Trial by Winter Page 2

  Mam held a clean pair of ankle-length underwear next to the stove. “You haven’t changed your drawers for a week.”

  “Ah, not tonight, Mam.” Dorothy hated stripping off her cosy under-layer and feeling cold air swirl up inside her skirt.

  “Yes,” snapped Mam. “I shall wash our underthings tomorrow. Hurry now, these are heated.”

  With a groan, Dorothy rolled down her warm woollen legs that felt like a second skin. She pulled up the clean underwear as fast as she could.

  After dutifully kissing Mam’s cheek, Dorothy climbed the ladder to her narrow bunk above her sister’s. The bed wobbled as she crawled under her comforter. Dad had done his best building it from the rough lumber available in Lloydminster, but he was an office clerk not a carpenter.

  Dorothy sorely missed her comfortable English bed with a real mattress, instead of this rough ticking stuffed with straw. At least she still had her cosy eiderdown. She pulled it up to her nose as Mam blew out the lamp.

  The tiny world of their soddie faded into eerie shapes back-lit by the four fiery eyes of the stove. After Mam disappeared behind the curtain, Lydia prepared for bed. She was too modest to undress by lamplight. Dorothy studied the curve of Lydia’s corset outlined by the thin red glow.

  Wondering if she would ever look like that, she felt her own flat chest. She didn’t dare ask Mam or Lydia how their bodies had changed. She would just have to wait and see.

  With a sigh, Dorothy closed her eyes. The events of the day drifted through her mind and she suddenly remembered a more pressing problem to worry about.

  Did she dare ask Dad if they were really out of money?

  Author’s Hand-drawn Map of the Homesteads

  Dominion Government land surveyors divided western Canada into sections of land that measured one mile by one mile [1.6 kilometres by 1.6 kilometres]. Each section was subdivided into four quarter sections, marked by wooden posts. This map shows one section of land near Lloydminster, with the land reserved for road allowances on either side.

  Two boys haul blocks of sod to a partially constructed house. Each section of sod weighed about 50 pounds (22.7 kilograms). The boys would have to work together to lift one. Glenbow Archives (NA-474-2)

  2

  Dad’s Problem

  Deep in the night, Dorothy awakened. The fire in the stove had died. The room was cold as ice and black as India ink.

  The whispering voices of her parents filtered through the curtain. Dorothy heard the words money and work several times. Did she just hear foolish dream? A minute later her mother’s voice cut through the air: return to England. Stifling a cry, Dorothy curled into a tight ball.

  The curtain rustled, a coat swished and the door heaved open, letting even colder air wash over her bunk. Before the door shut, Dorothy saw Dad’s silhouette against a flash of stars. She knew where he was headed. When it was cold, there was only one place to go to escape the soddie.

  Under her covers, Dorothy squirmed restlessly. If she went to the stable to talk to Dad, he might be angry. If she stayed in bed, she would stew all night without even knowing if the money problem was real. She fell into a restless sleep and woke up again in darkness, still mulling over her dilemma.

  Finally Dorothy decided. She inched down the ladder and groped for her coat and boots. Outside, the air was frigid but clear. The snowflake stars were gone; instead the sky shimmered with thousands of real stars – a sight she had never seen back in York.

  Ever since Dad heard about free land in the North-West Territories, he had been determined to claim a piece of it. They had travelled thousands of miles and trekked through flood and fire to follow Dad’s dream. Dorothy loved the North-West and she wanted to stay here!

  The stable door was half open. Inside, a voice was talking to the horses. “Washa matter, Dansher? Jush a few nips and I earned ’em!” There was a sharp nicker, then Dad’s slurred voice again. “Don’t look like tha’, Pransher. No ’orse gonna boss me around.”

  Clutching the door frame, Dorothy swallowed hard. “Dad?”

  The voice stopped. Only the faint pawing of hooves broke the silence.

  “Dad?” Dorothy called again into the murky blackness. “I heard you talking.”

  Silence.

  At last Dad stumbled out.

  Bumping against the door, he growled, “Ya shouldn’t be ‘ere, Dodie.”

