Mildred rereads Grace’s letter on the tram to Kerrisdale. They haven’t seen each other since they parted at the Victoria ferry. As a fellow immigrant, Grace was her first female friend. For a single young woman, female friends, let alone interesting female friends, are thin on the ground here. Unless one is a flapper, loneliness is the general rule.
Kerrisdale is a town on the cusp of Shaughnessy Heights, inhabited by people who make a good deal of money but not as much as people who live in Shaughnessy. No doubt both will one day be absorbed into the expanding amoeba called Vancouver.
In any case, a book club in Kerrisdale, while not as posh as a book club in Shaughnessy, is a big step up in society for a hello girl with a room at the YWCA.
The Harlan Crombie residence is a hulking structure in the Swiss Cottage style (which is anything but cottage-like), on a corner of Wilson Road. It’s a dwelling suitable for the ambitions of the head of the house, whose career, word has it, is about to reach its ascendency.
Her education at Badminton School taught Mildred never to enter an unfamiliar environment without doing proper preparation. Via library search, she learned that Crombie went to posh Heriot, a Scottish private school known to excel in the sport of caning. Upon emigrating to Canada, he dealt in real estate, first in Toronto, then on the West Coast—where he struck gold.
In Vancouver, where success in real estate is a matter of knowing the right people, Crombie, with his public school manners and posh Edinburgh accent, cultivated mutually advantageous relationships with members of the Board of Trade, the Chamber of Mines and the Ministry of Lands.
Thanks to countless rounds of whisky and golf, our man developed an uncanny knack for anticipating decisions by the Great Northern Railway and the CPR. His recent coup was to predict the location of the new Second Narrows Bridge, the only route from Vancouver to the North Shore that will accommodate a motorcar. He was able to buy up most of the land around the projected site as part of a syndicate that included George Worrell, the roads superintendent for North Vancouver, and an unnamed silent partner.
Currently the syndicate has acquired a substantial stake in the Grouse Mountain Highway and Scenic Resort Company, which plans to develop a luxury snow-ski venture.
Crombie can not be faulted for a lack of ambition—nor can Mrs Crombie, who was successful in corralling the Vancouver women’s vote for Boris Stalker. Behind every great man…
The Crombie parlour is Scottish and old-fashioned. The furniture is arranged around the perimeter, leaving room in the centre for what, traditionally, would be a coffin—a space now occupied by a huge wrought-iron coffee table in the modern Art Deco style, brand new and emphatically out of place in this atmosphere of pursed lips and gloom.
That particular item of furniture, together with Mrs Crombie’s moon manicure, causes Mildred to view her hostess as a woman who longs to “break free” (a common expression since the War)—a desire made all the more intense by her husband’s extended absences in Victoria attending committees, writing and giving speeches, glad-handing his way to the upper tiers of power.
Mildred suspects that Mr Crombie will have something to say about that table. Soon it will be back in the showroom, awaiting the next frustrated housewife who wants to “break free.”
Though slightly overweight, Mrs Crombie is a handsome woman with a regal nose and exceptional posture, accentuated by a hobble skirt down to the ankle—all the rage in London, five years ago. There is a certain vagueness to her affect that Mildred doesn’t remember from their previous meeting.
Mildred’s tea dress proves a success, which is to say it is quite daring compared to her fellow guests, who are in head-to-toe chiffon, like wedding cakes with waistlines. Having situated their enhanced bulk on the parlour chairs, they share sideways glances at Mildred’s bare arms, as though she has three of them. She is beginning to suspect that she is not so much a guest as an exhibit.
Introductions ensue: Carol Oliphant, Julia Budge and Audrey Glenlyon are married to an optometrist, a banker and the manager of McKim Advertising. All are members of the Beaver Club and St Andrew’s Presbyterian Church.
From Scottish history class, the surnames tell Mildred a different story. As septs of the MacDonalds, the Oliphants and Budges are unlikely to trust a Glenlyon, after their treachery at Glencoe in 1692.
Who knows what centuries-old conflicts are contained in their maiden names?
Between glances at her sleeves and neckline (Mildred might as well be a seated mannequin), the women talk among themselves.
Alga, your new table is splendid, I must say.
Wherever did you find it?
At William Worrall.
Of course, the Select Collection.
Yes. I felt like a bit of a change.
Good for you, Alga. It gives the room dash.
Though I shouldn’t like everything modern.
Too cold.
Not to mention a bit gaudy.
Not cozy at all…
She would hardly classify the room as cozy. Other than the table from William Worrall, the furniture is a testament to the Scottish craving for physical discomfort. The carved lions in the back of her mahogany chair have been expertly placed to poke one’s spine just so.
