The Birth House (18 page)

29

T
HERE’S A HUNGER THAT
comes with long February nights, a wanting for warm sweet things, laughter and biscuits…a pot of lavender tea alongside a plate heaped with Miss B.’s sugary beignets. With Ginny Jessup, the Occasional Knitters are now five, still gathering at my house, but on Wednesdays only, since that’s the Sons of Temperance night for cards and darts, our husbands otherwise occupied. In the middle of this hungry, cold winter, I’ve become a friend, nursemaid and sometime gypsy (as Mabel calls me), reading tea leaves and holding other women’s children in my arms. Most Wednesday nights end with trails of icing sugar scattered through the parlour and kitchen, each one making its way to a plump, sleeping child curled up under the counterpane on my bed.

When we aren’t knitting socks for the soldiers, we make efforts at other noble causes, sewing rag dolls for the children of Halifax, or taking mid-winter boxes of cheer to those who are shut in or in need. Preserves, bread, applesauce, butter, salt pork, salt herring, wool scarves, socks and mitts, and a bottle of Miss B.’s coltsfoot cough syrup. We leave the gifts on the step, rap on the door and run away. Mabel suggested that we keep our giving a secret, “as being poor never means being without pride.”

No matter how virtuous our deeds, our conversations are something altogether different. Loud, and low enough to make a sailor blush. Hot like a fist full of fire.

Having exhausted all we could say about the best way to “get with child,” Bertine decided she’d like to discuss how
not
to get with child.

“Lucy’s all but done with her weaning…I guess I’d better get ready for baby number three.”

“Can’t you count your days? Put him off when you’re in the middle?”

“Never been able to count on my blood. I’m all up and down. Besides, Hardy doesn’t put up with being put off.”

Sadie smirked. “Make him wear a rubber.”

“Once again, Sadie, you mention something reserved for whores. What husband’s going to wear a skirt on his willie when he’s with his wife? When there’s no chance of slippin’ the syphilis? Do you have Wes wear one?”

“No, but I’m not the one complaining about having babies all the time. Just take a good-sized bit of sea sponge, soak it in pepper juice, dip it in honey and shove it up your—”

Mabel looked down at her knitting. “There are other ways…”

Bertine snickered. “You know what Hardy’s mother once told me to try?
Tong water tea,
made from the nasty stuff that’s left in the bucket after the smithy’s spent all day dipping his lead tongs in it to cool.
From one blacksmith’s wife to another,
she said, like it was a precious little secret. No wonder that poor woman’s tongue always looked all purple, like it was about to fall off. She also said you could
loose the bud,
if you thought you might already be with child, by rubbing gunpowder all over your breasts.” She put her hands together like she was praying to Mabel. “If you’ve got something that works, I’d love to know.”

“The only way I know that works for certain is for after the fact. My cousin Penny took Madame Drunette’s Lunar Pills
,
she’d seen them advertised in
Ladies’ Rural Companion
…said she thought she was going to die. She wound up with a terrible headache and anything she ate went right out of her again, both ends at once. It worked, but in the end she said she’d have rather taken her chances in falling off a horse.”

Ginny dropped two sugar cubes into her cup and stared at it as she stirred. “My cousin sent me something she calls a fisherman’s knot. It just looks like a wad of tangled line to me, but she swears if you put it far enough up inside you, it’ll keep the babies out.”

Sadie questioned her. “You tried it yet?”

“No, Laird says he wants another boy soon.”

“It’s you who’s got to carry it and then care for it,” I reminded her.

“I was afraid he might notice or, worse, that I couldn’t get the thing back out.”

Bertine took another beignet from the plate and brushed away the sugar that fell in her lap. “Oh, we might as well stop talking about it. Poor Dorrie here is so bent on having a baby, I’m afraid we’ll jinx her if we keep it up. Praying’s gonna do me as much good as anything.” She looked up to the ceiling. “Just a few more months, Lord. Maybe a year if you can spare it?”

I went to the cupboard under the china cabinet and pulled out the jar Miss B. had gotten out when Grace Hutner came to her, her jar of Beaver Brew. “Miss B. had something that might work for you, Bertine, although I can’t say that it will taste any better than Hardy’s mother’s tea.”

