Yesterday's Dead Read online

  Second Story Press

  YESTERDAY’S

  DEAD

  PAT BOURKE

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bourke, Pat, 1955-

  Yesterday’s dead / Pat Bourke.

  Issued also in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-926920-32-0 / E-ISBN 978-1-926920-48-1

  I. Title.

  PS8603.O953Y43 2012 jC813’.6 C2011-908655-7

  Copyright © 2012 by Pat Bourke

  Edited by Jonathan Schmidt

  Copyedited by Uma Subramanian

  Designed by Melissa Kaita

  Cover photo © iStockphoto

  Newspaper headlines © the Toronto Star

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Published by

  Second Story Press

  20 Maud Street, Suite 401

  Toronto, ON M5V 2M5

  www.secondstorypress.ca

  To Barry, who makes all things possible

  Chapter 1

  Meredith half walked, half ran along the wide hallway of Union Station. Her heavy bag banged against her leg as she struggled to keep up with the woman striding briskly toward a stairway.

  “Quickly, Margaret. The car is waiting.” Mrs. Stinson’s sharp words cut through the bustle of the busy railway station. “And for heaven’s sake, make yourself presentable!”

  Meredith’s face went hot. She wished she’d washed her face before the train pulled in. She could still taste the peppermint stick Mama had tucked into her pocket just before she’d boarded the train for the long trip to Toronto.

  “Remember,” Mama had said, “you can always come home. We’ll manage.” Meredith’s younger sister, Ellen, had thrown her arms around Meredith’s neck and cried.

  Meredith dug in the pocket of her coat, fished out her hanky and scrubbed at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t regret that peppermint stick one bit.

  Mrs. Stinson’s polished shoes clicked up the stairs so fast that Meredith had to scramble. Her arm ached from lugging her suitcase. Its sides strained against the twine Mama had tied around it when they’d finished packing the night before.

  “There,” Mama had said, “that should keep all your things safe until you need them.”

  All her things. Meredith blinked away the memory of Mama and Ellen at home in Port Stuart.

  Halfway up the staircase, Meredith set the bag down to rest her arm, but Mrs. Stinson had already reached the top and disappeared from view. Meredith heaved the bag off the step, but the handle slipped out of her sweaty fingers.

  “Look out!” she cried. Two startled soldiers jumped aside as the battered bag bounced past. It hit the center railing, then tumbled end-over-end down the stairs, narrowly missing a small dog being coaxed up by an elegantly dressed woman and flying past an elderly porter who nearly lost his footing.

  The twine snapped as the bag thumped onto the floor and popped open. Out spewed Meredith’s possessions into the trampling paths of travelers—her nightgown, everyday dresses, blouses and skirts, the two sweaters Mama had knit, her Bible, three pairs of woolen stockings, writing paper, the pencils from Aunt Jane, a washcloth and towel and precious bar of soap, and, mortifyingly, all her underthings.

  One stocking lay marooned against a shoeshine stand. The shoeshine boy was grinning. The little dog was barking. The soldiers were laughing.

  Meredith’s face burned for the second time since the train had pulled in.

  “Margaret?” Mrs. Stinson called, sharp as ice. “For heaven’s sake, come along!” She stood at the top of the steps, shaking her head at the exploded suitcase.

  “I’m sorry,” Meredith said. “I lost my grip.”

  “How very careless.” Mrs. Stinson frowned as she surveyed the mess.

  Meredith hurried down the stairs. She plucked her belongings from the floor and stuffed them into the suitcase. The catch wouldn’t close, so she scooped the awkward bundle into her arms and started up the stairs.

  “I am not convinced you will suit the Waterton family, Margaret,” Mrs. Stinson said. “We shall have to see.”

  Meredith forgot her embarrassment. She’d never have dropped the suitcase if she hadn’t had to sprint after Mrs. Stinson. She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at Mrs. Stinson, her scowl reflected in the woman’s shiny black patent purse.

