The Age of Water Lilies (15 page)

When the letter arrived, only a few lines—a greeting, a comment about the weather, and then,
Sed nos immensum spatiis confecium aequor / et iam tempus equum fumantia solvere colla
—it caught Flora completely by surprise. His name, preceded by love. She kept tracing her finger over his signature as if to keep him safe.

She wrote the difficult letter to her parents, giving them some information of her condition, her new home, details of Victoria that she hoped would soften the blow a little. She described the gardens, so English in their plantings and order, and the shops where one could buy tartans and Irish linen or order china to replace broken pieces. A telegram came in response with a brief message:
Extremely disappointed. Stop. George has failed us. Stop. Henry has enlisted. Stop. Father.

She summoned her courage and wrote another letter to the Alexanders, telling them that now she had grown to learn the streets and neighbourhoods, she realized they were only a short distance away.

FOURTEEN

January–February 1915

“They have invited me to tea. Tomorrow,” Flora told Ann. “But I am afraid I will be turned from the door.” She laughed nervously. “Mrs. Alexander sounded polite but stern. Yes, Gus had written to tell them I would be coming to Victoria, and my reason for leaving Walhachin. Yes, they received my letter. Yes, they would agree to have me visit. Then directions. A time. That was all.” She took a deep breath. “I think I will walk if this sunshine holds. I must say after two winters in Walhachin, I did not expect British Columbia to have such mild weather. Look, Ann! There are snowdrops in your garden!”

“Yes, and before you know it, there will be daffodils too. Don't worry about tomorrow. What do you say we walk down to the water?”

The door was opened by a grey-haired woman in a severe dark blue dress. A man was behind her, tall, with the blue eyes Flora knew from his son. She was taken to a sitting room where a fire burned.

“I cannot tell you we are happy about this,” the woman began, but her husband cut in gently.

“Perhaps you could pour Miss Oakden a cup of tea, my dear, and let her get her bearings.”

Flora sat in a deep leather armchair and was handed a cup of tea, the pattern the same Royal Worcester that her parents used for afternoon tea. She thought she would not mention this. Both of Gus's parents watched her as she drank her tea, taking in her good clothing, her features, the unmistakable fact of her pregnancy. She waited for them to say something, then put her teacup down.

“I know I must present something of a shock to you. I am a shock to myself. I was living one kind of life and now find that I must learn to live another kind entirely. But I must assure you that your son and I loved each other, love each other still. When he returns home—Oh, I hope it will be soon!—we intend to marry. This is not to say that I planned to have a child, not like this, but I cannot say I am altogether unhappy with it either.”

Dr. Alexander spoke first. “We have not seen our son, our only son, in five years, and then only briefly after an absence of three years. It is a source of regret to me that hard words were spoken on my part, and he took my anger seriously and disappeared. We had no idea he was working in Walhachin. The last I heard was a rumour of his presence in a gambling establishment in San Francisco. So to receive a letter from a training camp in England with the information that there was a young lady in the picture who might contact us, a young lady expecting his child . . . You can surely see that it came as a surprise.
You
come as a surprise, Miss Oakden, and it will take time to adjust.”

“I wonder what your own parents make of this,” Mrs. Alexander broke in crisply. “Have they disowned you? It would surprise me if they haven't. I am the mother of two daughters and would not hesitate to call them to account if such a thing occurred in our family. Which it wouldn't.”

Flora wanted to rise from her chair immediately, find her coat, and leave. She did not know what she expected, but it was not this woman's chilly assessment. Instead, she thought for a moment, then answered. “My parents are puzzled, of course, and I suspect rather relieved that I am so many thousands of miles away. They blame my brother, with whom I lived in Walhachin, for not keeping a closer eye on me. They won't acknowledge that I am an adult woman who must take responsibility for her own actions. And I expect they hope the whole thing will be taken care of somehow and never spoken of again.”