Bertine scolded me. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Miss B. had a rule about having to be asked. It’s silly, I know, but…”

Mabel looked concerned. “I thought you weren’t midwifing anymore.”

“I’m not. Just doing a friend a favour.”

Bertine looked at the jar as if she was a little afraid of its contents. “But I didn’t ask.”

“You put your hands together and prayed; that’s enough for me.”

I poured the brew into Bertine’s teacup. “Here, take it with your tea. It’ll go down easier.”

Bertine sniffed the cup. “Whooo, Dora. There’s some hooch in there. What’s in it?”

“You don’t want to know. Besides, Miss B. would come back and haunt me if I told. But I can tell you this…it’ll keep you from getting a bun in the oven for at least a month.”

Sadie held her cup out to me. “Barkeep, I’ll have one of those.”

Mabel held out her cup and grinned. “Me too.”

I filled their cups and turned to Ginny. “Some for you?”

Ginny hung her head. “I don’t take anything with alcohol.”

Sadie elbowed Ginny. “It won’t bite you…too much. Besides, it’s not like you’re taking a bottle of rum to bed with you. It’s just tea with mitts
,
that’s what my granny always called it,
tea with mitts.
Are you really wanting to have another little one keeping you up all night?”

Ginny bit her lip and pushed her cup forward.

As soon as hers was filled, I poured myself a cup of Miss B.’s Moon Elixir and held it high in the air. “A toast. To ye who want for nothing, and me who wants for one.”

“To tea with mitts!”

“Tea with mitts.”

“Tea with mitts!”

The following Saturday, I saw Dr. Thomas at Newcomb’s Dry Goods down in Canning. He was standing between pickle barrels and the meat case, declining an invitation from a rather wealthy-looking woman. “As lovely as it sounds, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait. I’ve got to make an unexpected trip out to Scots Bay, and Sunday’s the only day I can manage it.”

The woman tsked as she pointed to a wheel of cheese, motioning for Mrs. Newcomb to cut a wedge of it for her. “Half pound, please. Yes. That one will do.” She pointed to a ring of bologna. “Same here, too.” She put her finger to her chin, unsure as to what else she wanted. “That’s really too bad. Another time, I suppose.” She tapped on the glass, this time pointing to a platter filled with pork chops. “Scots Bay, on a Sunday in the middle of winter. How unfortunate.”

Dr. Thomas drummed his fingers on the top of a barrel. “If I could avoid it, I would. Except for a chosen few, there’s not much sense or civility to be found in that place. Too many marriages with too few names, I guess…”

The two of them laughed, heads bobbing together, bodies quaking. The woman was barely able to make her name as she signed for her bill. Dr. Thomas took her arm as they turned towards the door.

“Hello, Dr. Thomas.”

“Hello.” He stared at me, not looking into my eyes but keeping his gaze steadily moving between my neck, my breasts and my shoes, as if he hoped to forget that he knew me. “Mrs. Bigelow, yes, how nice to see you. It’s been quite a while—November, was it? I gather you’re feeling well?”

“Fine, just fine. And your wife and child, are they well?”

“Yes, yes.”

The woman tugged on the doctor’s sleeve.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Mrs. Bigelow, this is my neighbour, Mrs. Florence Hatfield. Mrs. Hatfield, this is Mrs. Dora Bigelow of Scots Bay.”

Mrs. Hatfield smiled and extended her hand. “Scots Bay? Why we were just talking of it, weren’t we, Gilbert? Do you have much wind and snow there this time of year? I can’t imagine spending an entire winter up there—you’re a braver soul than I. Lovely spot for a summer picnic, though.”

Dr. Thomas interrupted Mrs. Hatfield’s nervous chatter. “If you’ll excuse me, Florence, perhaps I can deliver my business with Mrs. Bigelow and accept your invitation, after all.”

“Wonderful! Let me get out of your way, then.” She waved, bustling her way out the door, jangling the bells that hung over the knob. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Bigelow. See you Sunday, Gilbert.”

Dr. Thomas took my arm and pulled me behind the dry goods shelf. He lowered his voice. “Stay away from Mrs. Jessup.”

