Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
July, 1931
Jo,
Forgive my poor correspondence. Four weeks ago, Betty's oldest child contracted what I thought was a summer cold. It became a fever, and by and by he complained of a stiff back. Next, he found walking difficult. Couldn't breathe easily. Alarm bells rang, but I couldn't listen because Hal Taylor's nephew had all the same symptoms, as did Ned Bur's daughter. Cormac McAllister summoned me the next week because he had two overtired, headachy children confined to bed. I had horrible flashbacks to 1918 and the damn flu that went round, I can tell you.
It wasn't that. I knew, because I watched that influenza nearly kill Di. I'll never forget it; The roses on her cheeks, the mucous rale in her lungs. I still see it, some evenings, when I dream. I hear Mara pleading and intractable at Poppy's bedside. No, this is something else, and just about the only thing the children have in common is a propensity for swimming in the creek behind the Taylor farm. There's a rock pool where you can wade out slowly. Bet Sam remembers it. It was all I could do to get him, Jem and Walter out of there in the old days.
This year I put a moratorium on it for the season. I can't take treating any more family as patients. Di's Hector spits fury at me, and the little Fords aren't much better, though Abby and Christopher are laconic. If I could, I'd put out an edict stopping the whole village bathing, but I'm not God and can't police other people's children.
Bruce is tremendously helpful. He reminds me of me as a medical student, all theory and desperate for experience. He'll get it soon enough, and then he'll wish he hadn't. Isn't that always the way? So, ignore whatever John says. I'm too old to manage local epidemics single-handed.
Keep well, Jo, all of you.
Gil
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
August, 1931
Jo,
Rosemary is finally over her brush with pneumonia. She got over it in time to see Bruce off, and you can imagine the grumbling I've endured since. She didn't get to see enough of her baby. A farewell supper isn't enough.
I'm afraid we scandalised Susan by setting up card tables on the veranda and eating outside. Rosemary insisted. She was sick unto death of staring at the same four walls. She'll be re-wallpapering them next, and I'm so relieved she's well I won't even mind. Back to our farewell supper; It was quite festive; Di and the young people hung Chinese lanterns so us old folk could see in the gloaming, and to keep the midges off. I'm not sure the midges complied (I'm covered in bites), but the effect was charming.
The Inglesideans came armed with food, so that a recovered Rosemary wouldn't have to cook. I'm afraid they further shocked Susan by manifesting things like cold chicken salad, scotch eggs, and trifle. Rilla deigned to carry a cake up to the house, and Naomi a fish platter. Ideal summer food, but Susan calls the lack of a roast an Outrage of the first order. Rosemary was just offended that everyone but her got to use her kitchen. She let it go when Fred Arnold brought the Victrola outside, and got everyone dancing. Funny – I was sure Methodists weren't allowed.
Us old, ancestral types went in once the midges got too much and the crickets too loud, or that was what we said. None of us is so far removed from youth to forget how in-the-way adults, even beloved ones, get. We left them to their fun, and talked of cabbages and kings over dominoes and crokinole. (It's not cards, so Susan decided it wasn't really gambling.)
What Gil makes poliomyelitis seems to have abated, and it's been a good end-of-summer. Both sets of Fords were here, and everyone's small fry ran together. We've been vigilant for misadventures, but noticed only a new set of bells in the tree lovers' branches. Jims helped Hector McNeilly hang them, apparently.
The farewell party was our last great summer revel. The mothers – all ages – traded remember-whens, and your daughter regaled us with stories of Ipoh and Singapore. Fred Arnold was eager to know how Bruce had picked up what he judged to be passable Cantonese from mere correspondence, when neither he nor Naomi could make headway whilst living abroad. None of us could answer, and Bruce didn't. He shrugged the way Una used to, and deflected conversation to Dulce's latest interaction with the butcher. Gil calls it The Great Salami Heist of 1931. Norman Douglas witnessed the whole thing and was so tickled he paid for the salami himself.
I've missed this, Jo, the levity and the laughter. The summer went in a blur of concern for my wife and burying other people's children. I agonized over how much to tell Una and Carl. I'm glad Rosemary's recovered at last. No need to worry anyone. Bruce leaves tomorrow, and I'll miss him all over again. Luckily, I'm getting good at long-distance correspondence. I sometimes think that's your real gift to me.
I spoke to Jerry the other evening, and heard they were moving again. Vancouver this time, because Jerry's been inspired by Indian Church. Mandy was furious about it for sixteen gruelling hours, but by the time she took over the phone, she was all chatter about what they'd see and the friends she and Miri would make out there.
