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Authors: Margaret Laurence
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them more.
A-Okay thrust a wodge of papers into Morag’s hands. He was a tall gangling man in his late twenties, still having something of an adolescent awkwardness about his limbs. He would frequently crash into tables, although sober, unaware of their presence until overtaken, and as an accidental dish-breaker he was without peer. He was, admittedly, shortsighted, and although he owned a pair of specs, he seldom wore them, believing them to indicate a subconscious desire to distance oneself from others. The result was that he was considerably more distanced from others, and from assorted objects, than he need have been. But let it pass. His was a heart of sterling or oak, stalwart. Morag’s unofficial protector,believing her to be in need of one, which indeed she sometimes was.
“Thanks, A-Okay,” Morag said. “I’ll read them later. As you know, I don’t think well off the top of my head. I’ll be over at your place soon, anyway. I’m going with Royland, when he does your well. All right?”
“A-Okay,” said A-Okay, this being the reason for his nickname. Maudie always called him Alf. He always called her Maude, a name Morag found unsuitable. Come into the garden, Maude. Maudie sounded more appropriate. Maudie herself was slender and small and would probably look young at fifty, a plain scrubbed face, blonde hair worn long or in a plait, her dress nearly always ankle-length, granny-type, in gingham she sewed determinedly herself on a hand-cranker sewing machine. A wonder she didn’t sew by hand with needle, thread and tiny silver thimble. At night. By coal-oil lamp.
“Can I make some coffee, Morag?”
“Sure, Maudie. You know where everything is.”
“Heard from Pique yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well,” Maudie said, her voice clear and musical as a meadowlark’s, “she was right to go. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeh.” Yes. Truthfully. No need to hammer the point home, thanks.
“And she’s right not to communicate, too.” Maudie, like Shakespeare, knew everything. “She will, in time, but she’s got to find herself first.”
“Oh balls, Maudie,” Morag said, ashamed of her annoyance but unable to prevent it. “One postcard wouldn’t destroy her self-discovery, I would’ve thought.”
“Symbolically, it might do just that.”
“Yeh. Maybe.” Morag’s voice lacked conviction.
Maudie with a cool efficiency produced a percolator full of real coffee in less time than Morag would have taken to make Instant.
“I’ve been thinking about that back vegetable garden of yours, Morag,” A-Okay said. “How be if I dig it out for you again? It’s kind of gone to seed, since–well, since we left. Now don’t take offense–you know I don’t mean it that way. I know it’s a little late this spring, but at least you could put in lettuce and stuff.”
“We’ve got ours nearly dug,” Maudie said, eyes bright as goldfinches’ wings. “I put in six packets of seeds yesterday.”
Morag felt trapped. For one glorious summer the Smiths had grown vegetables in Morag’s garden. At present, nothing was there except weeds.
“A-Okay, my dear, there is no way I’m going to slog around in that huge vegetable garden as long as I can bring in supplies from McConnell’s Landing.”
Both the Smiths looked away, embarrassed, troubled for her. Traitoress. Lackey to the System.
“By taxi?” A-Okay murmured.
“By packhorse would be better? The taxis are running anyway. This way, I’m not adding to the effluvia in the air.”
A small moment of triumph. Then the recognition that the reason she shopped by taxi was quite simply that she was afraid of driving and refused to learn.
“True,” A-Okay said. “But I was actually thinking of the cost, right at the moment.”
“Look at it this way,” Morag continued. “If I spent all my time gardening, how in hell could I get any writing done? No great loss, you may say, but it’d be a loss to me , and also I need a minimal income, even
A-Okay thrust a wodge of papers into Morag’s hands. He was a tall gangling man in his late twenties, still having something of an adolescent awkwardness about his limbs. He would frequently crash into tables, although sober, unaware of their presence until overtaken, and as an accidental dish-breaker he was without peer. He was, admittedly, shortsighted, and although he owned a pair of specs, he seldom wore them, believing them to indicate a subconscious desire to distance oneself from others. The result was that he was considerably more distanced from others, and from assorted objects, than he need have been. But let it pass. His was a heart of sterling or oak, stalwart. Morag’s unofficial protector,believing her to be in need of one, which indeed she sometimes was.
“Thanks, A-Okay,” Morag said. “I’ll read them later. As you know, I don’t think well off the top of my head. I’ll be over at your place soon, anyway. I’m going with Royland, when he does your well. All right?”
“A-Okay,” said A-Okay, this being the reason for his nickname. Maudie always called him Alf. He always called her Maude, a name Morag found unsuitable. Come into the garden, Maude. Maudie sounded more appropriate. Maudie herself was slender and small and would probably look young at fifty, a plain scrubbed face, blonde hair worn long or in a plait, her dress nearly always ankle-length, granny-type, in gingham she sewed determinedly herself on a hand-cranker sewing machine. A wonder she didn’t sew by hand with needle, thread and tiny silver thimble. At night. By coal-oil lamp.
“Can I make some coffee, Morag?”
“Sure, Maudie. You know where everything is.”
“Heard from Pique yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well,” Maudie said, her voice clear and musical as a meadowlark’s, “she was right to go. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeh.” Yes. Truthfully. No need to hammer the point home, thanks.
“And she’s right not to communicate, too.” Maudie, like Shakespeare, knew everything. “She will, in time, but she’s got to find herself first.”
“Oh balls, Maudie,” Morag said, ashamed of her annoyance but unable to prevent it. “One postcard wouldn’t destroy her self-discovery, I would’ve thought.”
“Symbolically, it might do just that.”
“Yeh. Maybe.” Morag’s voice lacked conviction.
Maudie with a cool efficiency produced a percolator full of real coffee in less time than Morag would have taken to make Instant.
“I’ve been thinking about that back vegetable garden of yours, Morag,” A-Okay said. “How be if I dig it out for you again? It’s kind of gone to seed, since–well, since we left. Now don’t take offense–you know I don’t mean it that way. I know it’s a little late this spring, but at least you could put in lettuce and stuff.”
“We’ve got ours nearly dug,” Maudie said, eyes bright as goldfinches’ wings. “I put in six packets of seeds yesterday.”
Morag felt trapped. For one glorious summer the Smiths had grown vegetables in Morag’s garden. At present, nothing was there except weeds.
“A-Okay, my dear, there is no way I’m going to slog around in that huge vegetable garden as long as I can bring in supplies from McConnell’s Landing.”
Both the Smiths looked away, embarrassed, troubled for her. Traitoress. Lackey to the System.
“By taxi?” A-Okay murmured.
“By packhorse would be better? The taxis are running anyway. This way, I’m not adding to the effluvia in the air.”
A small moment of triumph. Then the recognition that the reason she shopped by taxi was quite simply that she was afraid of driving and refused to learn.
“True,” A-Okay said. “But I was actually thinking of the cost, right at the moment.”
“Look at it this way,” Morag continued. “If I spent all my time gardening, how in hell could I get any writing done? No great loss, you may say, but it’d be a loss to me , and also I need a minimal income, even
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