Damnation Corner

I am no heroine, but neither am I a villain.

I was born in 1884, and raised in Galt, Ontario. My family was of comfortable means. Daddy was a chemist, and sold a cornucopia of goods and medicines, some of the snake-oil kind, I admit. Galt was Scottish, mostly, and although we were of English stock, it was near to impossible to avoid the Calvinistic sense of sin, of brooding, dark guilt.

Even so, my early childhood was enchanted. Each Saturday, while Mamma was at her Temperance meeting at Trinity Church, I would walk downtown by the Grand River with Daddy, holding his hand, chattering happily, basking in the warm glow of his love. We’d reach his store, and he would pass me the big iron key, which I fit ever so carefully into the lock.

I loved the bold red sign over the door: Evans’ Apothecary. Daddy’s full name was Joseph Jacob Evans, and Mamma was Edith Elizabeth. My own name, Charlotte Elizabeth Evans, I secretly found a little dull.

Once inside, Daddy would do inventory, order merchandise, unpack and stock shelves, and converse earnestly with customers, while I played quietly with my doll, or read one of my books. Mamma had patiently and lovingly taught me to read from the time I was three. From time to time, Daddy gave me an important job to do, such as count and sort buttons, ribbons, or other fripperies he stocked. After I was done, he solemnly presented me with a shiny, pretty penny. Bliss!

Mamma was a somewhat stout, strong, beautiful lady with soft brown hair framing her face. Her greatest sorrow was to be unable to provide me with a brother or sister. I didn’t care, as my parents lavished all of their love and attention on me.

I went to the neighbourhood school, Dickson, and we lived in a two storey, beautifully furnished yellow brick house on nearby Aberdeen Road. I had a best friend named Emily, and a cat named Huckleberry.

One or two weekends every summer, we’d take the train to Toronto, and then the ferry to the Toronto Islands, which were full of picnickers, families, and courting couples enjoying themselves without a care in the world. I’d swim and splash at the beach. Daddy and I built tall sandcastles, while Mamma was engrossed in the book she always brought along.

One summer, when I was seven, we rented a canoe and paddled lazily along the shoreline. A large wave from a ferry came upon us without warning. Mamma and Daddy were not accomplished paddlers; our canoe tipped into the lake, and I panicked. I swallowed a large mouthful of water and felt the lake closing over my head, its green coldness inexorable. I sputtered and choked in my blind fear, but soon felt a pair of strong arms lift me from my watery fate.

I clung to Mamma, who was standing sturdily, waist deep, careless of the ruin of her brown silk dress. She smiled at me. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I clung to her for a long moment, and she returned my embrace just as tightly.

Nothing more was said about my misadventure, and at the end of the day, as usual, Daddy bought us all an ice cream cone. My favourite was always vanilla. Daddy enjoyed lemon, and Mamma, chocolate. Life was safe, secure and happy. Life was good.

Chapter 2

When I was nine, Mamma developed a cough, trifling to begin with, then worsening during an especially hard winter. I barely noticed at first, as I was busy enjoying my pampered life, but her cough became harsher, chestier, and her breathing more laboured. I asked Daddy as we were walking to the store one frosty November morning when Mamma would get better.

He looked at me with a scary intensity, and said nothing. When we entered the store, he asked me to sit down and he sat opposite.

You know that Mamma is sick.

Yes, I said. When will she get better?

He cleared his throat. That’s what I am trying to tell you, Poppet. Mamma can’t get better.

I looked away, swallowed, then lunged and pummeled his chest. What do you mean? I screamed.

He took me in his arms. I always thought those arms could fix anything.

Mamma has consumption, my love. We have to do our best to make her happy, and comfortable. That means good behaviour from you, my darling.

Can’t you send her to Switzerland? They can fix her there. I had heard adults talk about the miracle cures available in sanatoriums in Switzerland.

No, dear heart. Doctor Gordon says that she is too frail to travel. She would never make it to Switzerland.

You’re a chemist, I shrieked, and a couple of well-dressed ladies passing the store stared at me through the screen door with disapproval.

"Can’t you cure her with some of our medicines? We have Doctor Seth Arnold’s Cough Killer. You tell everyone that it has morphine in it and works like magic. Why can’t you cure Mamma? She’s your wife!"

