Chapter Sixteen
Jack's Arrival
Pop was surprised to hear that the gardening season ended with the Labour Day holiday. Frost was possible any time now. He found this hard to believe, as the days were still warm and sunny. However after sunset a warning chill did develop. Realizing that the approaching winter would make him redundant, Pop searched around the district for some form of employment. The family needed extra cash to pay for all the winter garments ordered from the Eaton's catalogue.
As a result of enquiries made at church, he obtained a part time position as grounds keeper at Blarney Castle, the home of Senator Foster. His main function was to tidy up after the gardener, and to keep the grounds free of debris. With gardening at an end, he found the work initially quite easy, but things soon changed. The leaves on the towering deciduous trees that shielded the mansion began to turn. Pop marvelled at the resulting blaze of colour. The first heavy frost came. Almost simultaneously, the brilliant red and gold leaves fluttered to earth, covering the whole estate with an ankle deep blanket. All had to be removed. Capricious nature for several days produced a swirling wind making his task of keeping the driveway and the manicured lawns of the immense ornamental garden free of leaves almost impossible. On the farm, most of the leaves fell to earth within the confining forest. He ignored the few that blew in to the pastures and cornfield.
One evening, just as they were all about to sit down for supper, they heard a series of loud splashes from the pond followed by a cacophony of croaks. Startled they all looked to Mrs. Maclean.
"They're early this year. Not a good sign."
"What's early?" asked Pop.
"Go to the veranda and see for yourselves."
Everyone in the family rushed out. Large strutting birds covered the whole area in front of the house, including Pop's garden and the borders of the pond.
"What are they Meg?"
"They're geese Dan, Canadian geese, heading south for the winter."
"Boy, they're big and fat. Do you have a gun?"
"Oh we don't shoot them. The meat tends to be a bit tough and greasy and we much prefer the ducks bred in Brome."
"Seems such a waste."
"Not really. We never have to fertilize the garden."
The next morning they rose at dawn to watch the geese depart. It was quite a sight to see them gather in groups of thirty to forty then start their frantic waddling runs to the edge of the ploughed corn field, where with flapping wings they rose in to their ragged vee formation.
"It wain't be long now," said Mrs Maclean.
She was right. The following night there was a hard frost. Small patches of ice formed in the pond. That was it for the ducks. They followed the geese.
It was the last Friday of October when the first snow came. Just after midday, the wind shifted to the northwest and arctic air flooded in. Meg said she wasn't concerned. After all the first snow rarely stayed long, but she still insisted on installing the path markers. These were pointed cast iron poles about five feet high stuck in the ground ten yards apart on either side of the main farm paths
" Do they ever get completely covered?" asked Pop, who had been informed that in his new job he was responsible for keeping the long entrance drive to the Foster mansion free of ice and snow.
Meg smiled at him and held up crossed fingers.
When Bill arrived home from school that afternoon, he was hatless and gloveless. Those French kids had ambushed him again, or so he said. He was always making up stories. He probably had forgotten them as usual. Whatever the cause Mrs Maclean instantly realised the signs of frostnip, the white nose, the white tips of the ears, and the lack of feeling in the hands. She rushed Bill to the kitchen sink. Under protest she removed his snow covered clothes, bathed the afflicted areas with a cloth soaked in warm water from the kettle, and then massaged his hands until he could feel the blood tingling.
"We got you in time this time didn't we young'un, but let that be a lesson to you. This is not limeyland. It really gets cold here and ye have to keep wrapped up. D'ye ken?
Bill nodded.
Night fell. The wind increased in strength and a full-blown blizzard developed. The two families decided to weather out the storm together in the farmhouse. They sat around the fire in the living room very aware of the howling wind outside, and listened to more of Meg's outrageous stories of winters past. Now they didn't seem quite so outrageous.
Ma Benson, as usual was pegging her rug. From time to time, she grimaced
"Are you O.K. Anna?"
"I'm fine Pop. The little blighter's really kicking tonight."
"Don't you think you should lie down?"
"Maybe I should. I don't feel so good."
She excused herself. Pop followed her in to the corridor leading to their bedroom.
"I've really got to go to the outhouse."
"Couldn't you use a piss pot?"
"I'd rather not. Anyway it's only a matter of twenty yards."
They opened the back door and encountered a wall of white. "You're not going out there by yourself Anna. Hang on I'll go and get your cloak and a lamp."
The snow was now calf deep with large drifts developing around the back of the farmhouse. The markers were still visible. Pop draped his right arm around the stooped shoulders of his much taller wife and with the hurricane lamp in his left hand led her directly in to the wind. By the time they reached the outhouse, the inadequacy of their clothing was painfully obvious. Anna ducked inside. Pop stood in the lee of the hutch gaining some respite from the biting wind. He waited. He could sense the icicles forming on his walrus. Was that the wind moaning? No!
"Anna! Anna!" he shouted. He could hear nothing above the wind. He broke down the door. Anna was sitting skirts aloft on the bench, the lamp at her feet. Pop raised the lamp to her face. He could see beads of sweat on her forehead. She gave a wan smile.
"The dam's burst Pop."
"What do you mean?"
"It's time."
"But it isn't due yet."
"I don't think the little devil knows that. Go and get Mrs Maclean for me would you? I'll wait here."
Pop was snow covered and breathless by the time he reached the living room door. He beckoned to Mrs. Maclean. She sensed his anxiety and rushed to his side. He whispered the news.
"Mary. You and Belle get in the kitchen and start boiling up some watta. We're going to need some clean warm towels and fresh linens. Quickly now," she snapped.
Mary and Belle knew instantly what was happening.
"Meg you come with me."
"Should I go and get a doctor?" asked Pop.
"There's nae point she'll probably be fast. What is it? The seventh time?"
Pop nodded.
"There's nae way in this storm that you could get him here in time. Don't panic I ken what to do."
"But what if there's a complication."
"Don't be such a worry wart. Me and Meg have brought many a calf in to this world and you should have seen some of the problems we had there. They were real complications and we never lost a one did we lass?"
Meg nodded.
"There's nothing to worry about, so go and get in there with the other laddies. This is women's business."
Pop retired to his customary wing backed chair, lit up his pipe, and sat there in silence straining to hear any sound emanating from the bedroom. From time to time, he would rise and pace around the floor puffing away like a steam train. He could hear nothing. He ventured in to the corridor, sidled up to the bedroom door. Mary sent him packing. He was in the way.
Bill, who was playing the railroad game with George and Betty, thought he heard a cry.
"Did you hear that Pop?" he asked.
Pop shook his head.
Dan lowered his newspaper. "I thought I heard summat."
The next cry was unmistakable. Pop jumped to his feet, pumping his hands in jubilation. He bounded to the door. Mary blocked his way.
"Give us a few minutes to clean up Pop."
"Is everything fine?"
Mary beamed. "Things went really well."
"Is it a boy?"
"I'll let Mom tell you that."
Later Bill was allowed in to the bedroom. His mother was sitting up in bed cradling the newborn in her left arm. Pop was sitting by her side. She looked so old with her grey hair and so pale, but she was beaming.
"Bill I want you to meet Jack, your new baby brother,"
Bill walked anxiously up to the bed straining for a peek. His mother unwound the blanket.
How ugly, Bill thought; mottled red skin, greasy black hair matted on a misshapen head, a squished up nose, eyes that were squeezed shut and the biggest ears.
"Isn't he lovely Bill?"
Bill didn't answer. He held out his index finger to touch the baby's wrinkled palm. The hand closed in a semblance of a grip. The eyes opened. Was that a smile? They were going to be pals.