Wild Rose (35 page)

During this period of intense questioning she happened to enter the general store on an errand for Mrs. Emery just as the mother of her rival, Madame Tremblay was leaving, their shoulders nearly touching as each slipped through the wide doorway. Their unexpected proximity made Sophie dizzy, the air seemed to bubble, for an instant, she thought she might faint. Sophie and Madame Tremblay didn’t so much as glance at each other even as the fabric of their garments brushed. It took a second for Sophie’s eyes to adjust to the store’s dimness, but she could feel the suddenness of the hush within. She continued as if nothing had happened, said good morning to the shopkeeper’s angular wife, Mrs. Kaufmann, who stood behind the long counter piled with bottles of medicine, jars of jam, stacks of torn ends of cloth, cans of fruit, needles, pins and thread, and various and sundry other items. Thankfully, Harold Olds or Henry Ogden, she still couldn’t keep them apart, was out on an errand, and didn’t see the encounter which he would surely have reported back to the boarding house. Yet how she wanted to speak to Madame Tremblay, wondered even if perhaps Mrs. Tremblay wanted to talk to her.

Madame Napoléon Beausoleil – Séraphine – was sitting on a chair at the far end of the counter next to a window that let in enough light that she could see to knit, but that opened only onto the worn wooden wall of the building next door. Sophie knew she was waiting for Napoléon to finish his conversation with Mr. Kaufmann, who never failed to engage his male customers in dialogue while his wife or his clerk went about filling the customers’ orders, and the wife or wives waited patiently. Often as many as a half-dozen men stood or sat together on unopened barrels of pickles, or sacks of flour, or chairs, or leaning against the counter, while they chatted and smoked, arguing about the weather, the price of wheat, the government, the possibility of new settlers coming, and of the railway branch line that would soon be theirs. On this day though, there was only Napoléon Beausoleil and Gerald Kaufmann. First nodding hello to Mrs. Kaufmann, Sophie, still trembling from the brush with the mother of her rival, went at once to Séraphine.

Madame Beausoleil, whose needles clicked briskly over what appeared to be a man’s sweater, lifted her head from her work, gasped and dropped it, and clasped Sophie’s proffered hand in both of hers.
“Ah, ma pauvre Sophie –”
she began, her eyes filling with tears that spilled over and began to run down her cheeks, but Sophie interrupted, speaking in English. In English she was in less danger of throwing herself, sobbing on Séraphine’s bosom.

“No, no,” she told her, sniffing back the hint of tears. “I am well, Charles is well, we are…” But she couldn’t go on.

“Bien sûr
, of course,” Madame Beausoleil answered, wiping her eyes with a tiny handkerchief she extracted from her pocket. “I am so happy to see you. Why did you not come to me? My dear, I would have helped.” Tears spilled again and she wiped them away again, then lowered her voice to speak as only an old friend could do without trespassing, “Have you heard any word from Pierre?” Sophie, regaining her calm, shook her head, no.

“Madame, I know you would have helped me, but – I was not myself. I couldn’t think. I knew only that I had to get to town…” She tried to remember why that was – because maybe Pierre was there? Séraphine interrupted.

“By the time I found out that he – what had happened, we were told by a pedlar who had stopped by your place that you were gone, and for a long time I did not know where until one day Napoléon brought me the news that you were still here. I thought that you would return to Québec. “How I would wish to return someday…” She was about to begin sobbing, but Sophie said, hastily, “You know where I am,
chére
Séraphine. I beg you come to visit me at Mrs. Emery’s the next time you come to town. I would stay here now, but Charles is napping and I must get back before he wakes.” If they had been in Québec, there would have been a room serving cakes and tea or coffee where they might sit together for an hour renewing their friendship, but in this godforsaken place, there was no such thing, and – once again it was brought forcefully to her attention – that even though she had invited her friend to come to the boarding house, such a visit would be brief, that Sophie no longer had a home of her own to which she might invite her friend.