I cried and cried. Daddy plied me with sweets. Twisted barley sugar and lime fruit were my particular favourites.

Charlotte, you must stop carrying on so. What will our customers think? Daddy begged me.

I despised Daddy then. Mamma was dying, and he only wanted to silence me, worried about what people would think. I cried harder, and I could feel my face go quite red. I began to almost enjoy my passionate display.

Daddy was desperate. He slapped me, harder than I ever thought possible, on the cheek. I don’t know who was more shocked, him or me. We stared at each other in horror. I stopped crying and huddled into myself on my stool. When I gathered my courage to peek at Daddy, he had tears pouring down his cheeks and he was shaking. I got up slowly and went to comfort him. We hugged for a long moment, then, in the cruel, casual way of children, I allowed myself to be distracted, and soon immersed myself in my favourite book at the time, Alice in Wonderland. Alice’s misadventures could be solved easily when she awoke from her dreams. She would emerge unscathed from the rabbit hole.

When Daddy walked me to school, I skipped ahead as usual, much to his dismay, I think. But when you are a child, the concept of death has little meaning.

That evening, I borrowed Daddy’s favourite medical book, brought it to my bedroom and shut the door tight. Tuberculosis has been with humanity since the beginning, it informed me. The disease has been found in native peoples of North America, Africa, Alaska, China, Japan, Russia, Corsica, Malaya, and Persia. It waxes and wanes, beginning unnoticed, then peaking in epidemic proportions, then waning again as the population acquires a collective immunity to the tubercle bacillus. This cycle takes approximately two hundred years.

The lungs are the main focus of the infection, as with Mamma, I thought, but it can also attack the meninges, bones, kidneys, liver, spine, skin, intestines, eyes…the list went on. Opium was widely prescribed to control coughing. Many consumptives became addicted to opium. Despite my wild notion that a trip to Switzerland could control the disease, medical experts were in agreement that tuberculosis did not respond to any climatic condition. I closed the book and wiped my nose with the handkerchief Mamma ironed that morning. Daddy was right. There was no hope.

Chapter 3

Mamma was fortunate that Dr. Gordon was a modern medical doctor, and did not attempt to bleed her with leeches, prescribe medicines laced with cocaine or lead, or use uncomfortable and entirely ineffective treatments such as plaster, poultices, cuppings or inhalations. He made her as comfortable as possible, and prescribed laudanum, which was opium based. He advised slow, frequent walks, plenty of fresh air, and a good diet.

Our family had always planted a garden and Daddy tempted Mamma with sweet carrots, fresh lettuce, corn, and peas, her particular favourite. In the winter, he cooked hearty, simple and delicious stews. We kept a store of root vegetables in our cellar and he incorporated these into almost every meal.

One of Mamma’s favourite stews was from The Early Canadian Galt Cookbook 1898, by the Ladies of Galt. It was named simply, Stewed Rabbit (page 55).

One rabbit, one-fourth pound of butter, a little flour, one pint boiling water, a little grated onion, salt, pepper and celery. Sink and clean the rabbit, cut into pieces, put the butter into a stew-pan with the pint of water, the pieces of rabbit and several pieces of celery cut up fine; when this is cooked tender take half pint of cream or milk (Mamma preferred cream), make a paste of the spoonful of flour with a little of the cold milk and add this to the stew (the onion grated should be put in half an hour before). Season, let it boil up well and serve hot. A little curry powder may be added. (Mamma preferred it without.)

Rabbits were in abundant supply in our neighbourhood. For a fee, neighbourhood boys were only too glad to procure them for us using methods I was more than happy not to contemplate.

I’d help Daddy measure, chop and stir. I grew so proficient that if he was tardy in returning from the apothecary, I could cook Mamma and me a wholesome dinner by myself, and Daddy would return to a fragrant, steaming meal.

Mamma’s condition worsened slowly, and I grew accustomed to her illness. I continued to attend school, play with my friends, and help Daddy in the store. I became accustomed to Mamma spending much of the day wrapped in blankets on her favourite rocking chair, with Huckleberry the cat curled up in her lap.