  Instinctively Dorothy stepped back. She sniffed that strange smell again and her stomach knotted. “Are…are you ill?”

  “Ah’m in tiptop ‘ealth.” Dad leaned against the sod wall to steady himself.

  Dorothy’s throat constricted. Finally she croaked, “Why…are you acting so strange?”

  “AH TOLD YA, AH’M PERFICKLY FINE! Now git back to bed.”

  A single sob escaped Dorothy’s throat as she ran to the house. Dad had never, ever, barked at her like that. Back in bed, she burrowed deep under her eiderdown.

  In the morning she said nothing about her midnight encounter. It was so unlike the dad she knew, she wondered if she’d had a nightmare. Everyone knew where Dad was; he had slept in the stable several times before, after a row with Mam.

  Lydia went to the stable for firewood. When she returned, she announced that Dad was riding Prancer to town to see about work. Dorothy wondered if Dad was still acting strange, but she held her tongue.

  Mam, Lydia and Dorothy prepared to do laundry. Dorothy hauled buckets and buckets of water that Lydia heated for the washtub. After Mam scrubbed the clothes on the washboard, Dorothy rinsed. She fed each piece through the hand wringer while Lydia cranked the handle and guided the clothes onto a groundsheet. The room smelled muggy with so much damp wool and cotton.

  Suddenly Dorothy chuckled. “Remember when our gram took the waters at the Steam Baths? It was very dear, but the dampness cleaned out her air passages.” Mam and Lydia looked up blankly, until Dorothy pointed at the pile of clothes. “We’re getting the same effect for free.”

  “Quite a bargain,” scoffed Mam, arching her back above the washboard. “Why pay for an expensive health resort in Harrogate when you can live in a clammy sod house in Canada.”

  “I’m putting the kettle on.” Lydia glowered as she pushed past Dorothy to the stove. “Thanks for reminding Mam that our family had money back in England.”

  “I was just trying to find the bright side, you know…like Gram always did.”

  Lydia’s expression softened. “Yes, Gram always found the bright side.”

  Setting mugs on the table, Dorothy basked in the memory of Gram’s cheery face. When the tea was steeped even Mam smiled. “The room may be steaming, but we got the laundry done.”

  After tea Dorothy and Lydia bundled up and hung the clothes outside on a clothesline. Even in cold weather the sun and wind dried them eventually, although they would be stiff as boards.

  •••

  Dorothy was already in bed when Dad returned. She strained to hear her parents’ words but could only decipher fragments. Whatever Dad’s plan was, it appeared Mam didn’t like it.

  The next morning Dad left early. He took the team into their woods and returned at dusk with a load of aspen tree trunks, shorn of branches. Dorothy, Lydia, even Mam helped him stack the slender poles into a tipi-shaped structure behind the outhouse.

  Mam eyed the stack critically. “This won’t be enough for the entire winter.”

  “Bloody ‘ell, Aggie. I spent the ‘ole day cuttin’ wood and I’m knackered. Nothing I do is good enough!”

  Mam’s eyes narrowed into daggers. “You brought us here. You are responsible for our welfare.” Pivoting on her heels, she strode into the house.

  Dad stomped to the wagon and rode away. Standing on the stoop, Dorothy and Lydia stared at the wagon disappearing into the gloom. “Where is he going at this time of night, Lydia?”

  Lydia gestured helplessly. After a long silence she sighed, “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.”

  There was no comfort for Dorothy inside the cold dark hous
e. After a hurried supper she burrowed into bed, her head spinning with anxious questions.

  The following morning fire was crackling in the stove when Dorothy awoke. In the flickering light she saw Mam and Lydia huddled at the table. For an instant her life looked brighter. “Heavens,” she said, “you’re up early.”

  When Mam raised her head, Dorothy stiffened; Mam’s face was streaked with tears. Lydia poured tea into an extra cup, topping it with tinned milk. “Come join us, Dodie.”

  While Dorothy sipped the soothing liquid, Lydia cleared her throat. “Our dad didn’t come home last night.”

  Dorothy’s heart skittered. “Where did he go?”

  “We don’t know. Mam thinks it’s her fault because she’s been so angry about our plight.”

