On the morning of Sydney’s wedding day, a little green finch flew into the window on the back porch of the veranda, and Mum, thinking it a bad omen, became hysterical, as she is prone to be, flapping at it with the broom—“getaway, getaway, shoo, shoo,” she hollered. Mum got a closer look at it and stood in a frenzy on top of the old white paint-chipped wooden chair in the veranda screaming “it’s lousy, it’s lousy—Ambroise, for God’s sake come in here and do something.”

Papa, sitting at the dining room table, his pipe puffing in his mouth, filling their little stucco house with the sweet smoky smell of tobacco, rose from his game of solitaire with a sigh, and came wearily out to the veranda. He put on his fishing gear—waterproof jacket, pants, hat with a mesh face that was to keep the mosquitoes off, boots and all. He went in with the small net he used for catching smelts and swooped the bird into it in a flash. He gently stroked the little finch’s back and after a few moments rest, she recovered and flew off. Mum moaned with relief, rubbing at her neck with iodine, to soothe her rising blood pressure, a curse since she’d contracted Scarlett Fever, as a girl, back home in Scotland. Papa walked back to the dining room table, to his unfinished game. 

Later that same day, Sydney’s wedding day, everyone who’d attended said it had been the blood-curdling sound of Mum’s bawling, reverberating off the stained-glass ceiling of St. Patrick’s Cathedral as they were ushered silently out the doors, that stayed with them. Haunted them.

It haunted everyone afterward because it was that same bawling Mum had done thirteen years earlier, at the Wesley Street United Church on the day Ambroise James Archambault Jr. 

was christened. He was a month old and, later, seemed to mean more to Mum than all three of her girls combined. And it was the saddest of days for, not only was it the day of his christening, but it was also the day of his funeral. The baby boy, so cherished, so rejoiced over in the Archambault household—his birth marked by Papa bringing out his Chateau Julien cigars—the finest longleaf, Cuban-seed tobacco, stored in his humidor along with his pipe tobacco, handed out to everyone who arrived at the house to congratulate them on the birth of their son; the cigars served with some of the Cointreau from the dining room cabinet, poured out sparingly into Mum’s cordial glasses—until one morning little Ambroise Jr. did not wake up when Mum went to get him from his crib.

“The pastor at the hospital thinks it best—that it would aid in Mum’s grieving and healing—to have a funeral,” Papa said. And so, on that same day as he was to be christened, Mum dressed Ambroise James Archambault Jr. in the long, white satin gown she’d ordered, made especially for him for christening. His soft dark curls peeked out beneath his bonnet, a feature at birth, a full head of hair, such a beautiful baby he’d been, everyone said so.

“He looks like a girl, wearing that silly dress,” Sydney hissed, as he was carried down the aisle to the front of the church.

Afterward, Mum was never really herself again—“it was the post-partum on top of everything else,” Aunt Bessie said later when she’d come all the way down on the train from Winnipeg to help out. Mum took straight to her bed, as soon as Aunt Bessie arrived, and lay there, day after day, night after night, in the dark, clutching onto a locket of baby Ambroise’s hair and the blanket she’d brought him home from the hospital in after he was born. It frightened Sydney. She was only just five years old then. A grey hush settled in over their little stucco house 

on Cumberland Street, and Sydney wished Ambroise James Archambault Jr. had never been born.

Maisie was practically still a baby herself then, just nineteen months old, and after a few weeks, Mum clung to the poor child as if she was all she had left. Alone in her bedroom with Maisie, Mum fed and changed and cooed over her, focusing on her, tending to her needs—the two of them lost to the world. 

Sydney loitered outside the bedroom door, continuously trying the handle of the doorknob, but it was kept locked. Mum seemed to have forgotten she was even there. She slunk to the floor and held her ear to the door, listening, waiting. Sydney sat, rubbing the tears from her eyes with her fists until Aunt Bessie softly tip-toed over and took her by the hand, shushing her with a finger against her lips.

“Dorothy’s just about gone right out of her mind, poor thing,” Aunt Bessie bemoaned, of Mum. She shook her head, back and forth, slowly, one hand on her hip over a yellow floral apron. She was leaning on the fence, standing among a bed of snap peas in the garden in the back yard, speaking in low tones to Spencer Frye’s mother next door. 

