Lily's Story (45 page)

Lily felt
little separation between herself and her baby. He was never more
than an elbow’s length from her, day or night. She cupped her
breasts for his pleasure and satisfaction alone, feeding them like
succulent pomegranates into his avid ‘O’ and gauging the crease of
ecstasy across his eyelids as the hunger inside him overwhelmed
them both. She could not yet bring herself to call him Robert; he
was just ‘baby’, then ‘nubbins’ – a miraculous miniature-being she
and
Tom had formulated out of
their own ecstasies and who, for the moment, served only to extend
and refine the sensual tips of her body: lips, nipples, grazing
fingertips, nuzzling nose. Thus it was that sometime about the
middle of July when Tom lifted the sleeping babe from between them,
laid it in its bassinet, re-entered the warmth of that vacancy and
draped his angular, urgent length along her own – Lily was
astonished to find her legs opening, as of old, to accommodate her
husband’s pulsive lullaby stroke, yet finding it equally strange,
as if the connectors among her senses had been scrambled and
recomposed. She was not completely surprised, then, when the climax
(that shook her sideways and brought her upright with gazelle’s
eyes) propelled her exaltatious salute for miles over field and
fallow. Lucille moaned in her sleep, and hung on.

Only two things eventually made
a ripple of discontent over Lily’s perfect summer. Lucille was
asked by Aunt Elspeth to accompany her back to Toronto,
permanently. That good woman had, as promised, made the train trip
unescorted and breathless on the Grand Trunk day-express, which she
was convinced, with all its shaking and clatter, had designs on her
sanity. Nevertheless, she arrived safely at the Point Edward
station, where she was greeted by her ‘dear Tippy’ who had at last
settled down and made a man of himself. If she needed further proof
of his conversion, it was forthcoming on her arrival at the
Marshall homestead, where she was introduced to Robert, the
spitting image of the dead Colonel, and pleased to offer her
blessing. She was also discreet (or resigned) enough not to ask if
the babe had been duly Christened: not knowing was, in this
particular case only, the more bearable of the alternatives.

In almost every way Aunt
Elspeth seemed her old, vital self. She showered Lily, Lucille and
the infant with small, lovingly selected gifts. Her unaffected
warmth spread through the household and the neighbourhood. During
her week’s stay, she left her mark (and money) in every store and
establishment along Michigan Ave. She had set up ‘rooms’ in the
Grand Truck station-hotel, insisted on dining lavishly there with
Lily and Tom, then Lily and Lucille, and finally Tom alone. She
left a trunkful of clothes for Lily – “Use them for rugs or your
quilts if you find them too old-fashioned, but I don’t need them
any more, a woman of my age and advanced reputation,” and she
laughed in that wonderful way she had of including herself in the
joke and sharing it with the listeners as if she were doling out
secrets one joy at a time. On the day of her departure she spent a
long, quiet minute alone in the bedroom with Robert while Lucille
fidgeted by the door and Tom held the horses of the buggy he’d
rented for the occasion. Aunt Elspeth had insisted that she sleep
at least one night “in the abode of the people I love the dearest.”
They put her in Lily’s old bedroom with Lucille. Everyone, it
seemed, had spent most of the night listening to the baby’s soft,
unanxious breathing. Aunt Elspeth smiled bravely through Lucille’s
weeping as the goodbyes were said. “Buck up, girl, we’ll be back
for Christmas, that’s a promise. And as soon as the little tyke’s
old enough, we’ll have him on the train to Toronto to see
us.”

When she hugged Lily goodbye,
Lily felt the crushing, desperate clench of the embrace. She felt
herself shuddering through her own smile.

T
om’s face told most
of the story. He told her the rest at noon when he returned from
his half-day’s work in the sheds.

“
Her health’s
all right. The stroke left her weak but you can see she’s capable
of exerting herself when she has a will, and a reason.”

“
What’s wrong,
then?”

“
She’s broke.
Bankrupt.”

“
But
how?”

“
She had to
sell the house and everything in it. Last month. The sheriff and
bailiffs did it all. That’s why she moved to Toronto, I think. She
didn’t want to be there when it happened. The Colonel left her
little but the property. She should have sold half of it and lived
off the money, but she had no head for business. She just mortgaged
the place twice over till it was time to go. Her sister-in-law’s
taken her in. My eldest aunt; she’s not well herself. Aunt Elspeth
sold some jewellery to pay for this trip. I got it all out of her
at lunch on Thursday. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“
What can we
do?”