  “It’s Meredith,” she said. “Meredith Hollings.” She met Mrs. Stinson’s cool gaze square-on.

  “You need to learn to curb your tongue,” Mrs. Stinson snapped. Her eyes traveled over the hat that had been Mama’s, the too-small coat and the scuffed brown leather of Meredith’s school shoes. “What a lot of fuss over a name. Follow me, and for heaven’s sake, don’t dawdle.”

  Mrs. Stinson turned abruptly and marched toward a set of tall brass doors.

  I will suit the Watertons, Meredith vowed as she followed Mrs. Stinson through the soaring hall of the train station. I have to.

  Chapter 2

  The October afternoon was bright after the dimly lit station hall. As the brass doors swung shut behind her, Meredith peered up the street, looking for Mrs. Stinson. Smartly dressed women, their hats like bright birds, bunched in front of the shop windows lining the street. Colorful signs jutted over the sidewalk from tall brick buildings. Men in dark suits, hats firmly on their heads, strode past.

  “Latest news from the Front! Spanish Flu in Niagara Camp!” A small man waved a newspaper in Meredith’s face. “Toronto Daily Star! Two cents! All the news! Right here!”

  The creaking of a delivery cart and the clopping of its tired-looking horse reminded Meredith of home, but the busy, beeping automobiles speeding past told her she was in Toronto. She’d never seen so many automobiles in one place.

  “Over here, girl!” Mrs. Stinson called from the long line of black automobiles parked in front of the station. “You mustn’t lollygag. Dr. Waterton is expecting us.”

  Meredith hugged her load to her chest—she didn’t want to spill her suitcase here, too—and started toward the waiting car.

  “Miss?”

  It was the boy who had grinned at her inside the station. The curly, red hair under his cap was the same color as the freckles that covered his face, but Meredith’s gaze was fixed on the long woolen stocking dangling from his fist.

  “I think this is yours?” he said.

  Meredith felt her face go hot all over again as he dropped her stocking onto the jumble in her arms. She glanced toward the waiting car. Mrs. Stinson was frowning.

  “Thank you,” Meredith said quickly. “Thank you so much. I’m really very grateful, but I have to go.” She flashed a quick smile over her shoulder as she hurried toward Mrs. Stinson.

  “You’re welcome!” he called after her.

  Meredith quickened her pace.

  “Hand your things to the driver and climb in quickly.” Mrs. Stinson slid onto the back seat of the car as the driver held out his arms for Meredith’s suitcase.

  “Thank you, sir,” Meredith said as she dumped the bag into his arms. Her stocking dangled over the side. Meredith snatched it and stuffed it into her coat pocket.

  The driver nodded at the open door of the car. He didn’t look as stern as Mrs. Stinson—Meredith thought he might even have winked at her—but she didn’t want to risk another scolding. She qui
ckly slid onto the backseat beside Mrs. Stinson and pulled the door shut. The lid of the trunk slammed down. The driver settled into the front seat, and the car rumbled to life.

  “You must not chatter to every boy you meet,” Mrs. Stinson scolded. “I hope your aunt hasn’t misled me.”

  Meredith bit back a reply. Mama always said, “Angry words are fuel to a fire,” and Mrs. Stinson was near to blazing already.

  As they bumped over the streetcar tracks, Meredith caught sight of the shoeshine boy waving to her from beside the newsstand. Meredith’s heart lifted a little. People here in Toronto might not all be as unfriendly as Mrs. Stinson.

  Meredith sat back and breathed in the rich, leathery smell of the upholstery. It reminded her of the saddles in Uncle Dan’s barn back in Port Stuart. She sniffed happily until she realized sniffing was probably undignified. She didn’t want to give Mrs. Stinson any more reason to think she was unsuitable. She stole a glance at Mrs. Stinson, who was looking out the window, one gloved finger tapping the side of her purse.