We'll miss having them close, but isn't that always the way? Lives to live, things to do, people to cherish. It's as good a legacy as any parent can hope to leave.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Marytrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
September, 1931
John,
We're delighted to have Bruce back, I can tell you! The interim choir director wasn't popular at all. The days of the Handel-induced Schism are as nothing set next to Richard West's propensity for hymns in unison. Can you imagine? No, neither can I. Perhaps Rosemary can explain why this is an unforgivable sin. She once did me an excellent lecture on the faults and failings of the metric psalm. Don't let on that I have long since misplaced what these are. Definitely don't let on that metric psalms are a staple at Martyrs'.
Someone came up to Bruce after the service yesterday and quoted that hymn –Bright and cheerless is the morn/Unaccompanied by thee. Somehow, he didn't laugh. I did. The sopranos are thrilled their descants are back (and maybe – in the case of the young ones – a bit pleased to have a good-looking conductor again).
One thing I can explain is the Cantonese. I thought you knew. Everyone here knows that Bruce is a favourite in Kingsport's Chinatown. He's one of the few doctors who takes their calls, so they don't mind he's only a student. But because he's only a student, he won't accept payment. Consequently, the people reciprocate with language lessons and fod. Since Bruce has relatives that are Chinese, I guess he jumped at the learning opportunity.
It's needful work. There were several bodies from that quarter that found their way under Jem's knife, and he says they were all preventable deaths. Blood loss, dehydration and a catastrophe involving knitting needles. You can fill in your own blank, I'm sure. Faith was livid about that last. It was like watching a cat spit.
'That's what happens,' she said, 'when you make women choose between butchers, humiliation, and try-it-at-home. They bleed out like stuck pigs, and it makes more work for Constable Benwick or someone.'
I couldn't really get into it, with her, I confess. I had just lost Culross and was reeling from that blow. I saw it coming. Census numbers condemned it ages back. Knox-on-the-sea will become council estate housing. I'm trying not to mourn it, because the houses are necessary. We get so many transients that lately I started leaving Knox's doors open. The secretariat hated it, and all right, it wasn't ideal. But it was Christian. I'd do it again.
Knox-on-the-sea was beautiful in its way. It was clapboard of the old school, with a crooked steeple and peeling paint. But Culross was that proud of its church. Normally, sea towns plonk churches in the centre of town, and make the steeple into a beacon. This fishery church wasn't like that. As the name suggests, it fronted the harbour. In the summer it smelled of fish drying and in the winter it smelled damp. I always thought that was fitting for a house of God.
And the people. The people were magnificent. They embodied John 21:1-4. I don't just mean because we adjourned session with fish fry ups. I mean we sat together and talked together about the ordinary, needful things. They taught me how to gracefully receive charity, not just give it.
They gave so much. The hall was a boxing ring for turbulent youth. They knitted for unwanted babies and sewed for unwed mothers. They fed the hungry, and once raised a spectacular amount to commission a commemorative stained glass window for their war dead. I never knew how they did it. It featured Christ with those fish cooking in a fire. I hope someone saves that. It meant so much to them.
I'm more worried about where that leaves my Culross parishioners. Rumour is that Yarmouth's absorbing the parish. But you can't get from Culross to Yarmouth on a wet winter afternoon on foot, or even bicycle. And again, there's pew rent to consider. I don't want them left out in the cold over the mundanities of earthly treasure. I'll have to pray on it.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
Sept, 1931
Jo,
Further to your last letter, I have acquired Miss Caldicote's address from Faith. I fear I cannot, in good conscience, recommend anything that would prevent against the further misapplication of knitting needles. You understand that. Bruce's hands are likewise tied. But I strongly suspect I know people that can help. Refer Faith, and perhaps aspiring Nurse Caldicote, to Fox Corner. It was, as Faith said, a stupidly preventable death.
Betty's eldest is indeed over the worst of the summer illness, and has even dodged the paralysis I anticipated. So did Mary's lad; Hal Taylor's nephew was less lucky, and he's not the only such outcome.
Rosemary is, as I often tell her, my favourite patient to visit. She's much more tractable than anyone else. The thing about having once been a Gossiping Anglican (her phrase, but mine too!) is that marrying the Presbyterian minister doesn't stop you being one. She's perfectly happy to swap ACS happenings with Naomi or newspaper antics with Di while one of them cooks for her. Ask her about it, sometime. Bet she tells you it's excellent for speeding up recovery. Much better than paving walkways!
The Fords left the other day, and there were tears all round. Anne and Leslie, mostly. They get to visit so seldom. The boys just want to be back with their friends. Anthony's starting music lessons, and it's all he can talk about. Personally, I give them a week before the thrill of returning to school and the smell of new books loses its lustre.
There's almost certainly more, but I owe Fox Corner a letter. Can't have Alice Caldicote dropping in to talk old-world medical stuff without a bit of warning, eh? You can imagine how that would go over!
Love ever,
Gil