Tom
shook his head. “She always detested
my Aunt Sylvia.”

O
ne evening in
September, Tom and Lily walked farther than usual. They turned
north at the River to skirt the squatter’s shacks and strolled
along the beach below the dunes. It was an Indian summer evening,
thin yet still mellow, the heat of day snoozing on the cool
night-air drifting in from the placid lake. Small waves nibbled at
the stretch of sandy beach curling before them. Herring-gulls
hovered, letting their wings sing for them. Sandpipers skittered at
their approach. Somewhere past the dunes, the last bluebirds
gathered for a valedictory chorale. Lily and Tom continued to walk,
afraid to add any word to their walking. ‘Nubbins’ slept – as
always: peaceful, free of colic and dream – in the papoose frame
Tom had made and strapped on to his broad back.

Out on the Lake several
ships were visible in the middle and far distance, their funnels
puffing smoke that barely smudged the vast ocean of sky overhead.
Then as they reached the end of the curved beach at Canatara and
turned to retrace their path, a large four-masted schooner hove
into view around the bend at Sarnia Bay and entered the Lake. Among
the last of its breed, the old grain-carrier seemed cocky and
defiant as it caught the southerly breeze square on its main-sails,
its lacquered masts bent to the limit of their deep, ravelled
grain, its rigging dotted with nimble circus-creatures adjusting
the jib as they gambolled and tossed aloft their swallow-cries of
delight. Slim, wind-sure, graceful as an aging eland, it angled
into the open water and nosed its prow towards the unmappable
horizon where it was said magnetic north linked up with a polar
star.

Just then a
spotted dog with floppy ears came skidding down a dune ahead of
them, closely pursued by two young boys. Lily watched them tumble
in the sand while the dog snapped at their heels and fists. The
more they giggled, the louder the dog barked. Lily felt her hand
tighten in
Tom’s. She stopped,
involuntarily turning with the pressure of her husband’s grip until
she was beside him once more. He had paused with his eyes on the
schooner, and as it sailed into the hazy, westering sky, he had
turned with it, and his gaze never left it till it was a faded dot
indistinguishable from the horizon-line.

“
I’m
expectin’,” Lily said.

“
What?”

“
Gonna have
your baby, sailor.”

T
he winter in its own
way was as happy as the summer. The baby was weaned, answered
happily to ‘Robbie’, began to crawl over the floor and furniture –
terrifying everyone but himself – and started crying for more than
his food. He was a robust, healthy creature with his father’s sandy
hair and clear blue eyes. He rode his father’s arms like a bronco,
giggling hysterically as he was whirled through the high air and
complaining only when he was let down. On hands and knees he
trailed Tom into the bedroom or into the forbidden territory of the
woodshed and worse. When the snow came, Tom built him a wooden
sled, and only Tom was permitted to tuck him in, in a special way,
before they all set out for Little Lake or a hike to the village to
be shown off. When he was tired, his sweet temper turned decidedly
cranky, but Lily didn’t mind at all. She let him thrash some in her
arms, her breasts reminding him of what he had abandoned for these
risky new pleasures, her lullaby as soothing as ever against the
edges of his fatigue. “Go to sleep, little Nubbins,” she’d say, and
look up warily to check on Tom who was always watching. I must not
be jealous, she thought, inexplicably frightened. The child is
between us, we made him together, he can never be outside either of
us, he likes it here:
between, being one and then two
.

Tom
went back to the job he liked in the
car-shops. They had spent all their savings just to survive Tom’s
partial lay-off and the disastrous drought that sent food prices
soaring. Neither of them mentioned a new house in the village; it
would be a while, but still it
would
come. For Lily
this third pregnancy did not go as smoothly as the first two. She
had morning sickness all fall, was intermittently nauseous and
cramped thereafter, and did not seem to gain any strength from the
general state of well-being she felt. However, when Gimpy Fitchett
announced in January that he was going to marry Clara Grocott, a
farm-girl from up the Errol Road who worked in Redmond’s grocery,
Lily was overjoyed and for a while, at least, stopped feeling sorry
for herself, as she told Maudie Bacon. Clara was added to the
Wednesday teas at Maudie’s, and Lily found that she liked the girl.
She even joined – when she could – in the many discussions about
the wedding dress and the details of the reception afterwards in
one of the parlours of the Grand Trunk station. She promised Clara
a quilt for her wedding night and set about completing it with
considerable zeal.

