The Age of Water Lilies (20 page)

Jane,
Flora wrote back that very evening,
you could not possibly speak out of turn. I am so happy to have your letter with the photograph evidencing your great happiness. And it grieves me to tell you that Gus was killed in 1915, on May 24, at Festubert, just weeks after Grace was born. I don't even know if he knew of her birth. We would have married. I cannot regret Grace, who is all I have of him now, apart from memories. I minded terribly when I began to be shunned in the community, but I have made something of a life for us here, with the help of a wonderful woman who took me in and who is a second mother to Grace. Oh, it is too little to call it “help”—it is entirely due to her that I have any kind of life at all. I am thinking that one day I should like to take Grace to Walhachin, to see what is left of my house there, and to ask about Gus's horses. Do you know what happened to Flight and Agate?

The letters flew between the Upper Hat Creek Valley and Memorial Crescent as quickly as the steamships and trains could carry them. No, Flora had no photograph of Grace, but one was arranged: a man Ann knew who came to the house and took shots of a wide-eyed girl staring into the strange object with the hood and flash, her mother holding her and smiling not at the man who operated the camera but at her friend who would look into the photograph for news. And would find her friend changed, as the years change a face, cause the little lines of happiness or sorrow to form around the eyes, the slight disappointment in the lips, unkissed for much more than a year, though still with the shape of another mouth like a shadow across them.

As for Gus's horses, Allan asked our foreman and it seems Agrippa took them finally when it was clear no one had time for them at the settlement. He bred Flight and there was a filly,
high-stepping, just like the dam; Allan said she would make a good polo pony if there is ever a team again at Walhachin
.
Flora, let's keep in touch. We will probably come down to Vancouver in the spring, and I would love to come across the water to see you and your Grace. Can we try to do that? And if you would like me to look in on your house, by all means let me know. I could easily arrange a trip over to Walhachin on one of our trips down for supplies. Allan has taken to driving to Kamloops for particular things now that the road's been improved. We like the change, though Heaven knows not much actually changes from our place to Kamloops. Some of the ranches have been abandoned, but there's hardly pleasure in that—the barns open to the weather and wagons without their wheels collapsed in the yards. It would be a nice side-trip to drive over the bridge, though, and onto the bench to see what might be seen. And to find out the news!

It was no small consolation to Flora to have Jane's letters, her old affection alive in the words, the memory of their afternoons at the ranch a balm to the abiding grief in her heart, a time when it seemed that anything might be possible in those golden days that seemed to have no end. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see the wildflowers on the road as she drove up the Oregon Jack Creek Road with Pete Richardson, windows open to the asters and fringe-cups, stork's bill and blue penstemon in garlands on the roadside, black bear cubs at play in the soft meadows.

And if it did not happen that the waters would be crossed between the mainland and Vancouver Island in the next year, Flora felt that other barriers had been crossed, as important as a strait or canyon. A friend who had provided a peaceful room under gables where the windows looked out to mountains and the high pastures of the Upper Hat Creek valley had again offered solace, news of horses, the possibility of connection to a younger self, carefree and happy, sewing under the spreading shade of cottonwoods. The bodice of handkerchiefs, worn only for a lover in dry grass, remained in Flora's chest of drawers, wrapped in soft tissue, a sprig of southernwood tucked into the empty opening where her throat had once been kissed right to the edging of fine lace, and then below.

