Burden of Memory (8 page)
In the morning she liked to have a run, but in the later afternoon or evening, a thoughtful slow walk offered her the time to enjoy the woods and appreciate the so-quick changing of the seasons. Every day she’d walked along the waterfront, or up the driveway to the main road.
But Elaine never stepped foot on the dock, fearing, for some reason she didn’t understand, to walk out to the point from which where her predecessor had never returned.
Sometimes she stopped to peer into the woods beyond the flagstone path, where the wet forest floor had halted her previous attempt at exploration. The neat, well-groomed path ended where the forest began. The end of civilization and the beginning of nature. She was about to turn, to retrace her steps and perhaps sit on the rocks for a while, hoping to see the blue heron that lived on a patch of hydro right-of-way at the end of the Madison property. A flicker of dappled brown and white, and a startled Elaine came face-to-face with an equally startled doe. They watched each other for the eternity of a heartbeat, neither knowing the etiquette of such situations. The doe blinked her enormous liquid brown eyes once, decided she had the most to lose from a confrontation, and fled into the forest with a flick of a tiny white tail and a flash of brown rump.
Elaine followed. Maybe the doe would have babies, fawns. Her knowledge of the lives of deer was limited to Bambi, and wasn’t Bambi born in the spring and nearly grown by the fall? But it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.
She stepped off the stone path and pushed aside a curtain of branches. The rich scent of decay filled the air and seeped into her clothes. Lush and primal and intense, the autumn woods were alive with the essence of life and death.
Her nerve endings twitched, but she wasn’t sure if she felt a ghost of the memory of her strange unease the last time she’d ventured past the white pines or a fairy-tale fear of dark, deserted woods.
Elaine kicked piles of brown and russet leaves aside with every step. Their crunch echoed under the weight of her hiking boots. Overhead, trees blazed with the brilliance of the colored leaves that remained. Yellow, shades of yellow beyond counting, red so dark it approached black and red as bright as a child’s Valentine’s Day heart, fading green and myriad shades of orange, most of which seemed more likely to be locked inside the frantic imaginations of the wildest artist than part of nature herself. Through the trees, she caught brief glimpses of the lake, shining blue and reflecting the late afternoon glow of the autumn sun.
From the copse to the right a swift rustle announced the departure of a surprised mouse or squirrel, maybe even the doe. Elaine stopped in her tracks, strained her eyes and ears, but nothing could be seen and the sounds did not come again.
She picked her way through the encroaching woods, the path fading to nothing behind her. She pushed the grappling branches aside and stepped lightly over moss-covered rocks. In the distance the two dogs barked fruitlessly at imagined invaders. Normally, she loved dogs, but these two….
As she headed up the hill, away from the lake, the undergrowth closed in around her. She pushed through thick bramble and branches that reached greedily at her clothes and limbs. For a moment her heart caught in her throat and she considered making a run for it. But a cooler head prevailed. This patch of forest might look like it was on the way to the end of the world, but it was not far to the asphalt road, the flowerpot-lined path along the waterfront, or the manicured lawn leading down to the freshly painted boathouses.
The trees were smaller here than most of the others on the property, and the undergrowth thicker, indicating that this had once been a clearing. Past a stand of jack pine she could see a small building. Surprised to see it here, deep in the woods and far from the rest of the compound, Elaine walked towards it.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and a wind blew up from the lake, its sharp bite full of the taste of the approaching winter. Elaine buttoned her cable-knit sweater to the chin and looked up in time to avoid a rogue branch swinging dangerously at eye level.
The cabin stood alone in the remains of a clearing, the woods encroaching on it from all sides. Paint, no telling what color it had once been, was peeling off pieces of lumber in chips minuscule and large. The roof sagged, badly. Let one more leaf fall onto it and the whole structure might well collapse. The windows were boarded up as tight as a vampire’s lair, without so much as a single crack to admit a sliver of light. A carpet of thick green moss and weeds crept up the crumbling steps and reached greedy tendrils into gaping cracks in the mortar.
The cabin was so out of place in this perfectly maintained property that Elaine glanced behind her, wondering if she had wandered off, like a modern day Rip van Winkle, only to emerge in another place or time. But she could still see the twinkle of sunlight dancing on lake waters, the clouds that seemed to be over her head only, and hear the barking of the dogs.
