Lily's Story (59 page)

“
Get outta
here, Stewie! You some kinda
pervert
or
somethin’?”

S
toker Potts came home
the next day, hopping off the way-freight as it slowed down for the
curve behind his house and sprinting across the flats towards what
appeared to be a flag-sized chinese-poppy waving to him from his
verandah.

L
ily was not
introduced to any of the Alleyfolk. “They know you’re here,” Sophie
said. “You’ll get to meet most of them, if they want to be met, and
on their own good time.” In the early weeks Lily could not be sure
that anyone in the Alley knew anyone else. One day a gangling black
man, decked out in tie-and-tails three sizes too small for him,
walked by and waved as if he knew her; an hour later he walked back
up the Alley and studiously ignored her, even though she was
pulling weeds right beside the path. Nobody was actually seen
visiting anyone else; but information – fact, rumour, gossip –
travelled quickly and certainly. A woman, vaguely familiar, in a
purple-flowered dress and unmatched sunbonnet strolled past and
smiled broadly at Robbie; “You must be Lily’s eldest” she was heard
to say, but she kept on walking. “They’ll let you know when they’re
ready,” Sophie said. “’Round here we give people whatever privacy
they want. But that don’t mean we ain’t friendly.” Sometimes Lily
could see Sophie herself in her back yard feeding Duchess, her sow,
or urging on Stewie and John in their labours, and she would come
right up to the fence and stand there, waiting, till finally she
could wait no longer and called out “Good mornin’!” Many seconds
later Sophie might glance over and give the intruder the meagrest
nod of acknowledgement and then continue on with her own work. Even
the children – the dozens of McLeods, McCourts, Shawyers – when
they roved over the whole of the Alley in the dusk playing
hide-and-go-seek, never hid out in Lily’s yard, nor did she ever
see the catcher – desperate as he might be – venture across the
invisible boundaries of her ‘property’. “Don’t ask me why,” Sophie
said, “
why
is a question we don’t have to ask in
the Alley.”

S
toker stayed for a
week, as the ship on which he was chief fireman, the
Princess of Wales
, had been delayed in drydock at Collingwood.
Lily knew enough to stay put; besides, she was busy setting up the
laundry equipment in the Icelanders’ shed. John and Stewie soon
arrived – exiled or prudent, she knew not which – and proved to be
of great assistance. They came every day and helped Lily move the
two cords of wood into the shelter (the arrival of wood purchased
by Lily from the local supplier was a cause for much amusement
along the Alley, as Sophie told her much later, since no one could
ever remember an Alleyperson actually
buying
fuel
before this; “How do you get it?” “We swipe it,” Sophie replied,
“but only what we can use”). They made two spacious windows for her
in the south wall and did the glazing perfectly. They walked out to
the old property and hauled back some lumber out of which they
constructed benches and tables. They promised to add a wooden floor
before winter – “when we can pick up enough lumber,” they said
matter-of-factly. Robbie and Brad watched every move they made.
“I’m goin’ up to the bush with Dad come next fall,” John told them.
Robbie asked him if he’d found a little hatchet when he went
through the house that got burnt. Then he looked at his mother and
said, “When’s Ti-Jean comin’ back?”

The day before he left, Stoker
came over to say hello. Lily was in the workroom when John and
Stewie came in looking irritated. “Dad wants to meet you,” Stewie
said. Lily put down the pot she was holding and brushed her apron.
“He’s out on the road.” “Oh.” Lily walked through the house and
waved him in from the front door. He had no recollection of their
earlier meeting. On Lily’s side, she was seeing a different man. He
was still bearded, a bit more angular than muscular, with rugged
handsome features and a bluff, engaging manner of speaking that
seemed out of tune with long months spent isolated in the bush or
hunched alone in front of a blazing furnace. His eyes danced
lasciviously, like coal-dust in the fractured sunlight.

“
Glad-ta-meet-ya, Lily,” he boomed. “When I come back from my
layover in a couple of weeks, we’ll have ourselves a drink
together, eh? In the meantime, anythin’ you need these lads for,
you just whistle. They’re good boys, they are.”

There was no expression of any
kind on the boys’ faces.

