“IT’S TIME TO BE MOVIN’ ON,” said Stew. “Time to seek my fortune as a fireman on the trains. I’ll be off tomorrow if I can.”
It was New Year’s day of 1890. The Wilkinson family was gathered round Randolph Oliphant’s dining table for a dinner of ham, baked beans and coleslaw, all prepared and served by Meg. Alice had brought maple walnut pies for dessert.
Randolph was in fine form, hosting the table with frequent toasts to the new year, the new decade—the grand finale of the nineteenth century. Herbert, given place of honour at the other end of the table, kept looking at Randolph but seeing Emma. Although her body was three months underground, her presence still stuck with him. It was she who belonged at the end of his table. Herbert struggled to raise his own good spirits up to the occasion. Whiskies and then wine had elevated him but now he was feeling disgruntled. That sense of being usurped was gnawing at him, again. All this talk of change. As though change were a new thing!
“Look at history,” Herbert said to all at the table: Oliphant, Stew, his daughters, and quiet, hard-working Dave, now sitting beside his plucky fiancée, Isabel. Snatched him up, she did. And not a bad thing. Opposites attract and work out pretty well. As he and Emma had. He was no stranger to change. He had left his native land and taken up in this new country because it was so open to change. “History is the record of change. It’s been going on since time began. The question is, is it for the good or not?”
Herbert took a sip from his glass and stood up. “I entered politics,” he said, “because I believe in promoting change for the good. And so I salute you, son.” He raised his glass to Stew. “Good fortune as a fireman on the railroads.”
All raised their glasses to Stew. Then Alice looked across the table at Meg.
After their mother’s funeral, Alice had pleaded with her father to move into a small house in town where she would keep house for him; in return, he would support her in getting a teaching certificate. Her father had refused, saying it was against her mother’s wishes, unaffordable, and no more was to be said about it. So there she was, stuck on the farm, doing all the “women’s work,” resentfully, sulkily, sometimes at a go-slow pace, sometimes burning food and scorching clothes in anger. Her respite was to go into Halifax on Saturdays and stay overnight with Meg, where she was included in the various parties that Meg and Randolph hosted.
But Alice felt uncomfortable in their company and with the conversations at their parties. She was puzzled by the nature of Randolph’s relationship with Meg and hers with him. They had a liking for each other that seemed abnormal, though Alice couldn’t figure out the basis of it. But then she felt impatience at trying to figure out much in life. Things eluded her. She couldn’t get interested, the way Meg did, in ideas and theories. Who really cared if we’re descended from apes, or if there’s no real proof that God exists? Not me, thought Alice. And the basis of morality … why delve into it? The rules have to be obeyed or you’ll get punished. That’s all there is to it, as far as Alice could see. But Meg and Randolph would wrestle with topics like Utilitarianism until the cows came home. That seemed to be the real passion between them. It was strange.
It was not what Alice wanted from the company of men. Alice liked to be complimented, smiled upon, have her looks approved, her hand sought. She longed to go to a ball. There had been a New Year’s Ball just last night, at the Citadel, but Randolph did not attend. He hosted a dinner party at home, instead, for Meg and her university friends. Alice was included but the compliments were too few and the conversations too intense. Sometimes they laughed at things Alice couldn’t see the humour of.
If she had the opportunity, she would create a salon that was more gay. There would be light-hearted conversations, a prettier table laid, flirtations encouraged. Meg had become all too serious, even strained, since attending university. Or was it since moving in with Randolph Oliphant? In any case, Alice did not want to go to university like Meg, but she did want life beyond the farm. And attending Normal School, becoming a teacher in Halifax could open doors in the city’s high society, if only her father would set up house there. Now, with Stew’s announcement of departure from the farm, and Dave and Isabel wanting to get married and live there, it was the perfect time for her father to move into Halifax with her.
Thus Alice looked across the table at Meg and found agreement in her eyes. All very well for their father to wish good fortune to Stew in getting off the farm. But … “What about me?’ said Alice, standing up “What kind of fortune is there for me stuck on the farm, waiting upon father and brother?” She left the table to bring in dessert.