  “Our plight?” echoed Dorothy, her heart drumming wildly.

  Mam wiped her tears with her sleeve. “You’re just a child, Dodie. I’m sorry we brought you to this wretched wilderness –”

  “Mam, I love it here…and I’m NOT A CHILD!” Dorothy tensed, waiting for the inevitable lecture on interrupting an adult.

  But Mam just smiled sadly. “I know that, Dodie. Both you and Lydia have assumed heavy burdens of responsibility.”

  Dorothy took a deep breath. “What’s our plight?”

  “We’re out of money. The other day you mentioned how the Suttons got work on the telegraph line. Your dad tried to join but they aren’t hiring now. He said there’s work at a woodlot near Edmonton.” Mam’s voice cracked. “I begged him not to go so far away for the whole winter.”

  Lydia took a long sip of tea. “And that’s why Dad went off in a temper.”

  “How far away is Edmonton?” asked Dorothy.

  “I don’t know.” Mam’s voice faded to a whisper. “More than a hundred miles.”

  Dorothy studied her mother’s distraught face. In the past she always thought it was Mam’s fault for starting a row, but now she didn’t know what to think. And where was Dad? How could he disappear when they needed him?

  She huffed out a heavy sigh. “May we have porridge now? I’m famished.”

  Both Lydia and Mam jumped up and busied themselves at the stove.

  After breakfast Dorothy went to the dock for water. With a long sturdy stick she knocked a hole in the ice film that had formed overnight. She loved the tinkle of breaking ice, so she cracked a hole on the other side too.

  As she slogged uphill with full buckets, she heard voices hailing her. Two young men and two dogs were crossing the slope from the west. It was Frank and his cabin-mate, Patrick. Setting down her burdens, Dorothy ran toward them. With excited barks the black retrievers jumped to greet her.

  “Down Irish! Down Chap!” Patrick called in his sweet Irish lilt. “Blessed St. Mary, you’re popular with our mutts, Dodie.”

  Frank spun her around. “Good to see you, little sister.” Setting her back on her feet, he scrutinized her thin boots. “Goodness, you need winter moccasins like Patrick and me.”

  Patrick held up a foot clad in tan-coloured skin with high sides wrapped and tied around his legs. “They’re made from tough moosehide. Add two pairs of thick wool socks from Mr. Herbert’s store and our feet are warm as toast.”

  Dorothy bent down to inspect their footwear. “Where did you get them, Frank?”

  “We bought them from an Indian fellow at the Onion Lake Reserve.”

  Mam and Lydia came outside and joined the group. “Onion Lake is north of the river,” Mam said. “What were you doing there, Frank?”

  “They’re putting up a new school at the Indian Mission. Mr. Lloyd bought the logs from the old schoolhouse to build us a church. He asked everyone with a wagon to collect a load. The North Saskatchewan is low enough now to ford.”

  At the mention of a church Mam nodded in approval. While Mam and Frank chatted, Patrick reached for Lydia’s hand. Dorothy knew Patrick was sweet on Lydia but still, did he have to look SO HAPPY every time he saw her?

  “Is today’s visit just a social call, Frank?” Mam asked.

  “Social and work. We met Dad in the woods yesterday. He was felling logs for winter, so we promised to help saw them up.” Frank surveyed the yard. “Where’s Dad now?”

  Mam looked down.

  “Not here at the moment,” said Dorothy.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Well, we’d best get started.”

  “Right you are.” Patrick unclasped Lydia’s hand. “Where’s your sawhorse, Lydia?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Lydia started downhill to the stable.

  “Make sure the bucksaw’s there too,” Frank called.

  Walking around the tall stack of poles, Frank furrowed his brow. “Why did Dad pile them here? I told him to dump them beside the stable, so we could saw them and store them inside. Mr. Snow said to make a tipi at the house later, for use in the dead of winter.”

  Frank glanced around for Patrick, who was sauntering back from the stable with Lydia. “Patrick, hoof it over here. We have to haul these logs to the stable one by one.”