“Ginny is a friend.”

“Mrs. Jessup is my patient, and you’ve no business handing out questionable home remedies to her. Especially the kind that sends her husband to my door, ready to have my head. I think I should warn you, Mrs. Bigelow, that any means of preventing conception, even the mention of such means, is illegal. You really must stop putting yourself in trouble’s way.”

“What is it, Dr. Thomas, that’s got you so interested in the women of the Bay?”

“I care about the well-being of all my patients, of all women. It’s my duty to give them the best care modern medicine can provide, the care they deserve.”

“You care so much that you abandon them as soon as they get more than a mile away from your office? I’d say it’s more that you care to line your pockets with their money, and you don’t think twice of what it costs them to give it to you.”

Dr. Thomas straightened himself up. “A man’s means is no one’s business.”

“And the secrets a woman chooses to keep between her sheets are not your business.”

He glanced back at Mrs. Newcomb, who was now staring from behind the counter. He smiled, talking through his teeth. “Maybe it’s time that a hysterical, reckless woman who encourages women to deceive their husbands should be everyone’s business.” Mrs. Newcomb disappeared through the door of the meat locker. Dr. Thomas leaned close to me, his lips touching my ear as he spoke. “Are you feeling well, Mrs. Bigelow? I only ask because you’re looking a little flushed.” He stroked my cheek with his hand. “You feel a little feverish. Isn’t Mr. Bigelow seeing to your well-being? Isn’t he working at giving you the child you’ve been wanting? I could speak to him about that, Mrs. Bigelow. I could tell him what you require. I could tell anyone, really.”

Hysterical Woman Attacks Local Doctor

T
his writer has learned of an unfortunate event that occurred some time after noon, this Saturday last. According to witnesses, a woman who had gone into Newcomb’s Dry Goods to purchase goods and essentials for her family became suddenly and inexplicably agitated. In her hysterics, she proceeded to empty a 2-gallon jug of “Sure Sweet Molasses” on the head of Dr. Gilbert Thomas, of Canning.

No other customers were assaulted during the incident.

Mrs. Lila Newcomb, wife of the proprietor of the establishment, had this to say: “I can’t say what happened exactly. All I know is, one minute they seemed to be having a friendly conversation, and the next, Dr. Thomas was standing there, wiping the stuff out of his nose, gasping for air, looking like he’d been tarred for feathering.”

Dr. Thomas, a well-known doctor of women’s hygiene and obstetrics, added, “I see no reason to involve the authorities in the matter. Sadly, this kind of behaviour is to be expected from a woman in her condition. Nervous disorders of the female system are more and more common these days. Let this be a lesson to all, showing what can happen when a woman’s emotions are left unchecked. I only hope that she will see fit to return to my doorstep so that I might assist her in her time of need, before something dreadful happens, before it’s too late.”

The woman, who quickly fled from the store to return to her home in Scots Bay, was unavailable for comment. Dr. Thomas paid 25 cents for the molasses. A kind and generous gesture, indeed.

The Canning Register,
February 19, 1918

30

W
E HAD
S
UNDAY DINNER
at the Bigelow house, Archer, Hart, the widow and me. The widow took great pains to make it clear that she’s happiest when both of her “boys” are home. As always, she held court in the parlour and left all the serving to me. I never minded when it was just tea and biscuits for the widow and Miss B., but now that I’m married to Archer, I’m disappointed to find that my mother-in-law still looks on me as more of a housekeeper than a daughter. Her coldness towards me must seem justified in light of the gossip that’s come up from Canning, attaching my name to the “crazy-molasses-woman of Scots Bay.” Most of the White Rose Ladies could barely look me straight in the eye at church this morning, Aunt Fran saying only, “Honestly, Dora—how could you?” Bertine, of course, passed me a note: “Here’s to molasses on doctors, and tea with mitts!”

I accepted all the widow’s requests without argument, her voice trailing after me all evening. “Oh, and don’t forget the gravy, dear, still in the kitchen, dear, and in the proper boat, please, the Royal Albert with the gold rim and lovely blue flowers, the gravy?
S’il vous plait?
Oh dear, do you think she heard me? Dora?”