“I suppose,” said Meg standing up to clear the table and join forces with Alice, “I suppose what Alice might do is try to get a loan from the bank and board with a family while she attends Normal School.”
“Banks don’t give loans to women!” said Herbert angrily.
“Well then, elsewhere,” said Meg jauntily over her shoulder. “I’m sure that mother would prefer her daughter not to have to go elsewhere for help, but if that’s what a determined young woman must do …” Meg trailed off into the kitchen.
Randolph cleared his throat and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Isabel gently nudged Dave.
“Isabel and I would like to get married, come spring,” said Dave. “We was hoping that would suit you, Father, if we did.”
“Were hoping, my lad. Just because your mother’s not around to correct you …” Herbert took a swill of wine. He looked forward to Alice’s pie. She was a good cook and pastry maker like her mother. She could look after him well. But it was clear he was going to lose her and end up an old nuisance on the farm if he didn’t make the move sooner rather than later. The city had a lot to offer a retired popular politician like himself. Never was a farmer at heart. If he could find a little house he could afford … “Spring is not very far away,” said Herbert, noticing Alice and Meg hovering, ears perked, in the doorway. “If I were to be looking for a place in town, I should get started, right soon.”
Alice sat down with two pies and a bowl of whipped cream in front of her. “How big a piece would you like, Father dear?” She smiled at him for the first time in three months.
Stew took the train to Toronto and found himself a job with the Canadian Pacific Railroad. Dave and Isabel married within two months, producing a fully formed “early” baby within six. Well before spring, Herbert moved with Alice into a small house near downtown Halifax. Alice busied herself sewing draperies, elegant table cloths, and as much of a new wardrobe as she could eke out of Herbert’s income from the farm.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” she said. “I’ll pay everything back with my teacher’s salary. Just like Meg.”
Alice was so happy with her new prospects she began to keep a journal, recording her new life in the city.
Strained? Oh yes, Meg had been strained at times since moving into Randolph’s house. As was he. There was strain when they said good night. There was strain when he suggested it was time for her to spend a weekend at Wolf Woods or for a longer period while he went to Boston. Why he must be alone or go to Boston was a taboo topic. Randolph had insisted on that, ever since he regained his sobriety and agreed to have Meg takeover as his housekeeper.
The strain was highest during the first year when Meg would let her hopes rise that he would not need to go away. Most of the time, he was attentive and interested in her, greeted her with such warmth each morning when he came downstairs, was so enthusiastic when she came home from classes, looked upon her with such affection when they talked over dinner or looked up from reading in the library. And when he retired at night, there was a strained reluctance in his demeanour. But then close his door on her he did, with firmness, sometimes with loudness that felt to her like a slam of rejection. Sometimes she heard him moving about in Cecilia’s room. She tried not to picture what he was doing in there.
“Poley,” she whispered to the dog lying on the other bed. “Let’s turn on the light and read for a while, shall we?”
When the strain built up, Randolph would communicate through Poley. “Come here, my old bear.” Randolph ruffled Poley’s ears. “Need a little visit to the farm?”
“You want to go to Boston?” Meg said quietly.
“I’m afraid so.” Randolph looked at his knees.
Meg put her face in her hands, then looked up resigned. “I understand.”
She never could fully understand. But she learned to accept it, tried to make light of it, tried to overcome feelings she had to recognize as jealousy. “I’m the one who’s crackers,” she said to Poley. “Jealous of a woman who doesn’t exist. But she’s real enough to send us away. So off we go.”
“You’re a clever girl,” said Randolph when Meg completed her second year. “These are very impressive results. Highest marks in the medical courses. If our Dr. Atkins is right, that is what will persuade them to let you into the college at McGill. He says the med school and vet college work hand in hand there. And if they don’t let you in, I could vouch for you as the first woman accountant. My business accounts have never been in such good order. Thanks to you, Miss Wilkinson.” “It’s thanks to you, Mr. Oliphant, that I have been able to pursue any studies at all.”