As she stepped out of the shelter of the trees an unexpected gust of wind forced her backward. Her foot hooked a gnarled old root; only by grabbing a low branch did she manage to save herself from an ignoble tumble onto the rough ground. The icy wind pushed eagerly through the openings in her sweater to dig frozen fingers through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. The branch cracked under her weight and Elaine fell onto her knees.
Cursing, she struggled to her feet and was inspecting her jeans for damage when a low moan echoed around the cabin. It spoke of cold and loneliness and pain and was alive with a force unlike any wind Elaine had ever experienced. Goosebumps rose along her arms under the layers of warm wool and caused the short hairs at the back of her neck to stand upright. She was reminded of the dogs the first time they saw her, every wiry, black hair along their backs twitching with scarcely contained tension.
The wind lifted the piles of dead leaves that had fallen into a mess on the front porch into the air, higher and higher. Reaching knee height, they circled, faster and ever faster, into a maelstrom of rust-yellow, black, and brown. The whirlpool churned. Individual leaves broke away and flew across the clearing, while those lying further away were sucked relentlessly in. A piece of paper joined them, a disconcerting flash of human-bleached white, pure and clean against the complex colors of nature’s death. She caught the whiff of cheap, stale perfume, borne on the wind, the kind a pre-teen girl would buy, counting out her meager allowance at the cosmetic counter in a drug store.
The moan sounded again, if anything softer and more oppressive than the first time. It came directly from the void that was the churning middle of the tiny storm.
Heedless of dirty jeans, sore knees, and scraped knuckles, heart pounding and limbs shaking, Elaine turned and fled.
Acting quite unlike her normal self, Moira chatted cheerfully on the short cab ride to the hotel. The men smiled politely and said little; Rose stared in wide-eyed wonder out the windows of the car. She had scarcely closed her mouth since Moira announced that they were to have tea.
The great city of London was alive with activity. They passed government buildings surrounded by mountains of sandbags, bombed out homes, and shops that were not much more than piles of rubble. The streets were crowded with soldiers, sailors, and airmen in every possible combination of uniform and nationality. Bicycles were everywhere, weaving in and out of traffic with reckless abandon.
Huge posters and billboards covered the city, on the sides of fences and buildings, calling on people to register for war duties: “Don’t leave it to others.” To save food, to save for Victory. They issued instructions on how to behave in an air shelter, reminded people to carry their gas masks, to eat carrots (supposedly to help one see better in the blackout), and of numerous other tasks and responsibilities, both large and small.
“I suppose London has changed considerably since your last visit, Miss Robinson,” Ralph said when Moira stopped to take a breath.
Innocent that she was, Rose fell into the trap. “I’ve never been to London, sir,” she said. “I mean Ralph. Lieutenant Madison.” She giggled and her pale face turned a blotchy red.
“Really,” he said dryly. “I never would have guessed.”
“That’s all right, Miss Robinson,” Charlie spoke up, the words stumbling awkwardly over themselves in an effort to find their way out of his mouth. “This is my first time in London too. I’m hoping to go to the National Portrait Gallery tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to join me? If you have nothing planned, I mean.”
Rose lowered her head, shyly. “That would be lovely,” she mumbled.
Moira smiled her gratitude at Charlie, while Ralph tried to cut him with a glare. There was hope for the friend, yet. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the sycophant she had imagined him to be.
Even the piles of sandbags stacked outside couldn’t disguise the timeless elegance of the hotel. An elderly man dressed in stiff livery, too old for war work, hurried curbside to help the cabbie with their scraps of luggage.
Moira’s shoelace was unraveling. She bent over to tie it and straightened up as Ralph paid off the cab driver. She had no idea what the fare might be and no interest, but she caught a glimpse of Rose’s stunned face as the English farm girl saw the size of the tip and the driver’s toothy grin of appreciation.
A chill touched Moira’s spine. Now that it was too late she feared that she might have made a mistake inviting this awkward girl into their circle.
But what’s done is done, and they followed Charlie up the steps to the hotel. The endless sea of khaki and blue-gray of the streets broke as they reached the lobby. Carefully made-up women wore bright dresses with colored hats, real nylon stockings and shoes with high, sharp heels. Most of the men were older, in neat suits and thin black ties. Only a few wore a uniform.
Ralph marched up to the desk. Moira hung back. Nothing for her to do; everything would be taken care of. Trained to recognize money, the bellhop scrambled to help with their bags. He was fairly young—strange to see him out of uniform. But his hip was badly twisted, and he walked with an awkward, loping gate.
Tossing the room keys casually in one hand, Ralph herded the group to the elevator. Moira reminded herself to call it the lift.
“Downstairs in half an hour?” Ralph called to her as the bellhop showed Moira into her room.
“Beat you to it,” she laughed in echo of a childhood memory.
He smiled the wide comfortable smile she remembered so well and, as usual, she forgave him everything.
Rose stood in the middle of the huge, lovely room drinking in the details.
“Sorry to drag you off like that,” Moira said, pressing a tip into the bellhop’s hand. He closed the door silently on his way out. “But my brother can be so domineering, I simply wanted to be on our way.” She opened her suitcase and rummaged around for her toiletries. “You’re welcome to have tea with us, and I’ll see that you get a cab to your cousin’s house. But I’m sure she’s wondering where you are. So if you would like to be on your way?”
“No. This is lovely.” Rose sat on the bed and bounced tentatively, up and down. “Even me mum and dad don’t have a bed this big,” she said in awe. “Your brother must be so rich! And he’s dishy, too. He looks like he could be in pictures. Clark Gable or someone.”
“No,” Moira said, gratefully tugging off her tie. How she hated wearing a tie. If there was one thing that threatened to drive her out of the Army Nursing Sisters it was being confined in a tie: that medieval instrument of torture. She sometimes fantasized about the delight she would have, ripping the thing off in front of Matron and the doctors and running from the room screaming. “My brother isn’t rich. He likes to spread his money around. More fool him.”
“Still,” Rose sighed. “This is such a beautiful room. I can’t wait to tell Mum and Dad all about it.”
“I’m going to wash and get changed,” Moira said. “Help yourself to anything at all. Then we’ll go down for tea.”
Rose strolled over to the windows and pulled the thick blackout curtains aside. “Do you think that perhaps your brother could help me find a job? If the factory don’t work out, I mean?”
“No!” Moira almost shouted. Looking at Rose’s startled white face, she felt sorry immediately. “Please, don’t ask Ralph for anything. He’s my brother and I love him…but he’s not terribly nice. Really.”
“Well, I think he’s nice,” Rose said, dreamily watching the city moving below. “His friend Mr. Stoughton is nice too, don’t you think?”
“I’ll have that wash now. See you in a minute.”
The two women were ready and waiting in the lobby when Ralph and his friend arrived. Moira had changed into her best dress, a soft blue color that flared from the tight fitting waist to billow in gentle clouds around her knees. She had been about to slip on a precious pair of silk stockings sent by her mother when, catching sight of Rose, staring lonely and lost at the blackout curtained window, she returned them to her case. They would keep for another day. She would venture out barelegged—too bad about the legs shockingly pale from a long English winter.
Moira loved every detail of the English custom of afternoon tea. And unlike her sisters, she had never tried to hide her ferocious love of eating. But the war’s long tentacles stretched even as far as the kitchens of this hotel. The sandwiches were liver paste rather than salmon, the watercress well past its best date, the clotted cream thin and runny, and the pastries even tougher than the currant cake prepared in the kitchens at Bramshott. But the ritual was what mattered, and as long as the china was paper thin, the waitress dressed in crisp black and white, and the tea served hot and fresh in a silver pot, nothing else would concern her.
Moira and Ralph talked throughout the meal, mostly news of home, gossip about their comrades and complaints about the severity of the work and the hardships of war. Rose and Charlie said almost nothing. They seemed happy to listen to the siblings babble.
When the tiny plates were cleared away, the men settled back and lit up cigarettes. Charlie extended a pack to Rose and the English girl accepted with such gratitude that once again Moira felt a twinge of guilt.