I brought the gravy, in the right dish, and served her first, even before my husband. This was a small kindness, one I supposed I owed her after having made such great efforts to avoid her during Archer’s absence. She never called on me, not once, and for that she deserves a kindness or two…the all-too-easy graciousness one woman gives to another when she’s guilty of having kept a secret, or the tight-lipped smile that’s most often exchanged between young wives and their dear mother-in-laws.

Archer more than made up for the both of us, doting on his mother the entire time, going on and on about how lovely she looked, the fine new dress she was wearing, the quality of the roast she had chosen, the deliciousness of every bite. (You’d think it was his first decent meal in months.) He’s never that thoughtful during our dinners, even on nights when he’s determined he’ll be having his way later on. I’m just hoping that once I’m expecting a child things will change, that he’ll become attentive and kind, hovering with worry and care. Certainly a first grandchild will give the widow cause enough to wait on me.

Dinner was almost finished when the true reason for Archer’s flattery came to light. When his mother asked him his plans for the spring, he spooned the last of the potatoes on his plate and replied, “I’m glad you asked. There’s something I’d like to talk over with you.”

Hart picked up the empty serving bowl and ran his thumb around the edge, scraping off the last bit of potatoes still clinging to the rim. “How’re you gonna swindle money from the pockets of the hard-working people of Kings County this time, Archie? Can’t imagine you’ve found anything more honest than peddling the Lord’s word, unless, of course, you’re planning on selling tickets to the other side of the Pearly Gates…and in that case, be sure and save one for yourself, you’ll be needing it.”

Archer ignored Hart’s remarks and began moving the plates around on the table, puckering the tablecloth into soft, wrinkled mountains and valleys. “Say this serving tray is the Bay, and this ridge over here is the mountain…” He motioned along the gap between the two. “Most of the houses are built along here.” Then he ran his hand along a smooth slope of cloth leading to the top of the peaks. “And these fields here, the ones that are cleared, they’re used for what, grazing cattle, growing hay? You can’t grow anything worthwhile on them.”

Hart interrupted, “Laird Jessup grew some cabbages back there this past year, and they did just fine.”

Archer laughed. “Cabbages? How much cabbage does one little town need? How many people really like cabbage anyway? The stuff stinks. The only other things that’ll eat it is pigs, and it leaves them bloated. For all the work it takes to grow it, you’re left with a few cents and a bunch of angry swine.”

Hart shook his head. “Well, it’s too windy there to grow much else.”

Archer snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Wind’s the one thing we have plenty of here in the Bay, so why not farm that instead? We can build windmills, lots of them. Instead of praying each spring that a freshet doesn’t come and wipe out the lumber mill you’ve got built over Ells Brook, you could have a wind-powered mill. And better than that, we can use the windmills to generate
electricity
. The townsfolk of Canning have been trying for years to get electric for their street lamps, let alone their homes, so it’s certain the county won’t be bringing it up the mountain anytime soon. Why should we wait? With a few windmills here and there, we’d have enough electricity to power all this side of North Mountain.” He made a proud sweeping gesture, like a rainbow had just formed over his head. “The Bigelow Electric Company of Scots Bay…then, Halls Harbour, Arlington, Blomidon, Medford, Ross Creek, Delhaven…”

Confused, I pointed to his tabletop landscape. “I’m not sure what you have in mind, but the church cemetery and our house look to be right in the middle of your wind farm.”

He patted my hand. “Those folks are dead, my dear, I’m sure they won’t mind.” He circled his finger around the gravy pitcher. “We’ll build the windmills
around
the house. It’ll be like living in a field of giant twirling daisies, and
you
, my dearest wife, will be the first woman to have electric, right in her home.”

Hart scowled. “What exactly do we need electric for? A small windmill or hand pump brings enough water for a house, and oil lamps give off plenty of light. Seems to me we do just fine without it.”

Archer sighed and looked at his mother with pleading eyes. “This is why I’ve had to come to you. Hart’s not the only man in the Bay without a sense of vision. I’ve tried to talk to some of the other men about my ideas, and have gotten much the same response.” He took her hand. “Hens will only lay eggs in the sunny months of the year. Once autumn comes and the days grow short, they’re through until spring. But, if we had electricity, we could give them the light they need and they’d lay all winter long.” He grinned at his mother. “You always said the hens were smarter than the roosters.”