Mrs. Alexander sniffed, as though in complete agreement with the long-suffering Oakdens, while Dr. Alexander looked thoughtful.

Flora continued: “Although I may wish that Gus and I married before he left, I have no doubt of his love for me and I know he will return to me and our child. As for such a thing occurring in your family, I can only assure you that your son did have an involvement in the making of this child. He will do the right thing. I am certain of that. But if you haven't seen him for five years, perhaps you have no idea of the man he became in his absence from you. In truth, it is eight years since you have known him. And now I have taken enough of your time. I will say goodbye.”

She struggled to her feet and moved as calmly as she could towards the anteroom where her coat was hanging. She let herself out quickly and walked down the hill, her cheeks hot at the memory of the words spoken in her lover's home.

Back at Hollyhock Cottage, Flora gave Ann only the briefest of accounts of the meeting. Then she excused herself and went to her room to rest. She had walked back to Memorial Crescent at such a pace, fuelled by both anger and hurt, that she had worn herself out. She fell asleep with a knot in her heart that weighted her body to the bed like a stone.

A gentle knock upon the bedroom door. “Flora, a note has come for you from that awful man. Shall I bring it in to you?”

Ann handed Flora an envelope of heavy cream linen stock, her name on it, her address, in a strong black script. “By Hand” was written across the bottom. She opened it.

My dear Miss Oakden,

You are perfectly correct. We've no idea of the man our son has become. Will you tell me about him? I should like that very much. I apologize for our treatment of you in our home earlier today. My wife is too bewildered and unhappy to think clearly or lovingly about this, but I would like to see you again to try to make amends for our incivility. May I come by at your convenience to take you out to tea? Sincerely yours,

Robert Alexander

He had not said anything directly unkind. It had been Gus's stern mother. So Flora agreed to the tea for the next week. He arrived in a car, an immaculate Model T, and he was solicitous as he helped her to the passenger seat. He drove carefully along May to Cook and then to the city centre, where he parked his vehicle in front of the Garden Tea Room and held the door open for Flora to enter. On the drive he had only commented on the houses they passed, the progression of plants—she was surprised that winter was so mild here, even milder than Wiltshire where their pond occasionally froze to allow skating—his medical practice. But once inside, seated at a booth below walls trellised with lathe and swags of ivy trained through and among them, he made a formal apology for the way she had been treated at his home. Flora accepted without additional comment. He was a man who didn't do this often, she deduced, didn't admit he had been wrong. It would serve nothing to make things worse. She reminded herself that he was her lover's father, the man responsible for much of who and what his son had become. She remembered Gus's reflection about the malt whisky that his father enjoyed, as did his son, and she smiled.

“Will you share the thought that makes you smile, Miss Oakden?”

“Only if you will call me Flora. And it is only an observation that Gus once made about whisky, that the two of you shared a fondness for the Islay malts. It was the day when the child of the Indian woman who cleaned for us died. I was very upset. Gus offered me a drink from his flask. A day I remember because it was the first of my brother's rules that I broke, and I was surprised at how little guilt I felt, particularly as the whisky had such a fine mellow flavour.”

Robert Alexander chuckled delightedly. He was surpris- ingly easy to talk to. Over tea, cucumber sandwiches, slices of Battenburg cake (which he joked would soon have to be renamed, just as the Royal Family's name, Saxe-Coburg, was rumoured to be in the process of being anglicized, both because of their association with the Hun: “Mountbatten? Is that change enough, do you think, Flora?”), he asked about her background, her family, the adventure in gentlemanly apple-growing undertaken by her brother. He was hungry for information about his son. Flora told him everything she knew, even the names of the horses, and then she realized how much she didn't know: where the entire past five years had gone, for instance. She knew of his two years on ranches and farms, but before that there had only been hints: a mine in Colorado, some time at sea. His father was aware of a brief stint teaching at a one-roomed school in the northern part of the province. Talking about him made him seem closer. His father absorbed every word.