Flora
, wrote Jane,
we took a run over to Walhachin on our last trip to Kamloops, over the bridge with its osprey nest. The same osprey, do you suppose? Lots of changes—and few, if that doesn't sound capricious. Things look much the same. The houses for example, though the attempts at gardens in many have been abandoned; the hall is mostly used as a packing shed for the apples. I gather that labourers are hard to find and there has been a lot of trouble with the flume. It's mostly the women who stayed and the Chinese and a few men who are too old or else, like Allan, have some health difficulty to prevent them from enlisting. You'll remember Charles Paget, of course? The Marquis? Well, he's with the Royal Horse Guards in Egypt, an aide-de-camp if you please! So the Anglesey Ranch looks a little forlorn. There's talk of money difficulties. At any rate, I went to your house. Almost everything had been packed up and removed—that rather sniffy woman at the post office said your parents had asked for this to be done. Why are the women who work in post offices so often this type? Alert to anything that might be construed as misfortune or scandal? There were still bits of this and that in your house—I've taken some things back with me to hold for you. But this I am sending because it moved me to tears. It's dated, Flora. 1901. You must have been a child and yet look at how you've managed perspective. And the loving eye noticing
things
—
the plants, the beautiful stonework. I didn't want it left in your house because the woman at the post office said that times were changing, there had been
one or
two occasions when items had gone missing from locked houses. And this is too special to have it disappear. And I've taken the liberty of digging up a small root of water lily from your brother's pool. I don't know if it will survive, but I remember that you said he was eager to grow them and although this bit has survived, I don't imagine it would go on much longer without any kind of care.

The root was very dry. But when she ran an edge of her thumbnail over its surface, Flora saw that there was life in the tuber still. She decided to plant it in Ann's garden pool to see what might happen. And she found a hook in the box of work tools that Ann kept in the back pantry and fastened it to her bedroom wall. There she hung the little sketch, unwrapped from its careful packing. She could see it from her bed, where, if she almost closed her eyes, she could dream her way back into Winsley where the road wound its way around the buildings on its way to Bath.

NINETEEN

1962

Past the Hungarian house, past the monumental works, right to the gates of the cemetery (she didn't want to go home too early because she might get in trouble for coming back alone; she remembered her mother's request that they stay together). The day was warm, but the lanes were shady and cool. She could hear crows in the pines, their shaggy nests visible in the high branches. It was as though they were talking, the tones of their voices changing, becoming excited, then lowering to a mutter as Tessa walked under their tree. She sat on the edge of a small grassy grave and ate her candy, one piece at a time, making it last to the little seed within the jawbreakers. She had chosen two of the marshmallow bananas—they were two for a penny—and bracketed her snack with those. Finishing the bag, she let the last banana melt in her mouth, a wonderful feeling as the soft marshmallow innards of the candy turned grainy and slid down her tongue. She sighed. Bees droned in the flowering shrubs. She could hear the waves in Ross Bay hitting the breakwater so she knew the tide was up. She wandered over to the hedge separating the cemetery from Memorial Crescent and saw that Miss Oakden was sitting in a wicker rocker on her front porch. She waved and the woman waved back.

“Come and have a visit, Tessa,” called Miss Oakden.

So Tessa left the shady cemetery and joined her on her porch. Two cats sat on the railings, facing one another, dozing in the sun; they were as still as carved lions at a gateway. And the roses were newly out, full and sweet-scented. Tessa remembered the pool in the back garden, seen through the fence from Bushby Park. She asked if she could go and look at it.

“Of course you may. If you approach slowly and quietly, you might see one of the frogs that have decided my garden is a good place to live. You must look carefully on the leaves of the water lily because those little frogs blend in so beautifully. Go ahead. I'll come in a few minutes. I believe you'd drink a glass of lemonade if I brought one to you.”

“Oh, yes, please!” replied the girl, taking the steps down two at a time, opening the white gate at the side of the house and entering the garden.

The pool was even better than Tessa had imagined from the other side of the fence. It was quite large, perhaps ten feet across, and surrounded by stones streaked with lichen and softened by moss. A path of cobbles ringed the pool so you could walk slowly around its circumference, spicy pinks and mother-of-thyme tumbling over the cobbles. Best of all were the broad leaves covering the surface of the water because on the leaf closest to Tessa was a small dark green frog. She carefully knelt to the ground. The frog looked at her unblinking (could they blink? she wondered). There were four leaves in all and when she looked closely, she saw that three of them held frogs. In the centre of the leaves was a big pod, a flower not yet opened.

