Stone Diaries, The - Carol Shields [119]
Happiness grows at our own fireside and is not to be picked in strangers’ gardens
Firesides! Gardens! Tip-toeing down the hall at two a.m. and pausing to read these words, she wants to snort with laughter.
Both she and Lewis believe the verse to be an admonition against the kind of rapture they have uncovered these last few days.
Night after night, in the crisp white sheets of Mr. Sinclair’s genteel establishment, they go deeper and deeper into that mystery, sleeping and waking, and bringing to life those parts of themselves they had thought stunted, disentitled. A year ago, even a month ago, each would have scorned the accidental convergence of island air, soft sunlight, long days—and the possibility of scientific miscalculation, even failure—convincing themselves that the rewards of erotic love were no more than a temporary recompense, a consolation for the poor in spirit.
She has said nothing to Aunt Daisy about her discovery, or about her plans for the future, knowing as she does her greataunt’s concern over her son Warren, his two divorces, and now Alice’s bitter separation from her husband, Ben. Victoria suspects that Aunt Daisy—though how can she know this for sure?—might endorse the sentiments of the Victorian wall plate, believing that, all things considered, the gardens of strangers are more likely to bring harm than happiness.
"I should warn you," Mrs. Betty Holloway said, "he is completely bedridden. Incontinent naturally."
"Well, yes, I understand."
"Another thing, Mrs. Flett, he scarcely sees at all. Cataracts. Inoperable at his age."
"To be expected, I suppose."
"Surprisingly, he does have some hearing in one ear."
"Oh."
"But is completely deaf in the other. Has been for a long time."
"I see."
"He tires very easily."
"I won’t stay long."
"You’re a relative, you say?"
"Well, I’m not sure. I might be. On my husband’s side."
"He has no family. Not around here at any rate. Sad, isn’t it."
"Very."
"And, of course, when you get to his age, not that many do, well, you don’t have a great many friends come visiting."
"Do you happen to know if Mr. Flett ever lived in Canada?"
"Canada? Well, I don’t know now. It used to be lots of our young men would go out to Canada for a few years. Make their fortunes.
There wasn’t much opportunity here in those days."
"But about Mr. Flett. There must be records. Something written down."
"All we know is he was living up at Sandwick before he came here. Looking after himself. Living on his own. Growing a few vegetables, cutting his own turfs. Folk who knew him then said he was a bit of a hermit. Kept to himself. Very fond of reading."
"Jane Eyre."
"Yes, to be sure, that’s the one."
"But when he came here to live, he must have had some papers, some old letters perhaps."
"Not that I know of, no letters, no personal papers, if that’s what you mean, birth certificates—no, nothing like that."
"A wedding ring, perhaps."
"I don’t believe so, no. Of course men didn’t used to wear wedding rings, now, did they? Well, things are different now."
"That’s true."
"He did have one old photograph, all folded up under his clothes. We put it away for him."
"Do you think I could see it?"
"Well, seeing as you’re family—"
"Oh, I’m not absolutely sure of that—"
"Now I’ve got that photograph here somewhere in his folder.
It’s a bunch of women, a sort of portrait, if I remember—ah yes, here it is."
"What a pity it was folded, the faces all cracked. Oh. They’re lovely though, what I can make out. Oh."
"Yes, well, it was folded when he came in here. He must have folded it himself. We do our best to look after the personal effects of our patients."
"I didn’t mean—"
"There’s something written on the back."
"Oh, yes. It says . . . it says, ‘The Ladies Rhythm and Movement Club.’ But there’s no date."
"Early in the century, I should think. From the looks of those dresses."
"A long time ago."
"Yes indeed. Well, shall I show you in to Mr. Flett’s