The Lemon Tree (34 page)

So, for his own sake, Aunt Theresa had advised him to welcome Wallace Helena’s baby, foundling or not.

He did not like the way his thoughts had led, and he jumped off the fence, to walk up and down the frozen yard. He was getting stiff with cold, he realized.

He was reminded of Wallace Helena sitting with him on the fence, evening after evening, and it was with deep longing that he considered her imminent return. Suppose Aunt Theresa was right and that the yellow bastard who was her cousin had not touched her; that by some fluke the child was his own? How did he feel about that?

Could the kid have been conceived in Calgary? That had been quite a wild night. He had always trusted her to tell him when they should not make love – he never bothered to count; his days were always so busy he was lucky if he knew whether it was Monday or Friday.

She’d been afraid that night, afraid of the long journey and of meeting a whole bunch of strangers, the first time he had seen her really nervous for years. He had tried to comfort her and she had cuddled into him, maybe thinking she’d get away with it, for once. Maybe she hadn’t.

He slowly began to grin. He stopped walking to look at the moon shining through slowly falling ice crystals. He took a quick pull on his cheroot, dropped the butt and ground it under his heel. That, he decided, would be something else.

Wallace Helena sat silent and withdrawn beside the driver of a Red River cart, as it bumped its way along the familiar trail from Fort Edmonton to her home. The path was already covered by a light fall of snow and the trees that lined it were leafless; only a few spruce amongst them stood straight and proud, their evergreen branches holding a sprinkling of snow. Except for the piercing shriek of the ungreased wheels of the cart, there seemed to be no other noise. She had forgotten how still the countryside could be in winter; her ears had become attuned to the constant rumble of heavy horse-drawn traffic on city streets.

The five-day journey by stagecoach from Calgary had drained her strength to such a degree that she wondered if she would manage this last five miles without fainting; bearing a child certainly took all one’s stamina, she decided ruefully, her hands clasped across the base of her stomach to ease the jolting of the cart.

In view of her condition, Benji had insisted that she should travel second class on the boat, rather than steerage, which to save money she had been prepared to do.

‘You’re not that poor,’ he had told her with a laugh. ‘In any case, I won’t hear of it; somebody’s got to take care of you – and you’ll have more care second class.’

Parting from Benji had been much harder than she had expected. Once he knew about the baby and then about
the partnership, he had cared for her as if she was something infinitely precious. He showered affection on her, as did his mother. Once again, he offered to marry her, saying he would do his utmost to help the baby.

It would have been so easy, she meditated, to be cosseted at home and be the soap mistress in public. And Benji loved her, she felt, even if he were not in love. Young and vigorous, he would have given her another child inside twelve months.

And yet, she could not imagine life without Joe. It was no good. Without him she felt she barely existed. And it was his child. So here she was going back to the day-in-day-out battle of being a settler.

‘You’re as crazy as a coot,’ she told herself, but she grinned with anticipation of the end of the journey.

It was as well that Benji had insisted on a more comfortable sea journey, because she had been so seasick that she had feared she would miscarry. The steward had finally suggested that she would be better up on deck in the fresh air, and she had dressed and crawled up, to sit in a deck chair. The man had brought her a few precious apples to eat.

He had been right, and on the third day the seasickness had abated. Wrapped in a heavy winter shawl, a farewell gift from Eleanor, she was soon walking unsteadily round the deck.

In the fresh sea breeze, she felt suddenly happy to be going home. Her longings for Lebanon had slowly declined in the friendly atmosphere of Liverpool. When she had been tired or depressed, it had been to Joe that her thoughts had turned, or sometimes simply to the sunlit, snow-covered landscape and the keen, clean winds of Alberta. Lebanon, with its lovely scents, orchards, wines and silks, its wondrous mountains and tumbling rivers,
its cosmopolitan, sophisticated people, had receded, had become an unattainable Garden of Eden, to which there was no return.

Perhaps, by the time her baby was grown, Lebanon would have thrown off the Turkish yoke and be at peace, and he could visit it, to see from what great beauty his mother had sprung. A sweetness from it would remain with her always, like the delicious after-taste of a good lemon sherbet; but she sensed that she would never see it again.

