Stone Diaries, The - Carol Shields [112]
If you were to ask Victoria’s Great-aunt Daisy the story of her life she would purse her lips for a moment—that ruby-red efflorescence—and stutter out an edited hybrid version, handing it to you somewhat shyly, but without apology, without equivocation that is: this is what happened, she would say from the unreachable recesses of her seventy-two years, and this is what happened next.
It’s hard to say whether she’s comfortable with her blend of distortion and omission, its willfulness, in fact; but she is accustomed to it. And it’s occurred to her that there are millions, billions, of other men and women in the world who wake up early in their separate beds, greedy for the substance of their own lives, but obliged every day to reinvent themselves.
In June of 1977, just two months after their Easter lunch at the Ringling Hotel, her grandniece, Victoria Flett, phoned from Toronto and said, "Hey, guess what?—I’m going to the Orkney Islands on a research project. Next week. Why don’t you come with me. It would be a terrific holiday, and we can"—for some reason Victoria’s voice carried a ribbon of laughter—"we can go put some flowers on Magnus Flett’s grave."
"The Orkney Islands!" her daughter Joan said during their customary Sunday telephone call. "But I thought you said you were going to come up to Portland this year, you said you’d stay with the girls so Ross and I could get away for a couple of days, they were looking forward to seeing Grandma. It’s always Grandma this and Grandma that, and now you’re talking about the Orkneys."
"Have you looked this place up on a map?" her son Warren said.
"Do you even know where the Orkney Islands are?"
"Why the hell not?" Alice said in her acquired English accent.
"About time you crossed the pond. As long as you stay with me and the kids for a few days coming and going."
"Of course you’ll go," Fraidy said. "I’ll do your volunteer afternoon for you, and we’ll cancel bridge for once."
"Leave your passport to me," Labina’s husband, Bud, said. "Just get your photos done, fill out the form, and I’ll drop it off at the federal building in Tampa where I just happen to have a few connections—a fellow there who owes me a favor. The whole thing’ll be over and out in ten minutes flat, take my word for it."
"What you need," Labina (Beans) said, "is a proper wool suit.
These Florida blends won’t do in that unholy climate, not at all. I almost froze my behind off that time I was in Scotland, and that was only Edinburgh, not way up north where you’re heading. A wool suit, a Perma-press blouse and a couple of very, very fine sweaters to switch off with, you won’t need another thing."
"Walking shoes," Victoria said on the telephone. "Never mind what they look like."
"And an umbrella." Fraidy said. "The folding kind."
"Cancel the umbrella," Victoria said. "See if you can get one of those plastic ponchos with a hood."
"Sorry we can’t get you the package deal," the travel agent in Bradenton said, "but the fact is, we need at least three weeks’ notice for that, and besides, we don’t have all that much information on the Orkney Islands."
"Frankly," said Marian McHenry, who lives in the condo across the hall, "I’d rather see my own country first instead of traipsing around over there. Have you seen Washington D.C.? I mean, really seen it?"
"No one needs inoculations any more for Europe," Dr. Neerly told her, "But I’m going to write you a prescription for travelers’ trots. Also one for constipation. And you’ll want to take along your own anti-allergy pillow, they probably still use chicken feathers over there, or straw."
"I hope to heaven you’ve made firm hotel reservations."
"Personally, we wouldn’t dream of booking ahead, it takes all the fun out of it, we like to play it by ear, you know what I mean?
Will o’ the wisp, that’s us."
"You honestly haven’t been to Europe since 1927? Honest? Oh boy, are you in for a surprise."
"I didn’t know you’d been to Europe before." (Joan, phoning from Portland on a Tuesday night.) "I mean, you never once mentioned it."
"For God