It then occurs to Mildred that none of the ladies seems to have brought a book to the book club, nor is there a bookshelf in sight.
Soundlessly, the maid-of-all-work appears pushing a Jacobean tea trolley containing what must be fifty pounds of silver and china, plus their contents. First she sets out a silver-plated sugar and creamer set, a rack, a waste bowl and a tea egg. Next, a set of Shelley teacups, saucers and plates embossed with the fish, bell, tree and bird of the Glasgow coat of arms. Next, a metal pot full of water, a metal trivet and a paraffin warmer. Next, the teapot, placed off-centre beside a three-tier tea sampler containing warm scones, cookies, finger sandwiches and assorted pastries.
Chan Jingheung works as precisely as if she were arranging a bouquet. Afternoon tea is much like the gongfu chah, but with less ceremony and more equipment. She goes about her work with an expression of pleasant non-comprehension, to assure the gwai poh that she isn’t listening in.
They didn’t! Surely you’re joking!
I simply didn’t believe my eyes.
And in a public place.
With children present.
Did it ever occur to you that such creatures exist?
Back at home we would never have put up with it…
As the conversation rattles on, as per her role as hostess, Mrs Crombie pours with exaggerated concentration. The air is aflutter with overlapping voices as they pile their plates with sugar- and fat-based delicacies.
For a few short moments the only sound is of slurping and chewing; then the conversation sets sail again, with its cargo of complaints about health, servants and the weather.
Steam rises from every cup—except for Mrs Crombie’s.
Strange. Mildred wonders about that.
207 Government St
Victoria, BC
Sept 6, 1925
Darling Millie,
Your letter was dear—I am just so overjoyed that you are you!
When we parted, my separation from you was so grievous to be borne that I might have died of lonesomeness were it not for Gwendolyn, though she has a bevy of admirers to occupy her time.
Perhaps because we sent in our applications at the same time, we are both employed in the same building, just in different offices—Gwendolyn with the Attorney General, and I with the Liquor Control Board, which is not a bit as exciting as it sounds.
I am so keenly aware that you are so near and yet so far! I don’t know how, but I will manage to visit you one day, by hook or by crook. I am not at all jealous of your new American friend, who sounds charming, if intimidatingly direct.
But I promise I shall be ever so cross if you do not love me, as I do you!
Your eternal friend,
Gracie
Gwendolyn and Grace crossed the Atlantic together in a third-class, four-bunk cabin on the Royal George from Avonmouth to Halifax. From there they had planned to travel by train to Victoria, where they had secured government employment by correspondence.
Of the two other girls in their cabin, one remained in bed seasick, arising only long enough to go to the bathroom or throw up in the commode, while the other had a posh accent that offended Gwendolyn, whose family were devoted Socialists in Birmingham.
As a public school girl from London, Mildred had worked at Command office in Whitehall, and exhibited a level of sophistication and fearlessness Grace had only witnessed in moving pictures.
On the transcontinental train from Halifax, Mildred occupied the more expensive lower bunk, which had a window, and she would invite Grace to sit with her and watch the country go by. Gwendolyn preferred to socialize with the workmen in coach, especially the young fellow who turned bright red when she entered but could barely bring himself to speak for shyness.
Grace and Mildred would lie across the bed, staring out the window as the train slithered through ravined alleyways and endless forests and then across an immense flatness, while listening to the rhythmic chewing of the iron horse in front and, beneath them, the syncopated rhythm of metal wheels over tracks.
While they were together, the miles and the hours flew by. Thanks to Millie, Grace no longer views boredom as the normal state, but a girl doesn’t have many such friends and nobody has come to take her place.
Chan Jingheung glances at her employer for direction. Mrs Crombie responds with neither approval nor disapproval.
Mrs Oliphant speaks as though taking up the task of managing the hostess: “Oh Alga, more scones. That would be lovely if there are any left.”
“Perhaps there are more bird’s nest cookies too,” Mrs Budge suggests.
“Yes, yes. Chan, just get them, would you please?” Her employer’s tone indicates that she has lost her sanfen. For Mrs Crombie, such snapping is not normal. Friends envy Chan Jingheung for her courteous and thoughtful employer, but lately Mrs Crombie has seemed bushi and off-balance. Beneath the paint and enamel, her lips and fingernails are blue. She spends much time in the bathroom, with no sound of running water.
Had she been consulted, Chan Jingheung would have advised against this gathering. Mrs Crombie should not be seen like this. Since the election, rumours have spread that Harlan Crombie’s wife is a secret jaugwei. Already Mr Crombie has lost face. When he telephoned from Victoria last evening, the voice she overheard amid the crackle and hiss was like the roar of an angry beast.
