FAMILIAR STRANGERS

All my life, I felt like I didn’t belong. I always felt I must be a foundling, perhaps left in a basket on a doorstep in the middle of the night. A quick sharp rap at the door followed by running feet as someone dropped their unwanted load and beat a hasty retreat to nearby bushes or down some dark laneway.

 In my head, the scenario changed regularly. Sometimes I felt that the person who had abandoned me ran quickly away without ever looking back. At other times I felt that they may have hunkered down behind some bushes, watching and waiting to make sure that the basket was retrieved, perhaps a tear-dampened handkerchief was clutched in their trembling hands.

I lived with the Graham family and from my earliest recollection I called them Mother and Father, however, I felt little emotional attachment to any of the family members.

John Graham was an honourable man. He was a hard-working man, a pillar of the community; always there to help a neighbour, … or a stranger. He was an elder in the church, a pious man who knew that God was the head of the family, but closely followed by himself. Flora Graham was a plain-faced woman, she felt that cleanliness was next to Godliness and therefore spent every waking moment from dawn to dusk, praying and scrubbing and scrubbing and praying. Every Monday morning of her entire adult life was started by dragging out a huge iron cauldron and hanging it by a chain over an open fire. Next, she would drag the heavy laundry tub from the woodshed with her trusty washboard and strong lye soap, give a prayer to the Almighty for a stiff wind, and begin the age-old ritual of Monday morning washday. Rain or shine. The rest of her week was also filled with womanly chores.

The entire family was a sturdy lot, tall and raw-boned,  brown eyes peering out from under coarse, straight hair the colour of a mouse. Their complexions were as brown as the proverbial berry.

Then there was me. The youngest of the lot by seven years. Blond curly hair the colour of corn, eyes blue as a prairie sky, and a peaches and cream complexion that refused to tan. I had a fragile frame and looked like I would blow away in a stiff wind. I wasn’t though, fragile I mean, I was wiry and was actually a lot stronger than I looked.

Elijah was the oldest boy. He had a mean streak a mile wide, which he usually managed to hide from his parents. I was usually the primary brunt of his devious imagination as each week he would invent new tortures to subject me to. Some were simple ideas such as trudging through the piles of dirt I had just swept up with the corn broom, other plans had more of a Machiavellian twist to them. The worst ones were being tied up with baling twine and left in the hayloft or the time he locked me in the privy for hours.

Next came Seraphim, named after the highest in the Heavenly Angels hierarchy. Angelic — she was anything but. She was as plain as her Mother and I am not so judgemental or crass as to fault someone on something that is no fault of their own. One is either cursed or blessed by their looks. Who is it for me to say what God was thinking the day Seraphim Graham was born? Sera was always prim and proper and pleasant enough when everything was going her way. However, when she was crossed her temper bubbled to the surface like a volcano erupting with molten lava escaping and running everywhere.

Caleb and Arron were the twins. I secretly called them Cain and Abel as they were continually at each other's throats. They were always trying to make themselves look better than they were. They never really bothered with me because they were too busy with their constant competition with each other.

I was a dreamer,  literally and figuratively, I would have vivid dreams nightly when I was very young. Sometimes I would dream wonderful dreams like the dream of the kind lady with a white starched apron, holding me, laughing with me, brushing my hair, and tying it back with pretty bows. I dreamt she would take me to visit a man and a woman. I think they must have been a King and a Queen for they wore beautiful clothes and sparkling jewelry. They had blond hair and called me Darling. The strangest dream however was the dream of a beating heart, always beside me, never apart.

I also had dreams about a dark monster coming in my window and flying away with me grasped tightly in their claws. When I was little I would have these nightmares almost nightly but as I grew older they happened less frequently and were not so vivid. The people in these dreams were now like people in a dense fog.

Sunday was a day of rest. We all slept a half hour later that day, before putting on our Sunday Best and heading off to church. After church Father would read from the Good Book and then we were free to partake in an uplifting stroll or in quiet contemplation. Walking, Mother said, was good for the constitution.

 I always thought that Sunday dinner was a mixed blessing. On one hand, there was always a bountiful meal followed by a fruit pie that Mother always baked. But on the other hand, we were expected to gather in the parlor for the ‘Reading of the Word.” I actually enjoyed most of the Bible stories but some of the passages were a little on the dry side. Father’s favourite passage was always the Ten Commandments, and the part where it says “the wages of sin is death..” During the long passages Elijah would develop a pious stance, he would fold his hands, and close his eyes as if in prayer, Mother would always nudge Sera during the readings as she tended to doze off. The twins always sat in the window seat in the parlor and secretly played a game that only they understood. United for once due to the common bond … endurance.