T
hat evening as she
lay in the sort of drugged semi-sleep she was getting used to, Lily
heard a commotion from the Potts’ house across the way: escalating
laughter as raucous as it was hollow, followed by male shouts –
barbed and threatening – and a series of haranguing shrieks
carrying their own brand of venom: taunting and mocking, a
calling-of-all-bluff. Then silence. Lily dozed, grateful. The
crashing of glass, as loud and as ominous as if Orion had just
burst overhead, brought her wide awake. Brad stirred beside her and
she put a hand on his fevered head: sometimes he coughed all
night.
“I’ll kill you, you
fat bitch!
” The words sailed
clear and free down the whole of the Alley. Then a sort of muffled
scuffling, as if heavy furniture were being abused and feet
reluctantly dragged. A low pleading voice against the grim music.
Nothing more – though Lily waited till the sun trembled over the
window-sill and exhaustion claimed her.

Two days later
when Lily came in to fix the boys’ dinner, Sophie was sitting at
the table. This was a cus
tom
Lily was just beginning to understand. Though it seemed you never
asked anybody his business or initiated a conversation without
invitation or invaded his privacy in anyway, it was all right among
genuine friends – indeed it may have been a symbol of such – to
simply enter their homes or yards and ‘sit a spell’. Mind you, it
put the host under no particular obligation; apparently you could
keep on about your business if you chose without jeopardizing said
friendship, and sooner or later the visitor would just leave. Like
Old Samuels, she thought, in some ways. But it was also clear that
such special intrusions often indicated a desire to talk. Lily sat
down and squeezed out a smile. Sophie, the smudges of fatigue below
her eyes almost completely faded, grinned and said “I hate to brag
but that Stoker’s
some
man. If Christ was hung like that,
there wouldn’t be a female heathen left upon God’s earth.” She
stropped the nearest thigh and then snorted with the force of a
crushed walnut.

Later, after tea and a few
nibbled-at biscuits, Sophie sighed and said, “Burton didn’t come
back from the bush with Stoker.”

“
Who’s
Burton?”

“
Our oldest
boy,” Sophie said.

3

D
uring those first few
traumatic weeks Lily kept a close watch on her sons. In some ways
the shock of their loss and removal was easier for Brad than
Robbie. Brad developed a bad cold and an asthmatic cough that made
him continually fretful and hence in need of constant mothering. He
clung to Lily’s skirts everywhere she went during the day, and at
night he slept beside her. He cherished her attention so much that
it seemed to compensate, at least momentarily, for all the
privations and physical discomforts. Robbie on the other hand would
not stay put, he wandered beyond the margins of her supervision,
his eyes fixed on the exotic rituals of the boy-herds and
girl-flocks who ya-hooed, frisked and caromed among the bushes and
dunes for much of the day (“Don’t none of them go to school?” “Some
of them, sometimes,” Sophie said) and all evening till the moon
went down or got swallowed by cloud. When a gang of boys about his
own age would roar by on their way to the beach or the grassy
flats, Robbie would stand in front of the house and watch them
pass, his own feet longing simply to follow their own instinct and
to take their own chances with rejection. Occasionally Lily would
see one or two of the lads – dirt-streaked, barefoot ragamuffins –
glance over at the motionless creature by the wayside (so much a
replica of themselves), and then carry on as if impelled by the
demands of some game none of them ever remembered learning the
rules of. At last a few days before his eighth birthday, Robbie
edged out to the road at the first yip of the approaching horde, so
that when they swept by – spears poised for some imminent slaughter
– he was almost naturally drawn into the irresistible current of
their energy. So intent was this tribe upon the annihilation of its
enemy that not one soul noted the addition of a whooping,
fleet-footed brave whose heart was soaring with joy and relief and
the gratitude of those forever-to-be-included. From that moment on,
Lily’s main concern was the whereabouts of her eldest. “Don’t
fuss,” Sophie soothed, “they always come back sooner or
later.”

Neither boy
was able yet to sleep without violent dreams, that shook them
in
their beds like scarlet
fever or St. Vitus’ Dance. Often just before bed, Brad would see
behind the lamp-lit window some configuration of shadow – severed,
truncate, bloating ogre-flesh – and shriek. And he would continue
whimpering, even when Lily turned the lamp down so that only the
blunt shadow of the night was visible anywhere. Even Robbie was
susceptible to these sudden incursions from ‘out there’, and so it
was not uncommon for Lily to have to sit with an arm around each
boy, singing and murmuring them towards sleep, while the
window-images continued to travel on through their dreams. Even so,
Lily thought as she watched them fret, they’re lucky; the gremlins
they’re scared of are the only ones that will do them no
harm.

