“Sorry,” Di said as she sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I want to be a comfort.”
“You are.”
Ivy buried her head in Di’s chest. “Why do people have to die?”
“People are like trees,” Di said. “Some trees live for a long time and others die early. Billy and your daddy are like trees that died early, especially poor Billy, a mere sapling.” Di led Ivy away from the grave and back to the yew tree.
“Will I die like Billy?” Ivy asked.
“Don’t be silly. You’re going to live to be as old as this tree,” Di said.
Ivy grimaced, looking back at the grave.
“Canada won’t be at all like my gentle old England,” Clara said wistfully, glancing at the blooming meadow beyond the hedge.
“Don’t be a dreamer,” Di said with the confidence of an old friend. “This class-bound country would be rough on a widow with limited funds. It takes money or extreme luck for a young girl to succeed socially in England.” She put her hands on Clara’s shoulders. “Clara, it was sheer good fortune that you got to nursing school. Do you want Ivy to be a tweenie?”
“I wasn’t a real tweenie,” Clara said. Her goal as a young woman had always been to avoid the fate of being a tweenie, a job that was higher than a scullery maid, but lower than a cook. “Whatever I was in the Pinks’ house,” she said defensively, “I received an excellent education as Harold Pink’s niece.” She regretted having told Di that her mother, Lydia Pink, had run off with the family blacksmith, Clara’s father, and had a daughter four months later, whom she named Amelia.
Lydia’s brother, Harold Pink, had visited when Clara was eight years old, and, admiring her brightness, invited her to live with his family. He had long since forgiven his sister for her indiscretion and wanted to help. He was impressed with Clara’s intelligence and industry as she scurried around organizing the messy cottage. He offered to provide her with a proper education. He gracefully made no comment on what he thought of the ne’er-do-well blacksmith, who called himself a gentleman farmer. Addy had been too young at the time to be of interest to Harold Pink and had stayed with her parents.
Di hugged Clara. “You’ve made the right decision to emigrate. Take a few minutes to reflect on your good fortune, and I’ll go ahead with Ivy.”
Clara leaned against the yew tree and waited for the calm to come. She let her mind drift into the little patch of garden Billy had so energetically cultivated. She could feel the sting of the nettles he had weeded from the beds. She imagined him holding up his muddy hands as he entered the house for her to wash them in the bucket by the back door. Many nights, it was the memory of Billy in the garden that helped her fall asleep.
Remembering her family’s circumstances when she was a child, Clara began to think again that she might try to find her older sister. A pharmacist can’t be hard to find, she thought. Feeling more relaxed and quite excited, she abandoned the tree and headed for the pub.
Clara caught up with Di and Ivy as she turned up Knockholt’s High Street. Stopping to catch her breath, she stood watching Mrs. Peck, the pub-owner’s wife, waddle underneath some rusty old scaffolding erected to give the Double Crown a much-needed facelift. She was picking up the debris left from the workmen’s lunches and throwing it in a dented bin. The newly painted white stucco stood out against the dark oak beams. Several patrons, who stood outside chatting, nodded approvingly at the changes.
“Nice job ya done, Missus Peck,” a man in uniform shouted through the scaffolds.
She stood up quickly, knocked her head on a board, cursed, and waved. “Glad you’ve lived to enjoy a pint, love,” she said, grinning. She crouched down and continued removing debris.
“This scaffolding is too much like a ladder,” Clara said as she stepped into the street to avoid walking under it.
Di laughed, shaking her head. “You are superstitious!”
“I need to be. I’ve had my share of bad luck.”
“I know you have.” Di reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand.“Let’s be happy,” Clara said. “For Ivy’s sake. It’s all so confusing. I’ve made the best decision, but I will always miss my homeland.” Di pressed her finger to Clara’s lips. They had already had this conversation.
A man dressed in a shapeless brown tweed suit stepped out of the pub and motioned for the incoming customers to stop. “You’ll need to wait in the entryway ’cause we got a full house. ’Bout ten minutes should do it. Judge a pub by its lineups,” he said, grinning, then scooted back inside.
“Phew! I can smell the musty beer from here,” Clara said, screwing up her nose in distaste.
“With prohibition you won’t have any damp pubs in Canada,” Di said, laughing.
“Ah, well, that’s why some Scotch whisky and brandy will be crossing the Atlantic in my steamer trunk.” Clara chuckled. “I remember returning to the hospital after purchasing my libation to find Dr. Newbury imitating Canadian temperance ladies marching in large feathered hats to seize all the medicinal beer in the Galt Hospital. The soldiers had been asking about his hometown, Lethbridge. They stopped laughing when they saw me, of course, but I pretended to be absorbed in reading a chart. But Dr. Newbury had his back to me and didn’t notice. ‘Lethbridge ladies of the night work in cozy brothels,’ he was saying. ‘In Montreal, they work on the street in the midst of danger and crime.’” Clara’s face became thoughtful. “Dr. Newbury is as wise as he is witty. I would never have made the decision to go where my sister was banished without his encouragement.”
Di put her arms around Clara and they held this embrace until Miff marched into the entryway and said: “Ladies, we’ve been waiting. I didn’t notice you’d arrived. The waiter has asked us to move to a smaller booth to make way for a larger party.”
“Hurry on in, mates,” the man in the rumpled suit urged. “We’re filled to the rafters.”
The atmosphere in the Double Crown was jovial, and lively conversations echoed through the smoke-filled room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Across the room, the offer “Want a Players?” resonated, suggesting rationing of cigarettes was slowly easing. Waiters wearing white shirts and black trousers wove through rows of heavy oak tables, holding up trays topped with jugs or glasses filled to the brim. They had towels draped over their shoulders, ready to mop up spilled beer. Several tables, pushed together to seat larger groups, made it difficult for the waiters to pass. A waiter’s swinging hip knocked one of the tables, causing a huge splash of beer and a clatter of broken glass as a jug tipped onto the floor. “If that happened at the club,” exclaimed Miff, “the waiter would lose his job.”
“Women aren’t allowed at your club, Miff, so don’t fuss about spilled beer,” Addy retorted.
Di interjected, pulling a box from under the table, “Your auntie and I have a present for you, Ivy, to keep you warm at the North Pole.”
“You know I’m not going to the North Pole,” Ivy said, putting her hands on her hips and smiling. “Can I try it on?” she asked, bouncing on her seat as she tore open the box and saw what it contained.
“Oh my, rabbit fur!” Clara said as she let Ivy slip out to try on the coat. There was a matching hat that she set on the table.
“Don’t that little miss look smart,” a man sitting opposite said to his companion.
Ivy blushed and refused to put on the hat, but she went around the table to give Di and her aunt each a big hug.
With Ivy momentarily out of earshot while she went to the washroom, Miff began questioning Clara. “What do you expect to be doing exactly at the hospital? Do you know anything about the Galt? With whom have you corresponded?” Miff looked concerned. He had attended