I would spend the time studying the still-life picture on the wall behind Father’s head. It was Mother’s Pride and Joy. For years she had admired our neighbour's parlor picture, although she knew and had often confessed that it was a sin to covet your neighbour's property.

She had saved her egg money and was finally able to purchase her own parlor picture.

Indeed it was a very beautiful picture. There was a table by the window covered by a lace tablecloth. On the table, prominently displayed was the Good Book and a blue stoneware pitcher with spring flowers in it. The fact that the Good Book was so prominently displayed somehow justified its purchase for Mother and it, of course, pleased Father too.

 I knew each petal of each flower having spent years staring at it while listening to the Word of God. On this particular Sunday, Father had an important announcement. God had richly blessed the family and Father had been offered a new job in Willowdale, forty miles away. He had secured a new house for us, much larger than our current abode.

For days we laboured diligently. Mother required that every scrap of cloth be washed, dried, ironed, and folded neatly in the packing boxes. Plates and cups were carefully packed in straw and put in wooden boxes. Our beds and furniture were loaded into the first of the large wagons. Smaller, more fragile items as well as the family members were loaded into the second wagon.

 At last, we started on our journey. The second wagon had two long sets of seats, one behind the other. Mother, Father, and Seraphim rode in the first seat with Father guiding the team of horses. Elijah and the twins took up the second bench. When I tried to take a seat on the second bench, Elijah told me there was no room for me and I would have to sit in the back of the wagon.

The wagon bed was filled to overflowing, however I managed to find a perch on a pile of feed bags. Although they were quite dusty, they proved to be a cozy nest that in the end proved to be the most comfortable spot of all.

 Mother refused to eat the dust of the wagon in front of us so our wagon swung around in front of the wagon driven by the hired teamsters. Father’s new company had paid for Draytons to help load and unload our goods. Also, Father said he would not trust Elijah with a loaded wagon and an unfamiliar team of four large Draft horses.

We passed through our village with many members of the community standing in their doorways waving goodbye to us and wishing us well on our journey.

Halfway through the morning, the novelty of the journey wore off, and with some difficulty, due to the lack of space, I created enough space so that I could curl up and sleep flat. The family could not see me as I was at the back of the wagon, so they left me alone. It didn’t bother me. I was used to them leaving me alone.

 With the rocking of the wagon, I soon fell asleep. I finally awoke sometime well past noon according to the sun's position. I was hungry and thirsty, the family probably had forgotten to feed me.

I rummaged around and found some dried apples and a jug of Mother's Elderberry Wine. I had to work hard at getting the stopper out of the jug but my determination finally paid off and I had my first taste of elderberry wine. Mother had always told us it was for medicinal purposes only, since God disapproved of spirits and drunkenness.

But surely a wee nip, just to quench my terrible thirst would not be a sin, I reasoned.

 I had to use two hands to hold the heavy earthen jug, I meant only to take a small sip but the wagon hit a rut in the road and I ended up swallowing a lot, coughing on it. No one seemed to notice. I peeked up like a rabbit coming out of its burrow, to see if anyone had noticed my coughing and were concerned. No one seemed to notice.

I took another swig. It had a fruity taste to it and felt good going down. I was so parched and took another swig, then another. Now I knew why Mother would sneak into the root cellar and bring another jug up to the pantry for one of her little headaches,

We reached our destination quite late that night. The Elderberry wine had made me sleepy and after my brief luncheon, I slept the afternoon away.

 The house was a good deal larger than our previous one. The children ran through it claiming their rooms as Father pointed them out. At the far end of the hall was a very small room, perhaps once a servant's room or a small serving room. Father said I could take the small room or perhaps share with Seraphim, he always called her by her full name.

I chose the small room.

The rough workmen started by hauling furniture up the stairs, while father and the boys went to help. Mother directed traffic.

 Morning dawned bright and clear. It was usually my job to clear the breakfast table, but Mother, after taking one good look at me, must have found an ounce of mercy deep within her and bade me change into my Sunday Best as we would soon be going off to church. As she stacked the dishes in the sink, she reminded me to wear my best bonnet.

