Two Epsom soaks, one in the morning, one before bed.
Teas that work:
Juice of half a lemon plus 2 teaspoons cream of tartar, twice a day for three days
Skullcap, one to two cups per day
Raspberry-nettle tea
Steeped hops, once a day (this seemed to do the trick)
Also:
Shad (coming from cold waters, they are dark and greasy)
Greens of chive and garlic (they are just letting go, hope I have enough to last)
Homeopathy: Apis, phosphorus, sulphur, colchicum
~ October 19, 1918
Checked Ginny this morning. She’s forward and soft. Both good signs. I will try to coax the baby along today. Hopefully, it will be a slow, gradual birthing. The moon’s on my side. It’s the Harvest moon tonight, perigee tide too. Clouds moving in from the northwest. A thunderstorm certainly wouldn’t hurt. I’ll put my laundry on the line, to invite the rain.
Castor oil, two large spoonfuls
A finger slip of evening primrose oil
Basil tea
Soak her feet in milk up to her ankles, then rub them, especially behind the heel.
Instruct Ginny to pinch and pull on her tits, five minutes on each side, every half hour.
Homeopathy: Caulophylum, cimicifuga, gelsinium
Of all things, I’m out of castor oil. Will have to walk to Bertine’s after breakfast. Laird and Ginny’s place is closer, but I don’t want him nosing around until after the baby’s born. Ginny’s face is calm and smooth, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. A visit from her husband might break her cheerful mood, something I cannot allow to happen. She’s been gazing out the parlour window, watching children play and the ships moving in and around the wharf.
“Dora, can’t I please take a walk today? The trees are turning such beautiful colours, and I’m feeling much better.”
“No, dear, you must stay in bed until after the birth. If all goes well, we might see your little angel as soon as tonight.”
“But…”
“Don’t fuss. We have a lot of work ahead—all three of us—and you need to be ready for it. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then a long Epsom bath.”
“Not shad again, I hope.”
“Yes, shad again, and steeped hops too.”
Ginny pouted, sticking her tongue out. “Those hops are the most dreadful thing I’ve ever tasted, like boiled dishwater and mouldy bread.”
I laughed at her childish protests. “Well, aren’t we feeling impatient today?”
I fluffed up her pillow and tucked it behind the small of her back. “That’s a good sign. Looks like you’re ready to have this baby.”
She sighed, her hands caressing the sides of her belly. “I don’t know if I can. Isn’t it still early? Can’t we wait a few more days?”
“You musn’t think that way.” I sat next to her on the bed. “There’s no danger in bringing the baby now, but there will be if we wait much longer. Think how you’ll feel when you see your baby’s face, when you hold him for the first time.”
“But what if he dies, or I die?”
“What if you don’t? What if both of you are healthy as spring chickens? You’ll have a lot to think about, a lot to do once he arrives.”
Ginny looked uncertain and scared, like a girl trying to dance for the first time or reading a poem aloud at school.
“You’ve done this before, Ginny. You can do it again.”
“But I remember so little of it.”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
I cradled the roundness of her belly in my hands, looking into her frightened eyes. “We can do this.”
All was going well…Ginny felt ripe, and her bearing-down pains were getting closer together, only twenty minutes apart.
Just after supper, Dr. Thomas came pounding at my door. I tried to ignore him, but he raised his voice and called out to me, “Mrs. Bigelow, open the door. Laird Jessup says you have his wife in your house. She’s my patient, and I must attend to her.”
Laird had met me in the road when I was coming home from Bertine’s. I didn’t make any effort to hide the large bottle of castor oil I was carrying, but I did let him know that he needed to stay away for one more day. He seemed understanding at the time, but I guess he wasn’t. He must have gone straight to town to enlist Dr. Thomas’s help. I opened the door a crack and smiled innocently at the doctor. He attempted to look past me and into the house. When it was clear that I didn’t want to let him in, he stuttered with frustration.
“Mrs. Jessup needs to be under my constant supervision. I’m not leaving until I see her.”
“I think she’s had enough of your supervision.”
He tried to push past me. “Mr. Jessup says you’ve had her locked up here for days. He’s concerned for the welfare of his wife and child.”
I grabbed the frame of the door and held tight, refusing him entry.
Ginny called out from the birthing room, “Dora, who’s there? Is it Laird? Everything alright at home?”
I called back to her, “Stay in bed. I’ll take care of—”
Before I could stop him, Dr. Thomas was through the kitchen and standing in the birthing room. He placed his bag on the end of the bed, pulled out several medicine bottles and brandished a pair of forceps. He grunted in my direction. “She looks well.” He yanked the sheet back and began to grope at Ginny’s ankles. “Swelling’s gone down. Remarkable.”
Ginny was squirming, trying to get loose from his hands. “Dora, you said we were going to do this. What is he doing here?” She doubled over, groaning with pain.
Dr. Thomas grabbed her wrist, attempting to take her pulse. “I see she’s still neurotic. A dose of Pituitrin should speed things along. This should take no time at all.”
Ginny began to scream, her face turning red. “Get him away from me!”
I pulled on his sleeve, leading him out of the room. “I’d like to speak with you…outside.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs. Bigelow. I have things under control now. If you’ll agree to assist, I think we’ll have this done in no time…”
Ginny was still ranting. “I don’t want that man anywhere near me. Get out, get out, get out…”
He whispered to me, “Don’t worry, I have chloroform if she insists on keeping this up.”
I dug my fingernails into the back of his hand, and led him out of the house. “Do you want to kill her?”
“Mrs. Bigelow…I tip my hat to you. She looks much better than last time I saw her, but let’s get this over with, shall we?”
“She’s feeling better, no thanks to you. And now that you’re here, she’s getting herself all worked up again. You know as well as I that any aggravation to her condition could put both mother and child in danger.”
“I told you, I have chloroform—”
Hart walked out from behind the barn, a pitchfork in his hand and Pepper at his heels. “Need a little help there, Dorrie?”
I took the pitchfork from him. “I think this will do.”
Hart whistled his way back towards the barn, turning every so often to see that I was alright. Pepper stayed at my side.
I held the points of the fork to the doctor’s chest. “You’re going to do exactly as I say from here on out.” I gestured with my head towards the door. “We’ll go in the house. You will wait in the parlour. If I hear one word—or I find you’re trying to leave to fetch Laird—we’ll have a late haying season in Scots Bay.”
I circled around him and prodded him in the back. He stumbled up the steps. “Mrs. Bigelow, may I remind you that the Criminal Code of 1892 states—”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to say much of anything right now, Dr. Thomas.”
Once inside, Dr. Thomas sat down on the settee in the parlour. Pepper sat guard in front of him. Returning to Ginny, I tied the curtains between the parlour and the birthing room shut.
“Is
he gone?” Ginny asked.
“He’s nothing to fret over. Time to concentrate on having this baby.”
By dawn, mother, baby and Dr. Thomas were all sleeping peacefully.
Eli Jessup, born October 20, 1918.
Some small, but holding his own.
46
WHEN WORD OF THE ARMISTICE came, we met at the church, said our prayers of thanks and rang the bells all through the night. The papers have been filled with stories of people all over Europe and North America greeting the troops, singing and dancing. They are safe enough to smile again. My favourite of all the photographs I have seen is one that was taken in San Francisco, California. Although they are still battling against the Spanish Influenza, the residents of that city ran out into the sidewalks and streets, hugging and kissing each other through handkerchiefs and gauze masks.
Albert and Borden arrived November 15. They are the first boys home. They never did get any farther than Cape Breton Island. In some ways, I think Albert feels a bit guilty for the simple nature of their service on The Just Cause, but whenever he seems too humble, Borden is quick to remind all of us that several of the Royal Navy’s mystery ships were lost at the hands of the Germans.
Albert has brought something home from the war that none of us could have guessed. Her name is Celia. She’s a lovely girl from Sydney, and it’s plain to see that my brother adores her. No wonder he barely sent two words to Mother when he was on shore: he was too busy getting himself a wife! They will live in Uncle Irwin’s hunting cabin until he can build her a house in the spring. Right now, poor Celia seems homesick and overwhelmed by the smallness of this place, but we are all doing our best to make her feel welcome. Precious has been especially kind to her, inviting her for tea, going on at length about life in the Bay. I suppose it keeps her from counting the minutes until Sam Gower walks through her door.
The schooner Huntley was launched a week after Armistice. The four-masted 520-ton beauty will sail from Newfoundland to England. She has been the pride of the Bay for almost two years; nearly all the men in the village worked their sweat into her bones. The names Thorpe, Macdonald, Steele, Tupper, Munro, Rogers, Corkum, Legge, Bigelow, Shaw, Coffill, Brown, Irving and Sandford all stood shoulder to shoulder with my father and my uncles to bring her up. She sighed, leaving a trail of steam as she slid down the slip. It was hard for the men to watch her go. Some say she’s the last of the great vessels to be built in the Bay. Old men stood patting one another on the back, singing:
Come all ye old comrades,
Come now let us join,
Come join your sweet voices
In chorus with mine,
For we’ll laugh and be jolly
While sorrow refrain,
For we may and may never
All meet here again.
That evening, we gathered at the Seaside Centre for one of the White Rose Temperance Society’s charity pie auctions. Dozens of cakes and pies were crowded together on a long table at the front of the room. Each dessert was dressed with a gaudy bow or a spray of crepe paper flowers. I laugh to myself every time I see such a display, knowing that the original purpose for these decorations is a tradition that has long since faded. My mother and father were one of the last couples to have started their courtship “at auction.”
The rules state that each baked good is to be presented anonymously, the young male bidders not knowing which young lady made what. The girls of the Bay, being honest but wise, agree among themselves how they will adorn their creations, signalling their preferred bidders accordingly. Father’s final bid won Mother’s daisy-crowned sugar creme pie as well as her heart. The activity, a favourite of most everyone in the Bay, was suspended during the war, mostly due to there being so few young men to bid against one another for the young ladies’ wares. Last night, almost all the women, young and old, brought something to share. Even I came with pie in hand, apple with a lattice crust, a simple verse wobbling on a toothpick sticking out of the top: The morning air is so refreshing when one has lost one’s money. It was homely compared to the others, but appropriate for a young widow, I guess.
Borden and Hart bid against each other for my offering. It was all in fun and I was glad to watch them fall all over themselves to keep me from feeling left out. My dear brother bid nobly, digging in every pocket to see if he could add one more penny. When he got to “three dollars and fifty-two cents,” his pockets were turned inside out. Hart put him out of his misery by responding with “four dollars.” Then he jangled the change in his hand and added, “and fifty-two cents.” Tradition dictates that the gentleman who wins the pie gets to share it with the lady who baked it. Hart followed me home, whistling and teasing, with my pie tin balanced in his hands.
Long after his stomach was full and Wrennie had gone to sleep, he sat in the kitchen, poking at the wood in the stove. I watched him, wondering why he’d never had a wife, and never gotten angry or sour enough to want to leave this place. If anyone had a right and the means to do so it was Hart.
“Here.” I handed him a silk purse filled with money, the same one he had given me when I left for Boston.
“What’s this? It’s still full. Didn’t you spend any of it?”
Maxine had given me enough to repay Hart, and a little extra as well. “Didn’t need to.”
He put it on the table and shoved it towards me. “You have it.”
I gave it back to him. “Haven’t you ever wanted to see what’s outside the Bay?”
He opened the door to the stove and pushed another log into the flames. “I’ve seen enough to satisfy me.”
“The rest of us would care for your mother. I could look in on her. You wouldn’t have to worry.”
“Why—you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just, with the war over and all, I thought you might—”
He stood up as if he was going to leave. “Don’t you go worrying about what I might and might not do.”
I pulled on his shirt sleeve, trying to get him to look at me. “I’m sorry. You’ve been nothing but the greatest of help to me. I suppose I shouldn’t have anything to say to you except thank you.” I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. The beginnings of his winter beard brushed heavy against my face, along with the smell of sweet, stale hay made from last summer’s clover.
We failed to say goodbye until morning. And even now that he’s left the house, his breathing is still here, in the shallow between my breasts, the wrinkle of my pillow. He has left me with a quiet, sure happiness that will not go away, and I don’t think it matters if he ever says he loves me. I know him, have always known him. Same as I know he doesn’t like too much sugar, not in his coffee, not in a girl. Same as I know he’s never had patience for lies. Sin has many tools, but a lie has a handle to fit them all. Same as I know that tonight at midnight, or half past one, or whenever he sees that the rest of the Bay is asleep, Hart Bigelow will make his way up the road to Spider Hill and lay his body next to mine, again.
Miss Maxine Cabott
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
January 30, 1919
Miss Dora Rare
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
My dearly departed Miss Rare,
We are still missing you at 23 Charter Street.
I am sending this letter so that you might not worry when you hear of the great tragedy that came upon the North End a few days ago. I know it is not of the magnitude of the Great War, or your terrible Halifax Explosion, but it was so shocking that I am still shaking over it.
The North End was about to welcome home our brave boys who had served in the Great War. Be it in their honour, or because of the impending doom of prohibition, a house-sized fermentation tank had been topped off for a higher than usual yield of the Old Demon Rum.
It was a warm day, too warm for January. As the mercury rose, the molasses gurgled and
bubbled, expanding inside the already bloated tank. No one suspected…not young Peter Murphy leaning against the warmth of the tank, not the sweet Catholic schoolchildren walking home for lunch, not the women doing their daily run to the market, not the fine men working in the warehouses along Commercial Street. No one heard it stretching…ticking…and then…BOOM! The scariest thought is that I was one of those unsuspecting persons walking down the street that day. I was innocently strolling, holding hands with Charlie, when the great thirty-foot wave of brown came oozing down upon the North End, crushing the elevated train tracks, heaving into buildings, smothering twenty-one people to death.
If it weren’t for our dear Charles climbing up the terrace wall above the street and pulling me to safety, why I’d have been number twenty-two, I’d have been a molasses cookie. I think I may have to marry your brother for this one.
Are you back in the business of catching babies? Charlie, the girls and I have started a new venture, a “transport business,” delivering beverages of spirit from the back of my good old Hupmobile. If I could just keep my shoes from sticking to the molasses in the sidewalks, I’d be happy.
Kisses to you and Wrennie,
Max
P.S. I came across something of George Sand and it made me think of you: “The world will know and understand me someday. But if that day does not arrive, it does not greatly matter. I shall have opened the way for other women.”
Miss Dora Rare
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
February 10, 1919
Miss Maxine Cabott
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
Dear Maxine,
I am relieved to have gotten your letter. There was a photo graph of your great molasses flood in the Halifax paper just this past week. What a mess it must be! The article said that the Boston fire brigade has gone to spraying salt water from the harbour in an attempt to clean it up. At least for now you’re having winter weather. I imagine whatever remains of it might freeze and be broken off the buildings like giant pieces of molasses candy? Charlie always loved it as a child.