Mystical Rose (19 page)

It was like the way Robbie died. Soldiers die in traffic accidents. Boats catch fire. Survivors of Hiroshima get knifed in strange beds. Miners die of old age.

I know, said Parker, in a hoarse whisper, nodding her head like a marionette. I know.

What do you know? I replied. Breakfast time — for them. We’d already had our bread and jam. In the dining room they had sausage and bacon, eggs three ways, cold black toast smeared with butter. And coffee. I loved the coffee — always tried to steal a cup for myself. Some of the servants were always taking food, or liquor, but I never bothered.

I know what happens, said Parker. When she nodded, her cap frill flipped up and down very gracefully. I know what happens at night in your room.

Oh yes?

You think you’re being so quiet. I listen, you know. Got keen ears, old Parky, don’t you think, Rose, my girl?

Keen as mustard, I murmured, gliding a tray onto my arm and carrying it out through the swinging doors. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

She came back to it that night. Getting ready? she asked as I was on my way to the bath.

I nodded. Chilly in the hallway and all I had on was a loose shift. Nightgown under my arm, yawning. Her eyes were bright with mischief.

Oh to be in your slippers, she muttered. Not that I suppose you’re in slippers with him, hey?

I smiled, unsure of her meaning.

I don’t want to tell her ladyship about it, she said to me, putting her hand on my shoulder. It reached all the way around, to grab my shoulder blade, like a claw, or the tines on a pitchfork.

Tell her what? I asked.

That’s it. Keep up the front, she said, squeezing.

I moved past her to the door of the bathroom. The hot water steamed invitingly.

You know, I’ve a fancy for a bath myself, said Parker, staring at me and then at the water, which I’d carried up myself from downstairs a few minutes ago.

I —

I think I’ll take my bath right now. Parker took the towel from my hand and stepped over the doorsill.

I shouldn’t have protested. I should have smiled and nodded, and left the room, but I stepped up to her and said, It’s my turn.

She was already unbuttoning herself. It’s my turn, I said again. I was whispering, I don’t know why. It was ridiculous, but it was also embarrassingly intimate.

You’ve always hated me, I said. I shivered.

Haven’t. She stared at me, breathing hard. Haven’t.

I stepped back, but it was a small room, and Parker and the hot water bucket took up a lot of space.

We’ll have a bath together, she said. You can go first if you like, since you brought up the water. I’ll jump in after you, Rose.

I blinked.

I don’t hate you, she said. You’re young and beautiful. No figure, mind you, but you are quite beautiful.

She stared at my — at my figure, I guess. I blushed, and pulled my robe tighter.

Remember, I know about you and him, she whispered. And her ladyship doesn’t — yet.

Reaching forward, she stumbled and fell against me. I smelled liquor on her breath.

The driveway dragged on and on, people talking to each other with smiles on their faces, making notes on their … things you make notes on, Harriet patting my hand. Mostly she looked angry but once I surprised a look of pain on her face, after I’d said something to the man in a hurry. He wasn’t a doctor, he was too tall and too badly dressed. He chewed mints all the time, like he was trying to give up smoking. Did I say driveway? I meant meeting.

You don’t understand, I told him. Albert is a friend of mine. Don’t you have any friends?

He didn’t reply. Dr. Sylvester, he said, in your opinion is this guest — we were all guests at the Villa, isn’t that a nice way to put it? Like the Villa was a hotel. Except that we weren’t getting out of the hotel alive — is this guest competent to make her own decisions?

Dr. Sylvester cleared his throat. Rose, he said, smiling at me, is a charming and occasionally lucid person.

Thank you, doctor, I said.

Her daughter and I have discussed the issue of her competence. As of yet Harriet has made no decision. Which means that —

Legally, interrupted the pregnant lady.

— Yes, legally, Rose is still competent.

Everyone looked down at me. They were all on their feet. I was in bed, like royalty. I waved.

We have no right to forbid consenting adults, began the pregnant lady.

On hospital premises, said someone else.

They had said this before. I looked at Harriet and rolled my eyes. She wasn’t bored, though. She was upset.

Don’t you see, she said. I want my mother protected from … attacks.

They didn’t ignore her. I was glad to see that.

But, Miss Rolyoke, they aren’t attacks if she gives consent, said the lawyer. We have no right to restrain Mr. Morgan from … visiting someone who’s expecting him.

It’s ludicrous. He calls her Mavis, for heaven’s sake.

Harriet’s lip quivered.

Don’t hate me, I whispered to her. Please don’t hate me.

Oh Mama. I’m so scared. I can feel your heart beating fast and light, and I’m so scared. The birds in the cage overhead are shrieking.

In the distance I can hear the sound of rushing water.

Saturday brunch in midtown Toronto. Winter’s slushy fingers grabbed at the city like a visiting brother-in-law, whining that it was only a few weeks and then it would be gone. For good, this time. The medieval tents had all been taken down, the pavilion turned into an ice rink. No one skated; it was too wet. Harriet and I were inside, drinking coffee.

Would I? Would I have had a drink instead of coffee? I might have. It’s not a sin, You know. On a Saturday afternoon, a recently retired lady listening to her daughter’s troubles at work can have a drink.

Good news, she told me. Mr. Sherman thinks Stephen is telling the truth. We’re going to be able to get his case heard again by the Workmen’s Compensation Board.

That’s wonderful, I said.

I just hope we can make the board change its mind. The medical reports are tricky. The orthopedic surgeons all say he’s faking, and his chiropracters all say he’s telling the truth.

Have you followed him? I said.

She took a sip of coffee before answering. Why would I follow him, Mother?

She’s so smart, Harriet, she doesn’t know how she puts up with me sometimes.

Well, you’re an investigator, I said. And following is what investigators do. Sometimes. I was thinking that if you followed him you might find him tap-dancing or something. And then you’d know he was faking.

Harriet smiled, the way she does when she’s exasperated. A truly frightening smile, I think it’s why she never married.

Mother, I work for the government of Ontario. The ombudsman is a civil servant, not a private detective. I read files and interview doctors.

Oh, I said, sipping my — my drink, I guess. Hope it wasn’t rum. I’d drunk it with Ruby, but never really liked it.

And I don’t think he’s faking it, Harriet said thoughtfully, staring past me. I’ve spoken to injured workers’ groups and to the Workmen’s Compensation Board about Stephen, she said. No one thinks he’s faking the pain. They just don’t know what causes it. It’s hard to prove that the whole thing is related to his job. The X-rays are inconclusive, she said.

Big greasy snowflakes fell straight down onto the empty skating rink. Icicles hung from the boughs of plastic pine trees in pots. Despite the slushy conditions the icicles did not drip, and I realized that they were artificial as well, fastened with metal bands to the boughs of the artificial trees.

Is he a good-looking man, this Stephen? I asked.

Mother!

No, really.

She sipped her coffee and looked away. Well, then, yes, I guess he is. If you like the type.

Now Parker had it in for me. She had me washing up for three days in a row, instead of alternating between the four indoor girls. The back kitchen — scullery, they called it — was windowless and chill, with a stone floor. At least the water was hot. Maureen offered to take my job on my birthday morning, but Parker insisted, glaring at me spitefully.

I asked Mr. Davey what I should do.

We were in the coach house, around the back. I was in my walking dress, so it must have been an afternoon off. He was polishing the Hispano Suizo. He drove Mr. Rolyoke downtown to work in the mornings, and then drove back to the house by himself. In the afternoons Mr. Davey drove downtown by himself, and back to the house with Mr. Rolyoke. There was a smaller car in the garage, I can’t remember the kind, and a cabriolet Packard that Lady Margaret used. I saw the cars every morning: both the Hispano and the Packard had flower vases in their passenger compartments.

Do you know why Parker should be persecuting you? he asked.

I hesitated, then told him as much as I could about the incident in the bathroom.

He was concerned. Did she hurt you, Rose? he asked.

I flushed, recalling the lurch of her heavy body in the dim light, the shock of her hands on me. I didn’t know she drank, I said.

Mr. Davey didn’t say anything. He knew, I suppose.

Why don’t you talk to her ladyship, he said, wiping away water spots from the front fender. Tell her the problem you’re having with Parker.

I hesitated. I don’t know if Lady Margaret really cares for me, I said. Inside the garage was a smell of horses, left over from the last generation. Comforting, somehow. Outside, the rain beat down.

He didn’t say anything. He knew why. I suppose it must have
been the gossip of the servants’ quarters, even though no one had ever said anything directly to me.

There you are, Rose. I’ve been looking all over for you.

Robbie stood in the doorway, hands on his hips. A cigarette stuck out of his mouth at a jaunty angle.

Good afternoon, sir, I said.

That’s a nice scarf you’re wearing, he said with a sweet, innocent smile. Who gave you that? It looks like real silk.

Mr. Davey kept his head down, polishing.

Who died on the
Noronic?
Passengers, that’s who. The crew were all ashore. You wouldn’t think it would be so bad — ship catches fire in the harbour, all the people had to do was hurry ashore — but the fire was on the shore side. Some people swam to safety, but a lot didn’t. Lake Ontario is awfully cold in September.

Ruby and I arrived back in Toronto the day after the fire — the 18th. The train was full of the
Noronic
. People didn’t talk about China at all. Or the pennant race. It would have been ten at night when we pulled into Union Station. Ruby went straight to the shipping offices to get a list of the casualties. It wasn’t there. She phoned Montgomery’s friends. She wept.

I was surprised at the dimensions of her emotion. I didn’t imagine her feeling that much for anyone. Certainly not for Montgomery, who was always going off and leaving her. In my mind I compared him to Robbie, and couldn’t help thinking how lucky I was to have had Robbie.

The pier next morning was a dreadful sight, the pile of twisted blackened metal, people standing around shaking their heads. Ruby wasn’t the only weeper.

I tried to cry but couldn’t. I was too scared. The sight of the big ship on its side was so frightening. You can drown in the bathtub, I know, but the green water of the Toronto harbour looked so … uncaring, slopping this way and that, against piers and small craft and gulls, indifferent to what it touched, animal or vegetable or the hull of the
Noronic
, full of charred dead. Water doesn’t care; all it does is find its level.

I’m back in the present, the lights are on, and the bus is lurching as it rounds a corner. The nurses hold on tight. You don’t have to, don’t even put out Your arms. Good balance.

There’s a doctor leaning over me. He listens to my chest with a cold metal … stethoscope.

I cough. The cold spot shifts.

Do I know you? I ask.

He puts away the stethoscope.

I’m Rose, I say. I cough again.

I know.

Hello, Harriet, I say. She’s on my other side, wiping her eyes.

Hello, Mother.

You were having trouble breathing there, the doctor tells me.

Was I?

Your lungs have fluid in them, the doctor says. And you’re a little hot.

How does he know? Yes, I am, I say. My voice sounds strange.

The bus slows down. I hear the hiss of brakes and the nurse and doctor grab on to my bed. The doctor says something to the nurse. It sounds like it’s in code. How much, the nurse says. The doctor tells her.

What are you doing now? asks Harriet. The doctor explains
about the fluid in my lungs again. How old is your mother? he asks Harriet. Harriet tells her.

Are you sure? I ask.

Harriet smiles down at me. Yes, dear.

I don’t feel that old, I say.

How old do you feel?

I remember the morning of my nineteenth birthday. I woke to dread uncertainty, the future a busy field of consequences. What had happened? What had we done?

My new bedroom was still strange to me. I went to the small window. Throwing open the cotton blinds I saw familiar darkness lightening towards day and then — for the first time in months — the sun itself, its rays outflung like a mother’s arms, engulfing the whole landscape. My room faced north and a bit east, across the square, and this day was the first day of the year when the sun rose in sight of my window. I stared down at the suddenly hopeful street below, the plodding carthorse and whistling milkman.