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Authors: Richard B. Wright
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me at the door. She must have seen something in my face, but I was not in tears. Why? Already his death was a fact. Unalterable. I said this to her. I rememberthe words. “I think Father must have had a heart attack in his sleep. He’s gone.”
Mrs. Bryden’s puzzled, kind little face. “Gone, Clara? Do you mean he’s passed away? Oh, my dear child!”
Hurrying across the yard with me, the rainy wind in our faces. Mrs. Bryden surprised me by her quickness. She is Father’s age exactly, but nimble and quick, a little sparrow of a woman. In the bedroom she bent over him and pulled the sheet across his face. “Yes, yes, you’re right. He’s gone, poor Ed. We must phone the doctor.”
Friday, April 19
Marion came by this evening with Mildred Craig and her mother to decide on the music for the wedding. Mrs. C. favoured “The Holy City,” but her daughter wanted “Because.” Marion suggested “I Love You Truly.” When asked for my opinion, I said that any or all would wring dry the hearts of the wedding guests and therefore would be suitable. Wry little looks of bafflement from the Craigs and Marion’s usual benign acknowledgement of my strangeness. “Oh, shoot, Clara. You never take anything seriously.” Wrong, wrong, wrong, I felt like saying, but didn’t, of course. In the end I played and Marion sang all three ditties. The pretty little bride and Mum were won over by “I Love You Truly,” which Marion shrewdly sang last.
Whitfield, Ontario
Sunday, April 21, 1935
Dear Nora,
Sorry to have upset you with my last letter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone on like that about God and faith. You musn’t worry, Nora. I have no intention of laying the sharp edge of the paring knife against my wrists. It’s spring, for goodness’ sake. I am reconciled to my state; of course, I have to rethink the notion of time. If I no longer believe inimmortality (heaven, if you like), then it follows that my time is finite. It will therefore end one day and so the question becomes, How may I best use what time is left to me? That’s what I must work on. I have to confess that when I last wrote to you, I was a little edgy and distraught. Perhaps I still am, but not as much. It’s just that I must learn how to live another way.
Are you still appearing in those detective shows and hospital dramas? When will Miss Dowling’s saga of small-town life appear? Has your handsome announcer made his pass yet? Should I buy a radio or continue to play the piano? Answer to these questions will bring immense peace of mind.
Clara
Saturday, May 4
The Accompanist at the Wedding . I was thinking of those five words as the title of a poem this afternoon. It was three o’clock and Marion was singing “I Love You Truly.” The lovely afternoon light was colouring Jesus and the Apostles on the church windows. I was thinking of a woman like myself who plays the piano for other women’s celebrations. There she is in her blue dress and white shoes at the piano. And will she be playing for Millie Craig’s daughter in twenty years? Will she be there again in say, 1955? A woman of fifty-two with thickened waist and ankles? With grey in her hair? I wonder.
Monday, May 6
The silver jubilee of King George and Queen Mary and all over the province there have been celebrations. Today we marched the children to the cenotaph and stood listening to the local MPP, a well-fed lawyer from Linden, talking about the greatness of the Royal Family and how privileged we all are to be a part of the British Empire, the “greatest family of countries the world has ever known.” The children holdingtheir little Union Jacks listening respectfully to this windbag. No mention at all of the men without work who have no means to feed their families. Who each week have to endure the humiliation of Relief. The man’s sanctimonious blather made my blood boil. Cheered up, however, by a letter from Nora who seems to be enjoying life in the Great Republic.
Tatham House
Mrs. Bryden’s puzzled, kind little face. “Gone, Clara? Do you mean he’s passed away? Oh, my dear child!”
Hurrying across the yard with me, the rainy wind in our faces. Mrs. Bryden surprised me by her quickness. She is Father’s age exactly, but nimble and quick, a little sparrow of a woman. In the bedroom she bent over him and pulled the sheet across his face. “Yes, yes, you’re right. He’s gone, poor Ed. We must phone the doctor.”
Friday, April 19
Marion came by this evening with Mildred Craig and her mother to decide on the music for the wedding. Mrs. C. favoured “The Holy City,” but her daughter wanted “Because.” Marion suggested “I Love You Truly.” When asked for my opinion, I said that any or all would wring dry the hearts of the wedding guests and therefore would be suitable. Wry little looks of bafflement from the Craigs and Marion’s usual benign acknowledgement of my strangeness. “Oh, shoot, Clara. You never take anything seriously.” Wrong, wrong, wrong, I felt like saying, but didn’t, of course. In the end I played and Marion sang all three ditties. The pretty little bride and Mum were won over by “I Love You Truly,” which Marion shrewdly sang last.
Whitfield, Ontario
Sunday, April 21, 1935
Dear Nora,
Sorry to have upset you with my last letter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone on like that about God and faith. You musn’t worry, Nora. I have no intention of laying the sharp edge of the paring knife against my wrists. It’s spring, for goodness’ sake. I am reconciled to my state; of course, I have to rethink the notion of time. If I no longer believe inimmortality (heaven, if you like), then it follows that my time is finite. It will therefore end one day and so the question becomes, How may I best use what time is left to me? That’s what I must work on. I have to confess that when I last wrote to you, I was a little edgy and distraught. Perhaps I still am, but not as much. It’s just that I must learn how to live another way.
Are you still appearing in those detective shows and hospital dramas? When will Miss Dowling’s saga of small-town life appear? Has your handsome announcer made his pass yet? Should I buy a radio or continue to play the piano? Answer to these questions will bring immense peace of mind.
Clara
Saturday, May 4
The Accompanist at the Wedding . I was thinking of those five words as the title of a poem this afternoon. It was three o’clock and Marion was singing “I Love You Truly.” The lovely afternoon light was colouring Jesus and the Apostles on the church windows. I was thinking of a woman like myself who plays the piano for other women’s celebrations. There she is in her blue dress and white shoes at the piano. And will she be playing for Millie Craig’s daughter in twenty years? Will she be there again in say, 1955? A woman of fifty-two with thickened waist and ankles? With grey in her hair? I wonder.
Monday, May 6
The silver jubilee of King George and Queen Mary and all over the province there have been celebrations. Today we marched the children to the cenotaph and stood listening to the local MPP, a well-fed lawyer from Linden, talking about the greatness of the Royal Family and how privileged we all are to be a part of the British Empire, the “greatest family of countries the world has ever known.” The children holdingtheir little Union Jacks listening respectfully to this windbag. No mention at all of the men without work who have no means to feed their families. Who each week have to endure the humiliation of Relief. The man’s sanctimonious blather made my blood boil. Cheered up, however, by a letter from Nora who seems to be enjoying life in the Great Republic.
Tatham House
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