“I’ll go on to church alone. You should rest that ankle.”
Hetty pulls herself up in bed. Scree shifts in a slow landslide behind her eyes. Even her teeth feel sore. Peter draws back the curtains and Hetty flinches as morning sunshine pours into the room.
“And you have a fine champagne hangover. I hate to say I told you so.”
She covers her eyes with her arm. “No you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t hate to say I told you so, Peter. You thrive on it.”
“Perhaps if you get a little more sleep you might wake up in a better mood.”
She could rouse herself for the occasion but really it’s a relief not to have to go. Her ankle throbs like the devil, not that she feels much like sharing this information with her husband. And she suspects Peter’s concern is less for her welfare than for the effect her boozy breath — her mouth feels and tastes like she’s been eating raw onions — and her no doubt bloodshot eyes would have on the reverend and his congregation. And Hetty’s relationship with God has been in question for years. Ever since the Explosion. She can still feel the shape and fear of that morning, those small shocked bodies she’d tried to fold inside her own, rocking them. Can still smell the sharp iron tang of blood that gushed from between their fingers. Amy and Michael who, though blinded, somehow survived the assault of glass buried deep in their eyes. Lizzie, who did not. Lizzie, whose screams still tremor through her. What kind of God stood by and let such things happen? In Halifax it had been easier to hide her newfound atheism, there was always work as an excuse, or tiredness. Here in the village she’s had to bite her tongue and simply go through the Sunday motions, though her heart is not in it. These days her marriage gives her six days a week to practice.
It seems to Hetty that she simply rolls over and Peter is back, telling her he is going out again and not to expect him for dinner, as he will be at the Bakers. He and Doctor Baker are having a meeting. Hetty pulls the sheet over her head. As long as it isn’t about her.
“I’ve asked Laura to drop in on you later.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Just go on and have a good time.”
“It’s hardly a good time we’re after. We have serious matters to discuss.”
The mutual grumblers society, tut-tutting over the presence of the Esmeralda and her rum-running crew. “Goodbye, Peter.”
Hearing the front door close Hetty flings the bedcovers aside. She could spend the whole day in bed if she wanted. But what an utter waste of this unexpected freedom. She sits up. Too fast. Her head pounds in protest. First on the agenda, eat a little breakfast, drink plenty of tea. Then slip out before Laura shows up.
Hetty takes the short cut through the fields and the woods towards the wharf and the Esmeralda. she’s told herself that she needs to check on J.J.’s progress and that the walk will do her good, clear her head. To that purpose the wind is having a spring-cleaning effect on her brain. But all she can think of is the camaraderie around the table last night, the laughter, the glow from the candles, the scents and textures of Ambrose’s cooking, the giddy path of champagne in her blood. And even though the sun is shining, today feels flat, washed out, as if unable to summon yesterday’s energy. The wind carries the sounds of hammering, carpenters at work. Clearly Sunday is not a day of rest for everyone. But who are these men, so long unemployed beyond a bit of fishing and a square of land to tend, to turn down a job even if it is on the Sabbath? These days everyone takes work where he can find it.
The wind on the bay whips her hair into her eyes, making them sting, and her tender ankle slows her progress. Unable to see where she places her feet, Hetty stumbles again. She is sitting in the grass rubbing her sore ankle when Esmeralda appears, back in men’s clothing, coming towards her.
“I thought it was you I saw walking across the field.”
“Limping, don’t you mean? I was coming to check on J.J. And I wanted to thank you and your father for last night.” She squints up at Esmeralda. “I had such a good time.”
“Is your ankle okay?”
“It isn’t even sprained, but it’s a little sore from being jarred. I just need to sit here until the throbbing stops.”
Esmeralda lies on her side in the grass next to Hetty, her head propped on her hand. Her pants and jacket accentuate the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. “It’s quite warm out of the wind.” She smiles, pulling her lips together in a pout that Hetty witnessed her try on Peter last night.
“Is J.J. any better today?”
“He’s no worse, except for the pain. Spoon went to your doctor this morning to ask for some morphine.”
“So he went aboard?” Hetty wonders what Doctor Baker made of her handiwork. Esmeralda reads her mind.
“At the sight of your neat little stitches he raised one big bushy eyebrow and muttered, ‘Not bad, considering.’” Esmeralda imitates the doctor’s accent and mannerisms so well Hetty throws back her head and laughs.
“You don’t like your doctor very much?”
“Not really. It started off as a misunderstanding that got completely out of hand. He misconstrued my actions, thought I was turning my nose up at his medical skills. We’ve locked horns ever since.”
“Perhaps he feels threatened by you. A woman in his domain.”
“I doubt it.” She plucks grass and tosses it. Looks off across the bay. “A doctor jealous of a nurse? Besides, I don’t practise anymore.”
“Because you got married.”
Hetty pauses before responding. “Actually, because they kicked me out.”
“They?”
“The V.O.N. The Victorian Order of Nurses.”
Now it’s Esmeralda’s turn to laugh. “A rebel. I knew it.”
