The Innocent - Lynne Golding Beneath The Alders

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the weekend’s demands at the church. My mother, like her mother-in-law before her, was a church’s pianist and organist. Depending on the hymn, one could be forgiven for confusing it with an outpouring of grief. But throughout the week following our return, my ears rang with one woeful sonata after another. I soon realized their deeper meaning.

      Mother’s sorrowful state was noteworthy not just for its duration but also for its sharp contrast to Father’s disposition at the time. Throughout the week, I only heard him raise his voice once at Mother. Coming upon her at the piano one evening, after the completion of her nightly chores, he interrupted a morose piece. “Enough of this misery and gloom! It isn’t as if someone has died!” The rest of the time, his intercourse with her was actually … kind. On one occasion, he told her she would need a new dress. This was only partially unusual. He frequently criticized her plain wardrobe, although being without the means to replace it, he rarely suggested she do so. But at this time, the observation sounded somewhat hopeful. “This will be an occasion worthy of a new dress, don’t you think, dear Mary?”

      Often dejected, Father was, throughout this period … buoyant. His walk, which was sometimes slow and crestfallen, was then … tall and proud. Often laconic, Father was at this time … animated. While we ate, he waxed on about our small town and how one day, if led by the right people, it would be a large town—possibly even a city. He was almost giddy as he explained to the five of us how this transformation could occur. On nights like those, I was grateful for our strict table rules that prevented children from speaking unless invited to do so. I had no idea how to respond to his grand vision, nor, it seems, did anyone else. It mattered not. He appeared to be rehearsing a speech more than seeking the input of Grandpa, Mother, Jim, Ina, or me.

      The extended family meal on the Sunday after I returned from Toronto was held in the evening at the home of my aunt and uncle, Charlotte and William Turner. Their Church Street home was situated between the Wesleyan Grace Methodist Church, which we always attended, and the Presbyterian Church, which we never attended. Our walk to their home that afternoon was quick and purposeful. Father set the pace. Twice he told Mother to quicken her step and to “brighten up.” As for me, I could not have walked faster nor been brighter. The house to which we were going had once belonged to Aunt Charlotte’s parents, Jas and Selina Stephens. Although I had been there countless times in my short life, this was the first time I would enter it with the perspective I had gained from my time with Aunt Lil. I longed to see the house as Jas and Selina would have seen it. As if that wasn’t enough to make me smile, Father told us that we would not on this day be returning to church in the evening, as was our custom on Sunday nights.

      The odd nature of the week continued through that late afternoon. As we entered the Turners’ main door, Dr. Heggie exited it. In their large sitting room, we found the home’s occupants. The boys were sitting quietly (which was queer) and motionless (queerer still) on a little sofa staring at one of Bill’s fingers, then freshly bandaged. Aunt Charlotte and her sister, Aunt Rose, were locked in an embrace on a long sofa across from them. Uncle William and Uncle James stood silently in front of the fireplace. No one rose to greet us. No one invited us to sit down. Our entrances to church were not carried off with the level of silence that pierced this room. In a true testament to the singular nature of the scene, Ina and I shared an unknowing glance. Neither of us knew what had befallen our family, and neither, it seemed as we looked at them, did any of our cousins.

      Within minutes, we all found places, Father joining the men near the fireplace; Mother, the women on the long sofa. In the silence, I contemplated the despair within the room. Dr. Heggie’s bag seemed heavy as he left the house. His right arm was fully extended above the hand that gripped its handle. That recollection, and the morose countenances of the adults within the room, confirmed to me that no baby had been left behind.

      Eventually, Uncle William turned his soft grey eyes from the mirror atop the mantel and looked at each of us. He was a handsome man, tall, with a near full head of brown hair parted to one side and swept across his high forehead well above his clean-shaven face. “Children,” he began, addressing his remarks primarily to his two sons on the little couch to his left and four of their cousins on the couch in front of him, “some of you were cautioned that I had sad news to impart. It is time that I disclosed to you something that the adults in our family have known for a little more than a week.” He spoke slowly. “I have made a decision that is going to change all of your lives—particularly, of course, those of you, Roy and Bill. But I am not insensible of the affect my decision will have on your young cousins,” he turned to us, “or indeed, on their parents.”

      He looked around the room and then back at Roy and Bill. “I know that my decision will deprive them of something very valuable—your society and that of your mother.” He looked at Aunt Charlotte as he said so. “I have not made this decision lightly or without thought to your future,” he said, turning back to his sons. “Indeed, I pray that you will one day understand that this difficult decision I have made, I have made primarily for your future.”

      He stopped, looked toward the window in front of him, and then went on. “In short, I have taken a position as Western Manager of the Maple Leaf Milling Company. We will leave for Winnipeg soon—possibly even within the next two weeks, assuming,” he said, even more quietly and yet quite seriously, “that we are not driven out before then. I am sorry that we were not able to tell you earlier. My current position, of course, made it necessary that the matter be kept in confidence until all of the arrangements could be made and the appropriate notices given. I have reason to believe,” he said, looking knowingly at Father, “that the last of the arrangements will be made this evening and that my relocation will be announced tomorrow. I will require each of you to keep the matter within our family until that time—but it is not such a long way off. Can I depend on you for that?” We all nodded in assent, no one saying a word, although I felt well qualified to vouch for the dependability of secret keepers within our family.

      The stillness that had enveloped the room prior to our entrance returned, and we sat not knowing quite what to say or do, until a little squeak emanated from the couch on which Roy and Bill sat. Seeing all heads turn to him, Bill held up his bandaged finger, being more able, it seemed, to admit the current pain of a gash than the anticipated pain of longing. But that little sob was enough to break the silence. Hannah, John, and Ina rushed to the little couch, gathering around Roy and Bill. The sisters on the long couch renewed their embraces and began to sputter. Father and Uncle James, who were both in front of the fireplace, stepped even closer to Uncle William, who was between them. I stayed where I was, observing the three scenes.

      Roy, it appeared, was taking the news somewhat better than his younger brother Bill, and being the more jovial of the two by nature, he sought to lighten the mood. “Bill, don’t let that little bang get to you. Just imagine—yours is the first accident we have had with the new car. It will be remembered for all time.” It was revealed that Bill had caught his finger in the heavy door of the Turners’ new car earlier that afternoon. “At least Dr. Heggie didn’t require the car to be destroyed. Remember when Ed Jones’ dog bit my leg when I was riding my bicycle home from school last year? Dr. Heggie gave me ten stitches.” He pulled up his pant leg to show us the scar above his ankle. “And then he had the dog shot. Poor King. He was only trying to have some fun.” Looking at the faces turned up to him in wonder, Roy took on a new approach. “Come to think of it, if we aren’t going to be here to guide you young cousins…” he said, turning now to look at the three of them on the floor in front of him.

      “Ahem,” Ina interjected, pushing an errant strand of hair from her face. “I am the same age as Bill.”

      “But you are younger than me, cousin,” Roy replied. “As I was saying, if we are not going to be here to guide you, I think there are a few lessons about Brampton that we had better go over before we leave. Let’s get started. You know the big oak down at the Flats? Come on, we’ll show you what you can do within it.” The group started for the door, Aunt Charlotte calling after them, “Mind you are wearing your Sunday clothes. And be back in an hour.”

      I chose not to join them, and it seemed I was not missed—neither by the gaggle of cousins and siblings walking out nor the cluster of aunts and uncles staying in. Instead I moved to the little rocker nestled

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