Chapter 32
Toronto
Leslie West Moore Ford (Mrs. Owen Ford to Toronto society) wiped the sweat beads off her forehead as she walked into the Tudor house that she shared with Owen. Ladies weren't supposed to perspire. Leslie felt disgusting. The fabric of her soaking wet bloomers and her soaking wet cycling suit stuck to her.
Owen had encouraged Leslie to wear women's cycling trousers under a knee length skirt so that she could safely ride a bicycle. Many other husbands forbid their wives from both activities. Their neighborhood of Lawrence Park was one of the most fashionable in Toronto. Owen still stood out among the men here for his embrace of such feminist ideals as the Rational Dress Movement.
Several of the Ford's neighbors questioned Owen's judgment in allowing his wife to bicycle with or without his supervision. Owen and Leslie laughed it off. Leslie never rode a bike until after she was free to marry Owen Ford. After she came to Toronto, but before she found out that she was pregnant with Kenneth, Owen registered Leslie for lessons at a cycling academy. An athletic young man held Leslie by the waist as she learned to balance herself on her first bike.
Why, their dear friend Dr. Gilbert Blythe allowed his own wife Anne and his own daughters to bike. Ever since an inventor introduced the "safety bicycle" with a chain-drive transmission, this was a perfectly safe activity for women, Dr. Blythe said. He noted that the husband-and-wife scientists Pierre and Marie Curie biked to and from their shared laboratory daily. They even biked across the French countryside on their honeymoon. Marie Curie allegedly rode her bike even when she was pregnant with the couple's two daughters, although it wasn't polite to discuss such matters. If the famous Dr. Pierre Curie permitted his wife to bike around Paris unsupervised, then Dr. Blythe had no concern with his Anne biking around Glen St. Mary. Owen added to this discussion that he himself had no reason to worry about Leslie biking in Toronto.
Leslie remembered that Gilbert had winked at Anne when he compared himself to Pierre Curie and her to Marie Curie. Anne replied that she could never be a physicist because she hated math. Gilbert threw back his curly head and laughed. Gilbert obviously adored his Anne. Anne was a lucky woman to have found herself such a gifted, successful man with a sense of humor like Gilbert's. Leslie hoped that one of her children would one day marry one of the Blythe offspring and produce grand babies for her that had the best qualities of both Owen Ford and Gilbert Blythe.
Owen called from his study, "Did you enjoy your ride with the ladies?"
Leslie said, "Oh, yes, very much so. A bit sore, though. Now I am going to soak in a lovely cold bath before I put Persis to bed. How's the writing going, darling?"
Leslie walked into Owen's study. Ever since that terrible argument that ended when Owen stormed out and returned penitent the next morning, Owen and Leslie showed each other much love. Owen produced pages and pages of the written word – their household's form of spun gold thread – after the argument. Owen was in a much better mood now that this most recent bout of writer's block ended. The Fords no longer worried about running out of money – at least for the moment. Leslie stopped snapping at Owen and the children.
Owen said, "The writing is going splendidly. I have a feeling that this will be my most successful book yet. Come here – I want to show you something." Owen pulled a newspaper clipping from a folder.
"This evening, when I searched through my files, I found this little gem that I clipped from the New York Times a few years ago. I intended to recite this to anyone who asked me for the secret recipe for being a writer. Then, I promptly filed it away and forgot about it. Well, now I've found it again."
Sunday, November 4, 1894
Art of Writing Fiction.
In a certain country house there was a Scotch cook, whose scones were beyond all praise. Implored by a Southern lady to reveal the secret of her unvarying success, she replied, after long consideration: "Aweel, mem, ye just take your girdle, ye see, and — and make a scone." Quite so: You just take your pen and paper and — and write a novel.
No directions could be more beautifully succinct; but, unfortunately, it is almost as difficult for a writer who has reached a point of moderate proficiency in his calling to say how this is to be done as it was for the cook to explain how scones ought to be made. – W.E. Norris on "Style in Fiction."
Leslie handed the clipping back to Owen. She said, "But it doesn't actually say anything about how to be a writer, Owen."
Owen said, "Exactly. I intend to have this printed up. I will hand this out to acquaintances who ask me for the secret to writing."
Leslie shook her head. "My bath awaits." Leslie left.
Owen stared at the blank page in front of him. Yes, Owen had indeed produced page after page of his newest work ever since he walked out on Leslie and spent the night writing at the American Hotel. He came home with pages of his work and produced still more after he kissed and made up with Leslie. For the past day or so, however, Owen felt himself running dry again. If spending a night in Charles Dickens hotel room was indeed a magic elixir, perhaps it was an elixir that only lasted for so long.
Owen tapped his dry pen on his desk. Should he follow through with his newest plan? Think, man! Writing was his livelihood. He absolutely owed it to Leslie and to the children to do whatever he needed to do to bring income into the household.
Owen dashed off a note to Leslie. He said something to the affect that a very important witness suddenly became available for an interview, and that he needed to interview this source now or completely risk losing the opportunity. Then he gathered his writing tools and headed out the door. He headed for Yonge Street.
When Owen arrived at the American Hotel, he discovered that Charles Dicken's hotel room was indeed available that night. Owen claimed the room for his own.
Owen Ford, author of the Great Canadian Novel, hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the outside of Charles Dicken's Toronto hotel room and wrote all night.
There is no secret recipe to writing a book. One merely locks oneself into a room once occupied by another talented writer, takes one's pen and paper and – and writes one's masterpiece.
Leslie returned from her bath and from putting her kids to bed, all fresh and cozy in Owen's favorite nightgown and the dressing down that Owen brought her from New York, to find Owen gone and to read Owen's note to her.
Leslie very much doubted that Owen had received word of the availability of a last-minute source that he must interview that very second. Leslie hadn't heard the telephone ring, and she hadn't heard any messengers come to the door.
Leslie reread the last line of Owen's note to her. "Don't wait up."
Why did Owen leave the house so suddenly? Did he go to join a lover in a tryst?
At least when Gilbert Blythe left his wife alone at night, Anne knew that he was off waiting for somebody to be born, or remain alive, or die. At least when Gilbert left his wife alone, all Four Winds knew – or learned quickly through the telephone eavesdropping and the gossip – of his whereabouts.
Where was Owen tonight?
Owen returned to her in the morning with a stack of inked paper.
"Owen, darling, how was the interview?" Leslie said.
Owen responded, "The interview was perfect. Just perfect. I promise you, Leslie, this book is my best yet. I've discovered the secret recipe for it."