When, having made her purchase, Sophie said good-bye, Madame Beausoleil was still seated, still waiting for her husband whose conversation with the shopkeeper showed no signs of flagging. Sophie reflected that when a woman finally had an opportunity to leave the homestead for town with her husband, unless she had family or friends there, she had no place to go, nothing to do once she had made her purchases, no place to sit in privacy or with an acquaintance except in the wagon, no place even to find privacy for her bodily functions. More than once Sophie had glanced out the kitchen window to see a woman she knew only by name exiting the boarding house’s outhouse or entering it. Mrs. Emery said nothing at this unauthorized use of her facilities, but Sophie had often thought how a public washroom was needed in the town, or even a small café with its own outhouse, so that women in town for the day might have a toilet designated for them to use instead of having to shamefacedly borrow a homeowner’s private outdoor toilet. And there was no other kind because there was no sewer system and wouldn’t be until kingdom come, Sophie thought. In Bone Pile there weren’t even bushes to hide behind where a woman might relieve herself.
Seeing the unguarded glance of exasperation Madame Beausoleil had made in the direction of her husband, and Sophie’s own rush of sympathy for the woman who had helped her deliver Charles, the idea of starting a tea room or a café seemed even more urgently to demand consideration.

Back at the house, as she stood peeling potatoes and listening to a long story Charles was telling her apparently about a farm with “free cows and two-six fast fast fast horses and lotsa babies,” only half of which she understood although she was momentarily arrested when he included a father (
papa
) in his story, her mind was once again on the café. She had wasted all these weeks since the idea had first come to her, partly out of caution, partly to give herself time to get used to the idea, but mostly, because she was afraid; her skin goose-bumped with fear at making such a leap. This time, though, she told herself, she must face this squarely and either act, or give up the idea entirely. If she were to do it, what would she need?

A house with a good cook stove and enough room to seat as many as a dozen people; then dishes, tables and chairs, pots and pans for her cooking and baking; she would need supplies: tea and coffee, flour and sugar, all the items she and Pierre had bought for the homestead. Without a cow or a garden of her own she would be forced to buy milk, cream, butter, vegetables, fruit, and meat. For all of that, she would need money – cash – and she was sure that so far, she hadn’t enough. She remembered that there were still the porcelain dishes.

“Maman,”
Charles complained.
“Tu ne m’écoutes pas.”

“I am listening, my sweet,” she told him, handing him a long unbroken piece of potato peeling and he grew interested in straightening it. Perhaps she could trade that china for the less elegant dishes she would need to run her café. The thought caused her some grief, but not as much as it once would have, and she was pleased, then fought off a wave of sadness.

But it was now into the last days of October. For weeks on end during the previous winter no one could get into town because of the deep snow and the blizzards that seemed to follow one after another through all the long winter and into spring. Visitors would come to town only when the trails were clear enough to pass over, or when the weather relented, as it did now and then, most winters. Should she perhaps wait until spring?

Should she speak to Mr. Archibald again, and then – she hesitated – should she approach Harry Adamson? After their last encounter, rather than going out onto the land, in the evenings she had satisfied herself to stroll up and down the newly laid wooden sidewalk that went past the few houses that comprised the second street, anchored at the south end by Mrs. Emery’s house. She wasn’t sure if this was to prove to herself that she wasn’t merely a wanton woman, or if it was out of fear of causing people to talk, or even that Harry might see her out there on the prairie night after night and think that she was waiting for him. But once winter set in, snow would prevent her from walking out there, as it would often prevent Adamson from riding his horse across it.

Seeing Mme. Beausoleil and Mme. Tremblay the same afternoon had shaken her. So great was her need to think unencumbered by the imperative of her work, or even her child, that she risked going out before Charles was quite asleep, murmuring softly to himself in their shared bed as she left the room, telling him she would be back in a moment so that he wouldn’t know she had left the house. She was so deep in thought as she wandered down the boardwalk near Adamson’s cabin, that not until it was nearly on her did she hear a wagon coming up from the south. Startled, turning quickly, she saw that it was Harry Adamson himself, driving his team and wagon with a load, judging by the chair legs in the wagon box pointing to the sky, of household items. She would have walked on, but he pulled his team to a stop beside her.