  Frank sounds vexed, thought Dorothy. But who’s he annoyed at? Patrick for flirting with Lydia? Dad for not listening to Mr. Snow’s advice? Or Mam for not knowing where Dad is?

  To Dorothy’s relief Frank smiled at her and Mam. “Patrick and I would be grateful for a proper meal. You can’t imagine how ghastly our bachelor fare tastes.”

  Yes, I can, Dorothy thought, remembering Frank’s campfire cooking. She hurried downhill to retrieve her water. When she returned to the soddie, Mam was preparing potato soup.

  “Thank heavens,” said Mam. “I used all the water for the soup. Now we can brew tea.” Dorothy marvelled at her change in mood. Visitors made all the difference, especially visitors who appreciated her cooking. Soon Mam called outside, “Vittles are ready.”

  “Delicious as always,” said Frank, while Patrick finished every drop in his bowl.

  Mam looked pleased. “Such enthusiasm for a humble bowl of soup.”

  After eating, the young men continued hauling the long logs to the stable. While Lydia cleaned up, Mam pleaded a poor night’s sleep and disappeared for a nap. Dorothy went for more water.

  Returning from the dock, she heard the clopping of hooves. Dad’s wagon stopped at the tipi stack, now dismantled on the ground. He staggered from the wagon and started kicking the remaining poles. Setting down her buckets, Dorothy ran over to him. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

  “Whatsh ‘appened to me tipi o’ logs?” he bellowed. Picking up a slender trunk, he slashed the air in random directions. Alarmed, Dorothy backed out of reach.

  Frank raced up from the stable. He wrestled the twelve-foot pole from his father’s hands and dropped it on the ground.

  Dad glared. “What ‘appened to me logs?”

  Clenching his fists, Frank lowered his voice. “I told you Patrick and I would saw them into firebox rounds and stack them in the stable.”

  “You shoulda waited fer me!” Dad reached for the fallen log and Frank kicked it out of reach. The two men glowered at each other.

  “Stop fighting!” Dorothy cried.

  The men took no notice.

  Choking back tears, Dorothy raced to the house. She pushed the door open and panted, “Lydia, come quick!”

  Lydia hurried outside, grabbing only a shawl for warmth. Dorothy tugged her towards the conflict, just as Dad lurched at Frank. Frank sidestepped and Dad tripped over the tree trunk.

  “Oh, Lord,” gasped Lydia. “What have you done, Dad? After all this time!”

  Her chest heaving for breath, Dorothy gaped at her father.

  Frank rolled the log away, growling, “Get control of yourself, Dad.” He turned to Dorothy. “I’m sorry you had to see this, Dodie. It’s been years since our dad has had this problem.”

  Dad pulled his cap low over his face and stared at the ground.

  “Lydia, take Dodie inside; I’ll tend to Dad.” Frank grasped their father’s shoulders. “It’s over now,” he said in a slow
, even voice. “I know you went to the Black brothers for some comfort from the bottle. You won’t do that again. You almost broke Dodie’s heart.”

  Dorothy watched Frank steer Dad toward the stable. Frank was right: her heart felt wrenched in half and her brain roiled with confusion. A different person must have taken over her dad’s body. “What problem does our dad have, Lydia?”

  “Oh Dodie, if you had seen what our dad was like after George died…”

  “What, what…was Dad like then?”

  Lydia stared into the grey sky. She didn’t seem to notice what was happening in the yard. Dorothy watched Patrick turn the wagon around. Frank boosted Dad into the back and jumped in beside him. The wagon rolled away to the trail that led north to Frank’s homestead.

  “They’ve gone,” Dorothy said. She ached to repeat the question that urgently needed an answer but her throat was too tight. Suddenly the words spurted out: “WHAT WAS DAD LIKE THEN?”

  Lydia looked at her blankly. “When?”

  “After our brother died! Nobody ever talks about that time!”

  Lydia shuffled toward the house. “Dad insisted on taking George to the hospital after he got scarlet fever. Mam and Dad had a terrible row about that. She wanted to nurse him at home. She kept saying he was too young to leave in a big scary building. And then…” Lydia choked back a sob, “he got pneumonia in the hospital and died.”