In her womb, feeling very uncomfortable with the bumping of the cart, lay a child whose roots lay in the history of the Northwest Territories. She smiled a little ironically when she thought about it. Its father would teach it to farm and trap, and she would teach it all the languages she knew, especially Arabic. Perhaps, by the time it was old enough, it could journey east to Upper or Lower Canada to have better schooling than the nuns and the priests in the Territories could give it

When she and Joe were gone, it would own the biggest farm in the immediate neighbourhood and half of a soap factory in Liverpool; with luck, it would have friendly cousins in that city whom it could visit. It would have its niche in the world.

She began to think about the farm. After much debate with retailers, she had not brought any agricultural implements with her; instead, she had brought a number of catalogues from them for Joe to see.

When staying in the house of her grandfather’s frail old friend, Mr Nasrullah, for one night after landing from the boat at Montreal, she had again mentioned to him her continuing interest in new farming practices. He had assured her that one of his sons, who lived with him, had already been asked to obtain any papers or magazines he could from eastern Canadian sources, for her. ‘He knows
everybody worth knowing,’ the old man assured her, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘He says there’s a lot of research being done in Upper Canada, and with the postal system so improved because of the railway, he’ll put you in touch with the right people.’

She had been very comforted at realizing that there was at least one more family in Canada which spoke Arabic, though the old man complained that his grandsons spoke only French, and to be assured that the Northwest Territories were not nearly so isolated as they had been. It was with a certain amount of hope that she sat in the train for over two days and watched the hundreds of miles of forest and silent lakes past which the train chugged. It disturbed huge flocks of birds, but very few other living things, except for an occasional tiny settlement. Winnipeg had been a turmoil of people, mostly men; other than that there was little to suggest that human life existed.

She had been bitterly disappointed that Joe had not been at Calgary to meet her, though it was probable that he had not yet received her letter giving the likely time of arrival.

Because the weekly stagecoach up to Edmonton would not leave until the following day, she stayed the night at the same hotel in which she and Joe had stopped on her outward journey. The public rooms seemed full of male rowdies, so she prevailed on a hurrying young man in a white apron to bring her up a plate of dinner, and to obtain for her a basket of bread and cheese to sustain her on her journey north. The following morning, the same youngster helped her down with her luggage and onto the stagecoach.

She and a sturdy-looking Scottish youth were the only travellers; the driver said he thought some people had been deterred by the threat of snow.

In an accent which was difficult for Wallace Helena to
follow, the boy confided that his name was Alex McLeod and that he had come from Glasgow to be a clerk with the Hudson’s Bay Company. He was most impressed when she told him that she had farmed near the Fort since 1862, and he was further impressed when she slipped effortlessly into French to speak to the Metis driver.

Her attitude to the young Scot was very different from that which she would have exhibited had she met him before her visit to England. Though in Britain men had sometimes patronized her unmercifully, she had met with a lot of friendliness in Liverpool, and she had responded to it. Added to this had come the realization that, though she and Joe had lived their lives in comparative isolation, her baby would need friends. Her instinct to protect the child and smooth its path had become intense, and the lonely, rather scared young clerk was the first to experience her change of heart.

The driver knew who she was and her reputation for arrogance; he was surprised that she bothered to speak French to him and was pleased at her straightforward friendliness. They became quite a merry party.

The journey was bitterly cold, as if the wind was coming through snow. They were grateful for the four stops they made en route, where they could rest for a while, the horses were changed and the calls of nature dealt with. By the time they left Red Deer Crossing and were on their way to Battle River, Wallace Helena had become so fatigued she wondered if she would survive the remaining hundred miles. She was fortunate that snow did not hit them until they were on the last part from Peace Hills to Edmonton; it came down in short, sharp flurries, which made it difficult for the driver to follow the trail. It also seeped through the inadequate canvas roofing of the stagecoach and accumulated in a caked mass on the robes covering the passengers.

