It was shortly before planting time the following spring that Lea awoke feeling the familiar sensation of nausea. She bolted from the bed and ran out the door, arriving just in time to empty the contents of her stomach in the pasture. Jersey, close by let out a woeful moo, her hooves thudding the ground as she came up beside Lea and nuzzled her ear. Lea laid her hand on the cow’s cheek, then rested her head on its neck as she recovered.
Napoleon stood at the door, a frown creasing his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she replied, raising her head and rolling her eyes.
A slow smile formed on Nap’s lips. “Another baby?”
She gave a tentative nod. “I think so, but not the best timing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, holding out his arms. “Any child is a gift.”
Lea left the cow and reached for the warm hug her husband offered. “Yeah, but it’d be nicer if we’d had a bumper crop.”
“We’ll get by,” said Nap, his arm around her as they walked back inside.
Lea busied herself preparing breakfast, frying the fresh eggs Nap had collected for her and toasting yesterday’s bread on the stove.
Still giddy at the discovery of her pregnancy, she savoured the thought of a new baby, one to fill the void of having lost the other three. An unwelcome sadness enveloped her at the thought of the twins and Roger. If only they had more doctors in these parts, they might all still be alive. She clucked her tongue. She wished there were telephones. That way it would be so easy to call a doctor, or the relatives in Ponteix, but it would be a while before the town would even think to install electricity. And with the crash of the stock market, there wasn’t a chance they’d get a phone soon even though eight years had passed since Alexander Graham Bell’s death. She’d ask Nap to put the question to Bourlon. He’d be the man to push Val Marie into the twentieth century.
As the weather grew warm enough for Napoleon to plant his crops, Lea threw her attention to her garden, teaching the children how to dig small holes in the ground to lay the potato pieces inside.
“It’s like magic,” she said. “You put in one small piece, and presto, later on, several others appear. And soon, you have a whole bushel of potatoes.”
“Can we make frites with them?” asked Lilian.
“Yes, we can,” said Lea.
Lilian clapped her hands at her mother’s words. “Oh, boy, we’re going to have frites for supper tonight after the potatoes grow, Pol,” she said before burrowing into the soil to place the spud she’d claim as her own.
“It takes a little longer than that,” said Lea. “We’ll dig them up in September. But in the meantime, I can still make frites tonight with the last year’s crop.”
“Hurray!” said Lilian.
After the potatoes had been planted, Lea pounded poles into the ground, stringing them together with lines of cord. She dug furrows underneath. “Come and see now, kids.”
The children dropped what they were doing and rushed to her side.
“You have to put the seeds for the green beans just under the soil so that when they grow, they’ll grab onto these strings just like a little person and keep on climbing right to the top.”
“Like Jack and the beanstalk?” asked Pol.
“Yes.”
“Jack and the beanstalk!” A look of terror flashed on Lilian’s face. She began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lea.
“I’m scared of the giant. What if he comes down and eats us up?” She sat back in the dirt.
“He won’t come down and eat us up,” said Pol.
“Yes, he will,” Lilian sobbed.
“No he won’t because Jack and the Beanstalk is just a story.”
“No, it’s not.” Lilian screamed.
“Yes, it is,” insisted Pol.
“Pol,” warned Lea. “She’s just a little girl. Lilian, I promise you there’ll be no giants coming down the beanstalk. It’s just a fairytale. The beans won’t grow that tall.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Grabbing their shovels and seeds, the children planted several rows under Lea’s guidance.
For the next two weeks, they watched the garden each day and were rewarded when small shoots poked their heads out of the wet soil and stretched out, growing taller and taller until they curled around the strings.
“Pretty soon they’ll be bigger than you,” Lea said to Lilian.
But by mid-summer, all the sprouts began to dry up before they had the chance to reach maturity.
Lea panicked when she realized they had fallen right back in the hated drought of last summer. It meant another year without the money to return home to Belgium. And even worse, they might starve…unless she found a way to save the garden. She became possessed, rising early each morning to haul water from the slough, bucket after bucket filled to nourish the struggling plants of her garden, but as the summer wore on, the slough grew shallower.
Finally, on a particularly hot day, she stopped, laid down the bucket, and rubbed her belly, then slumped down.
“This is too much for you, isn’t it?” asked Nap, passing by on his way to the fields.
“I’m just so tired,” she said, fanning herself.
“Why don’t you get Pol to help you?”
“He’s too small.” Lea’s voice trembled as she eyed his thin little arms and legs.
