in my head—the desire to watch animals mate in the spring, the thoughts of wanting to be touched, the need for men to notice me. I couldn’t have stayed innocent, even if I’d wanted to. I guess he finally realized that there’s no way to stop a girl from becoming a woman.
At least I’m not as far gone as Grace Hutner. She has a way of speaking, putting her finger to her chin and rolling her eyes while she giggles … it’s as sly as any county-fair magician or snake oil salesman. There’s always a slight dip to the front of her blouse and an impatient turn to her ankle as she sticks her leg out to the side of her desk or into the aisle of the sanctuary at church. The lightness of her hair and the blue of her eyes fool most everyone into thinking she’s perfection walking. Her one-dimpled smile pulls everyone into her path, boys, girls, men. They fall right to her side: “Do you need help carrying those books, Grace?” “Tell us about your new dress, Grace.” “A young thing like you shouldn’t walk alone.” Every churchgoing boy in the Bay, including both Albert and Borden, has rolled her in the hayloft. The only time I’ve ever seen the two of them come to blows was over her. She had them each believing her heart belonged to him. Even though they made peace and forgave each other when she took up with Archer Bigelow, she can still get them to argue over which one of them gets to walk her home from church. All the boys want her, and every little girl wants to be her. Grace Hutner could make a man want to go blind, just so he could better hear her lies.
I’ve “borrowed” a few books from a dusty, forgotten cupboard at the schoolhouse, Charles Dickens and Jane Austen among them. Miss B. lets me keep them at her cabin as long as I read them aloud to her while she makes clay pipes with her willy-nilly fingers. She teases me, holding my wrist before and after each reading, counting my heartbeats. “Your heart’s not changed a flit, your skin’s not hot … you sure you’re alright?” We have formed a reading circle for two, un veille du mot, as Miss B. calls it, and have begun with Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. The heroine, Catherine Moreland, is falling in love with the dashing, yet passive, Henry Tilney. She is seventeen.
Once I figured Aunt Fran’s copy of The Science of a New Life had been forgotten, I stole it too and hid it between my mattress and the boards of my bed. Dr. John Cowan and I have gotten to be on quite intimate terms.
Let us glance at some of the results of masturbation, as affecting the health and character of the individual; the array is altogether an undesirable one: headaches, dyspepsia, costiveness, spinal disease, epilepsy, impaired eyesight, palpitations of the heart, pain in the side, incontinence of urine, hysteria, paralysis, involuntary seminal emissions, impotency, consumption, insanity, etc.
The female, diseased here, loses proportionably the amiableness and gracefulness of her sex, her sweetness of voice, disposition and manner, her native enthusiasm, her beauty of face and form, her gracefulness and elegance of carriage, her looks of love and interest in man and to him, and becomes merged into a mongrel, neither male nor female, but marred by the defects of both, without possessing the virtues of either.
Dr. Cowan may go on to call it self-abuse, but I like to refer to it as practising patience. What’s the harm in thinking of love? Is bringing around little heartaches under my covers any different from mouthing the words of the Brownings or Keats or Christina Rosetti? Just yesterday I took another book from Miss Coffill’s library at the schoolhouse, this time a poetry collection. Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream. I’ve marked my favourites with bits of string. Like my hands down between my legs, the words are sweet, and nothing but wishes.
~ December 1916
Dr. Thomas has not been back to bother Miss B., but Aunt Fran reported the other day that the maternity home in Canning is nearly finished and there’s to be a “Ladies Tea” for the women of Scots Bay. She’s encouraging all “the fine ladies of the Bay” to attend. Of course, she gets herself excited over any occasion that calls for her to wear a new hat and lift her pinky. She was also quick to inform me, “Dr. Thomas will be presenting a lecture on ‘Morality and Women’s Health,’ something I think you’d quite enjoy, Dora.”
The more I learn about them, the more I realize I’m not much for doctors.
THREE TEAMS OF STURDY horses hitched to three beautiful new sleighs were waiting at the Seaside Centre. Courtesy of Dr. Thomas.
Mother said I would have to take her place in representing the Rare family, since she had far too much work to do at home. I tried to convince Miss B. she should come along for the ride, but she refused, saying, “I ain’t been down North Mountain since the day I arrived. It’s been so long now, I guess I’d up and turn to dust if I set as much as one toe outside the Bay.”
Aunt Fran told Mother not to worry. “I’m already going, in an official capacity as secretary of the White Rose Temperance Society, so it’s no trouble to watch over my dear young niece. I’ll see that she minds her p’s and q’s.” Precious had begged her mother to include her as well, but Aunt Fran put her off, explaining, “You know how you suffer in the cold. Who knows what state you’d be in after riding down the mountain and back?” She smoothed Precious’s hair and retied the bow at the end of her braid. “What do we always say?”
Precious chimed in with a reluctant sigh. “Think of yourself, think of your health.”
Aunt Fran smiled and popped a lemon drop in Precious’s mouth. “Well done, dear, well done.”
Poor Precious waved us off and began to make her way home, but not before she made me promise to tell her “every little thing that happens.”
Aunt Fran was dressed in her Sunday best. When Mrs. Trude Hutner made a fuss over Fran’s new rabbit fur muff, Aunt Fran insisted that Mrs. Hutner and Grace ride opposite so they could continue their conversation. She handed the muff to Mrs. Hutner for a proper inspection. “It arrived yesterday. Irwin said I should pick out an early Christmas gift from the Eaton’s catalogue. At first he suggested that I might like a new coat, but I told him ‘no,’ of course, what with the war on and all. This is all I need. I was going to wait until church tomorrow to use it for the first time, but this seemed like the perfect occasion.”
Mrs. Hutner nodded as she stroked the soft white fur. “Like a little bit of heaven, I’d say … but practical too.” She slipped her hands inside the muff and grinned. “I think it’s time I had a new one myself. Perhaps I’ll give Grace my old one and mail in my order to Eaton’s this week.”
Aunt Fran tried her best to fight the disapproving look from her face. The two women are friends, but only because they are both in the position of having much more than most women in the Bay. Evidently, it takes equally thin parts of kindness and sincerity to marry well. “There was a lovely one made from beaver, pictured right next to this one. You’d certainly look smart in such a dark colour, if I do say so myself.”
Mrs. Hutner pouted and handed the muff back to Aunt Fran. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Most of Aunt Fran’s time (and much of Uncle Irwin’s family fortune) goes towards her need for having. Last Christmas it was Irish linens, after that, French lace table runners, and then it was figurines made from Italian porcelain … mostly birds, insects and fruit. These days, her fancy’s gone towards collecting spoons, hundreds of them, engraved with the faces of royalty and the great wonders of the world, the likes of which Aunt Fran would never dream of leaving her comfortable home in the Bay to see. She faithfully polishes them, singing hymns all the while, grinning as her reflection turns in the bowl, right side up, upside down, right side up, upside down. They line her parlour wall, each one a useless droplet of silver, but delicate enough not to offend God or any of the good Christian ladies of the Bay.
Mother