Listening to her cough was excruciating. It was particularly bad in the morning. It began as a soft rumble in her throat, and she’d try her best to suppress it. Sometimes she would have to spit, and Daddy bought her an antique silver spittoon which she used more and more frequently, with the utmost delicacy. She drank endless cups of tea that Daddy and I brewed for her. She liked it with lots of milk, and two cubes of sugar.

Sometimes, nothing would stop her cough, and she gasped for breath while Daddy offered her Beecham’s cough lozenges that he ordered especially from Boston. She sucked on them obediently, and her face flushed and beaded with perspiration. She did her best to protect me from the distress she felt every day, every hour, every minute. She’d smile at me brightly and rise from her chair to see me out the door as Daddy walked me to school.

Have a wonderful day, Poppet, she called as I walked down our walkway, holding Daddy’s hand.

Daddy would look back and blow her kisses.

Make sure you rest, he admonished her.

Of course. Don’t worry about me. I have many books to read, and my quilt that I’m working on… She coughed daintily into her now very thin hand.

She shut the door, and every day, I had a little worm of worry inside my belly - would she be there after school to greet me? Despite her brave pretense, I knew that Mamma’s condition was getting worse.

After some months had passed, the only way to ease her hacking cough was laudanum. Mamma fought it for as long as she could. Temperance had been the cause dearest to her heart. Daddy walked slowly to the medicine cabinet, which was out of my reach, and returned with the little brown bottle in his hands.

No, darling, you know I don’t believe in stimulants of any kind, Mamma protested.

Daddy was patient but determined.

I can’t bear to see you suffer. And think of how difficult it is for Charlotte.

Mamma relented, taking the detested medicine, for my sake. I knew she was wracked with guilt at how her illness affected me, as well as being wracked with the illness itself. The laudanum did ease her cough, but it made her sleepy and distant as well. Daddy read me my bedtime story more and more often.

Chapter 4

For the first time, I began to yearn for a little brother or especially a sister, but I knew now that this would never be. However, Mamma’s sister, Aunt Esther, lived in nearby Preston, and I was able to visit with my cousins, Georgette and Jonny. They were close to my age, and as Mamma continued to deteriorate, I spent an increasing amount of time at their house.

Auntie Esther’s husband, Uncle Gregory, was a tall, thin man who had a balding pate, wore spectacles, and walked with a limp. No one ever told me why he limped, but I don’t remember him ever without his cane. The head was carved into the shape of a lion with protruding teeth. The teeth fascinated me, and I spent many long minutes staring at that rapacious face. My uncle, however, was mild-mannered, polite and kind. He worked as a lawyer and had an office on King Street.

Georgette, Jonny and I had grand fun and played together for hours at a time. They shared their hoops, marbles and skipping ropes. I was the undoubted skipping champion, but Georgette was not far behind. Jonny was not quite so dexterous as us girls. We passed long, happy hours playing chasing games such as tag and catch with balls. Georgette was particularly good at hopscotch, and Jonny excelled at marbles. The odd, sweet evening, a street musician would stroll down King street, wheeling a barrel organ, which played tunes when the handle was turned. Heaven! Once, the musician even had a monkey with him.

Can we pat him?

Jonny and I were shocked at Georgette’s temerity, but the organ grinder smiled. His teeth were yellowed, and a few were missing, and he puffed on a cigarette. What an ugly man.

Sure, go ahead. He smiled, and I realized that he was not ugly in the slightest.

Jonny, as the only boy, reached out his hand, and gently patted the monkey’s head. We screamed when the monkey reached out and gently patted Jonny’s head.

Can I try? We took turns playing with the monkey until he tired of us, and the man fed him a banana. We felt like we had tasted paradise that evening.

Eventually, my mother’s condition became almost too much for me to bear. Her coughing worsened, and now she could rarely leave her bed. All Daddy and I could do was to keep her warm and as comfortable as possible. She no longer read to me, so I began to read to her, and we moved slowly through Charles Dickens’ novels. My favourite was A Christmas Carol, but it disturbed Mamma with its ghosts and intersection with the afterlife. I realize now that she felt like she had one foot already in the grave and wanted to cherish her remaining time on earth.