“Evening, Mrs. Hippolyte,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone, or perhaps, she thought, it was pleasure at seeing her that he didn’t want to show.

“Good evening, Mr. Adamson.”

“It’s been awhile since I last saw you,” he said, grinning now. She turned away, nervous about the familiarity in his tone, if not his choice of words, but he climbed down from the wagon and stood by his horses, one hand reaching up to hold the bridle of the horse nearest them. “I’ve missed your company,” he said. Then, seeing her anxiety, “There’s no one about. We can talk together for a few moments without…”

“I’ve been busy,” she said, “And as the days grow shorter it is harder to get away early enough to walk out there as I used to do.” She glanced toward the contents of the wagon box. “Are you closing down your homestead?”

“Just for the winter. I decided to bring some furniture and supplies into town, keep them safe here.” He dropped his hand from the bridle. “I’m going East for a few months,” he said. “I might find work in Regina or Winnipeg. Might not get any farther than that. No use hanging around here starving.”

“I have wanted to talk to you. I –” she hesitated, afraid to say out loud what she had in mind lest it seem silly. “I want to start a small business…” She looked up into his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He was listening with interest. She hurried on. “I have no experience at all of such a thing, I thought – I wonder – I need advice.”

“Don’t have experience with such a thing myself,” he said, giving one shoulder in its faded brown canvas jacket a slight shrug. “But, sure – tell me about it.”

Hesitating at first, then as her excitement caught hold, she told him of her desire to start a café, “Or perhaps only a tea room to begin.”

He listened, at first gazing into her face, and then turning his head to stare down the street, as if he were weighing the potential of her idea against what he knew of the village. No one was about on the boardwalk, but she could see a couple standing talking at the Archibald’s gate far up the street, although in the dusk she couldn’t make out who they were. Closer to them a couple of children played tag, running and shrieking. There was no light in the windows of Adelaide Smith’s house.

“I think,” he said, slowly, “This could work,” he said, “Maybe only as a stop-gap, until you earn enough to…” He paused, scratched the back of his neck, then said nothing more.

“Enough money to leave,” she finished for him. “To go to a bigger place where there might be better opportunities for Charles and myself.” She gazed down at the boardwalk between them, and he at the sky above her head. The horse on the far side of them sighed, moved one plate-size foot, then blew out air, making his lips vibrate. Harry turned his head, laughed a little, and when she caught that he had thought the horse as offering an opinion on human affairs, she laughed too.

“I need a house,” she told him, “I need a kitchen with a stove and – other items. And then I need perhaps three tables and perhaps a dozen chairs. Eventually – not so many at the start.”

“And dishes,” he said.

“And cooking pots.”

“Nothing left from your farm?”

“My husband sold the place with everything in it. The animals as well. I own only my clothing and Charles’ and the few items Mr. Campion didn’t prevent me from taking.”

“Hmmm,” he said, the lines in his face deepening, or was it only that night was beginning to fall? Was he thinking that he would perhaps find Campion and try to get back those things?

“You need a house first,” he said. “One problem at a time.”

“There are no empty houses in town that I know of,” she said. “But,” she hesitated, afraid to say what she had just realized, “did you say you…you are leaving for the winter?” He nodded slowly, studying her face in a way she found both gentle and a little too penetrating, as if he were curious, but admired what he saw there, and was trying to find its source. She would have thought of love, but was too intent on her café. “Would you consider renting your house to me for the time you are away?”

“It isn’t much of a house. Would you live in it too?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” she said. “But if I don’t work for Mrs. Emery anymore, then I have to pay her to stay in her house.”