“That was so lovely,” Moira sighed, patting her stomach. She must have consumed three quarters of the tea all by herself. She didn’t care for tea all that much, unless it was as sweet as treacle, and the wartime sugar bowl was shockingly low, but she loved drinking the hot liquid out of the bone china cup with the delicate blue flowers. “Your cousin will be dreadfully concerned by now, Rose. We must get you off to her.”
“I didn’t give them a time,” Rose said. She also was sated into contentment by the luxury of her surroundings, the wonderful sandwiches (on bread so thin, with the crusts cut off!) and cakes, and the marvelous Canadian officers who sat across the table.
“Well, if you must go,” Ralph said lazily, exhaling a stream of smoke as he eyed a flashy blonde in a low cut red dress and the highest of heels, who had entered the room and stood in a display of obvious confusion, apparently looking for her companions.
“Miss Robinson,” Charlie said formally, the color rising in his thin face. “Allow me to call you a taxi.”
Rose giggled and glanced hopefully towards Ralph. He wasn’t even looking at her. Without a word he pushed away from the table and strode across the room to the blonde. She reached into her purse for a cigarette. Ralph arrived in time to flick open his silver lighter.
“That’s nice of you, Mr. Stoughton. Thank you,” Moira said, trying to draw everyone’s eyes to her. “We’ve kept you long enough, Rose. I hope we’ll get together again soon.”
Charlie leapt to his feet. Rose had carried her suitcase down to the tearoom and he lunged for it. “I’m sure we will. The National Gallery tomorrow, remember, Miss Robinson.”
“Please, call me Rose.” The English girl smiled broadly at Moira and the small, stained teeth didn’t seem to matter. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
“And thank you for your company,” Moira said, meaning it.
Charlie walked to the road with Rose to help her hail a cab. Ralph and the blonde settled at a table in a dark corner and he was ordering something more substantial than tea. Moira took herself back to her room. It had been a long day and she was dead tired and would love a bit of a nap. She wondered if Ralph would extradite himself from his new companion in time to take her to the theatre and then to supper, as was their plan.
An exhausted Moira crawled into bed wearing only her thick army-issue underwear. Being spring, it was still full daylight outside; fortunately the blackout curtains blocked the sunlight.
Her last conscious thoughts were of Rose Robinson. Moira rather liked her: shy and awkward but so excited to experience different surroundings. She doubted that she would see Rose again.
Ralph failed to arrive at the expected time. Instead an embarrassed Charlie Stoughton stood at Moira’s door, clutching a bunch of wilted purple flowers bought from a street vendor.
Moira laughed and gathered him into her room. “I’ve been stood up by Ralph Madison before, more than once. I do hope he didn’t have to pay you too much to take me out.”
“He didn’t pay me a single penny,” Charlie insisted indignantly. Moira believed him. Charlie wouldn’t need to be paid. He had the air of a fortune hunter, she could smell them a mile off.
Guessing that Charlie might not have the money to spend on the sort of evening Ralph would have planned, Moira made a suggestion. “Some of the girls were all excited about the Maple Leaf Club on Moreton Street. It’s near Victoria Station they said, so we can take the tube. All the Canadians on leave go there, they said, and it’s lots of fun. Shall we try it, Charlie?”
Charlie agreed, with something like relief, and they had a wonderful evening, meeting men and women from all over Canada. By general agreement, no one talked about the war. The soldiers and airmen were on leave, enjoying a few days to pretend—despite the blackout curtains on the windows, air raid sirens overhead, ample but unimaginative food, and crowded accommodations—that they were back home in Winnipeg or Moose Jaw or Halifax or an unnamed stretch of the vast Canadian bush. Canadian and English Red Cross workers, women, worked hard to make the men feel welcome. Moira enjoyed the evening far more than she would have out on the town with Ralph.
In all it was a wonderful leave. Ralph arrived the next morning full of lame excuses and apologies and Moira forgave him, as she always did. They toured the wonders of London during the day and dined and danced as the sun set. They didn’t see Charlie Stoughton again, nor did she hear from Rose, for which she was guiltily pleased. This was her time to be with her beloved brother and to forget the horrors of the job and the war all around them. She didn’t want to be bothered with an awkward English farm girl with bad teeth and worse social skills.