Of course Robbie, who was
unused to sharing his exploits and triumphs, had some difficulty
adjusting to the inviolable rules of the Alley games. Three times
in one week he came home with a bloody nose and scuffed knuckles.
For hours he would sulk, never telling the horrid details of
whatever humiliation he had suffered and glaring at his mother as
if it were all her fault. But he always went back, grim-lipped.
Lily felt proud of him and yet somehow betrayed, left out, found
unworthy. She thought of Sophie’s Burton, and was ashamed.

When Brad finally
recovered from his cough and when Lily herself felt comfortable
enough, she and her boys walked up Victoria Street to the Edward
Street Common School. Up to this time Lily had not ventured out of
the Alley except to go briefly along Prince Street past the Queen’s
Hotel to the General Store for supplies or to walk along the cinder
road to the rail-yards where she bought the firewood to get her
business launched. For some reason she could not bring herself to
go up Michigan Ave. to the familiar shops – Redmond’s, Durham’s Dry
Goods Emporium – where she knew she would meet a dozen friendly,
and perhaps even anxious, faces. Soon, she promised herself.
Victoria was the last east-west street running parallel to Michigan
Ave. and to the railroad tracks a hundred yards to the north. It
boasted the largest private houses in the village. Robbie proudly
pointed out the residences of their customers. “That’s Mrs.
Saltman’s, the baker’s wife, she give me a penny for myself!” They
came to the frame building that served as the public school – three
teachers and eight grades. They stood on the boardwalk in the early
morning sun and looked. The windows were wide open, a breeze was
billowing the blinds. They could hear the scratch of chalk on
slates. “There’s nobody in there,” Brad whispered. “Stewie won’t go
to school,” Robbie said, “Mr. Grindly whips him.”

“
Shush,” Lily
said. “Stewie’s just tryin’ to spook you. Come September, you
boys’re gonna walk up here every mornin’. You’re gonna learn to
read and write.” And that’s the only thing I know for sure, she
thought.

O
n Dominion Day most
of the village turned up on the river flats to celebrate the
beginning of summer and incidentally the fourth anniversary of the
Confederation, now six provinces strong and still counting. The
main attraction was a five-match lacrosse game between the Point
and the Brantford Mohawks. The local squad was composed of all the
healthy young men from the settled part of town, which meant the
exclusion of Alleyfolk and most of the transient railroaders who
populated the boarding houses on every block. “Gotta be baptized to
play lacrosse,” Sophie said, “unless you’re an Indian.”

The Alleyfolk
set up some tents and marquees along the fringes of their own
property adjacent to the proceedings, and sold refreshments (some
of them legal), rented shade, and gave directions to gentleman
tourists in search of a less strenuous but more invigorating sort
of exercise. When the Point Edward Spikes scored to win the first
match, the Alleyfolk cheered. When the Mohawks won the second one,
they cheered more loudly. The Indians eventually triumphed, four
rounds to one. “We gotta let them win
some
time,” Sophie
chuckled.

The races that followed later
in the afternoon were open to all contestants. Lily sat in the
shade of Sophie’s tent and watched Robbie head out to the starter’s
spot with Stewie and several of the McLeod boys. The athletes were
sorted according to age and size by Sunday-school teachers with a
keen nose for prevarication. Robbie was the smallest of the
‘ten-year-old’ group. “He’s got spunk, that one,” Sophie said. Lily
waited for the starting pistol and then let out her breath. In the
scramble of the start, Robbie was elbowed and knocked to his knees.
He got up and pursued the pack, already ten strides ahead of him –
a lot to make up in a two-hundred-yard (or so) dash. Robbie was
robust and surprisingly quick. He caught up in a hurry. He took an
outside position, and with twenty yards to go drew even with the
leader, a rather elongated ‘ten-year-old’ who was obviously winded
and fading fast. From the shouts of endearment that emanated from
the wagering crowd nearby, he seemed to be the favourite. Robbie
flashed ahead, but not before a stinging elbow caught him in the
ribs. He kept his balance, teetered briefly into the larger boy,
and then pulled away to win by five full strides. The Alleyfolk and
the Mohawks let out a patriotic cheer. First prize was a silver
dollar. The judges later determined that the winner had fouled the
runner-up and asked that the award be returned. The happy recipient
had already disappeared – without a trace.