Later, when she’d come back into the kitchen, Aunt Bessie whispered warily into the telephone on the dining room wall, “I think it’s some sort of a transference that has taken place.” She said this to Uncle Thierry, who was Papa’s brother and Aunt Bessie’s husband of thirteen years. He was calling from Winnipeg. “But there’s no harm in it, I suppose, and, God willing, she’s bound to get better in time.”

Every morning, Aunt Bessie gently shook Sydney awake and took care of her for the day while Mum was busy with Maisie. After a breakfast of cream of wheat cereal and prunes

spooned out of a tin, force-fed into Sydney’s scowling mouth—“they’re good for you,” Aunt Bessie would chuckle—she bathed her in the tub. Sydney giggled as she was rubbed down, from head to foot, dried off with a thick, terry towel that tickled her skin. Aunt Bessie helped her select a dress to wear from her closet, pulling it over Sydney’s head, strapping up her shoes, and then giving her a kiss on the cheek as Sydney opened the screen door when Aunt Bessie sent her out into the backyard to play with Spencer Frye. 

It was on one of those mornings, after Sunday school when Sydney had gone outside to play with Spencer Frye, that everything suddenly took an unexpected turn. A large puddle had formed from the spring rain, at the end of the lane in the back yard, next to the alley behind their house. Sydney and Spencer removed their clothes, folding them neatly and laying them out with their shoes on the stones, and jumped into the puddle to play. Mum happened to be up, out of her bedroom on one of those rare occasions, in the kitchen, warming a bottle for Maisie. She spotted them through the kitchen window. Sydney looked up to see Mum, racing down the stone path in the back garden, her large frame, swaddled in an apron, struggling to overtake Sydney’s small, child’s body, with short legs flying, out of the puddle and into the alley, her Beverley doll still grasped in her right hand, held high overhead, to prevent it from falling. The wooden spoon flailing, menacingly, threateningly, Sydney’s eyes large with fear as she turned to see if she had reached the end of her beating. They’d removed their freshly pressed clothes, to preserve them, and thought they’d be praised but Mum went right out of her head and began swatting Sydney over and over again, all over her naked body, with the wooden spoon, until her flesh was red and sore. Spencer grabbed his suit and shoes and ran to his house and slammed the door shut. 

Papa, sitting at the dining room table, the pipe puffing, the cards laid out—too important, too all-encompassing—to leave and come to her rescue.

“Isn’t she a little…a little…overly spirited?” Papa said to Aunt Bess afterward.

“Ah, tsk, she’s just expressing herself,” Aunt Bessie said.

Papa seemed lost in a stupor without Mum there to manage things, the way she usually did. In the evenings, when he returned to the house after work, before he'd even had any supper, he wandered off down the street to visit with Mr. Napier a few blocks over (whose wife had recently given birth to a baby as well) to commiserate over Ambroise Jr.’s loss. Otherwise, it was all he could do to cope with his job as a carpenter at the shipyard.

Left behind to run the Mulberry Bush—Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bessie’s small consignment children’s clothing store at Portage and Main—after a few weeks Uncle Thierry could no longer cope with the demands himself and, thus, after the incident in the puddle, it was decided there was nothing else to do but pack Sydney’s little brown and tan tweed suitcase and take her with them. 

“It’s just for a time,” Aunt Bessie said. “Just until your Mum’s back on her feet again.”

At first, Sydney was excited about the train ride to Winnipeg, about the packing of her five-year-old’s belongings into the little suitcase, emptying her piggy bank of all its jangling coins to take with her, wrapping her Beverley doll in a blanket, and carrying her under her arm for the journey. But almost as soon as she arrived at Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bessie’s quiet, small brick bungalow, Sydney wanted to go back home again. 

Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bessie had no children of their own; everything in their living room was just so, with crocheted white and ecru doilies, each hand made by Aunt Bess to the right size for what sat upon them. Everything was still; Sydney heard the sound of the clock ticking back and forth above the mantle on the fireplace. 

When Uncle Thierry wasn’t working at the Mulberry Bush, he sat in his worn rocker and read his books. There was a wall of thick books behind his chair and he mulled through them with an air of contentment until he settled on the right one. An old phonograph someone had left on the back step of the Mulberry Bush early one morning, played a seventy-eight from a stack in a cardboard box in the corner, abandoned along with the phonograph. All of the records were classical music and Uncle Thierry seemed to particularly like Chopin, the Nocturnes. To Sydney, their living room seemed like someplace foreign. She missed Mum and she missed Maisie and she missed Papa. She didn’t understand why she’d been sent away. A feeling of panic began to set in.

“Events that happen pass away and are gone before you know it,” Aunt Bessie said, in an effort to console her. “At the time, they seem as though they will last forever. Later, they are nothing but a distant, fond, memory. This, you can count on.”

Papa wrote—“to My Dearest Little Sydney”—and then, quoting from her favorite nursery rhyme, “ ’with wings like a ladybird’, you’ll return home soon. Be brave and show Aunt Bess what a strong, well-behaved girl you can be.”

The weeks went on and Aunt Bessie, not knowing what else to do, took Sydney to the Mulberry Bush and set her to work, removing buttons from blouses and jackets that had a few missing 

ones, replacing them with new sets taken from other worn garments, or containers of buttons from the Salvation Army.

Papa’s letters dwindled in frequency over time and then one day Sydney heard Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bessie tsk, tsking over one they'd received in the mail. He was at his wits’ end, Papa said, and Aunt Bessie lowered her voice then, into an alarmingly hushed tone. She gasped, as she told Uncle Thierry there was word from Ambroise that Mum was still breastfeeding Maisie, now almost three and a half years old. The neighbors feared Mum might be going a little mad. 

    “Why she’s gone right out of her toque,” Aunt Bessie exclaimed to Uncle Thierry. 

     She forced a smile when she looked down and saw Sydney behind her, looking up with an ashen face. Then Aunt Bessie began humming nervously, pretending she was checking on the bread baking in the oven.

    Soon afterward, another letter arrived. Aunt Bessie bobbed up and down excitedly as she read it, flapping the parchment it was written on, at a loss for words. ‘Dorothy is saved by the news of another baby to come,’ Papa had told them gleefully in the letter. 

    The baby Mum was expecting was to be Deirdre, who they later nick-named Deedee because she hated her given name but, at the time Mum had her hopes set on another boy. Uncle Thierry began to complain he feared they may never send for Sydney. She seemed to have been forgotten but Aunt Bessie told her later that secretly she’d hoped they’d be able to keep her. 

“I’m beginning to like having a good-natured little girl around the house,” she said.

    Sydney almost began to feel as though she belonged to Aunt Bess now but Mum and Papa weren’t providing any money or any other form of compensation for her care—“they likely think 

we can afford to keep on feeding her since we don’t have any of our own,” Sydney overheard Uncle Thierry say. 

    All the news on the radio began to upset Uncle Thierry after that, and he spoke of it constantly—there was talk of fear of another depression and the falling of the stock market, talk of the banks failing and unemployment running above twenty percent, of war clouds gathering in Europe—and it made him increasingly anxious. 

     “It’s just not fair. It’s not right to pass on the responsibility for your child to someone else,” Uncle Thierry griped. His grumbling increased by the day after he’d had news of the impending baby to come and so, in a matter of months, ‘with wings like a ladybird,’ Sydney was sent home again, just after Deedee was born.

She was glad to be back in their little stucco house on Cumberland Street, their house that had remained so grand, so large in her memory, but was actually, she discovered upon her return, really quite small. She was glad to be back to Papa’s pipe, always in his mouth, and the sweet smoky smell of his tobacco but she felt as a visitor might in her old bedroom that Maisie had gotten used to having to herself. There was plenty to do around the house though, with Maisie now a preschooler and Deedee just an infant. Mum soon engaged Sydney in warming bottles and changing and washing diapers. She hummed Uncle Thierry’s tunes to herself as she worked, to stave off the monotony.

She missed being with Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bessie and their quiet, gentle ways, much more than she had anticipated and, for a while, she was sad not to be with them. For, as stiff as they were, they’d been kind to her and she longed for the peace of being an only child with all the attention. Those summer days Sydney had spent outside in their garden, in the sunshine, 

watching, listening, running across to the other side of the yard when she saw a small, red, speckled ladybug alight on a leaf, or scratch in the dirt in the cracks of the sidewalk, trying to see its wings. The endless music of Uncle Thierry’s records wafting out through the open window— Chopin and the Nocturnes.

Deedee proved to be a bit of a poor sickly little thing, regularly catching pneumonia in the wintertime. Mum was busy cooking and taking care of Maisie, who was “attached at the hip,” to Mum now, as Papa always said. “It’s unnatural how that girl clings to her mother.”

Of course, it was Sydney who was expected to hold vigil at Deedee’s bedside each winter, keeping a cold compress on her forehead, reading her stories to keep her mind attuned, watching the unsteadiness of her breathing. She was always at the ready with a hot bowl of tomato soup or a tomato sandwich when she finally opened her eyes. When Deedee started kindergarten, Sydney rose early each morning to walk her to school.

           For almost as long as she could remember, Sydney had always felt she’d had to look after herself. She knew that, with Mum and Papa, she always would be. She yearned for someone to cherish her and dote on her as Mum did on Maisie, as she did for Deedee. The way, for that brief time, Aunt Bessie and Uncle Thierry had on her. 

“ ‘With wings like a ladybird’ Sydney, you’ll come home to me,” Papa had said and now, here she was.

Sydney wasn’t sure if it was because of Ambroise Jr. or the economic recession, or both, but there were no more birthday parties anymore either, or gifts at Christmas. That first Christmas, after she’d come home, there was no longer even the pretense of Santa Claus and there was no Christmas tree in the living room with presents stacked underneath, as there used to be or there was at Uncle Thierry and Aunt Bess’s house.

That first Christmas home, they’d each been given a woolen stocking with a Mandarin orange in the toe, a handful of mixed nuts still in their shell, a few peppermint candies and a white Gideon’s bible with the New Testament. The bibles, their only gifts, weren’t wrapped in anything other than the matching sock to their stocking. 

They’d been made to gather in the living room, the three girls lined up on the sofa after breakfast and each read a passage from the Bible. Afterward, Mum said the Lord’s Prayer as they kneeled on the floor with heads bowed and hands clasped. Sydney had felt nostalgic and prayed under her breath to be returned to Uncle Thierry’s ritual of listening to Handel’s Messiah on Christmas morning while drinking a rum and eggnog and opening their gifts.

Just when Sydney thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, Mum made them get on their hands and knees after they finished reading their bibles, clean and scrub all the floors in the house, then they’d had to take down and wash all the curtains. “To give thanks to the Dear Lord, before the evening meal,” Mum said.

Sydney had been afraid that Mum wouldn’t let her play with Spencer Frye anymore either, when she got back, because of what happened in the puddle, “No, no, no. No daughter of mine is going to turn out to be a heathen,” was all she remembered Mum shouting that day, as 

she’d walloped her with the wooden spoon. In Mum’s eyes, boys were sacred though, and she seemed to hold no malice toward Spencer Frye.

“He’s a Godsend; like being given back the son we lost,” Mum and Papa both said, teary-eyed.”

Spencer had taken it upon himself to help with the chores after Sydney left—cutting the grass, carrying the garbage from the house to the back lane, or working side by side along with Papa to fix a broken chair.

Spencer had grown by the time Sydney had come home anyway, into that awkward stage, where they were both too old to play together anymore. He was bigger, broader and his straight sandy hair, parted to the side, hung in his blue-gray eyes that seemed to look shyly at her now.

He sat at the desk behind her at school now too. He teased her and pulled her hair or toyed with the zipper on the back of her dress. Sydney often turned back and scowled at him but, still, she felt an unmistakable sadness, an irrational feeling that everyone she’d ever loved was going to leave her, including him, when, at the age of sixteen, on the day their school pictures were handed out, he asked if they could exchange one with each other.

“What do you want a picture of me for? We can look at each other’s ducky faces every day of the week if we want to,” Sydney said.

“Yeah, well, not for long,” Spencer said. “I’ve enlisted. I’m going overseas, as soon as school’s out.”

“Why did you go and do that? Do you want to get yourself killed?” Sydney almost started to cry and she felt angry with him yet she wasn’t sure why.

“No, I won’t. I’ll be back, don’t worry. I don’t know, Frenchie, I want to see the world. I feel like I need to do something in the war. I want to serve my country, as my father did. Besides, what else is there to do around here, anyway?” Spencer said.