Hetty finds herself smiling at this new picture of herself. Rebel. At the sound of the word — the feel of it — something loosens and shifts under her skin. They’d branded her with ugly words at the time: depraved. Unnatural. Rebel fits better. “My mother was on the administration committee. It just about killed her when my name came up and they started baying for blood.”
“And what did you do that was so terrible?”
To absolve herself through confession. Unburden herself to a stranger. How tempting. Would she be judged? Likely not. Esmeralda is a free spirit. But would her friend Clara understand such an impulse? Or would she feel betrayed? lied to? Esmeralda is thrilling and charming. But she’s no priest; absolution is not hers to grant. Nor is forgiveness.
She shrugs. “Some minor scandal to do with a male patient.”
Esmeralda wiggles her eyebrows and grins. “So . . . you became a nurse so you could run your hands over men’s bodies.”
Hetty blushes a deep red. “It wasn’t like that.”
Nurse. Nurse. Over here, nurse.
“No? And just as I was considering a career change too.
“I thought I could help them. Some of them were so damaged.”
“Nurse. Nurse. Over here.”
“Over here.”
“No. Over here.”
Hetty stood in the middle of the ward and shook her head, smiling. “Now which of you would be in the most need, do you think?”
“Me, nurse.”
“Me.”
“No, me.”
“Over here.”
Methodically she tended them all. Lovely lonely boys with broken bodies and ravaged faces. A wet cloth to a fevered forehead here, a shot of morphine there. She’d hold their hands — those who still had hands — squeeze their shoulders, rub their legs — those who still had legs. And she’d sit on the edge of their beds and whisper words of encouragement to the speechless, listen sympathetically to those whose consciousness the shells and the mud had split open and loosed a torrent of words and feelings. Flirt with them.
And then one night she let one of them touch her.
Hetty brushes grass from her skirt. “The profession is rather authoritarian when it comes to the morality of nurses. I mean, you need a certificate from a clergyman attesting to your character and church attendance before you can even be accepted into nursing school at Victoria General. And once you’re accepted they move you into residence where they can keep an eye on you. There are rules about lateness and about making noise and laughing. Rules about wearing your uniform and keeping your room tidy. And rules about jewellery, and how you wear your hair, and who you can and can’t fraternize with.”
“Such as male patients.”
“And doctors.”
“Not that a few rules have ever stopped anyone.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am. What are all the greatest love stories in the world about but men and women coming together despite the obstacles thrown in their way? Love conquers all. It’s the most natural thing.”
Could you talk to a lonely fellow?
Was that natural? It was no love story. It had just felt right at the time. Her gift. Her way of making their lives a little more bearable. But when, years later, Job Mitchell had gone running to the V.O.N., everything became twisted and sordid.
“People found ways around the rules.”
“Except you got caught.”
A sharp pain through her sternum almost takes her breath away, as though the stubby end of Job Mitchell’s arm still pins her. “It was more that my past caught up with me.”
“How dark and mysterious. Any regrets?”
“Of course. Nursing was my life.”
“In spite of all those rules and regulations.”
“But I loved the nursing. Helping people. Watching someone in my care pull back from the brink and grow stronger. Not that every patient is at death’s door. But there’s something powerful in being part of someone’s healing. It’s what drew me to the profession in the first place.”
“So it wasn’t all those men’s bodies.” Hetty plucks another handful of grass and throws it at Esmeralda.
“There was a war on and Halifax was filled with wounded soldiers. Suddenly nursing was something everyone wanted to do. Many of the men were horribly disfigured and broken, with minds that would never heal, injuries that had left them cripples. At first they repulsed me. Of course that all changed once I started nursing. You learn pretty quickly to accept what other people consider — what you yourself once considered — grotesque. In the beginning I felt pity, but not enough to move me to leave school and register for a three-year training program. And anyway, who knew how long the war would last? The explosion changed everything.” The warmth of the sun on her face soothes her aching head and she closes her eyes. “Suddenly the war was here and not just over there. This was my city, and people were hurt. They were dying. Dead. Some were burned beyond recognition.” She turns to face Esmeralda and opens her eyes, sun-spots marring her vision. “These weren’t soldiers who had been through the Casualty Clearing Station — who’d been bandaged and splinted and stitched together. This was the front lines. Worse. Two thousand people lost their lives, civilians, old people, men, women and children. The bodies were stacked six deep along roads where there used to be houses. I spoke to soldiers who’d been in the trenches, and they said it was like nothing they’d experienced overseas.” She stares off across the water. “I expect that was because of the children. I don’t think there’s a sadder sight in this world than the body of a child.” She stops to draw breath. “I’d been born and raised in Halifax, I’d always felt safe there. And suddenly it wasn’t safe anymore. In an instant every life in the city changed.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
Why would she have heard of it? The world was turned upside down by war. And Esmeralda would have been, what? Twelve years old at the time? Fourteen? And living who knows where.
