Various – Montreal, Quebec,the Northern Territories
Near the doors to the hotel ballroom, folding chairs were arranged in a row, and girls sat waiting, shuffling along each time a name was called. Teachers or nurses: so that was the game. For some, it was easy to guess. I looked for wristwatches, writers’ calluses, inky fingers. I could imagine chalk dust brushed out of tweed skirts that morning, shoes polished before bed last night. My own shoes looked the worse for wear, water spots marking the patent leather toes, but you pay a price for glamour in Scotland. And, as the lady said, I might just score a few points for being distinctive. I sat down, opened my handbag and applied more lipstick.
Let’s see. Canada. The frozen north. What did I know about Canada? Cold and snow. Ice hockey. Indians. French. Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. Any job in Quebec would require French, wouldn’t it? Proper working French, which was likely a notch or two more advanced than mes lunettes sont sur la table. I tried to remember the other posters that hung on the French room wall at school. Les légumes verts. Les saisons. Chaud. Froid.
When my name was called, I was thinking about imperfect conjugations. What the hell – let it happen, whatever it would be. It was sure to be better than a walk in the rain. I picked up my new bag, smiled at the girl sitting next to me and stepped into the ballroom.
The interview was brief, the interviewer a thin, pale man in heavy glasses, sitting at one of the many small tables in the room, each with another interviewer just like him. He held a red Parker Duofold with a gold nib, but most of the notes were taken by the woman beside him. She sat very straight in her chair, her papers set at an angle on the tabletop, and she was writing with her left hand. She paused at the end of my name.
‘Avec un y,’ I said, quickly. ‘Not ie.’ The woman smiled. I crossed my ankles and straightened the hem of my skirt over my knees. The interviewer apologized for misplacing my details. There had been problems with the administration. Might I be able to send a fresh copy early next week?
‘Of course, of course. Pas de problème.’
He asked about my experience and my training, nodding as I mentioned the University of Edinburgh.
‘That is one of the reasons why we are here. The best programme in Europe, it is. We’re lucky to be able to scoop up girls like you.’
‘Are there no appropriate Canadian nurses?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Still, the Edinburgh degree programme is cutting edge, and there’s a greater chance of real bilingualism here than, say, in Edmonton. Your French is good, I assume?’
‘Bien sûr.’
‘The proximity to France, no doubt. And the Auld Alliance, too, I should think. Now then, Church of Scotland?’
‘Yes. Does that matter?’
‘No, it isn’t crucial. For the teachers, yes, with board regulations, but in the hospital, it can still help. Montreal is a city of Presbyterian expats, at least on the anglophone side.’
‘Quite.’
‘So, not the north? No grand polar adventure for you? Is it Montreal you want?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’
His assistant spoke out in a clear, crisp voice.
‘You will do nicely.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, but she kept her face set and slid an envelope across the table towards me.
‘Here is a packet of information from the agency. In it, you will find a copy of the contract, details about immigration, and about Montreal as an international city. And, naturally, about the agency’s involvement with your career. There are forms to finalize as well. You will find it all quite self-explanatory. If you have any questions, there are telephone numbers for our representatives in London.’ She wrote a note next to my name, glanced at her watch, and looked past me towards the doors. All settled.
‘Thank you,’ I said again. The interviewer stood to shake my hand.
‘You’re welcome. Enjoy Canada.’
Outside, the rain had stopped, and the afternoon was brash with daylight. I stepped away from the shadow of the hotel and onto the still-wet pavement. Pigeons, hundreds of pigeons clattered up before me, a broad arc of flight over the gardens and, above the castle, the sky was slashed open into gold, bright gold. All those wings and gold, too. My breath felt sharp and new, and, away to the west, the pavements shone.
No one, it seems, is born just once.
MY MUM TOLD STORIES WHENEVER WE TRAVELLED. We’d be hitchhiking out from the camp in the cab of some truck, headed to Ottawa, or Montreal, and I’d sit up on Felicity’s blue-jeaned knees, her long hair tickling my face as I leaned back into her skinny chest and all the way she’d make the driver laugh with her tall tales and stories, her toothy laughing smile. Sandy Gibb the Glass Man, astronauts at Expo and swimming pregnant in a moonlit lake. She could make a story of anything. Maybe I should have told her about this trip. I told the gallery that I needed time away to sort through my grandmother’s things. They filed that under ‘personal reasons’ and then reasonably told me to take as much time as I needed. I told Mateo that I would need to organize the details of her estate, and he said that he understood. I told myself I’d be cleaning the bungalow. Before I left Ottawa, I’d imagined lots of cleaning. All those large windows and the wooden floors, too. Linoleum tiles in the kitchen. Then the bath to scour, old pots to scrub, and Persian carpets to shake out in the sunshine. It seemed like therapeutic work. Cleansing. Solitary.
Mateo said once that it was my aloneness that first caught him. I wondered if he meant loneliness, if he was mistranslating, but he said no, he meant aloneness. He said it was intriguing.
Maybe it was living at the camp with Felicity. There was lots of time then to be alone. In the night when she was at the birthing house. Or in the afternoon, when she opened her books and settled down to work at the small table in our cabin and she liked to have the space to herself, so she sent me outside. In the summer, there were always lots of children to play with, but as soon as the nights got too cold for tents, the field would empty and I’d be alone again.
When I was a little older, around nine or ten, Felicity started to take me with her to births, particularly when there were small children. She had me tell them stories and invent games to keep them entertained and distracted. Rika thought it best for children to keep away from a birth, but she never made rules, only suggestions. I’d heard Rika talking about this with Felicity one afternoon, and because they were talking about children, I listened.
‘What about when a mum wants them there?’ Felicity asked. ‘Should we come up with some pretence to get them outside anyway?’
‘No. Always only tell the truth. She needs to go so far into herself to open for the baby, and lies aren’t going to help that.’
‘And neither are kids in the