He’d taken to calling her Frenchie—or worse, Frog—over the last few years. He was the only one who did and generally it annoyed her; but that day, she found she’d started liking it, his affection, as though a part of her belonged to him.

So, when Sydney saw Mum standing there next to Elliott Caldwell, looking happier than she’d ever seen her, she’d felt both a rush of gratitude and curiosity at seeing Mum so joyful and a sense of betrayal to Spencer. He was the one she said was a Godsend. He was the one she’d welcomed as her lost son but Sydney had never seen Mum fawn over him as she did with this English stranger.

Elliott Caldwell looks to be quite a bit older than I am Sydney thought—maybe even close to thirty. He was a tall man with dark brown eyes, almost black, and dark curly hair, similar to hers, neatly trimmed and coiffed. He had an easy smile and a fresh scent of manly soap about him. He rose when he greeted her and looked her straight in the eye. “So lovely to meet you,” he said, in his English accent. His charm made her flush and turn her head away and a rush of excitement rippled through her.

“He’s no cockney, that one,” Mum said after he left. “No, that one’s a gentleman. Educated too, I’m guessing.”

“So, what’s an educated Englishman doing in Current River begging for soup then?” Sydney said. 

“Uh, no, No. He came to the door selling those new little round glass things, those door viewers—Papa calls them peepholes—the ones you put on your front door so you can look through and see who’s there,” Mum said. “Mr. Caldwell said there’s been forced break-ins with some of the hobos, up from Current River, ‘desperate men do desperate things,’ he said; but I said I didn’t need one of those gadgets, that God was protecting us, looking out for our little family. He insisted though, so I told him I couldn’t afford one and when I offered him a bowl of soup and some lunch instead, he said he’d put one in for me anyway, in exchange for me advertising it to the neighbors, telling them about it.” Mum chuckled at her own sense of cleverness and at the needlessness of such things.

It was a few months later, that Sydney saw Elliott Caldwell again. She and Helka were at the Wesley Street United Church, where they went for the weekly Saturday night dances. She’d first met Helka the week after she got back from Winnipeg— ‘the only daughter of Finns’, as Mum called them—Finnish immigrants—and she and Sydney had been inseparable ever since. Sydney was working the coat check that night and had arrived early and was playing the piano until the band started. Elliott appeared in the middle of her choppy rendition of the Moonlight Sonata that Aunt Bess had taught her. He walked over, without removing his coat, and joined her at the piano. He played classical music too, similar to the kind Uncle Thierry used to listen to on his records. Everyone gathered around listening anyway, mesmerized by this beautiful English gentleman who was smiling, enraptured, as though he’d waited his entire life to find a piano again.

Afterward, when the band started, Elliott spotted Sydney at the coat check and beamed broadly at her. He seemed happy to see her and looked relieved, almost as though he’d been searching for her. Sydney had just turned seventeen on her last birthday and she couldn’t see why he would be interested in her.

Sydney wasn’t one of the girls who stood in front of the band and waited to be asked to dance. It wasn’t that she was shy, reserved perhaps, but she was not the sort to parade in front of men. Instead, when she wasn’t working at the coat check, Sydney sat at the back of one of the tables around the room, smiling, sipping on iced tea, content to watch the people and the band until she was properly introduced. It was on account of that very reserve, Elliott Caldwell told her later, that he singled her out. Some sort of an instant attraction to her goodness. 

Helka filled in for her, at the coat check, and Sydney and Elliott danced that first night, their bodies first at more of a distance, then later, closer, the tip of his nose resting on her neck in such a way as to give rise to feelings Sydney had never before encountered. 

The room was plain, with no windows and an old worn wooden dance floor, dimly lit. The band played a slow song softly in the background and it all seemed magical to Sydney, as though that room had suddenly been transformed.

“You have bedroom eyes,” Elliot told her, “beautiful brown bedroom eyes,” he said as he looked down into them, holding her face in his hands. 

She’d wondered then, just for a second—something had flickered in his eyes—whether he was what Mum thought—whether he was the educated English gentleman Mum seemed to think he was; but in the dim light and his brown-black eyes, Sydney saw the first stirrings of love. He kissed her goodbye gently, first with a slight touch on each of her cheeks, then lightly on her lips. Afterward, she was unable to stop thinking of him.