“I was at school the morning it happened.” Hetty sits up and hugs her knees. “The largest man-made explosion in the history of the world, right in the middle of Halifax harbour. Two ships collided near the shore. One was carrying ammunition. Massive amounts of ammunition. It seems hard to believe, but the explosion was so fierce it flattened the entire north end of the city, took out the docks and the railway station and every factory around them. One blinding flash and everything was gone. Peoples’ houses vanished. Many of them were only wood so they just twisted into matchsticks and blew away. Or caught fire. What the Explosion didn’t pulverize the fires took care of.”
Hetty hadn’t thought much at all when she first heard the Explosion. After all, men had been blasting out the land for the new railway for weeks. Certainly it was louder, a long low resounding boom, followed by a deep rumble from the belly of the earth, vibrations under her feet. And then the windows shattered, sprinkling deadly confetti over the staff and students of the Halifax Ladies’ College, all gathered that morning, heads bent in prayer, in the gymnasium. The school shuddered and shook. An earthquake? A hurricane? Flakes of crystal hung suspended in the air. The symphony of shattering glass stretched so long — there could be no other sound so arresting, Hetty thought. And in the silence afterwards, the sudden and startling crash of pieces here and there, as if the music wasn’t quite sure it was over.
And then pandemonium. Everyone rushing to the windows, winter morning air sharp in their faces. Glass crunching beneath their feet. Hands around the steel cages, built to keep the girls’ tennis balls and basketballs from getting out, cages which today had kept them safe from flying debris. Over the harbour an immense filthy cloud snaked into the sky, expanding in billowy plumes, multiplying itself like a giant balloon filling up at the speed of thought.
As everyone watched, the cloud changed colour, shedding its darkness like a skin and appearing white, almost bright beneath, flashing with trapped lightning. And then someone began screaming in Hetty’s ear. Clara. Her face covered in blood.
Esmeralda rolls onto her stomach, picks at a dandelion, petal by yellow petal. “All cities have their tragedies. I’m sorry I had not heard of yours.”
“There’s no need to apologize. You weren’t here, how could you know?”
Esmeralda rests her head on her arms and Hetty leans back, stretches out her legs and closes her eyes. She tips her face to the sun and lets her mind empty until she is aware only of the smell of crushed grass beneath her and the sensation of it against her legs, the gentle heat of the sun and the breeze blowing in off the water. After a while she feels grass tickling her face and opens her eyes. Esmeralda grins.
“You okay?”
I’m fine.” Mouth in a tight smile. “It was a long time ago.
“I have a gift for you.”
“Oh?”
Esmeralda pulls the heart-shaped ring from her finger, holds it out.
“What is this for? You don’t have to give me a gift. It isn’t necessary.” Her mouth feels dry.
“It isn’t necessary,” Esmeralda mocks. “But I want to. Hetty the plucky nurse has earned a special place in our hearts, and I would like to give her something special in return.” A wink? Or is she squinting at the sun? “I noticed you admiring it the other day. And besides, your pretty dress was spoiled, you deserve some sort of reward.”
“It’s very beautiful.” And flawed. Now the ring is only inches from her face Hetty can see that the tiny ruby at the point of the heart is missing, and so is another of the smaller framing stones.
“I insist.” Esmeralda presses the ring into Hetty’s hand. Hetty turns it over between her fingers. The gold band is worn so thin it’s almost translucent. Perhaps the rubies are really garnets. Maybe it isn’t so valuable after all. She closes her hand around it.
“You shouldn’t have, but thank you.”
“It was my mother’s,” Esmeralda says, a wistful smile grazing her lips.
“Oh, then I couldn’t,” Hetty cries out, horrified. She tries to pass the ring back, but Esmeralda shakes her head.
“Once you’ve accepted a gift, it’s yours. I want you to have it.” She pushes Hetty’s hand away. “My mother would approve, believe me. Think of it as a keepsake, something to remember me by.”
As if she needs a ring to remember anything of this young woman, her ship, the events that have unfolded these past days. Burned in her memory forever.
“Try this one.” Esmeralda points to the third finger of Hetty’s right hand, grinning when the ring slides on easily. “Now we’re engaged!”
Hetty, slightly hysterical, laughs along with Esmeralda. Why is her heart knocking so? Before their laughter quite dies away Esmeralda stretches and rises to her feet.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
Hetty feels dizzy. “I hadn’t thought any further than coming down to see you. And your father.” Not strictly true. She’d been hoping for an invitation onto the schooner again. More than that, she’d daydreamed of sailing into Minas Basin, seeing the village retreat to a dot on the horizon as, sails unfurled and filled with wind, bowsprit steeved over the water and pointing the ship’s way, the Esmeralda passed through the funnel of Cape split into the colder Bay of Fundy waters and from there out onto the open sea.
“Why don’t we go to your house?”
“My house?” What on earth could be exciting about going to my house, she almost says, then suddenly understands that, for a girl who probably calls a cabin you can’t swing a cat around in home for most weeks of the year, going to visit someone’s house must count as an adventure as big as Hetty’s own sailing daydream.
“You said your husband is out for the day, and from his manner last night I’d say he doesn’t exactly approve of me.”
“He barely approves of me, and I’m married to him.”
Esmeralda extends a hand to help Hetty to her feet. “Shall we go then?”