When Mamma began to cough up blood, any pretense that she would recover was dropped, and when I turned 11, she and Daddy sent me to live full time with Auntie Esther. I was relieved to leave that house of suffering. In particular, I could not bear to smell the tincture of laudanum dissolved in sherry that Mamma consumed in large amounts to keep her pain at bay. The sweetly alcoholic medicine seemed to pervade our entire house, and I was certain even my clothes reeked of it. It was the stench of death.

I transferred to the Preston school, and played happily with my cousins. However, all the time in the back of my mind, I worried about Mamma, and worried, too, if I would ever see her again. My uncle and Daddy met every Sunday morning in their buggies, to allow me to return home, attend church with Daddy, then spend time brushing Mamma’s long brown hair, which seemed to be thinning now. I plucked the hairs from her brush, threw them away, then turned to the literature she adored. We enjoyed Browning, Tennyson, and a somewhat curious book called Walden about an antisocial gentleman who, to my unformed schoolgirl mind, preferred his own company to a ludicrous degree.

What a frightful old bore! I tried to keep my voice light and teasing, without any whininess.

Mr. Thoreau has discovered peace of mind, said Mamma. I tried to be a little sassy, as I would have in happier times,

All by himself? With no one to talk to?

Come here, darling. I don’t want to argue. I cuddled up to her on the sofa, careful not to crush her. She was thin to the point of emaciation now, her skin almost translucent. She held onto me tightly, but her bony shoulder pressed into mine and I had to pull away. She looked hurt, so I took her hand in mine and stroked it gently.

Shall I comb your hair some more, before I leave?

Oh yes, I would love that. Your daddy doesn’t have the same touch with hair as you do.

He’s a man.

Our eyes met, and we giggled.

To my shame, there was a part of me that was always relieved to bid my parents good-bye, and return to my aunt’s bustling, busy, happy home.

Chapter 5

One day, I returned home from school, skipping and jumping, and enormously hungry. Aunt Esther looked like she had been crying, but she fed us some cake and milk. It was my favourite, fluffy sponge cake with a jam filling.

After I had enjoyed a generous slice, she said to Georgette and Jonny,

Charlotte and I need to talk for a little while, privately. You must not disturb us.

I was a little alarmed at her serious tone. She took my hand and led me into the bedroom that she shared with my uncle, and closed the door firmly.

Aunt Esther, you’re scaring me. What’s the matter? Is Mamma worse?

She passed away this afternoon. I’m so sorry.

She was fine last weekend. A little tired, but her cough was a bit better. She enjoyed being read to. You must have made a mistake Aunt Esther. Let Uncle Gregory drive me home, and you’ll see. You have made a big mistake….

No, Charlotte. I wish I were mistaken, but your Daddy came here this afternoon to tell me the sad news. Her eyes were red, and she looked at me with such compassion that I began to believe her in spite of myself. Still, I denied.

No, you must be wrong. Daddy would tell me himself if my own mother died. He wouldn’t leave it to you!

I tried to persuade him to stay, my darling, but he was dreadfully sad. He has to attend to the funeral arrangements….

Are funeral arrangements more important than his own daughter? My voice rose. I was shaking. I turned to the wall and began to beat my head against its uncomplaining hardness.

Aunt Esther said, stop this minute! She held onto me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, dragging me forcibly from the wall. I broke away and resumed my rhythmic banging. My cousins came in to see what the commotion was about and they all grabbed me then led me downstairs where I was set down on the sofa.

Make tea, quickly, Aunt Esther said. She held me as I sobbed, huge gulps of misery. Tears and mucus ran down my face, and she gently cleaned me with her second-best lace handkerchief.

Aunt Esther stroked my head. Your grief illustrates how much you loved your mother. You will feel sad for a long time; that’s only natural. I sewed a pretty mourning frock for the funeral… I was brokenhearted that I had not been present when she slipped away and had so cheerfully lived a separate life with my aunt and uncle. I cried and cried, and would not be consoled. Aunt Esther held me in silence. I remembered that Aunt Esther was Mamma’s sister and must feel distressed too.