With that, the widow agreed to give Archer the rest of his inheritance and anything else she could spare. She also promised to make arrangements for Archer to speak at the spring meeting of the White Rose Temperance Society. He is over the moon. I’m left wondering if, once again, he’s making a promise he can’t keep.

˜ February 26, 1918

A large package arrived for Archer today from
Vaughn’s Almanac Inc.
He has been holed up in the barn since after lunch. Despite the cold, damp weather, he is determined to keep at his task until it’s finished. I took a plate to him at dinnertime and an extra sweater as well. He motioned for me to set the food on an apple barrel in the corner and then continued his work, circling around a makeshift table he had made from two sawhorses and a few wide boards. Tacked to the side of Buttercup’s stall were three large sheets of blue paper, crowded with figures, diagrams and numbers. As of my last visit to the barn at midnight, his table was still empty.

˜ February 27, 1918

Went to take Archer some breakfast and found the barn doors barred shut. His voice grumbled from inside. “Just leave it, I’ll get to it in a bit.”

I pressed my lips to a knothole and said, “Don’t forget to milk the cow.”

Not long before lunch I heard the angry sound of Buttercup, deep in protest. I looked out the window in time to see Archer whipping the poor, bawling creature out to the pasture. He stomped back to the barn, threw out the milking stool and pail and slammed the door.

I took the cow by her harness and pulled her to the south side of the barn, where the roof hangs over the woodpile. I stroked her side, milked her swollen, red udders until they were dry and walked her down to the Widow Bigelow’s barn to see if Hart might have room for her.

Once she was settled, Hart offered to bring me home in his buggy. When I refused, he insisted I at least let him walk with me so he could get a look at Archer’s handiwork. Pepper scampered along as we walked, sniffing in the ditches and along the fencerows. She smelled the food still sitting untouched in the lunch pail outside the barn door and raced ahead to gobble it down. I didn’t scold her. Archer’s breakfast had long gotten too cold to be any good. I did scold Hart, however, for his teasing and saying that he was going to “kick in the doors to make certain Archer was still alive.” Instead, we snuck around to the back of the barn and stared through the cracks between the boards.

The way Archer had paced the floor waiting for its arrival, you’d have thought this thing, this grand invention, was going to be as big as a church. When Jack Tupper brought it to the house, Archer wrapped his arms around the large wooden crate, his face peering over the top, eyes lit up like Christmas morning. From the size of the box, I had expected something at least as tall as my husband, something formidable, and strong enough to hold up against the winds off the Bay. Hart went on and on, whispering and laughing, “That’s some small. But I suppose the mice could have a nice little tea party under it.”

Archer leaned over his workbench, one arm braced on the roof of a dollhouse, tinkering with his toy-sized creation. He whistled and hummed, occasionally talking to the thing, proclaiming his skill with nuts and bolts, praising the ingenuity of man, promising to “show her off, some good.”

For the first time I had ever seen, my husband was truly devoted to something. Yes, there is our marriage, but compared to this, it’s clear that his effort and his desire have never belonged to me. With a baby or not, I’ll never inspire the sweet, hypnotic words of Shakespeare’s lovers or the winning smiles and delicious conversation of Jane Austen’s heroes. I’ll never be cause enough for shivering in the cold or going without supper.

˜ February 28, 1918

Just before dawn he came through the door, calling to me. “Dorrie, come on, she’s up!” He carried me from the bed to the barn, blankets trailing down between my legs. “You sit right here.” He dropped me in a pile of hay and ran to push the barn doors apart as wide as they would allow. “Keep your eyes on the dollhouse.” Cold gusts of wind rushed through the barn, kicking up stray bits of hay, rattling the blades of the windmill into a whirl of motion. Lights flickered from inside the rooms of the small house. A chandelier, a lamp on the staircase, a light in the front window. “Let there be light!” he said, as he pulled me into his arms and twirled me around, everything spinning, our breath hanging in the air in the first warmth of the sun.