to call, was not prepared to wave. Once and once only since their break had she done so. Driving past one day, Tom had glanced in her direction, and she had spontaneously and from old habit waved a greeting. Quickly, immediately, Tom had averted his gaze. Or so it seemed. But who was to say whether—under the brim of his old, crushed hat—he had really been looking her way? Wanting to believe the best but thinking the worst, Ellie had been forced to face the change in their relationship, to accept that it was final. As of course it was; it had only made sense to discontinue what was futile.

Tom obviously had taken her words to heart; his separation from her at church proved that—to her and to everyone else. Tom sat now with the other single men and boys of the community. Ellie could almost feel the eyes of the congregation fixed on the back of her head—partly sympathetic, mostly puzzled.

As for Tom, whether hurt or angry and certainly not understanding, he went grimly, even purposefully, through his days. He could do no less than get on with his life.

And he passed her by unseeing.

Having been her love, he would never be her friend. Sadly Ellie came to the conclusion: She had refused his love; she would have no friend in Tom Teasdale.

Still, she straightened her back and watched him as he passed. Perhaps she harbored a feeble wish that this one, having been a friend, and for so long a time, might continue in that relationship.

It seemed it was not to be so.

That afternoon, with the jars of beans finally cooling on a towel on the table and the fire allowed to die down until suppertime should demand its services again, Vonnie drove into the yard.

Though they had once been close, members of the same gang, the same Busy Bee Club, the years since school days had separated the two. Vonnie had married and moved away; letters had been infrequent. And since Vonnie returned to Bliss, a widow, to take up residence at the home farm again, their only contacts had been at church and the one reunion time at Marfa’s. The busy summer had not allowed for social gatherings; perhaps in the fall...

All that tied Ellie and Vonnie now were memories.

And it was memories they discussed as they sat together over a pot of tea. Lemonade would have been wonderful, but alas—there were no lemons, there was no ice. But with the door open, the afternoon breeze brought a measure of comfort into the house, and tea it was.

And wasn’t tea proper at any time? Certainly both Bliss-raised girls thought so. Each could recall earlier days, times of poor crops and seasons of poverty and deprivation, when tea leaves had been saved and reused until the resulting brew was scarcely tinted. But warmed milk, added bravely, gave a measure of taste, and a hint of tea and a hot cup held in a cold hand helped one cling to the idea that the finer things of life had not been forsaken and that they would, indeed, flourish again. So tea, summer or winter, was more than a gesture—it was a rite.

“This is a nice surprise,” Ellie said, welcoming her friend, helping her from the buggy, handing the reins over to her father, and turning toward the house. In fact, so unusual was it that Ellie was instantly alert to its possibilities for further surprise. “We should have got together long before this. But I must admit, I’m swamped with all there is to do. Now you, Vonnie, were a housewife for several years. Did you take naturally to it?”

“Not really,” Vonnie admitted, with a shrug of her slim shoulders as she took the proffered chair, sinking into it gracefully. “I could always think of so many other things that seemed more important. Mum spoiled me, I guess, growing up. I was accustomed to just slipping out from under responsibilities. And when I realized, for instance, that there wouldn’t be any dinner, or supper, unless I personally got in and prepared it, and that if I wanted
clean sheets on my bed I’d have to wash the dirty ones myself, well—”

Vonnie’s smile was fleeting. Pretty when she was a child, Vonnie, as an adult, had a certain fey beauty about her. Always mercurial—smiling one moment, frowning the next; teasing one moment, pouting the next; kind one moment, cruel the next—her features had a way of reflecting that same fickleness. Her face could be serene and lovely, only to turn, with a change of mood, to unattractive angles, flaring nostrils, tight lips. And watching, one wondered why Vonnie had seemed anything but ugly.