The funeral was a wretched occasion, mourning the passing of a young mother, and the weather was damp and chill. The service at Trinity Church was dignified and very long. I stared at the Reverend as he pontificated in the pulpit, something about Mamma being with Jesus now, and I felt hot rage. I didn’t want her to be with Jesus. She belonged with me.

My black bombazine mourning dress, which Aunt Esther had hand sewn for me months before, was a little too tight. The hard, crinkly silk crepe trim dug into my wrists and neck, and it was scratchy. When we stood in the cemetery after a short ride up Blenheim Road following the service, my only thought was to strip off that hated garment and don a more comfortable, calico dress that had been washed too many times and was beginning to fray at the sleeves. But we returned home to Daddy’s house, and I had to sit through the wake in my uncomfortable mourning clothes. I was forced to receive with good grace the comments of innumerable adults tripping over themselves to console me with reassurances that Mamma’s death was for the best, that she was not suffering any more, that I must be strong for Daddy.

Finally, I could endure no more. I ran upstairs, slipped into the shabby, comfortable frock that seemed to welcome me like an old friend, grabbed an equally shabby shawl that belonged to Mamma and slipped out the door. The shawl smelled a little musty and of vanilla, Mamma’s smell. The true grief that was a hard knot inside of me began to soften, and tears blinded me as I ran down Parkhill Road to walk beside the Grand River. I walked for a long time.

When I returned, I was dirty and exhausted. All the guests, including Aunt Esther, Uncle Gregory and my cousins, had gone home. Daddy’s eyes were bloodshot, his hair was disheveled, and he began to cry when I tried to explain my absence.

I was so worried I would lose you too… his voice seemed thick and slurred. I need you, honey. Don’t ever do that to me again.

He turned and walked slowly into the study, glass of brandy in hand.

I followed and was dismayed to see him sprawled in his armchair in front of the fireplace, glass now empty, a half-full decanter on the round table at his side. I remembered buying that table with Mamma, before she got sick. We had taken the train to Toronto, and had spent a pleasurable afternoon perusing the shops, then had a lovely afternoon tea at Bay and Front Street. I remembered the crumbly biscuit, the clotted cream dissolving in my mouth, and the sweet, tangy jam. We had spotted the table shortly before we had to catch our train back home, and Mamma determined to buy it, despite the impracticality of transporting it home. Daddy had not been pleased at the additional cost to have it shipped to Galt, but as always, he could refuse Mamma nothing.

I swept the decanter onto the floor with one impulsive push. Daddy’s jaw dropped. I was shocked at my own daring. I decided to brazen it out.

You shouldn’t drink so much. Mamma wouldn’t approve. You know she didn’t like you to drink. Why do you think she attended all of those Temperance meetings at Trinity Church?

We were both shocked at my outburst. His face blanched and he began to weep, his body shaking violently. He was so immersed in his own misery that he did not notice me slink out the door. I stood on the front porch for as long as I could, willing Daddy to come out to comfort me.

He did not appear. It was raining and cold, and I began to shake from cold, so I went back inside and huddled in my bed for long, hard hours. Later, I tiptoed downstairs and found him passed out in his chair, empty glass beside him, snoring sonorously. I debated pulling a coverlet over him but decided to let him be cold and chilled. It was his own fault, and he should have looked after me.

Chapter 6

The adults decided that I would continue to live in Preston until the school year was completed. Children are relentless at healing, and within a few months, I began to experience a ghoulish relish at my status as the poor motherless dear. Although my grief was raw and real, I would be a little too dramatic when playing with my cousins.

You must let me win this game of Go Fish, because my Mamma died….

My cousins, although good natured and kind, brooked none of this nonsense.

You can’t win on your own? Are you that stupid?

They slapped me down with good humour, and I’d sulk in a corner with a cookie that Uncle Gregory slipped me. Not for long, though, as I didn’t want to miss out on the next game of tag.

The September following Mamma’s passing, I returned home to live with Daddy, and he let me adopt a puppy, a mongrel I christened Jack. He was part beagle, and part unknown, and had skinny, spindly legs, and the softest brown eyes. I had to keep him tied up at all times as he loved to roam, but he was enormously kind, patient and good natured. Even Huckleberry couldn’t resist the puppy’s charms, and he’d stalk with serene arrogance up to Jack and nuzzle against him. I