mother’s favourite, but the embodiment of all that Amelia had not been able to do in her life. Lily was now aware of her mother’s unintended pregnancy. As much as she disliked the English family she had never met, the family that had sent Amelia away, she realized that Robert would not have been her father if they had not shipped Amelia off in disgrace to Halifax. Many nights Lily comforted herself with this thought.
While she was at home with her parents for the summer, Lily received a letter from Beth asking her to come to New York. The acting group had disbanded at the end of the summer but Beth had stayed on, telling her parents she had been offered another job in the theatre. In the letter to Lily, Beth had scrawled in large letters: Please come as soon as possible!
Lily decided to tell her parents during the midday meal that she wanted to visit Beth before she left for Glace Bay. She wouldn’t mention the letter because it sounded so ominous. Robert had just come in from the pharmacy and they were all sitting down at the table when Lily announced her plan. “A capon — my favourite dish!” he said, beaming at his wife. He carefully sliced the breast after removing the wings and legs. “I think it’s a good idea that older sister is going to check on Beth,” Robert said, as he placed chicken pieces on their plates. Lily smiled at her dad’s impeccable manners, mentally comparing him with the young men at college who had spoken with their mouths full and didn’t have Robert’s refined etiquette.
“You’ll get to see Beth on stage,” Amelia said, with her usual admiring tone. “We received a brochure for a play at the Playhouse Theatre, although there was no indication Beth had a part.”
“Young actresses aren’t prima donnas,” Robert said, wagging a cautionary finger. “They learn to act by working behind the scenes. These jobs don’t get mentioned in the brochure. Beth would be quite lucky to have a small part alongside a seasoned actor.”
As Lily climbed the stairs, Amelia called out, “Pack something fashionable.”
Opening the closet door, Lily grimaced, pushing aside the plain wool dresses of her teenage years. She frowned, recalling Beth’s superior tone while advising her on clothes that boys would find attractive.
“Look, it’s not enough to have brains,” Beth had said. “A girl has to have style to get the right man. Look at Mom, a poor girl who ends up marrying the son of a naval captain. Why, Dad grew up sailing at the Halifax Yacht Club! He wouldn’t have married her if she had been a bad dresser.”
“Blood must be thicker than water,” Lily muttered as she dragged her suitcase out from the bottom of the closet. Sleepy, she stretched out on her bed, thinking she might never marry. She wondered if Ed Parsons was still in Glace Bay. She recalled that two weeks after the chalk incident she had bumped into him on Rogue’s Row, a forested path where students went to smoke and romance. Lily had gone there to stroll with a friend. She urged him to begin his English lessons again, saying she’d forgiven his rudeness.
He had tossed his cigarette, planted a lingering kiss on her mouth, and then wheeled around and disappeared. The next day, Lily watched in horror as Ed poked his head into the girls’ washroom, knowing the incident would be reported and he would be expelled.
Lily wondered if Ed had gone overseas or stayed at home because of the need for miners. Lily sighed, thinking that Barnaby might soon be at the front as well. She could recall the intimacy of exploring the Truro neighbourhood with Barnaby just as she could still remember Ed’s kiss.
Chapter 3
Knockholt Cemetery, England, 1919
“I don’t want to visit any dead people,” Ivy protested as Clara coaxed her through the creaky gate of the Knockholt Cemetery. Ivy had become saucy, spending most of her time with the Drakes, who spoiled her. Schools had been closed because of the flu pandemic and Clara considered herself fortunate to have Ivy so well cared for. She had been terrified that Ivy, like Billy, might catch the flu. The Drakes provided a safe way of keeping Ivy isolated. Today, Ivy had not wanted to leave the farm.
“Ivy, we must put flowers on your brother’s and your father’s graves,” Clara said softly. “It could be a very long time before we return. Canada is far from England.” She stopped on the gravel path to put her arms around her daughter. Clara had struggled to make ends meet since her husband had died, selling her engagement ring to meet a mortgage payment. She was relieved that she had been offered the well-paying position of lady superintendent of the Galt Hospital. I’m doing what Dr. Newbury suggested: setting my sail anew. But I’m only accepting the job in Lethbridge for Ivy’s sake.
A sudden clang of church bells was an abrupt reminder that the war had ended a year ago that day. Visitors to the cemetery looked up at St. Katherine’s Church tower as the bells pealed out the eleventh hour. Knockholt Cemetery was crowded with families looking for their loved ones’ graves.
“Over here!” someone shouted. “I’ve found Chester!” A group hurried past, scuffling the pebbles as they rushed to join the discoverer of Chester’s tombstone.
Like war, peacetime is to be shared, Clara thought as she listened to three women talking to one another about the slow emergence of fresh food on the market.
“We’re expected at the pub in less than an hour,” Clara said, taking Ivy’s hand as they wound along the pathway. Clara looked up at the cloudless blue November sky. “Ivy, let’s be positive! Pretend we’re explorers to the New World. We’re going to see cowboys, Indians, galloping horses, enormous lakes, towering mountains, pristine snow, and year-round sunshine. Aren’t you breathless with excitement?” She kissed Ivy’s wispy blond head and continued to hold her. She could feel the wetness of her daughter’s tears through her dress. Both of them remained motionless, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Clara’s mind drifted to the grim day she had spent in the Knockholt Cemetery only a year before. Mourners had lined up where she now stood with Ivy. The influenza pandemic had spread so rapidly throughout England that it had put immense pressure on the burial system.
At the time, a horse-drawn hearse was the only vehicle available to transport Billy. The back doors of the hearse, hand-carved in the form of draperies, were held closed by huge brass springs. Clara swallowed hard, remembering the sharp clack of the doors as they were shut — dealing a note of finality — and the shocking words of the driver. Knocking one of the springs with his fist, he’d said, “These will ensure no indignity will occur while I’m driving.”
Clara had driven to the cemetery in the hearse, while Miff and Addy had followed in their car with Di Shaw, Clara’s friend since her nursing school days. Clara’s parents had contributed well beyond their means for the purchase of a magnificent gravestone that would honour George, and now Billy. Only a modest stone had been laid on George’s grave in the midst of war. Clara received loving notes from her siblings from as far away as Gallipoli. Even from a distance, she felt their grief.
Light drizzle had begun to fall on that sad day of the funeral as Clara arrived at the cemetery with Billy in his small coffin. The horses’ backs glistened in the rain. The driver, forced to wait on the High Road outside the graveyard and fearful that the horses might bolt if a car passed, had stood beside the carriage with a tight hold on the reins. It was an hour’s wait before they were handed a piece of paper with the plot number and permission to proceed. Two men stepped up to unload the coffin and carry it to the designated spot behind St. Katherine’s Church. The young vicar was waiting for them at the grave. He looked haggard and dishevelled in his damp suit and soiled clerical collar. For a young man, his face was heavily lined. He had already performed
