Trial by Winter Page 3

  Dorothy nodded. She knew this much of the story. “And then?”

  “It was a terrible time for our family. Mam was so angry. Dad stayed out late at the pub and spent all our money on drink. Mam cried all day and shouted at him when he finally came home.” Lydia stopped on the stoop.

  “On drink?” echoed Dorothy, flabbergasted. “You mean like Ada’s dad?”

  A frightful memory took shape in her head – her best friend’s dad with a bottle – hollering at everyone, knocking over kitchen chairs. In terror Ada and Dorothy had raced down the street to Dorothy’s house, where Mam had denounced Ada’s dad as “that home-wrecking drunkard”.

  “Was, was our dad…a home-wrecking drunkard?” Dorothy couldn’t believe it. Her entire world was teetering off-kilter.

  Lydia pressed her lips tight. “It was a scary time, Dodie.”

  “I, uh, don’t remember any of that.”

  “Of course not, you weren’t even a year old. Anyway, Gram took you to her house. One day she marched in and whisked you from your crib. She said a baby couldn’t thrive in that poisonous atmosphere. But she left me there.” Lydia’s lips quivered.

  “Ooh, Lydia, I’m so sorry.” Dorothy patted Lydia’s shoulder.

  Lydia flinched away. “And then I hated you because Gram loved you more than me.”

  Dorothy gasped. She couldn’t bear to have Lydia angry at her, not here in the wilderness.

  “I don’t hate you now, silly. I was only seven years old then.” Lydia pushed open the soddie door. “I’m too cold to stand here. Get those buckets and I’ll make a fresh brew.”

  While Dorothy retrieved the water she tried to digest this distressing story. She had always been able to count on Dad. What had happened to him now, when they needed his strength the most? In a daze she opened the soddie door and handed the buckets to Lydia.

  Lydia filled the kettle and fed more wood into the firebox. Soon she stood at the curtain announcing, “Tea’s on, Mam.”

  After her nap Mam looked relaxed. “I heard voices outside. Are the boys coming in for tea?”

  “Uh, no,” said Dorothy. “I was talking to them. Dad came home and they all went to uh, do some uh, work at Frank’s place.”

  Mam’s eyebrows twitched. Where was Dad last night? “Is he…all right?

  “He’s fine,” said Lydia. “He spent the night with the Black brothers. Like you’ve said before, sometimes a man needs some male company.”

  Mam’s eyes narrowed. “The Blacks? Those boozers? Was Dad acting…strange?”

  “Not at all,” assured Lydia.

  Dorothy was confused by Lydia’s lie, but Mam was clearly comforted. The tight lines of worry melted from her face. “Let’s make a fine supper, shall we? Your dad likes rabbit stew. Is there another carcass in the stable?”

  “There’s one more,” said Dorothy. “I’m still dressed; I’ll go.” Gratefully she fled outside and ran to the stable. The tiny building was strangely silent with the horses gone.

  Dorothy sank into a stack of hay and pulled a small wooden bird from her pocket. It had been carved by Mr. Parenteau, who helped them on the journey to their homestead. He said it was a meadowlark and its song made people happy. Dorothy rubbed it whenever she needed comfort.

  When she felt calmer, she clambered onto a wooden crate and pulled down the frozen hare Victor had hung from the rafters. She knew Dad would not be home for supper; Frank would never bring him back while he was agitated like that.

  Dad did not return that night. Both Mam and Lydia retreated to their beds in a very low mood. In her upper bunk Dorothy curled into a lonely ball, seeking solace in her farewell kiss from Gram. Was that only six months ago? It seemed an eternity.

  Gram’s face was sharp in her mind but other images had blurred. She could hardly remember what Mam’s sister, Aunt Catherine, looked like. Under her comforter Dorothy shifted restlessly, striving to reclaim people who were fading into a fog.

  3

  The Pledge

  The next morning a band of sunlight slanted through the east window. After breakfast Dorothy peered out the small glass pane. The land swept down a long gentle slope, then up again to the horizon. Occasional copses of aspen trees made fuzzy patches on the endless white carpet.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day,” she announced.

  Lydia stepped out on the stoop and raised her face to the sun. Then she slipped her coat over her flannel nightgown and picked up the water buckets. “A good day for a bath.”

  Dorothy looked at her askance. A bath would be her last choice for a day like this. “Is Patrick coming over?”

  “Aren’t you Miss Nosey Parker?” huffed Lydia. “Well, if you must know…”

  With a softer expression she beckoned Dorothy close. “Someone came through Lloydminster recruiting men for that woodlot. Patrick signed up and he’s leaving soon. In case he comes to say goodbye, I want to look my best. Lord, I wish I had a fresh egg to wash through my hair.” She smiled sweetly at Dorothy. “Would you mind asking if the Suttons can spare an egg?”

  Yes! Dorothy thought. A walk to the Suttons’ homestead would be my FIRST choice for a sunny autumn day! She nodded and dressed quickly.

  Once outside, Dorothy forgot her mission. Impulsively she followed her sister to the dock.

  “What are you doing here?” griped Lydia. “I thought you were getting the egg?”

  “I need to hear the rest of the story about Dad. I could hardly sleep for fretting about it.”

  “And you think I enjoy reliving it?” Lydia slammed the buckets down on the dock.

  “Please Lydia.” Dorothy stifled the quiver in her voice. “I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

  “Oh, all right,” Lydia huffed. “I’ll walk with you a bit, then come back for water.”

  The sisters walked westward along the lakeshore, leaving footprints in the dusting of snow.

  “Where did I leave off?” asked Lydia.

  “Gram came and took me to her house.”

  Lydia stopped to flick snow off a scruffy bush. “A while later Mam took me and Frank to live with Gram and Gramp, too. We stayed there for two years. I don’t know exactly what happened, but Dad and Mam went to some meetings. Then Dad took the pledge and we moved back as a family. That was seven years ago and I haven’t seen him drunk until yesterday.”

  “What’s the pledge, Lydia? Can he take it again?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Dodie,” Lydia snapped. “That was back in England. We’re in the North-West Territories now. Do you see anyone who cares whether men drink?”

  Dorothy swivelled her head. She couldn’t see anyone at all, caring or not. What she did see was the open water of Button Lake, sparkling in the sunshine. Around the edges a thin coat of ice wove amongst the cattails like shimmering lace.

  She remembered the day last summer when Dad asked her to name the small lake. She had pondered for a minute and then cried, “Button Lake. It’s a combination of Bolton and Sutton.”

  “An excellent name,” Dad had said. “It recognizes both families who share the lake.”

  And now Dorothy felt a desperate need to escape from Lydia’s bitterness and visit the hospitable Sutton family. “I’m going for the egg,” she said and hurried off.

  The marshy area along the shoreline didn’t look completely frozen, so she ran up the west side of their hill to where it slumped down into a ravine. A coulee, Dorothy reminded herself, that’s what westerners call it. She turned to wave, but Lydia was kneeling on the dock filling the buckets.

  The coulee was their personal food market. This was the first time she’d seen it brushed with snow, but she had no problem recognizing the thickets where she and Victor had picked plump rosehips in September. She passed the tall saskatoon bushes that had provided juicy berries last July. Dorothy smacked her lips thinking of Mrs. Sutton’s tangy saskatoon pie.

  She picked up her pace, anticipating an embrace with warm-hearted Mrs. Sutton. Snow flicked over her boots as she
scurried through clumps of grass. When she arrived at their soddie, Mrs. Sutton wasn’t there. Stung with disappointment, Dorothy slumped on their stoop.

  Then she noticed Victor on the dock the Suttons had built at their end of the lake. He was watching a V-formation of Canada geese approach across the water.

  He’ll know where his mum is. Dorothy ran down to the sturdy plank dock. “Hi, Victor!”

  Victor turned and a grin spread across his freckled face. “What a grand flock of geese, Dodie. I was about to run back to the house for the shotgun.” He checked the sky again. “Crikey, they’re not going to land here.”

  “I’m looking for your mum, Victor.”

  “What?” Victor teased, “you don’t want to see me?”

  Dorothy smiled; Victor always cheered her up. “Of course, I want to see you. I just need to ask your mum a question.” And get a hug, she added to herself.

  “She went to town with Pop and Charles for winter provisions, because they’re leaving tomorrow with the telegraph crew. Do you need help with something?”

  “Could you spare an egg? Unless you, need them all.”

  “I collected four eggs this morning. There is certainly one for you. Sit with me awhile first.” Squatting down, Victor brushed snow off the dock beside him. Dorothy squatted next to him, letting her skirt drag onto the wet planks. She silenced the tiny voice in her head protesting her unladylike posture – Mam’s not here and Victor won’t care.

  “The other day a flock landed and I bagged two of them,” Victor boasted. He launched into a tale about his skill with the shotgun, but Dorothy stared blankly across the water. “You’re not listening!” he complained.

  Startled by his sharp tone, Dorothy snapped her head toward him. “Uh, yes I am.”

  Victor studied her face. “You look down in the mouth. What’s wrong?”

  Dorothy hesitated. Mam wouldn’t want others to know her family’s private affairs. But Victor was her only friend and she had to confide in someone. “Dad and Mam are having terrible rows.”

  Victor patted her hand. “I hear my parents arguing too. There’s no privacy in these soddies.”

  “Oh, Victor, it gets much worse.” Dorothy blinked back tears. “Dad spent the night at the Blacks and couldn’t even stand properly when he came home. Lydia said he was drunk. Why can’t my dad be responsible like your dad?”

  Victor watched the geese circle in the distance. Finally he answered, “Pop wasn’t always like this. He used to stagger home drunk every night. Have you heard of the Band of Hope?”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  “It’s a movement to get people off drink. Mum trusted it because Queen Victoria was the patron. When I was six years old, she started taking me and Charles to their meetings.”

  “What happened there?” Dorothy smoothed her skirt beneath her and stretched her legs out on the dock.

  “There’s sermons and songs about the evils of drink. That’s where Mum learned to play the piano – they said she had a good ear and encouraged her. They had magic lantern shows for kids. Charles and I signed the temperance pledge not to drink intoxicating beverages.”

  “Lydia said our dad signed a pledge but now he’s broken his promise. Did your dad sign?”

  “Nope.” Victor sat down and stretched his legs out too. “Two years ago I heard my folks going at it one night. Mum refused to come to Canada unless he signed the pledge. Pop said he didn’t like organizations telling him what to do. I thought that was the end of our Canada dream.”

  Dorothy’s eyebrows shot up. “But you’re here.”

  “One evening Pop made a private pledge to our family. He promised to give up hard liquor and just drink half a pint at the pub. He had to save money anyway, because he really wanted to get land here in the North-West. Mum said she would believe him after he lasted an entire year.”

  “And?” Dorothy squirmed on the wet dock. The moisture had seeped through her skirt.

  “Pop kept his promise. Then last autumn he saw the notices about the Barr Colony.”

  “Dad really wanted land, too. But now he’s drinking and we’re going to lose it.” Dorothy swallowed a sob.

  “No you won’t. He can make a family pledge just like my pop did.” Victor cuffed her softly on the arm. “You’re his favourite, Dodie. Talk to him.”

  “Will he listen, Victor?”

  “Of course he will. Now, let’s go get that egg.”

  “The egg!” Dorothy cried, leaping up. “I must get back to Lydia right quick!”

  In the house Victor pointed to a tin bowl on the table with a cluster of brown eggs, flecked with bits of dirt. “Lucky there were four today. Mum needs two eggs to make a cake tonight. We’re celebrating my birthday a week early because the men are leaving.”

  “Happy birthday, Victor!” Beneath her enthusiasm Dorothy felt a twinge of envy. “I wish I was turning twelve.”

  Victor seemed to stretch an inch with her declaration. “Only a year to go, Dodie.” He found an empty tea tin to hold the precious raw egg for Lydia’s hair.

  Carrying the tin carefully, Dorothy hurried through the coulee. Victor came along to check his rabbit snares. Beside a thicket of bushes he snorted, “Crikey! Someone with clumsy feet broke this snare.” He held up a broken branch dangling a wire. “These traps are delicate, Dodie. Try to walk carefully.”

  Dorothy’s heart sank. That was the Sutton’s food supply and Victor was so generous to share his bounty with her family. “I…I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  Victor shrugged. “What’s done is done.” He found another dead branch, laid it across the bushes and attached the looped wire. “I’ll have to show you all the rabbit runs where I’ve set snares.”

  “And teach me how to set the snares, too?”

  “Of course. Now hoof it home. Lydia will be wanting that egg.” Victor pointed halfway up the slope where a narrow line of grass had been trampled down to bare ground. “It will be easier going on that deer path.”

  Dorothy saw where the dusting of snow traced a solid white line, threading through thickets and patches of stunted trees. Scrambling up to the path, she looked behind her where the coulee deepened and the trees grew taller. The deer path disappeared into the shelter of the trees. Since they arrived at the homestead, Dad had shot several deer in this coulee.

  The thought of Dad reminded Dorothy of the problems waiting at home. She quickened her step. Lydia was still in her nightgown when Dorothy burst into the house, all breathless from running. The tin washtub was half full of water and pots were steaming on the stove.

  Lydia flashed a dagger look. “Whatever took you so –”

  Dorothy held out the small tea tin. “I’ve got the egg and I ran all the way back.”

  Prying off the lid, Lydia laughed. The raw egg had been carefully wrapped in a wool sock.

  “That’s Victor’s new sock. He can’t wear it yet because Mrs. Sutton hasn’t finished knitting the other one. I promised to return it.”

  “Thanks, Dodie.” Lydia broke the egg in a bowl and whipped it into a froth. “Mam went for a walk to give me privacy. Could you sit on the stoop to make sure nobody comes while I’m bathing?”

  Dorothy was happy to sit outside. She reached sideways where snow had collected in a small drift against the house. The sunshine had warmed the snow enough to pack into balls. She assembled an arsenal of ammunition in case she had to defend Lydia’s modesty.

  With the snowballs in the crook of her arm, Dorothy scanned the landscape for a target to practise her aim. The slope down to the lake held only a few short bushes. She squinted at the stable dug into the hillside. With the tall wolf willow bushes behind, it was the biggest landmark around.

  When Dorothy thought she was close enough to hit the stable door she set down her stash and took aim with her first ball. The snowball wobbled up…and down. Splat on the ground.

  Behind her a voice guffawed. “Surely you’re stronger than that with all the water you’ve been hauling!” Fr
ank selected a snowball and hurled it overhand to the door.

  “Why are you here, Frank?”

  “Came to report to the family.” Frank started towards the house.

  “Don’t go in there!” Dorothy shrieked, heaving snowballs at him. “Lydia’s having a bath!”

  The soddie door opened and Lydia emerged, fully dressed with a towel wrapped around her head. “Pipe down Dodie. You sound like the town crier.”

  Frank laughed. “Luckily, there’s no town for a hundred miles.”

  Inside Lydia removed the towel and tugged a comb through her long auburn locks. She sat and handed Dorothy the comb. “Can you untangle the back like Mam always does?”

  Dorothy was speechless; she knew how proud Lydia was of her hair. Lydia had never entrusted her with its care before. She lifted out a tress and worked the comb down gently. “That egg made your hair so soft, Lydia.”