Ethel saw a compartment with a small storage area and moved toward the bunk ahead of her. Looking around, she decided it wasn’t so bad, since the railing was high enough to give some privacy. She sat on the bottom bunk and after a few minutes opened her satchel and began to arrange her personal things in neat piles.
Her journal lay begging for attention. Maybe she’d write some things down that she could copy into a letter at another time.
The mattress isn’t much thicker than Mum’s back door mat. I guess a roll of what seems like a sheaf of cotton is my pillow. And a blanket not unlike what the neighbour would use on his horse is folded across the bottom of the cot. I think about fleas and lice and then I remember the ship’s new rules of disinfecting all cloth goods.
I’m pleased with my space. Everything is quite contained: wooden bunk bed, a little bit of floor space with room for personals, and a small aisle leads out to an area where passengers can cook food and heat water. There’s a toilet and basin in an adjoining alcove quite close to my area; even now, it seems crowded with people.
I can see a bigger open area, I guess for small groups for visiting, playing music and cards. And I suppose for teaching purposes if children want to do their sums. There’s a good supply of candles on a shelf, should the oil lamps burn dry. This space is not terribly pleasant, but liveable.
I read a sign that there is salted meat, water, bread, oatmeal and ship’s biscuits included with the fare. I suspect as time goes on, supplies will become meagre and stale. I remember hearing horror stories about steerage accommodation in the big steamers. Organization and security in these smaller quarters will be important. The stagnant air causes me some concern, but I’ll go up on deck to get relief.
One of Tom’s letters comes to my mind. He said, “Doctor Austin told me that my asthma was controllable. ‘Good clean air and a different environment will make you a new man.’” But Tom had mentioned that it was hard to find fresh air in steerage.
Ethel closed her journal for the time being, looked at her hair combs and creams and sorted some small pictures along with a few keepsakes. She opened her satchel again, checked some clothes and folded them. While unwrapping a small nativity scene, hand carved by her father, special memories came back to her. Tucking her mother’s geranium slips deeper into their moist paper and soil, she hoped they’d survive the journey.
Handling several pieces of jewellery that Mum had given her, Ethel was relieved she’d packed them. Sisters Mabel, Edith and Florence had appreciated the little things she’d given them, and of course, Mum had cried when Ethel left her some needlework.
Ethel lifted a picture of Elsie wearing a long white christening dress, a gift from Tom’s parents, her shawl and bonnet hand-knit by Mum. She brushed away tears that slipped down her cheeks. There’d be so much she’d miss in Elsie’s early years, but her christening day in St. Andrew’s, Church of England would be a cherished remembrance. She was happy she’d posted Tom a copy at the time.
Ethel re-opened her journal and smiled as she thought about her mother’s last embrace:
When Mum put her arms around me, it caused me to remember the happy, simple and honest home of my childhood. Pa, bless his heart, was a hard worker, changing jobs whenever he had to for a continuous paycheque. His attitude and polite nature helped us to thrive through difficult times. He provided the best he could and taught all of us to work hard to accomplish goals and achieve in life. He and Mum raised a big family in a loving and frugal environment: plain, but with everything we needed, including lots of encouragement and love. They grieved Will’s death together and always included us in their sorrow so we could share our sadness.
Later as Ethel settled on her cot, her gentle rhythm of breathing comforted her. She could feel the working motion of the ship, its pressured pace in obedience to engines somewhere beyond the walls. She felt strangely comforted by the regularity and movement. The consistent creaking of the ship’s hull echoed as it took the brunt of ocean waves. Rolling over, Ethel began to think of herself as in a large cradle rocking back and forth.
Sobs, giggles, snores and muffled sounds resonated through the larger space as people settled and filled the darkness of the first night. She ran her tongue across her top lip, tasting her salty tears, and thought of the vast ocean of salt water: her grief compared.
Ethel breathed deeply. “Goodnight, Elsie, my precious. Keep well. Stay safe. God be with you until we meet again.” When she woke up, she’d be miles closer to Canada. Yes, that’s the way it had to be—thoughts about Canada.
6. Settling In
Ethel awakened to shadows. Elsie’s face came to her memory, and Ethel’s eyes watered. The emotional darkness that had kept her company over the last few weeks was nearby, but she managed to set it aside to think about the day ahead. Stretching, she looked around the space.
People were already moving, groaning and shifting trunks across the wooden floors as Ethel swung her legs over the side of the bunk, stood and straightened her clothes. She went into the common room and washed her hands, glad the tap was working. Applying some hand lotion to sooth the stinging from the salt water, she looked up and smiled at those standing around her. Back in her space, she made up her bed and laid her food portions out for breakfast. She peeled a piece of fruit, put it on a thick piece of bread and then ate it. Breakfast was to be in the common room tomorrow, where, the word was, they’d have ship’s porridge.
Ethel had escaped the immediate problem of seasickness that was sweeping across people like a buffeting wave. At least it would force their minds off their homesickness. She listened to them moaning and vomiting and wondered if there would be adequate water to clean after them.
During the first day at sea, Ethel heard there were 737 passengers on board the SS Lake Manitoba. It was like having a floating town. She couldn’t imagine that many people in one boat and thought of the germs that could spread in such a situation. Although terribly grateful the cargo of cattle was at the opposite end of the ship, she pictured the eager Canadian farmers waiting at the stable markets on docking.
After another day, people began to recover from seasickness; some moved around, some complained bitterly, some sulked and kept to themselves, while others tried to make light conversation.
A couple of the men brought out their fiddles and played several tunes. Some of the women laid out board games in the common room. Children had a variety of toys to keep them busy. For the most part, activities made the time past quickly.
Early on the fourth day, Ethel moved around more to see how others were faring. Just as she sat down at one of the tables in the common room, two people began to talk loudly.
“There’s poison in the air, I tell ya,” one man said slowly. “I can feel it.”
“Naw, you’ve been reading too much propaganda,” his female companion said.
“The newspapers say there’s some smelly politics goin’ on. I read about it before we left ’ome. That’ll mean money problems, you’ll see. Trouble marks the British air. Aye! I heard them speeches. Some of the boys down at the pub ’ave been talkin’ ’bout war. Does ’e think this could be a hint of somethin’?” He raised his voice. “They’d better git out ’n leave them posh chairs ’n talk to us ordinary people. We’ll tell ’em a thing or two.”
Ethel thought about the man’s comment and asked a woman next to her, “There hasn’t been a lot of talk about war, has there?”
“Not really. Political power shifts, poverty, industrial problems and rising financial concerns are all current issues, but I guess war is always a question when it comes to who wants the power.”
“I don’t like the talk of war. Do you think it’ll ever happen?” Ethel asked. The thought