She also heard her employer saying that he is in line to be appointed to a high position with the Liquor Control Board, so a scandal would be especially harmful.
It is a complicated situation, but what will be will be. Seuhn keih zihyin la.
“Ladies, may I introduce you to our guest, Miss Mildred Wickstram—a Badminton girl, an opera buff, a Londoner and, I must say, a bright spark, with the most refreshing ideas… most refreshing if I do say so…” Mrs Crombie pauses, having lost the thread.
She was looking forward to introducing this young woman to her group, if only because it implies a wider circle of acquaintance than she really has.
The opportunity presented itself a fortnight ago at the Opera House, when the smartly dressed young thing took the seat next to her on a single ticket. An unaccompanied young woman with the better sort of accent is a rarity in this savage city.
During intermission they seemed to “hit it off.” Mrs Crombie doesn’t ordinarily make conversation with strangers, but her husband had become engrossed in a discussion with Boris Stalker. Should she interrupt or distract them, she would hear about it at home.
Miss Wickstram proved knowledgeable about an extraordinary number of interesting things—trends in London, hemlines, moving pictures, the royal family—and said sharp, witty things about public figures, comments she would love to have said herself if she’d dared.
The encounter left Mrs Crombie in a bittersweet mood.
For the wife in a joyless marriage, the presence of a modern young woman can bring on a sort of buyer’s remorse—a feeling of misgiving, as though one has failed to secure value for one’s investment in time and drudgery.
Throughout the afternoon, Mrs Crombie does her best to follow the conversation and to interject a comment that has some relevance to the subject at hand—which shouldn’t be so difficult, given the subjects discussed.
And isn’t it a pity about Norah?
Still, no need to make a scene at church.
Lately she has found it a major chore just to get out of bed and get dressed, much less run the household. And she needs spectacles—another certain sign of creeping old age. Watching Ben-Hur at the Strand on Tuesday, she had trouble making out the title cards.
In fact, she will just close her eyes a few moments and let the others talk among themselves…
Her husband is a beast.
Of course he’s a beast, but there is a time and a place for everything.
Sometimes it is better to keep oneself to oneself, but that’s not the way, these days.
Not among the young people.
I wonder about the young people.
Take it all for granted, they do.
Never saw war.
Never had to do without.
And the girls smoking cigarettes.
It’s the moving pictures.
During last week’s sermon when Reverend Nicholson said we should see Ben-Hur, I thought I’d die.
The hero is a Jew, Mabel, can ye imagine?
With Jesus in a supporting role.
Blasphemy it is, that’s the truth of it.
Reverend McDougall thinks it will bring more young people to church.
Surely he could have suggested something more wholesome, like The Wizard of Oz—
Too fanciful, Julia. And a whiff of heresy as well.
Surely a wizard is more wholesome than Ben-Hur.
Carmel Myers—did you see what she had on her?
Nothing left to the imagination there.
And she’s a Jew you know.
Who? Carmel Myers?
Aye. Of the Jewish persuasion.
Oh dear, I didn’t know that.
Hollywood is full of Jews.
And DPs most of them.
A clever people.
Very good with money.
Did you know that Clara Bow has bright red hair?…
“What do the young people say about the Jews, Miss Wickstram?”
Mildred’s mind has wandered off. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Oliphant? Which Jews do you mean?”
“Why the Jews in the moving pictures, of course.”
When faced with a loaded question, the Badminton girl smiles innocently and switches to a neutral topic—but what might that be? The perfume selection at Woodward’s? Bargains at the Army & Navy? Does she know a recipe?
An uncomfortable pause drags on. Mrs Glenlyon bites into another Hydrox cookie while Mrs Budge gazes into her teacup. Mrs Oliphant examines her manicure. They are not going to let her off easily.
When in doubt, appeal to the hostess. “Mrs Crombie, your scones are to die for. Did you make them yourself?”
“I think I made them, yes.” Mrs Crombie replies as though her mind has left the room.
“Oh Alga, of course you did. As one surely must,” Mrs Glenlyon says.
“Chinese cooks knead them to death,” observes Mrs Oliphant.
“Aye, they have no feel for pastry,” adds Mrs Budge.
“D’ye see what they call a bun?” continues Mrs Glenlyon. “A lump of dough is what it is. The Chinese overknead everything.”
All laugh, except for Mrs Crombie: “What do you say, Alga?”
Clearly, Mrs Crombie has not been following the conversation.
“Alga, you sound strange—and my dear, you do look pale.”
