Trial by Winter Page 6
“Actually my business is with Mr. Parenteau. I brought him a deerskin.”
“H’ah, yes,” said Mr. Parenteau. “Joe, can I have a piece o’ paper t’ trace dis young lady’s feet?” Mr. Pinder tore a fresh sheet from his ledger book and Mr. Parenteau set it on the wooden floor. “Take yer boots off, Dor’ty.”
Dorothy unlaced her high English boots. Placing both feet close together on the paper, she blushed at how grey and streaked her stockings looked against the whiteness. Mam would be mortified at me undressing in public. The men didn’t seem to notice.
Mr. Parenteau traced around each foot with a pencil. “Dah wife, she make dem bigger so Dor’ty can wear t’ick socks. I put dis in my capote right now so I don’t forget.” Folding the paper, he stuffed it into a pocket of a thick blanket coat hanging over his chair.
Mr. Pinder opened his desk drawer and placed a penny in Dorothy’s hand. “You are such a pretty young lady,” he said. “Go down to Mr. Herbert’s store and buy yourself a sweet.”
“Uh,” said Dorothy, looking longingly at the penny. Mam’s lecture about gifts from strangers rattled in her head. “I don’t think I should accept this.”
“It’ll make me happy if you do,” said Mr. Pinder, closing her fingers over the penny. “You remind me of my daughter back in Cornwall. The family will join me next spring, once my business is established. Perhaps you two will become friends.”
Dorothy knew it was her duty to make other people happy. Mam would approve of that. “Oh thank you, Mr. Pinder.”
“Go ahead,” said Frank. “I’ll be there shortly to collect the coal oil Mr. Herbert promised.”
Dorothy remembered to say good-bye politely to Mr. Pinder and Mr. Parenteau, with a special warm smile for her dark-skinned friend. She skipped down the street, feeling the boards of a newly-built boardwalk beneath the snow.
She found a large building with a sign above the door: HERBERT & CO. The store wasn’t quite finished, judging by the hammering sounds on the roof. A man waved her in when she peeked through the window. He went back to unpacking goods while Dorothy stood still, mesmerized by the confusion of boxes and barrels. Tantalizing smells mingled with pungent odours.
“Can I help you?” grunted the man without looking her way. From his bent-over position Dorothy saw that the top of his head was bald and shiny.
“I came to buy something.” She wondered where his jars of sweets were hiding.
The man stood up and she recognized Mr. Herbert from her visit in the summer. “Well, it’s young Dorothy Bolton.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Nothing frivolous, I hope. Your family already has an extensive debt.” He frowned and his wide moustache drooped.
For a minute Dorothy felt intimidated, then she remembered his bald pate. She could no longer see it now he was upright, but it was still there. She giggled silently.
“I wish to buy a penny candy. I have money.” She thrust her hand forward to show her tarnished copper penny, Canadian money, even though it had a portrait of Queen Victoria.
“Well now, that is legal tender,” admitted Mr. Herbert. “I have a box of licorice somewhere, just come in with the freight load from Battleford.” He kicked a cardboard carton halfway across the room. “Get outta my way, you useless rubbish.”
Jumping as it slid past her, Dorothy gaped. She had never seen a shopkeeper treat his merchandise with such disrespect.
“Open that carton, young Dorothy, and you will understand why I’m in such a foul mood.”
Cautiously, Dorothy opened the package. “It’s skeins of wool.”
“Yes, thick grey wool when I ordered thick grey wool SOCKS.” Mr. Herbert threw up his hands in frustration. “Men come in daily, looking for warm socks and the supplier in Winnipeg sends me a carton of wool. How many men know how to knit?”
Crouching on the dirty wood floor, Dorothy picked up a skein of wool and read the label. Pure Irish wool, best quality. She looked at Mr. Herbert. “My mam could knit them. She just made a pair of socks in two days, for my dad to take to the woodlot.”
Mr. Herbert’s thick black eyebrows shot up. “Really?” Staring at her, he stroked his moustache. “The wool is useless to me. Take the carton home. Tell your mother I will pay 50 cents for each pair of socks she can deliver in the next month.”
Dorothy folded the cardboard flaps together and stood up, clutching her prize. At that moment Frank opened the shop door.
Mr. Herbert slapped Frank on the back.“Your sister and I just concluded a business deal. She’s quite the enterprising young woman.”
Frank eyed Dorothy quizzically, but she felt in no hurry to explain.
After rooting through various containers on the floor, Mr. Herbert announced, “The box of licorice. Your penny, miss.”
Balancing the carton of wool on one hip, Dorothy exchanged the penny for a length of black candy rope. She chomped off a bite.
“What about our coal oil, Mr. Herbert?” Frank asked.
Mr. Herbert’s smile fell from his face. “The scow from Edmonton is stuck on a sandbar about thirty miles upriver. A team from Lloyd went to try and free it.” He shrugged helplessly. “Now I’m in a foul mood again. Get outta here before I start barking at the two of you.”
After Dorothy settled onto the wagon seat, Chap nestled his head in her lap. “Look at you, not even barking. You’re much better trained than Mr. Herbert.”
“He did seem out of sorts,” agreed Frank. “It must be frustrating when you can’t get supplies, like coal oil, that your customers need.”
Or socks, thought Dorothy.
Once they had trotted away from town, Frank asked, “What’s in that cardboard carton?”
Swallowing her last bite of the tangy black licorice, Dorothy grinned. She had thought to taunt Frank awhile with her secret, but she was bubbling too much to keep it to herself. “Best quality thick Irish wool for Mam to knit into socks – 50 cents a pair.”
Frank furrowed his brows. “Blast it, Dodie, what if Mam isn’t up to the job? You know how she’s been since we came to the North-West. You might have to knit them yourself.”
Mercy, I hate knitting! Dorothy hunched down in her seat the rest of the way home. With her budding business dream shattered, she felt cold and miserable.
6
Tracking Time
Dusk was falling when Frank stopped his sleigh at the soddie. No light shone through the windows. “I must get home before dark. You’ll have to tell Mam about the coal oil.” Frank patted Dorothy’s shoulder. “And good luck presenting your project.”
Dorothy went inside, nervous about the carton in her arms and the bad news she had to deliver. She sniffed the inviting aroma from the pot Lydia was stirring on the stove. “Thank heavens, I’m starving.” She glanced around in the gloom. “Where’s Mam?”
“Out at the privy. What’s in that box?”
Dorothy pushed the container under Lydia’s bunk. “Has Mam been in good spirits today?”
Lydia got three bowls from the shelf. “She was happy when Frank was here this morning, but she fretted about money all afternoon. Your trip to town reminded her of our debt at the store.”
“Fretted about money,” echoed Dorothy. “Good.”
“What’s in the box?” Lydia asked again, as she lifted scones from the oven.
“Surprise for Mam.” Dorothy bustled about setting the table.
Lydia removed the chimney from the lamp on the table and struck a match.
“Don’t light that,” snapped Dorothy.
At the same instant a blast of wind blew out the match. Mam closed the door and hung up her outerwear. “Does this mean you didn’t bring coal oil?”
Dorothy opened the firebox to illuminate the room with its glow. “Mr. Herbert’s having trouble getting supplies. The barge with the coal oil is stuck on a sandbar.”
“That’s terrible news. Our barrel is almost empty.” Mam slumped into a chair. “Shan’t we ever get good news in this desolate outpost?”
Mam looked up for a minute, then drooped again. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t see well enough in this gloom to knit anything.”
Dorothy’s buoyant mood crashed like a lead weight. “We should have coal oil…soon.”
Lydia pushed the carton aside. “Let’s eat. We’ll discuss knitting tomorrow when the light is better.” She served three bowls of steaming potato soup.
Lydia tried to make small talk, but Dorothy no longer felt cheerful. After supper she stacked split wood beside the stove so Lydia could refill the firebox in the night. And then there was nothing to do but retreat to bed.
Snug under her eiderdown, Dorothy reviewed the knitting lessons Gram had taught her last autumn. The resulting muffler had been a disaster of tangled wool, dropped stitches, tears and lectures. Finally she drifted into a fitful sleep.
She woke once and saw a silhouette crouched before the open firebox; Lydia was stoking the fire. Feeling safe in her sister’s care, Dorothy fell into a deep sleep.
In the morning she awoke to whispered conversation. Peeking over her bunk, she saw Frank and Lydia at the table.
Frank looked up. “Get up, lazybones. It’s a fine sunny day.”
“Are you coming every morning, Frank?”
“Well, not every morning but as often as I can. Unless I’m away freighting.”
“Where’s Chap?”
“Left him home today.” Frank lifted Dorothy down from her bunk and plunked her on a chair. Then he brought her boots from beneath the bed and pulled them onto her feet.
“Such high class service!” said Lydia. “Are you the local princess?”
Sitting at the table in her rumpled nightie and Gram’s wool jumper, Dorothy did feel pampered. She recalled the summer day when she had rolled in the grass and announced she was a prairie princess. “Yes, I am.”
Frank smiled. “I’m buttering you up, because I need help after breakfast.”
The soddie became a bustle of activity. Mam emerged from her bedroom and busied herself making porridge. Lydia scooped flour into a bowl. Frank went to the lake for water and then chopped wood. A half hour later they shared a breakfast of oatmeal, tea and hot raisin scones.
Dorothy set her empty mug on the table. “I’m ready, Frank. What do I have to do?”
“We’re butchering the deer carcass. You can’t work in your nightgown, so get dressed lickety-split.”
Soon they climbed aboard Frank’s wagon and headed to the stable. “I’m putting my horses inside. Their body heat will warm the air while we work.” Frank unhitched the black horses and handed one set of reins to Dorothy. “Here, take Midnight.”
Frank opened the stable door and led Ebony inside. The stallion flicked his ears and snorted as Frank tied him to the wall. “He can smell the deer,” he explained. Dorothy followed with Midnight and handed the reins to her brother. “The horses will love you forever if you bring them a handful of hay,” suggested Frank.
While Dorothy fed the horses, Frank pulled a loosely-woven cloth from his rucksack. He spread it in a corner of the straw floor next to the hanging deer. “I need to carve this carcass into manageable chunks before it freezes. I want you to hold each piece that I cut and put it on the burlap.”
Dorothy wasn’t keen on touching the raw red body of the deer. She considered keeping her woollen gloves on, then slipped them off and tucked them in her pocket. Bare hands would be easier to clean.
Frank examined the strung-up carcass. He pulled the stub of the front leg hanging at the bottom. “Hold this leg out from the body, while I cut off the shoulder.” Gingerly Dorothy grasped the leg. It felt cold and moist but not bloody.
“What will we do with the pieces, Frank?”
“See those planks across the rafters. They’ll be safe up there…unless a bear breaks in.”
“A bear?” Dorothy’s eyebrows shot up.
“I’m teasing, Dodie. Any bears nearby will be asleep in their dens all winter.”
Frank’s hunting knife sliced through muscle. “Hold tight with both hands. When I cut through the shoulder joint, this section will come loose.” Dorothy staggered as the heavy cut of meat fell into her arms. Carefully she lowered it to the burlap cloth.
When Frank severed the other shoulder, he pointed out the ball-and-socket joint. “The back legs have similar joints. That’s how the animal stretches its legs so far when it runs.”
Dorothy stared with such concentration she almost fell over. “I love watching deer run, but I never thought about how they do it.”
Frank continued his anatomy lesson as he carved each section. By the time the animal lay in chunks on the burlap, Dorothy had scrutinized the ribs, the spine and the hipbone.
“I never learned anything at school about how bodies are inside.”
Frank nodded. “Anatomy is much too indelicate a topic for proper young ladies.”
Dorothy grinned at her brother. “I’m glad I’m not a proper young lady.” She wiped her hands clean on the edge of the burlap.
“Not so fast, lassie. You have to hand me the cuts so I can store them above the rafters.” Dorothy picked up the meat, piece by piece. Frank stepped on a crate and lifted each chunk into the makeshift attic of the stable.
Finally there were two similar-shaped pieces left. “Two fine roasts,” said Frank.
“May I take one to Mrs. Sutton?” asked Dorothy. “I could carry it in your rucksack.”
Frank checked his pocket watch. “It’s past one o’clock, Dodie. After dinner I need your help with another task. Go to the Suttons’ tomorrow morning.” He packed the roast in his rucksack and tucked it inside the crate he had been standing on. “It will be safe here overnight. Just make sure the door is latched after I leave with the horses.”
Frank placed the other roast in Dorothy’s arms. “Take this to the house and ask Mam to lay some food out. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Back at the soddie, Dorothy gaped at the scene before her. Mam had pulled her rocking chair from a dark corner in her bedroom. She was sitting in a stream of sunlight by the window, knitting with the grey wool. She had already formed most of the ribbed leg of a sock.
Handing the roast to Lydia, Dorothy tiptoed close to watch Mam. The woollen tube hung from three needles while Mam worked new stitches with a fourth. The needles clicked rhythmically as Mam flicked wool from her finger to form each new stitch. Dorothy knew she could NEVER do that.
“It appears there is enough light on sunny days,” said Mam. “I’m going to teach you to knit the leg, then I can finish with the heel and foot.”
Dorothy gasped.
“You just butchered a deer, didn’t you. You can handle a simple domestic task like this.”
“Uh,” faltered Dorothy, “if you think I can do it well enough to please Mr. Herbert.”
“Of course you can. I’ll knit the cuff nice and tight and you can finish the rest of the leg. It’s just knit two, purl two, like that muffler you made with Gram.”
Dorothy groaned. Then she heard feet thudding on the stoop. “Heavens, I forgot, Frank wants dinner.”
“Don’t fret, Dodie. We have soup simmering on the stove.” Lydia served two bowls as Frank entered the house. “You two must be famished.”
After eating Frank said, “Lydia, I need both you and Dodie at the stable.”
Lydia backed away. “Oh, no, I’m not butchering a dead animal.”
“What, scared of blood dripping on your fine clothes?” Frank teased. Lydia looked so appalled that his voice softened. “I’m only kidding. I need help assembling the wagon cover.”
The rolled-up canvas cover and the four iron hoops were stored in the stable. Lydia and Frank carried them outside and laid them beside th
e wagon while Dorothy nuzzled the horses.
“Dodie, we need you out here,” Frank called. “Climb into the wagon box.”
Dorothy’s job was to hold each hoop upright while Frank and Lydia wiggled the ends into the holders on the wagon sides. When all four hoops were hooked on, they looked like a whale skeleton she had seen in a photograph. Dorothy lay on the wagon floor, feeling like Jonah in the whale’s belly.
She gazed at the blue sky floating overhead like an upside-down ocean. Clouds drifted into sight like giant islands. Whoosh! Frank and Lydia flung the white canvas over the iron framework and Dorothy’s sky map disappeared.
After tying down all parts of the canvas, Lydia helped Frank hitch up the horses. Dorothy smiled at the nickering sounds: Ebony and Midnight must be really happy to get out of that dark stable! “Are you done in the stable now, Frank?” asked Lydia.
“Yes. Be sure the door is properly latched, now that our winter supply of meat is inside.”
Lydia returned to the house and Frank climbed up to the wagon seat. He took a package from his coat pocket and spread some brown, shredded material on a small piece of white paper. He rolled the paper and stuck it in his mouth.