  Meredith gazed out the window, too, hoping she looked like a serious and responsible fifteen-year-old girl with a job in Toronto. She wasn’t fifteen, of course, but Mrs. Stinson didn’t know that.

  “It’s a good thing you’re tall,” Aunt Jane had said when she’d brought news that her husband’s cousin had arranged a position in Toronto for Meredith. “Alma Stinson likes her girls to be fifteen.”

  Aunt Jane said Meredith was to remember that she was fifteen now, not thirteen, and that meant getting on with things and not dreaming the day away with her nose in some book.

  “She’s only a child, Jane,” her mother said as she poured tea from the fat, brown teapot into the three china cups on the table. She pushed the one with the lilacs—Meredith’s favorite—toward Aunt Jane.

  “Mary Hollings, stop that nonsense! Stephen left you in an awful pickle. Meredith is old enough to take a job, and the war means there are plenty of jobs for girls who are eager for work.” Aunt Jane frowned as she stirred her tea, the spoon racketing against the cup. “Ellen is six. She can get herself ready for school in the morning and help out more at home. You don’t have any choice in the matter. Not if you want to pay off the debt Stephen racked up.”

  “I just hate that Meredith has to grow up so fast,” Mama said, squeezing Meredith’s hand. “And she has dreams of her own.” Mama knew how much Meredith wanted to be a teacher.

  “Nonsense!” Aunt Jane said that a lot. “It’s high time she grew up. Alma places her girls with the very best families. There are plenty of others who would leap at the chance for a good job in Toronto. Those so-called dreams will have to wait.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Mama squeezed Meredith’s hand again and sighed.

  Why did her mother always give in to Aunt Jane? One day Meredith was going to tell bossy Aunt Jane that she was an interfering busybody with too many opinions.

  Meredith stole another glance at the stern figure on the seat beside her. Mrs. Stinson’s dark hair was arranged carefully under a little hat that exactly matched her navy coat, but she looked as sour as if something was pinching her.

  I hope it is, thought Meredith. It made her feel better, but she knew that was mean and childish. Even though the last thing she wanted was to leave school and take a job so far from home, she needed to remember to be grown-up and respectful now.

  But how had things gone wrong with Mrs. Stinson so quickly? Papa wouldn’t have been surprised—his pet name for Meredith had been “Muddle.” She missed him so much. She’d never get used to him being gone.

  Meredith shook that thought out of her head and turned to Mrs. Stinson. Maybe conversation would help. “Is it far? To where we’re going, I mean. This is my first time in Toronto.”

  “Anyone can see that,” Mrs. Stinson said, although she wasn’t looking at Meredith when she said it. She seemed intent on examining the tall houses lining the street. “It’s about a twenty-minute drive to Rosedale.”

  “That’s a wonderful name.” Meredith imagined gardens filled with sunshine and overflowing with roses—pink climbing ones, wild ones that smelled like sugared apples and the red ones with thorns like daggers that the minister’s wife grew back home. “Is it called Rosedale because so many roses grow there?”

  “Rosedale is where the best families live,” Mrs. Stinson said, as if that was all anyone needed to know and Meredith should have known it already.

  “It sounds lovely,” Meredith replied, but Mrs. Stinson’s face was shut up tight like her purse. She was clearly not interested in conversation. Meredith hoped the people in Rosedale weren’t all like Mrs. Stinson.

  Meredith watched the city slide past the car window. Leaves tinged with red, orange and yellow lit the branches of the trees lining the street. Large houses—mansions, surely—of brick and stone, some with columns flanking their entrances, looked important and self-satisfied. They didn’t look friendly like the houses in Port Stuart.

  And so many people! Everyone looked dressed for church even though today was Monday. The men wore dark wool coats and smart bowler hats, the ladies were in elegant costumes with hats like swirls of icing atop fancy cakes. Meredith supposed there must be people in Toronto who had to make do with hand-me-downs, but she guessed they didn’t live in Rosedale.

