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Authors: Vicki Delany
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spring. The carpet was a thick soft cream with a touch of blue edging. Navy blue horizontal blinds had been pulled back to let the morning light stream through two bay windows. Pillows were piled invitingly on the window seats in the bays. Luscious philodendrons sat in white wicker pots on either side of the windows, drinking in the morning sun.
“This is a beautiful room, Moira,” Elaine said. “Different from the rest of the cottage.”
Moira looked around her, admiring the surroundings with an air of long established comfort. “This is my study so I’ve done it up to suit to my taste. The cottage itself belongs to the Madison family, of course, thus I have chosen to keep the rest of it in the style as chosen by my grandmother and mother.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “Saves family arguments that way.”
Pleasantries over, the old woman clapped her hands. “Now to work. Where do we start?”
Elaine pulled a tiny tape recorder out of her sweater pocket. “With your permission, I’d like to tape all of our conversations. Simply because I have a hideously bad memory and it’s easier than writing everything down.”
Moira nodded.
“Before I begin going through your correspondence, if you could give me a general idea of how you want the memoirs to be constructed, who your audience is to be, what you hope to achieve? That sort of thing.” Elaine pressed the record button and whispered the date. She placed the machine on the desk between them and pulled a small notebook for jotting down comments to herself out of the other pocket. Ruth slipped across the room and took a seat in the bay window.
“This is to be a book about me, not about my family. We are a prominent family indeed, but my father and grandfather and my brothers-in-law can be accessed in any moderately competent history of Canadian business. Am I speaking loudly enough?”
“Yes.”
“I want this to be the story of the life of one Canadian woman. I won’t pretend false modesty and call myself ordinary; these surroundings would make a mockery of that word. But I do hope that my life has something to say to women today. It is so hard to get women’s stories told and once told, heard. Stories of who they really are, not as appendages to their husbands’ careers. Do you know what Maryon Pearson said when asked about her husband’s success?”
Of course Elaine did. Maryon Pearson was the wife of the late Lester B. (called Mike), a much-loved former Prime Minister of Canada. But she knew better than to interrupt the flow of narrative.
“She said that ‘behind every successful man stands a surprised woman.’ I always liked that line.” Moira chuckled with a warmth that made her appear decades younger.
“I decided that as I have the money and leisure to tell my story the way I want it to be told, I would do so. Is that all right with you, young woman?”
“Perfectly all right. A great idea.”
“Of course, I can’t forget about my family entirely. I’ll tell you about the early years, how wonderful it was growing up in this place, having everything a young girl could possibly want, and then some. But most of all I want to tell you about the war years. Those wonderful, terrible years in London and Italy, and all the people I knew back then. And my years in Central Europe with the Red Cross and after that my work for Médecins Sans Frontières.”
Elaine looked up. “You were with Doctors Without Borders? How absolutely fantastic. But you didn’t mention that in your letter.”
“No, I didn’t. I thought it would be a nice surprise. I went to Zaire with them, in 1978.” She coughed lightly, then with more strength, until a fit of choking had Ruth rushing over from her seat by the window with a glass of water. She placed one hand on the back of Moira’s head and helped the old woman to take a sip.
“You’re too tired for any more of this,” Ruth said, sounding more nanny than assistant. “Let Elaine get into the storage room
“This is a beautiful room, Moira,” Elaine said. “Different from the rest of the cottage.”
Moira looked around her, admiring the surroundings with an air of long established comfort. “This is my study so I’ve done it up to suit to my taste. The cottage itself belongs to the Madison family, of course, thus I have chosen to keep the rest of it in the style as chosen by my grandmother and mother.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “Saves family arguments that way.”
Pleasantries over, the old woman clapped her hands. “Now to work. Where do we start?”
Elaine pulled a tiny tape recorder out of her sweater pocket. “With your permission, I’d like to tape all of our conversations. Simply because I have a hideously bad memory and it’s easier than writing everything down.”
Moira nodded.
“Before I begin going through your correspondence, if you could give me a general idea of how you want the memoirs to be constructed, who your audience is to be, what you hope to achieve? That sort of thing.” Elaine pressed the record button and whispered the date. She placed the machine on the desk between them and pulled a small notebook for jotting down comments to herself out of the other pocket. Ruth slipped across the room and took a seat in the bay window.
“This is to be a book about me, not about my family. We are a prominent family indeed, but my father and grandfather and my brothers-in-law can be accessed in any moderately competent history of Canadian business. Am I speaking loudly enough?”
“Yes.”
“I want this to be the story of the life of one Canadian woman. I won’t pretend false modesty and call myself ordinary; these surroundings would make a mockery of that word. But I do hope that my life has something to say to women today. It is so hard to get women’s stories told and once told, heard. Stories of who they really are, not as appendages to their husbands’ careers. Do you know what Maryon Pearson said when asked about her husband’s success?”
Of course Elaine did. Maryon Pearson was the wife of the late Lester B. (called Mike), a much-loved former Prime Minister of Canada. But she knew better than to interrupt the flow of narrative.
“She said that ‘behind every successful man stands a surprised woman.’ I always liked that line.” Moira chuckled with a warmth that made her appear decades younger.
“I decided that as I have the money and leisure to tell my story the way I want it to be told, I would do so. Is that all right with you, young woman?”
“Perfectly all right. A great idea.”
“Of course, I can’t forget about my family entirely. I’ll tell you about the early years, how wonderful it was growing up in this place, having everything a young girl could possibly want, and then some. But most of all I want to tell you about the war years. Those wonderful, terrible years in London and Italy, and all the people I knew back then. And my years in Central Europe with the Red Cross and after that my work for Médecins Sans Frontières.”
Elaine looked up. “You were with Doctors Without Borders? How absolutely fantastic. But you didn’t mention that in your letter.”
“No, I didn’t. I thought it would be a nice surprise. I went to Zaire with them, in 1978.” She coughed lightly, then with more strength, until a fit of choking had Ruth rushing over from her seat by the window with a glass of water. She placed one hand on the back of Moira’s head and helped the old woman to take a sip.
“You’re too tired for any more of this,” Ruth said, sounding more nanny than assistant. “Let Elaine get into the storage room
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