Mrs Crombie struggles to her feet. “If you will excuse me, I believe I shall visit the ladies’ room.”
They watch her retreat and exchange worried looks.
“Alga seems unwell, I fear.”
“Something she ate, d’ye think? Or drank?”
“Ah. Well, we mustn’t judge the poor soul.”
“Phooey. She should be in Victoria by her husband’s side, like the other wives.”
“If he wants her there.”
Mrs Oliphant is just about to continue with her thoughts on the duties of a political wife when the maid-of-all-work reappears in the doorway.
Chan Jingheung hesitates before jumping into cold water. Of necessity, she speaks English—reasoning that she would have to if the house were on fire.
“Ladies, please you must come now, quickly!”
Mildred wonders whether the guests are more shocked that Chan Jingheung is speaking out loud, or that she is speaking English and not pidgin, or that she is giving them orders and not the other way around. They remain in their chairs, momentarily stunned, while Mildred follows Chan Jingheung into the hall.
Mildred rushes over to the staircase, where Mrs Crombie lies stretched out on the floor in a shape defined by her hobble skirt—at first, Mildred thinks she may have tripped on it. She kneels beside the inert body, brushes aside the ruined coiffure to uncover her neck and presses the artery with three fingers.
“Miss, where is the telephone?”
“It is in the study. Please, I will show you.”
Mildred struggles to her feet (damn these Louis heels!) and follows Chan Jingheung to the study at the front of the hall, past a clutch of frightened women with nothing to say.
Chan Jingheung remains silent, eyes on the floor, hoping that the ladies will forget her impertinent outburst in English.
At last they mobilize: Mrs Glenlyon fetches a tea towel soaked with cold water, which she applies to Mrs Crombie’s forehead; Mrs Budge loosens Alga’s bodice and Mrs Oliphant removes the shoes, to no avail.
In the study, Mildred places a call.
Hello, operator speaking. CAstle exchange.
Operator, here is CAstle 135. TRinity 211, please.
Edwards Funeral Home. Please hold while I connect you.
An Odd Coincidence
Untimely Deaths Give Cause for Concern
Ed McCurdy
Staff Writer
The Evening Star
A matron who’s married to power A political man of the hour Developed a notion For Patterson’s Potion And now they’re both pushing up flowers.
In war, many people die at a time and in similar circumstances. In peacetime, other than a derailed train or a sunken ship, such an event is a rarity.
So when two prominent persons—the Attorney General and the wife of a deputy minister—perish just a few days apart, it is inevitable that the city would grow rife with speculation. One of the more outlandish theories is that the two victims were lovers who died in a suicide pact, like a middle-aged, overweight Romeo and Juliet.
That is the wonder of a rumour: it can be based purely on the fact that one victim is a man and the other a woman.
More plausible rumours exist, however—one of which has to do with their reputed taste in restorative tonics.
According to a source in the police department, sometime before his death Mr Cunning is believed to have imbibed Patterson’s Silk Hat Martinis. For the rumourmongers, it can hardly be coincidence that in the case of Mrs Crombie, one of the ladies present reports a partially empty bottle of the same stuff, in the upstairs bathroom next to the sink.
Thus, the Patterson’s brand has become a factor in both investigations. Mr Patterson may be required to subject every one of his many products for analysis.
Whether Mr Cunning’s death can be attributed to a flaw in the product or to deliberate contamination remains to be seen—leaving the possibility that, if the victims died by the same poison, the culprit may have been something other than American hooch, as Mr Trotter has suggested.
Apparently public interest in the two deaths is not shared by the Vancouver Police Department, which has declined to perform autopsies, sources say, despite being urged to do so.
“Such measures are a drain on public resources,” was Chief Barfoot’s response to questioning. “The VPD will require more evidence before taking such a course. A time of austerity is no time to undertake a wild goose chase at public expense.”
As for Mrs Crombie, an autopsy would also require an official family request—which has been forwarded in writing by her bereaved husband. According to a knowledgeable observer, the Crombie request was strongly critical of police inaction thus far: “We do not understand the police’s unwillingness to reach a conclusion and put the family’s mind at rest. It flies in the face of human decency.”
For the present, the Crombie family, and the public at large, must make do with a diagnosis of “heart failure”—a general term that describes the final stage of most deaths, in war and in peace.
If contaminated Patterson’s products were to be found in the possession of both victims, then two open-and-shut cases could become one.
After two weeks of seeming inaction, one question prevails in the public mind: Are the Vancouver Police up to the challenge? To judge by their conduct of the Janet Stewart case last year, this reporter sees little reason for optimism.