  The knot that had been growing in her stomach ever since she left Port Stuart tightened. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the car window.

  “You can’t keep struggling, Mary. Stephen’s been gone four years. And good riddance.” Bossy Aunt Jane believed in plain speaking, but Meredith had hated her for that remark.

  A salesman with the A. T. Clarkson Leather Company in Toronto, Stephen Hollings had breezed into Port Stuart’s general store on a sunny April afternoon.

  “I go anywhere the train will take me,” he’d boasted to the owner’s two daughters behind the counter. Skeptical Jane thought he was a fast-talking no-account, but younger sister Mary was enchanted.

  “And I thought,” he told Meredith, with a wink, “that your mother was the prettiest brown-eyed girl in Ontario.” They had married in June when Mary turned eighteen.

  Meredith loved that story.

  She’d been seven when Ellen was born and Granddad made his son-in-law an offer. “No more traipsing from town to town, Stephen. Your place is here with your family, and I need someone to run the business.”

  Aunt Jane had married Uncle Dan by then and moved to his family’s farm. It was no secret that the store would go to Mary if her husband agreed to carry it on.

  Meredith’s father seemed to like his new responsibilities. “Nothing but pretty women coming in to see me every day,” he’d say when he set off for the store each morning, “and even prettier ones waiting for me when I get home.” But Meredith knew he missed his life on the road. Dull Port Stuart chafed him like a woolen shirt.

  Things changed when Granddad died.

  “It’s 1914, Mary. This is all the rage in Toronto,” Meredith’s father would argue when Mama explained that local families couldn’t afford the expensive items he ordered for the store. There was always too much of the wrong thing at the wrong time and not enough of the plain, everyday things folks wanted.

  Meredith dreaded the quarreling that filled the house every night. She’d clamp her pillow over her head in the big double-bed she shared with Ellen, then strain to hear every word.

  “I’m just wasting my time in this backwater!” Her father would be red-faced, his breath smelling of whiskey.

  She tried her best to be helpful when Mama looked teary-eyed in the morning. She’d braid Ellen’s long, brown hair and make their bed, and then clear the table without being asked. But Mama’s smile wavered; she was not the laughing Mama Meredith remembered from before Granddad died.

  One night, her father burst into the kitchen an
d flung the keys to the store onto the table. “It’s yours by right, so take it. I’m sick of this place and everything in it.”

  There was a lot of arguing that night, and tears. And then, silence.

  When her father tiptoed into her bedroom later that night, Meredith had squeezed her eyes shut so he’d think she was sleeping as soundly as Ellen. He smoothed her hair away from her forehead, then kissed them both and whispered, “Sleep tight, my girls.”

  She almost hugged him then, but a small voice inside said that if she kept very still, maybe everything would be all right.

  The creak of the hinge on the front door pulled her out of bed. From her bedroom window, Meredith watched her father stride away down the street. She stayed there long after the shadows swallowed the figure with the jaunty hat. She rested her wet cheek against the window frame and scratched at a bubble in the paint on the sill.

  The telegram arrived four months later. Private First Class Stephen Hollings had been dead and buried before they knew he’d gone to war.

  Chapter 3

  The automobile turned in at a driveway flanked by stone gateposts. An ornate plaque proclaimed “Glenwaring” in flowing script. Meredith sat up straight and adjusted her hat, eager to see where she’d be working. Glenwaring, Rosedale and Toronto were so much more romantic than plain old Port Stuart.

  Such a grand house! Six tall, white columns crowned with carved leaves. A veranda that stretched across the width of the house. An imposing wooden door. One, two, three stories, but the windows on the top floor were smaller. Meredith hoped her room would be up there—it would be like sleeping in the treetops.

  The car drew to a stop in the circular driveway. Cheerful golden marigolds lined the sides of the path that led to the wide stone steps fronting the veranda.