When they finally drove down the hill to John Walter’s ferry and could see the Fort on the other side of the river, Wallace Helena was truly thankful; and young McLeod, though forewarned what to expect, wondered what on earth he had come to. They descended while the coach was loaded onto the ferry and they crossed the river, and they finally parted at Mr Ross’s Hotel, McLeod to report to the Fort, Wallace Helena to seek rest and a meal in the hotel.

She felt better once she was thoroughly warmed and fed, and she was able to arrange for a carrier with a Red River cart to take her out to the homestead.

Now, as she was driven along the home trail, on top of her fatigue was the anxiety regarding the reception she would get from Joe. Perhaps he had not come down to Calgary to meet her because he was furious with her? Did not believe the child was his?

It was Aunt Theresa’s sharp ears that first heard the squeak of the Red River cart and then the creak of the yard gate opening; it was Emily who ran out to hug her as she descended. Old Simon Wounded came limping out of the barn which he had been mucking out; he reeked of manure, but, with tears in her eyes at how he had aged in her absence, Wallace Helena flung her arms round him. He simpered shyly. Aunt Theresa met her at the cabin door to welcome her with her familiar gentle smile.

She stumbled into her home and sat down immediately on the nearest chair. Slowly she looked round her.

It was very untidy, she noted with a faint grimace, and it needed cleaning; but it had the same homely simplicity as Elsie’s house down by the Mersey River; everything in it was there for a purpose.

While Aunt Theresa invited the driver in to have something to eat before he returned, Wallace Helena unpinned her hat Emily promptly took it from her to examine it.
She had never seen such an interesting bit of headgear before, and she giggled at it.

Wallace Helena closed her eyes; she was swaying on her chair with a fatigue deeper than she had felt for many years. Yet it felt so good to be home. Until she had arrived at Edmonton, she had not realized how well she understood her surroundings in Canada; everything was perfectly familiar to her. It was a harsh world that had helped to make her what she was and she knew how to cope with it. Except for Joe. At the moment, she was not too sure how to cope with him.

‘Where’s Joe?’ she asked carefully.

Simon Wounded answered her. ‘He’s up checking the windbreaks – for the steers. We both reckon heavy snow is coming in. I thought he’d have heard you coming.’

‘Wind’s in the wrong direction,’ Aunt Theresa told him absently as she brought out her coffee mugs.

‘I’ll go up and get him,’ Simon Wounded offered.

‘No. Don’t bother him. Let him come when he’s finished. I won’t have coffee, thanks, Aunt Theresa. I need to lie down for a while. It’s been a long journey. Could you bring my luggage in, Simon, when you’ve finished your coffee?’

She got up and lurched to her bedroom. The bed was a tumble of feather-filled covers, which had replaced the buffalo robes of long ago. She took off her boots, coat, skirt and bodice and, in her petticoats, lay thankfully down and pulled a quilt over her and slept.

She was still dead-asleep when, in the late afternoon, Joe came into the room. He stood looking down at her, and then he grinned. He was in his stockinged feet and now he threw off his jacket and very quietly crawled in beside her. She stirred and murmured, ‘Joe, you old devil,’ and took him in her arms.

Three weeks later, Joseph Black, bachelor, and Wallace Helena Al-Khoury Harding, spinster, were married in the little wooden church of St Joachim, in the hamlet of Edmonton. It was a small gathering attended by only a few Roman Catholic Crees, a few Metis friends of the bridegroom and their wives and children, and a young Scottish lad, Alex McLeod, recently come to serve the Company.

Leila Helena Black was born on 10th March, 1887, to astonished, adoring parents. She was helped into the world by wise old Aunt Theresa and another knowledgeable old Cree lady friend.

‘A girl!’ Joe exclaimed. He began to laugh. Already besotted, he touched the tiny scrap of humanity’s dark cheek with a tenderness surprising in so big a man. ‘I can’t teach a girl to trap, or – or castrate a bull!’

Wallace Helena turned her head on the pillow. ‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘Women can do absolutely anything, if they set their minds to it!’

He bent to kiss her, and said, with mock resignation, ‘I guess if they’re your kids they probably can.’