On the way home, the doctor (“Please call me Robert. It does not seem appropriate to suggest myself yet as father-in-law, but one day we will talk about that.”) asked if he might take her to tea another time. Flora agreed. She liked him and felt at ease in his company. What was left unsaid was that Mrs. Alexander would not be part of the outing.

•  •  •

Flora thought she would set up maternity care in preparation for the birth of her child, and to that end, she visited St. Joseph's Hospital by the convent of the Sisters of St. Ann. It was the Sisters themselves who operated the hospital. She had contacted them in the weeks after her arrival in Victoria because she felt she should follow up on their invitation to come to see them once she arrived. There had been a meeting with a Sister in a tidy room overlooking extensive gardens and orchards where she was given the impression she should arrange to stay in a home for unwed mothers to which they would be happy to refer her. Arrangements would be made for the Christian adoption of her child after its delivery. The Sister was kind but obviously taken aback when Flora replied that she had no intention of giving her baby up, that she and the baby's father would be married as soon as the war was over, and that although irregular, she felt her situation did not present insurmountable difficulties. Clearly the Sister thought otherwise.

At the suggestion of the Sister, Flora arranged for an appointment to see a doctor. He was very severe. It was his opinion that she had no choice but to take shelter in the home for unwed mothers, deliver herself of her child to the good work of the orphanage, and come to an agreement with God afterwards. She left in tears.

Ann was a great consolation when Flora returned to Hollyhock Cottage. She made a simple meal of scrambled egg and toast and carried the tray in by the fire; she poured them each a glass of sherry.

“Why on earth should you need to use their hospital at all, Flora? Babies are born at home all the time. And you
have
a home, here, with me. We will find a doctor who will take you as your patient, not lecture you, but who will come here to do what is necessary. I think you must know I am looking forward to this child as much as you are. I will help in any way that I am able to.”

“Oh, bless you, Ann. I have to say that I left that doctor thinking that I was truly a fallen woman and that I ought to give up my child to the mercy of . . . well, the orphanage, though I can barely say the word. Listening to you restores my faith in myself somewhat.”

Ann smiled and threaded a slice of bread onto a toasting fork. “I love the smell of toasting bread! Have you seen the Protestant orphanage, by the way? A beautiful location, all hilly, surrounded by oak meadows, but the building itself . . . Oh, my Lord. Red brick, and a sense of chilly foreboding, like something out of Dickens. I've always imagined faces at the windows when I've passed it, and little screams for help, but I suppose that is my imagination at work!”

When Robert Alexander arrived to take her for tea the next time, Flora found herself telling him about the consultations with both the nun and the doctor. He surprised her by offering to assist with the birth.

“Like your friend Mrs. Ogilvie, I am inclined to think that most babies can be safely delivered at home. I have assisted hundreds into the world myself. And I would be honoured if you should require my help. No need to decide now but know that I am available. Of course you will keep your child, Flora, and one day it will be a story to tell your grandchildren. They will not believe that their grandmother had such a time of it in very proper Victoria!”

FIFTEEN

Mid-April 1915

She did not know at first why she was awake. Still night. The dark windows unlit by any dawn. She was sleepy for a moment, then felt pain beginning in her abdomen, intense pain that lasted only a few seconds but that gripped her body fully while it lasted. She waited. A few minutes later, there was another. Less intense this time. Then another. She rose from her bed, put on her wrapper, and quietly went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

Ann entered the kitchen, asking, “Is everything all right, Flora?”

“I think today will be the baby's birthday,” replied Flora, turning to smile at Ann, then suddenly consumed by another pain.

“Have you had the pains for long?”

When she could speak again, Flora told her that she wasn't certain, only that she had been brought out of sleep by them.

“I will call the doctor now and see what he would like us to do.”

She spoke into the phone, then turned to Flora. “He asks, has there been water?”

“No, but the pains are coming a little more often . . .” and with that, she sat heavily in a chair and held her stomach with both hands as though to confine the pain and what might come after.