Randolph raised his hand like a stop sign. “You have been unquestionably successful with your studies, Miss Wilkinson. But you have failed, my dear Meg, to acquire a beau!”
“Randolph, that is unfair!” Meg flushed and folded her arms tightly against her chest. “I have many friends. They come regularly to this house.”
“For parties. Not for courting.”
“I don’t wish to be courted …”
“You should.” Randolph interrupted her. “You are of age now.” He avoided her eyes and spoke in business-like tones. “I expect you to find a suitable young man in your final year at Dalhousie.”
Meg bowed her head. I have tried, she thought. It would be nice to fall in love with a suitable young man who had no need of … any other woman but me. But how do I know what other men are really like? What secrets does any man keep within? At least I know Randolph’s. I don’t like it but … I just cannot get interested enough in anyone else. “You are right,” She stood up and faced Randolph. “I have tried and I have failed, in that regard.”
He stood up and embraced her. “I’m so sorry,” he said, rocking her in his arms. “But you must keep trying.”
In summer, Meg and Randolph often went to the seashore for picnics and swimming with Poley. Meg would have preferred to have kept it as a threesome but Randolph always made her invite friends along. Randolph had never learned to swim; in fact, he did not like cold, salty water, and maintained his place on shore as chaperone. In the autumn, when Meg entered her last year at Dalhousie, he threw a large party for her and her classmates, as though he was stepping up the pace of her socialization with young men. She was courted by a few but none of them captured her imagination, her sympathy, her intellect, her sense of adventure, or her heart, as Randolph did. She discouraged any suitor before he reached the point of proposing.
That Christmas, after the funeral of Emma, Randolph had not told Poley it was time for him to visit Wolf Woods. He had not gone to Boston. Instead, he had invited Meg’s family to his house for the holidays. Randolph was strained but determinedly cheerful. After New Year’s, when the house was emptied of guests, Randolph sat beside Meg on the sofa in front of the fireplace. He began speculating about what the 1890s would bring and the future of his business, Clean Sweepers.
“Brooms will always be handy and useful,” he said. “But they will not take us into the twentieth century. Typewriters are replacing pens, threshing machines replaced the scythe. They’re inventing machines to replace horses and even to fly in the sky. They’re bound to invent a machine to take up the dirt.”
“To replace me?” Meg smiled. “Will I be thrown out with the brooms?”
Randolph sighed heavily and frowned. “What will I do without you?”
Meg put her hand on his knee. “Don’t do without me.”
“I am trying,” said Randolph, “to do without Cecilia.”
Meg took both his hands. “You needn’t.” She felt so sorry for him her eyes welled up. “I’m … used to it.”
He let go of her hands and sat back, putting his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to his side. “You are so good to me,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not worthy.”
“What utter nonsense!’ Meg sat upright and faced him. “All you have done for me and my family! I owe you more than I can ever repay. And I love … .”
“Hush!” Randolph placed his hand on her mouth before she could finish. “Please don’t.” He took her hands gripping them in his. “It’s not right. You’re in my care. You will graduate in June. Let us say good night now, and speak no more of this.”
Before he sat down to breakfast next morning, he took her by the hand, led her to his desk and proceeded to unlock the drawer containing Crazy Annie’s manuscript.
“I think it is time to read this,” he said. “You are old enough. It may give you direction in vet college and in marriage.”
The temperature had dropped, puddles were freezing over and it was snowing heavily outside Meg’s window, as she sat at her desk, a mug of hot chocolate in hand, beginning to read the manuscript. The handwriting was steady and legible, done by someone who wanted this story to be read. The style was indeed strange. Not eloquent English. Certainly not poetic. Not at all Victorian. It was of its own place and time. Like pictures drawn out of someone talking. There was a sort of rudeness about these characters that began to delight Meg.
Ike’s spirit stopped hovering anxiously over Meg’s shoulder. He sighed with relief as he threw back his parka hood and settled into himself.