I hated my best bonnet with a passion.  It was, of course, required by the church that a woman or girl child must cover her head in the house of the Lord, yet a man must not wear a hat in a church.

Such a paradox I always felt.

 We sat by the back of the church, as Father was not an elder at this church, though I am sure he aspired to be one. The distinguished members of the community were always given the best seats at the front of the church. My old-fashioned bonnet was so restrictive that I could barely see left or right.

At the end of the service, the Reverend Vaughan met the congregation on the front steps of the church, where he was receiving compliments on his wonderful sermon. He introduced us to the neighbours starting with the people in the front pews.

 The Devonshires, the leading family in the neighbourhood,  were the first to be introduced. The weather was warm and once outside I removed my dreadful bonnet and was feeling propitious about it as we were no longer in the church.

Mother turned to introduce me to the Devonshire’s daughter and the world as I knew it froze.

She turned her head and looked straight at me for the first time. It was like looking in a mirror except the image I was looking at had a much nicer hat than I wore.

I didn't need to study the face because I knew the face. I had seen it every day in the mirror as I performed my daily abolitions.

 The next minute Mother gasped and fainted dead away. Father caught her just before she cracked her head on the stone landing. Mr. and Mrs. Devonshire kept hugging and kissing me like they would never let go.

 Mother was carried into the church and laid out on the back pew and I heard Pastor Vaughan’s deep clear vibrant voice bidding his congregation goodbye and informing them that their new visitors had become overcome by the heat of the day.

 By this time there was a small gathering in the area of the last pew. Not only the entire Graham family but the Devonshire family as well. People did not quite know where to stare, at the matronly woman lying prone on the wooden pew or at the two mirror images looking as much as two peas in a pod could possibly look. One, the country mouse, the other, in the beautiful hat, clearly the city mouse.

 Mrs. Devonshire pulled out her reticule, pulled out some smelling salts, and waved them under Mother’s nose. She rallied for a moment but seeing me she called out “Daisy” and then swooned again.

“Daisy, it is you,” said Mrs. Devonshire., she turned to the girl in the lovely hat. “Rose,  I just knew it must be her the moment I clapped eyes on the two of you together.”

Rose and I, our hands already holding one another, did not need the verbal confirmation that we belonged together. Our hearts had already told us it was so.

 Mrs. Devonshire turned to Father, “Sir can you explain the meaning of all this? Our dear Daisy was kidnapped from the twin's room as they slept in their beds. It's been years since we have seen her.”

Mr. Devonshire spoke up, “Yes, explain yourself, man.

Father gripped his hat tightly and began his story.  “I did not kidnap her, if that is what you are implying.  I had been to the village to sell a horse and was returning home.  My wife was feeling poorly so did not accompany me. We had just lost our own little girl a few weeks before. She wandered too close to the river and the strong spring currents swept her away. My wife was grieving pitifully so I went to the fair, did my business, and was taking a shortcut on my way home when I came to a group of Gypsies camped in the woods.

I bent to tuck my money from the sale into my boot, leaving only a few coins in my pocket, Gypsies you see, are not to be trusted. I saw two women in the camp, they were yelling at each other and pulling the child this way and that, like enough to wrench the poor child's arms from her body. Then the child's hat fell off and her long blond hair tumbled down her back. I could see her pale skin. This was no Gypsy child. Hey, I shouted what goes on here? Who is this child? What is she doing here?

 An old Gypsy man said to me that her parents had been killed and that they were going to take the child to an orphanage, however, Gypsies are not welcomed in the cities, so they usually stay in small towns and camp in the woods. He said they had spent a lot of money on the child already buying her clothes.

I pulled out both my pockets so he could see I had only a few coins. One of the women slipped into a caravan and threw out a small bundle which landed at my feet. I said come child and held out my hand. I threw the coins on the ground to compensate the man for her clothes and carried the child home. My wife came out of her melancholy as she cared for the child.

We thought that we could care for the child better than an orphanage so we have looked after her all this time. When we looked through the bundle there was a night gown that had the name Daisy embroidered on it, so we called her Daisy. I never saw the Gypsies again. We have raised her as our own.”

“ Well, I guess that explains it all,” said Mr.  Devonshire. “We are glad to have our girls together again.”

 At last, Rose and I were together again. I belonged.