ten-mile dirt road connecting the farm and the Queen Street Church. Noting the smile on her husband’s face, Selina readily accepted the joint offer. In short, she exchanged her sacrificial life of toil on the farm for a bigger sacrificial life in the village. Jas, whose face always bore a smile, was content with the arrangement as well.
At that time, three branches of Methodism worshipped in Brampton: Wesleyan Methodists, Primitive Methodists, and Episcopal Methodists. What they all had in common was their belief that life’s truths were all to be found within the bible, that all humans were born of sin, and that salvation could only come from faith. Primitive Methodists were considered the most fervent of the three branches, promoting the participation of trained laymen and decision-making by the adherents, evangelism, and a strict lifestyle.
Their image was typified by one of their earliest local leaders, William Lawson, who in the early 1820s, when he was not evangelizing in the streets of Toronto, could be found preaching in the undeveloped areas outside of it. It was while he was preaching “in the bush”—as Brampton and the area around it were then called—that he came upon his old friend from Cumberland, England, and fellow Primitive Methodist, John Elliott. Lawson saw so much potential in the area and its people that he sold his business in Toronto and moved near Elliott. In no time, Lawson and Elliott had many adherents to their bible-based view of the world. They shut down the taverns and distillery, changed the name of the area from Buffy’s Corners to Brampton, and set about making the area a more pious place. By the time Jesse Perry and Jas and Selina Stephens settled in Brampton, it had long been the heart of Primitive Methodism in what was to become Canada.
Sitting in front of the organ of the Primitive Methodists, Selina Stephens cringed every time she heard the irritating voice of her odious new pastor, the nephew of William Lawson. In addition to preaching loudly, Pastor Lawson sang loudly. Selina flinched every time someone in the congregation extemporaneously shouted “Amen” or “Hallelujah.” She became awash in grief each time she looked at the crude second-storey room above the Queen Street butcher shops in which the Primitive Methodists congregated. With each cringe, flinch, and suppressed sob, she smiled feeling the full measure of her sacrifice.
From a building Jas purchased in the four corners area, the Stephenses realized an income that supported Jas and his many gentlemanly pursuits. From their stately home on Union Street they raised their growing family, soon comprised of four children.
* * *
Ina, Aunt Lil, and I received two telegrams over the days that followed, both informing us that Mother was on the mend. Six days after our arrival, we were summoned to return to Brampton. As I sat on the train listening to the iron wheels transport us along the now well-worn tracks, I thought of all that I had learned over the past week. I didn’t know anything more about Grandpa Brady (who would always be just plain Grandpa to me) or how he became self-made or others-destroyed. I knew the identities of the four children of Jas and Selina Stephens. My father was the boy—the first-born. Aunt Lil was the second-born. My Aunt Charlotte was the third-born and Aunt Rose the fourth. I comprehended how each of our Brampton families fit together; how all of my cousins shared the same grandparents. I was completely unaware that the family whose connections I now so well understood was about to be put asunder.
Chapter 4
The Turners Leave
As a child, I never heard my mother cry; I only heard her play her music more mournfully. I never heard my mother’s voice raised in anger; I only heard her bang the piano keys with more fervour. When she was sad, she played cheerless pieces, as if in a trance, never stopping to gather new sheet music or to turn a page of notes. Agony articulated itself through her fingers on the ivory; through her feet on the brass. Her eyes closed, her chest, neck, and head heaved as she reached for distant keys. Her fingertips wrung out notes as her fine hands made their way to and from each other. I knew better than to interrupt Mother as she expressed herself in this way. Eventually, she would play herself out. At a certain point, she would stop, look at her hands, then stand and carry on with the routine tasks of her life, the matter that gave rise to the outburst either expelled or stifled until it could be dealt with later.
Mother’s delight at seeing Ina and me on our return from Aunt Lil’s house was heartfelt but short-lived. We had barely exchanged greetings and unpacked our valises before we heard her at the melodic keys. At first I did not recognize the exercise for what it was. A day did not pass during which Mother did not play the instrument—a stolen fifteen minutes here or possibly a half hour there—whenever she was not required to engage in more productive pursuits. Most of the music she played consisted of hymns and constituted her practice for 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,