The woman had come up behind the girl and touched her gently on the shoulder. “My dear, the lemonade is here. And I see you have discovered the frogs.”

“They're so beautiful, Miss Oakden. Are they always here?”

“Ah, well, I can't tell you that they're always here but certainly frequently. They're tree frogs, you know, and they have the ability to change colour somewhat to blend in with their background. When they creep through the wisteria leaves around my porch, they are a much lighter green. And see, look there! That one has a pink stomach!”

Tessa looked closely. It did! She put her finger on one edge of its leaf, and the frog moved backwards on its green platform. She loved the way its front feet looked like tiny webbed hands, fingers long and animated. She watched until she remembered the lemonade that was waiting on a table under an apple tree where she sat with Miss Oakden. She looked around her. Two apple trees, with gnarled old branches, the remnants of blossom still clinging to some of them. There was a willow in one corner, roses along the fence, a pergola covered with honeysuckle like a tunnel of flowers. It was not like any backyard she'd ever been in. Her own had some flowers but also an area where her brothers practised pitching, a banged-up fence where they fired shots with their lacrosse sticks, a tree with a rope her brothers climbed with. It was not uncommon to slip on dog poo because their dog hated to leave the yard on rainy days, and no one liked cleaning up after it.

“What is the flower that is beginning there in the middle of the leaves in the pond?” she asked.

“That is a water lily, sent many years ago from my father's garden in England to the first home I lived in when I came to Canada. I'd settled with my brother in the Interior; he dug a pool in our very hot, dry garden, insisting he wanted to grow some of the water lilies our father loved. We had one plant of the native water lily that grows throughout British Columbia, the yellow one, but my brother wanted this one, which is native to England. It's pure white and very sweetly scented.”

“I think I've seen water lilies in Beaver Lake. Yellow ones, like you said. My dad took us canoeing there and we paddled right up to them. There were lots of flies in the flower.”

The woman smiled. “Yes, there would be. That is partly how the plant reproduces, by attracting insects into the shelter of its sepals. It is a wonderful plant for creating shady cool areas for fish to shelter under in warm weather, and of course you've seen how the frogs love to bask on those wide leaves.”

Dragonflies hovered over the surface of the little pool, one landing on a lily leaf and remaining perfectly still, the delicate fretwork of its wings visible in its stillness. Tessa sipped her lemonade, crunching a piece of ice and chewing the sprig of mint that had garnished her drink.

“If you go into the kitchen, you will find more lemonade in a jug on the counter. Help yourself to another glass.”

Inside was cool and dark and smelled of wood polish. Also lavender, which Tessa knew from the sachets her grandmother sent from New Brunswick. Through the living room (which Miss Oakden called a “sitting room”) with its fireplace and a hearth with two large stones on it. Bending to look at them, Tessa saw that one was imprinted with shells. She knew about fossils from the encyclopedia at home. Into the kitchen: on the table was a tin box with papers inside, photographs it looked like, and envelopes wrapped with ribbon. An arrangement of photographs on the table, laid out like the games of Patience her mother sometimes played, a game her father also liked but he called it Solitaire and said his intention was to “beat the Chinaman.” It didn't seem right to look for very long, but there was a photograph of a man on a horse and another one of a house. Some trees, not very big. A woman who looked like the people you saw in Chinatown, only she was in front of a little house, with some chickens. She would have liked to see more. She wondered whether the man had been Miss Oakden's husband.

“Did you have a husband, Miss Oakden?”

The woman was quiet for a long moment. Then, “No, my dear. My sweetheart died before we had a chance to be married. He never saw our daughter, whom I'm certain would have given him much pleasure. But luckily his own father lived not far from here. He was a wonderful grandfather to my Grace.”

“Did your daughter play in Bushby Park?”

Miss Oakden smiled. “There was no park there when Grace was a girl. Like you, she liked the cemetery and she loved to go down to the water and skip stones as her grandfather taught her to do.”