“No, he’s not. He’s almost eight years old. Besides, it’ll build character.”
Lea weighed her child’s freedom against the fatigue of her pregnancy, guilt playing at her emotions. She heaved a sigh. “Pol, come here.”
And so Pol hauled buckets of water, his arms straining under the weight and his breath heaving as he tipped the container, allowing the water to find its course through the little waterways they’d built. Lilian trailed after him, a small, tin can held in her hand, splashing anything that looked dry, including weeds.
By the time August arrived, intolerable heat had settled over the farm. Hot, dry winds blew each day, creating drifts of soil against fences and buildings. Russian thistles claimed the prairie, replacing the usual grass that had been so abundant.
Nap scowled. “I don’t know how we’ll feed the animals this winter. They need hay.”
“I guess we’ll just have to let them loose again in the fall like last year. That’s all we can do.”
“Yes, but if there are only thistles out there for them to eat, how will they survive?”
“I don’t know,” said Lea. “If only cows and horses were like our pig and would eat anything. It’d be so much easier.”
Nap stared at the ground as though deep in thought. “We could sell the Maxwell.”
Lea’s heart skipped at his words. “Sell the Maxwell? But didn’t we agree that had we had an automobile, we might have saved Baby Roger?”
Napoleon let out an anguished sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, but what else can we do?”
Lea mulled his words over in her mind before answering. “Then do it. We can always buy another one when the crop comes in.”
By September, Lea’s garden was ready for harvest. She dug up the potatoes, splaying her legs as she bent to avoid pushing up against her growing belly. More often than not, she’d sink back onto the wooden bench Nap had built her, wiping the sweat from her face or filling her hat with water she’d dump over herself. Pol helped, but Lea knew she’d be working alone before long since school began in a few days. Her son was nearly eight, and he’d never attended school. Most kids began at six. They couldn’t put it off any longer.
The day after Labour Day, she prepared Pol’s first packed lunch, slicing two thick pieces of bread and filling them with scrambled eggs. She wrapped the sandwich in a cloth and placed it in a five-pound lard can, adding an apple and some cookies. Then she searched through the wardrobe until she found the one Eaton’s outfit that still fit him. After dressing him, she brushed his hair and washed his face.
“I don’t want to go, Maman,” whined Pol. “I want to stay here and play in the garden with Lilian.”
“Non, Pol,” said Lea, “You must go. You need an education.”
“Non!”
The jingling sound of reins interrupted his cries as Napoleon brought the horses alongside the house. Lea gave a resentful glance at the wagon, wishing they still had the Maxwell. How much quicker it would be to get to school.
“Come on, now, Pol.” Nap jumped down from the wagon and took him by the hand while Lea picked up Lilian and climbed into place.
“Non, Papa.”
Ignoring the boys cries, he hoisted the child up on the seat beside his mother.
Lea grabbed the reins and gave them a good shake. Old Dick and Belle broke into a trot and headed off to Masefield, two-and-a-half miles away.
“I don’t want to get an education.” Pol’s complaints grew louder. “I want to be a farmer like Papa.”
“But you have to go,” she said. “Besides, there’ll be many other children there for you to play with.”
“But I can play with Lilian.”
“Pol…” Lea tipped her head and gave him a warning glare.
When they arrived in Masefield, she led him to the new building she knew housed grades one to four.
A young woman with dark hair and warm, brown eyes greeted her as she entered. “Hello, I’m Miss Moiny,” she said as she laid a piece of paper on each desk. “And who might this young man be?”
Lea searched her memory for the words. If only she’d kept up her self-taught English studies, she wouldn’t feel so stupid. “I bring Pol for school,” she said, feeling her face grow hot. “He eight years old. No speak English.”
Expecting Miss Moiny to roll her eyes at her ignorance, or at least grow impatient, Lea was taken aback when the woman replied, “Ah, vous êtes de la Belgique!”
Lea gasped upon hearing her country’s name. “Oui!”
“Ma mère aussi!”
The two women broke into excited chatter, their voices animated as they shared stories of their Belgian roots until the children began to trickle into the classroom. Then Lea turned to Pol and said, “I’ll come and pick you up at the end of the day.”
“Non, Maman,” pleaded the boy.
“Oui.” She pointed a stern finger at the child.
“Maman,” cried Pol, looking after her, his eyes desperate.
Lea grabbed Lilian’s hand and walked away with brisk steps, climbed into the wagon and shook the reins. When she was out of view, hot tears rolled down her face.