MADGE CURNOE LIVED WITH HER grandmother in a tiny house on Elm Street. It was old and in need of repair but Madge loved it. She’d scrimped and saved to get the down payment and, six months ago, she’d taken possession.
“Going cheap, just needs some fixing up,” the agent had told her. That proved to be an understatement, but Madge was as handy as any man with a hammer and nails, and the house was soon snug and cozy. Just in time for winter.
Although it was almost midnight she was waiting up for her grandmother, who had been called away to tend to a neighbour.
Madge’s wages were decent but by no means extravagant, and when she could, her grandmother, Harriet Cooke, supplemented their income by laying out the dead, an occupation she had followed all the years they had lived in the city. These days, Toronto’s bereaved were more likely to have their deceased picked up by a funeral home, such as Humphrey’s, who took care of arrangements for them. But when there was insufficient money, Mrs. Cooke’s skill was in demand. There were still those who preferred to take care of their beloved dead in the traditional way.
Madge had made up the fire and a kettle was at the simmer on the hob, ready for the strong tea her grandmother loved. She leaned back in the rocking chair, her feet propped on the fender. She was starting to drift into sleep when the clock on the mantelpiece dinged out twelve strokes. Midnight already. Madge felt a twinge of fear. She hoped nothing was amiss. Her Gran was a sturdy woman with grit to spare, but she was over seventy. Madge had tentatively brought up the suggestion of retirement, but Gran would have none of it. “What would I do all day long? I’d kick off from sheer boredom. No thank you, I’ll keep going until I can’t do it any more.”
Madge couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her Gran. She was really all the family she’d ever known. Her mother was a shadowy figure who’d died when Madge was eight years old. Her Gran hadn’t been forthcoming about the cause of death, which she’d called “chest trouble.” As for her father, he had walked out one snowy winter’s day and never returned, when Madge was a mere babe in arms. Gran wouldn’t talk much about him either, except to say he was handsome and a devil both. That left Madge and her Gran, who had been a widow long before Madge was born. They’d coped pretty well in the ensuing years.
Just sometimes, Madge pined for a family of her own. A husband to love and to cherish.
She heard the sound of the front door opening and her Gran’s step in the hall. She went out to greet her.
“Madge, you shouldn’t have waited up,” said Harriet.
“Nonsense. How would I know whether you’d got home safely?”
“I was only a few houses down,” answered her grandmother, but Madge could see she too was spent.
“Sit down,” said Madge. “Your boots are soaked. Let’s get them off you.”
“Will you stop fussing and fretting? I’m not an invalid. And I’m not decrepit yet.”
“You will be if you don’t get out of those wet boots. Come on, the front room’s nice and warm. Do you want some tea?”
“Of course I do. When I don’t want tea you can start worrying.”
Not until she heard the familiar sigh of pleasure as Gran sipped her tea was Madge able to relax.
“How did you get on with Mrs. Turnbull?” she asked her.
“She had a long life and a peaceful death. Her oldest daughter, who is no spring chicken herself, helped me lift her when needed.” Harriet took another sip. She looked over at her granddaughter with a twinkle in her eye. “Poor woman. When we were turning Mrs. Turnbull onto her side, doesn’t she emit the most awful moan. Scared the living daylights out of the daughter. ‘Dear God, Mama’s still alive!’ says she. ‘No, she’s not,’ says I, ‘that’s just the lungs letting go of any air they were holding. When a person dies, everything lets go,’ I adds, just to prepare her in case of a sudden stink. But it didn’t happen. I’d stuffed cotton down Mrs. Turnbull’s throat and up her nose so no fluids could escape. We didn’t have to suffer that.”
Madge couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s one small mercy.”
“They’re waiting for one of the sons to come in from Nova Scotia so she won’t be buried for four days. I promised I’d look in daily. Make sure the corpse isn’t decomposing too rapidly. Should last in this weather if they keep the windows open.”
Harriet put her teacup on the tray beside her.
“So that’s my news. What about you, Madge? You look utterly wrung out. Shall we chat in the morning or now?”
“Do you think you can stay up a bit longer?”
“Of course I can.”
Madge related what had happened to Arthur Aggett and then to Daniel Samuels. To her dismay, she found her eyes filled with tears.
“Mrs. Turnbull died at the end of her life of natural causes, but I can’t get these two young men off my mind.”
Harriet sighed. “I can understand why. But God moves in mysterious ways. I suppose he had a purpose for taking those young lives.”
Harriet Cooke was a pious woman, a Methodist by persuasion and a devout churchgoer. She and Madge didn’t always see eye to eye on religious matters but long ago had agreed to differ.
Madge stifled a yawn and her grandmother wagged a finger at her.
“Get up that wooden hill, Madge Curnoe. I’ll be right after you as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”
“All right. I’ll warm up the bed.”
Madge wasn’t ready to go into an account of the visit to Mrs. Payne’s. Harriet could be fierce in her condemnation of women she termed “fallen.” Especially young women. But for Madge, the feelings Winnie’s baby had aroused in her seemed too tender to share just yet, even though normally she told Gran everything.
She stood up and gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Night night.” Suddenly she halted. “I almost forgot. Detective Murdoch gave me a box of chocolates. I’ve put them in the kitchen cupboard. They’re Cadbury’s. I’ve had three already. Don’t worry, I left you the creams. Help yourself.”
“Chocolates? What was that in aid of?”
Madge shrugged. “I think he knew a little sweetness today wouldn’t be amiss.”
“Oh, I see. Just general thoughtfulness, was it?”
“Yes, Gran. That’s all it was.”