Aunt Elspeth,
of course, did not come for Christmas but sent a lovely note
and
an heirloom silver
cream-and-sugar set rescued from the bailiffs. Her letter informed
them that Lucille had become engaged to a British regular stationed
at Fort York, but had promised to ‘stay on’ as long as she was
needed. Once January came, though, all attention was focussed on
the Fitchett wedding. Particularly happy was the arrival of Bags
Starkey with his cousin from London. He was manoeuvring quite well
on his own with the aid of two crutches and a disarming grin. He
marvelled at the vigour and wholeness of his namesake.
Unfortunately he had to return to London right after the service
because there was a chance he might get a job selling tickets for
the Great Western there.

The ceremony was held at
the Methodist Church in Sarnia, where the Reverend Elmo Noseworthy
managed to smudge with his homiletic proclivities an otherwise
colourful and spontaneously joyful occasion. After the formalities
of a dinner at the Grand Trunk, where the toasts were charged with
apple-juice, the older folk said their farewells and the younger
ones, including the bride and groom, remained to continue the
celebration. Or start a new one. A cask of whiskey was discovered
nearby, with a dozen bottles of iced champagne for the ladies. The
working men and their wives sang, danced and caroused until they
were kicked out at ten in the evening. The happy couple then
repaired by cutter to the bride’s home, left vacant for them, where
they were to spend the night before setting out on the day-express
for Toronto and a week’s honeymoon.

What they didn’t know was
that they were not to be alone during their nuptial greeting. A
charivari, or shivaree as it was called hereabouts, had been cooked
up by several of Gimpy’s crew and avidly agreed to by at least a
dozen others, including – against all entreaty – Lily herself. As
soon as the couple left the station, the participants pulled out
two canvas bags containing their costumes and instruments. While
two fellows hitched up a team and sleigh, the others donned their
cloaks and masks and hopped aboard, singing badly enough to wake
even the most unappreciative sleeper. Under a crisp, condoning moon
they floated across fields and through the cathedral arches of
First Bush on to Errol Road. They sang and hugged whoever came
within range. Silver flasks returned the silver
moonlight.

They arrived
not more than fifteen minutes behind the lovers themselves. “Just
time enough to get their nerve up!” some wag remarked to more
laughter than he deserved. As they approached the isolated
farmhouse of the Grocott’s, the revellers shushed each other
repeatedly until only the comic jingle of the harness-bells could
be heard. A wan light showed through the blind on an upstairs
window. The buskers leapt soundlessly into the fresh snow and, as
prearranged, formed a loose ring around the building. Lily had on a
sort of bat’s costume with a black beaked mask, that had holes for
the radar of her eyes, and a flexed cape attached to the wingbones
of her arms. An outsize tambourine readied itself in her left hand.
All I need is a broom, Lily thought, hoping the baby would not
complain too loudly about the night’s ride. She’d had only one
glass of champagne, hours ago, but her heart hammered with
excitement and she longed for the signal to be given. Near
her she could see Tom in a botchy
deerskin coat with a set of rusting antlers strapped to his brow
and shoulders. Between his legs he held, with both hands, a bulbous
blood-sausage. Further down she spotted Maudie’s husband dressed
like
Bonhomme
with coal eyes, a carrot nose and a
waxed turnip where his legs should have joined. A battered bugle –
flotsam from Sebastopol – sat poised for action. Maudie herself,
habilled like a milkmaid in dramatic need of her own service –
raised the alarm with a single clang of her cowbell. The din –
sudden and relenting – would have stunned a deaf-mute: tuneless
bell, oak rachets, soured horns of every ilk, tea-kettle drums, and
underneath it all a thumping, manic tambourine. The window above
shot open, and Gimpy, wrapped diagonally in a towel, blinked
unbelievingly into the soft darkness, then staggered back as a
chorus of chanting voices joined the accompaniment – each chorister
contributing, in no precalculated order, one or more words or
syllables to a love poem that might eventually have been translated
thus: