Fields of Gold Beneath Prairie Skies Page 14
It’s not easy work clearing all the rocks and breaking the sod. There’s one really huge stone that’s just too big to move. Pol enjoys climbing it, but I worry that one day he’ll fall and crack his little head. Then there are the circles of rocks where the Sioux Indians once built their camps. Nap says he doesn’t want to touch those, that somehow they’re sacred, and I agree. I oftentimes wonder what it must have been like seeing teepees long ago. Memère Emma once told me she remembers natives traveling across the prairie on their travois. Travois are kind of like carts only they have no wheels, just long sticks attached to the horses that they bundle their supplies on. But the Indians don’t come around anymore, although there is one Métis family that lives in Val Marie.
Nap has found a job building a school in the next town. We’ll use that money to order new clothes from the Eaton’s Catalogue. I love Eaton’s! It’s so easy, just picking and choosing what you’d like to order instead of making it all by hand. And it’s like Christmas when it arrives, opening up the boxes to take out the things we’ve dreamt about for so long. This year, we ordered pants, dresses, jackets, toques, mittens, and plenty of other things for winter. Perhaps when I come to Belgium, I’ll stop in Winnipeg and shop in the real Eaton’s department store. Can you imagine?
Palma, congratulations on the birth of your little boy, Roberto. I can’t wait to meet him. And Mathilde? Courage. I’m sure you’ll soon have a child to join our little throng. It’ll be so fun when the children all meet each other.
Leopoldine
Lea folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and sealed it. She’d get Nap to take it to town when he returned from Rosefield on the weekend. She sighed. How lonely it was when he was gone. Thank goodness she had the children to keep her company.
Pol swooped his toy bi-plane down from above, nearly grazing the floor before sweeping it upward again. Lilian rocked her doll in the wooden rocker Nap had built for her.
She marveled at her husband’s woodworking skills, how he could dismantle the dirty slats of barrels, soak them, and straighten the wood to make polished toys for the children fine enough to grace the window of any Belgian toy store. Christmas had been wonderful. She was glad she’d insisted on keeping the traditions of the old country this year, celebrating on December sixth, St. Nicholas’ Day instead of December twenty-fifth. The children’s excitement was worth it as she wrote their names on slips of paper and laid them on their Christmas plates awaiting Bonhomme Noël’s visit. After they had fallen asleep, she’d made fudge and cut it into squares, placing an ample piece next to a Christmas orange and a shiny red apple in each child’s place. How their eyes had sparkled when they awoke the next morning to the treats and the wooden toys Bonhomme Noël had brought them.
Lea let out a long, sorrowful breath, her warm feelings evaporating. Writing the letter home had made her feel more alone than ever. She gazed out the window to the darkness that surrounded the cabin, the light of the coal oil lamp a small comfort against the vast expanse of prairie. How she craved conversation with another adult. What she would give to have Madame Bourlon, the blacksmith’s wife drop by for a cup of hot tea or even better, Cécile, or Madame Gilbert.
She clenched her teeth at the thought of her friend’s dilemma. Though Claude had won the pot that day of the social that summer, he’d squandered it on more poker games. Yet Cécile hung onto his empty promises of a life of luxury like a naïve little girl waiting to see what Bonhomme Noël might bring her. But what else could Cécile do? She was so unlucky in love.
But is it really a whole lot different than what I’m experiencing right now? A pang swept over her at the thought of her husband’s absence. If only he didn’t have to live in the next town during the week, she wouldn’t feel so isolated. A stray tear fought its way down her cheek. She attempted to wipe it away lest the children see, but against her wishes, more slid down her face. Before she knew it, she was sobbing.
At hearing her cries, Pol stopped and watched her for a time, his eyes as wide as saucers. Laying the biplane down, he crawled over to her and placed his hands on her knees. Lea reached out and smoothed his hair, then caressed his cheek. Lilian followed, climbing into her lap and throwing her arms around Lea’s neck. Soon, all three were crying. Far in the distance, a lone coyote let out a long, sad howl. His companions joined him, and humans and animals lamented together. Lea cried until there were no more tears. Then she laid the children down to sleep and curled up in her own bed, wrapping the blankets around her head to keep warm.
***
When the darkness of winter changed to spring, Napoleon ploughed and seeded the fields for the upcoming season. They waited with anticipation for the much larger crop they’d yield, since Napoleon had broken so much more land. As expected, acres of green sprouts shot out from the earth filling Lea’s days with dreams of when she would board the train and make the journey back to Belgium, stopping at Eaton’s in Winnipeg, or in Quebec City where she might run into her old friend Marie-Ève and her husband Guy, or passing through Halifax where surely the city had been rebuilt. But more than anything, she dreamed how wonderful it would be to see her family again, to introduce her parents to their two grandchildren.
“Maman and Papa,” she’d say, “this is my son, Pol, and my daughter, Lilian.”
Maman would sweep her arms open as the children dressed in their newest Eaton’s clothes threw themselves into her embrace while Papa stood by, proud of Lea’s success.
One of the neighbours passing by would exclaim, “Why, those are the most beautiful children I’ve ever seen!” So enthralled would that neighbour be that everyone on the street would pay a visit just to glimpse the fine, healthy Canadian children their little Leopoldine had born.
They’d be celebrated each night, invited to a different home where food would be set out on delicate plates.
But in June, the weather turned hot, dashing her dreams. At first, it hadn’t concerned her. She knew it changed often, hot one day, a lightning storm the next, but by July the wheat had dried up into limp, brownish threads.
She waited a few days to see what her husband would do, but when no solution seemed in sight, she approached him. “Is there anything I can help with, mon homme?”
Napoleon pressed his lips together. “No. We need irrigation.” He glanced at the meandering water of the slough close by. “But that would be a huge project in itself. All we can do now is save the garden.” He patted her shoulder. “That’ll feed us through the winter, and then I can get more work to support us.”
It was difficult hauling water each day from the slough to the garden, carrying bucket after bucket while Nap cleared more land hoping next year might be prosperous. If only the children were old enough to help. But Pol wasn’t quite seven yet, and Lilian had only recently turned four.
Still Lea managed to can her fruits and vegetables, make her butter and cheese, and fill the cellar. The only thing that was lacking was the usual store of buffalo berry jam. The dry earth had withheld its usual bounty of the bright red fruit, and Nap had felt it was more important to use what he could to make buffalo berry wine, much to her chagrin.
“We need it for when company comes,” he had said.
“But what if the Mounties come instead?”
“Lea, we’re French. It’s not our fault the Canadian government has decided we can’t drink wine. The French have been making it for centuries.”
Lea had grudgingly agreed.
In the autumn, he let four of the horses go. “They can look after themselves,” he said. “We won’t be able to feed them over the winter anyway.”
“But won’t they go wild?”
“Probably, but it’s okay because in the spring, I’ll find them and break them again. We can use Dick and Belle to get us to church and to town since it’ll be too cold to run the Maxwell.”
“Okay,” Lea said, pressing his hand in hers.
On October thirtieth, Nap returned from town, his walk brisk, his face twisted w
ith consternation.
“What’s wrong?” When he didn’t reply immediately, Lea’s voice grew frantic. “Nap, answer me!”
His eyes reluctantly met hers. “The stock market crashed.”
“The stock market?” She shook her head in puzzlement. “You mean in New York? What does that have to do with us?”
Nap took a huge breath. “You see, in America, people invest in the stock market. The idea is that they put in so much money and their investment grows so they get far more in return.”
“Yes, I understand. A lot of people have made their fortune that way. But isn’t it like gambling?”
“A little, but the problem is that many people were borrowing money they didn’t have from their brokers and letting them invest it on their behalf.”
“But wouldn’t they be able to pay them back once the stocks rose in value?”
Napoleon shook his head gravely. “No, because it turned out that a lot of the investing going on was speculative.” When Lea gave a blank stare, he continued. “It means that what they were investing in didn’t actually exist yet. And because of that, there were some huge fluctuations in the market. Investors panicked and tried to sell everything all at once…and the market crashed.”
Lea frowned. “So how will that affect us?”
“They say the brokers will call in their loans. And if they do that, it’ll wipe people out. They’ll have to sell their businesses to pay for it. Then there’ll be far less jobs.” He shook his head in despair. “This is a disaster. It could mean I won’t find any work either.”
Lea pondered his words before straightening herself. She dug her hands in her hips. “But we’re farmers. We grow crops. We make our own food. Our garden survived, plus we have the pig and the Jersey.”
“But we had no crop this year.”
“There’s always next year. The rains will come again. You’ll see.”
Napoleon cleared his throat. “Except that I won’t be able to send you home.”
Lea’s spirit fell at the truth of his words.
“And I know how much you wanted to see your family.” Napoleon draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer. He pressed the tip of his nose against hers and kissed her. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It can wait a year or two,” Lea finally said.
Holding each other close, the autumn winds blowing their hair, Lea felt little arms wrap themselves around her legs and waist. She reached down for Lilian while Nap hoisted up Pol. Together, they walked back to the cabin.
Chapter Eighteen
The Drought
It was shortly before planting time the following spring that Lea awoke feeling the familiar sensation of nausea. She bolted from the bed and ran out the door, arriving just in time to empty the contents of her stomach in the pasture. Jersey, close by let out a woeful moo, her hooves thudding the ground as she came up beside Lea and nuzzled her ear. Lea laid her hand on the cow’s cheek, then rested her head on its neck as she recovered.
Napoleon stood at the door, a frown creasing his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she replied, raising her head and rolling her eyes.
A slow smile formed on Nap’s lips. “Another baby?”
She gave a tentative nod. “I think so, but not the best timing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, holding out his arms. “Any child is a gift.”
Lea left the cow and reached for the warm hug her husband offered. “Yeah, but it’d be nicer if we’d had a bumper crop.”
“We’ll get by,” said Nap, his arm around her as they walked back inside.
Lea busied herself preparing breakfast, frying the fresh eggs Nap had collected for her and toasting yesterday’s bread on the stove.
Still giddy at the discovery of her pregnancy, she savoured the thought of a new baby, one to fill the void of having lost the other three. An unwelcome sadness enveloped her at the thought of the twins and Roger. If only they had more doctors in these parts, they might all still be alive. She clucked her tongue. She wished there were telephones. That way it would be so easy to call a doctor, or the relatives in Ponteix, but it would be a while before the town would even think to install electricity. And with the crash of the stock market, there wasn’t a chance they’d get a phone soon even though eight years had passed since Alexander Graham Bell’s death. She’d ask Nap to put the question to Bourlon. He’d be the man to push Val Marie into the twentieth century.
As the weather grew warm enough for Napoleon to plant his crops, Lea threw her attention to her garden, teaching the children how to dig small holes in the ground to lay the potato pieces inside.
“It’s like magic,” she said. “You put in one small piece, and presto, later on, several others appear. And soon, you have a whole bushel of potatoes.”
“Can we make frites with them?” asked Lilian.
“Yes, we can,” said Lea.
Lilian clapped her hands at her mother’s words. “Oh, boy, we’re going to have frites for supper tonight after the potatoes grow, Pol,” she said before burrowing into the soil to place the spud she’d claim as her own.
“It takes a little longer than that,” said Lea. “We’ll dig them up in September. But in the meantime, I can still make frites tonight with the last year’s crop.”
“Hurray!” said Lilian.
After the potatoes had been planted, Lea pounded poles into the ground, stringing them together with lines of cord. She dug furrows underneath. “Come and see now, kids.”
The children dropped what they were doing and rushed to her side.
“You have to put the seeds for the green beans just under the soil so that when they grow, they’ll grab onto these strings just like a little person and keep on climbing right to the top.”
“Like Jack and the beanstalk?” asked Pol.
“Yes.”
“Jack and the beanstalk!” A look of terror flashed on Lilian’s face. She began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lea.
“I’m scared of the giant. What if he comes down and eats us up?” She sat back in the dirt.
“He won’t come down and eat us up,” said Pol.
“Yes, he will,” Lilian sobbed.
“No he won’t because Jack and the Beanstalk is just a story.”
“No, it’s not.” Lilian screamed.
“Yes, it is,” insisted Pol.
“Pol,” warned Lea. “She’s just a little girl. Lilian, I promise you there’ll be no giants coming down the beanstalk. It’s just a fairytale. The beans won’t grow that tall.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Grabbing their shovels and seeds, the children planted several rows under Lea’s guidance.
For the next two weeks, they watched the garden each day and were rewarded when small shoots poked their heads out of the wet soil and stretched out, growing taller and taller until they curled around the strings.
“Pretty soon they’ll be bigger than you,” Lea said to Lilian.
But by mid-summer, all the sprouts began to dry up before they had the chance to reach maturity.
Lea panicked when she realized they had fallen right back in the hated drought of last summer. It meant another year without the money to return home to Belgium. And even worse, they might starve…unless she found a way to save the garden. She became possessed, rising early each morning to haul water from the slough, bucket after bucket filled to nourish the struggling plants of her garden, but as the summer wore on, the slough grew shallower.
Finally, on a particularly hot day, she stopped, laid down the bucket, and rubbed her belly, then slumped down.
“This is too much for you, isn’t it?” asked Nap, passing by on his way to the fields.
“I’m just so tired,” she said, fanning herself.
“Why don’t you get Pol to help you?”
“He’s too small.” Lea’s voice trembled as she eyed his thin little arms and legs.
Lea weighed her child’s freedom against the fatigue of her pregnancy, guilt playing at her emotions. She heaved a sigh. “Pol, come here.”
And so Pol hauled buckets of water, his arms straining under the weight and his breath heaving as he tipped the container, allowing the water to find its course through the little waterways they’d built. Lilian trailed after him, a small, tin can held in her hand, splashing anything that looked dry, including weeds.
By the time August arrived, intolerable heat had settled over the farm. Hot, dry winds blew each day, creating drifts of soil against fences and buildings. Russian thistles claimed the prairie, replacing the usual grass that had been so abundant.
Nap scowled. “I don’t know how we’ll feed the animals this winter. They need hay.”
“I guess we’ll just have to let them loose again in the fall like last year. That’s all we can do.”
“Yes, but if there are only thistles out there for them to eat, how will they survive?”
“I don’t know,” said Lea. “If only cows and horses were like our pig and would eat anything. It’d be so much easier.”
Nap stared at the ground as though deep in thought. “We could sell the Maxwell.”
Lea’s heart skipped at his words. “Sell the Maxwell? But didn’t we agree that had we had an automobile, we might have saved Baby Roger?”
Napoleon let out an anguished sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, but what else can we do?”
Lea mulled his words over in her mind before answering. “Then do it. We can always buy another one when the crop comes in.”