thing, and they had stories of wooden eavestroughs lasting two generations, and wooden shingles holding up longer than clay tiles. In the end we lost the contract to a Belgian company. They had cheaper wood from the Congo. A black, very hard wood.
Bois de fer
, we called it.”
“I think in English it’s also called ironwood, Mrs. Giroux. There’s a version of it in North America. I don’t know if it’s black, but from what I hear it’s hard enough on tools. And I’ve read about winter wood cut by the moon.”
“Yes,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then nodded at him and said she did not want to keep him. She walked away down the stairs, holding on to the wooden rail.
Back in Montmagny after the interminable return journey, she and Juliette took turns at Mother’s bedside. Mother had become pale and thin, and she lay with her eyes closed much of the time. She had difficulty breathing; at times her breath stopped altogether and then restarted with a convulsive effort.
“A grave illness,” Dr. Menasse said to Hélène after oneof his visits. “I am quite certain now what it is.”
“You are? What, doctor?”
“It’s a form of cancer, Madame. In the lungs, mostly. But perhaps also the liver and the spleen.”
He said he’d sent slides of blood and saliva to a laboratory and had viewed some slides himself under a microscope.
“Perhaps the fumes in the factory,” he said. “The shellac and the glue. We know that solvents can change the chemistry of blood, which would then affect vital organs. And all that wood dust, fine cellulose clogging the lungs.”
He looked down into the black crown of his hat and said, “The hospital might be a better place for her now, Madame.”
And so Mother was moved to the Misericordia, and Hélène rode there twice a day on her bicycle. Juliette would take a taxi and spend hours at Mother’s bedside and help the nurses look after her.
Hélène ordered cartons of surgical masks and made it a rule that they be worn by everyone on the factory floor. Claire had to put one on when she walked through the door, and Hélène wore one as well. When she saw men not wearing a mask, she called them into her mother’s office one by one and sat them down and spoke to them. In the finishing room she had a second exhaust fan put into the exterior wall and more filtered air intakes in the wall opposite.
Mother, who had always been so relentlessly clear-minded and strong-willed, who had been able to wrestle the cast-iron harp for a baby grand onto a dolly and drag it across the floor to the place of assembly, could nowhardly lift a cup to her lips.
Hélène rinsed her mother’s face and did her hair and put lipstick on her lips, and her mother was so thankful for each small kindness it made Hélène want to weep.
They were working long hours to fill the orders coming in now from all over, she told Mother. Business was good, and since there was a bit of money now she was speaking to an engineering firm about electrifying the system. Apparently it could be done by widening the millrace at the top and narrowing it at the end, and then by replacing the old wooden water wheel with some kind of in-stream system with several rows of blades for much more power. A dynamo would then be connected for stronger electricity than was available on the house current. This would speed up all the wood preparation, and it would eliminate the dangerous and antiquated transmission belts on the floor.
Mother listened. She closed her eyes and said, “Good, Hélène. You are strong and courageous, and your heart is set to the truth. You’ll do well. I know it absolutely.”
“Thank you, Maman. Juliette has offered to move into the house. She thinks she can help me better that way. Should I accept?”
“No. Juliette likes her independence, and if she moves out of that little apartment she’ll never get it back. Thank her, but say no.”
“All right. I will. She still comes every day, and
Bois de fer
, we called it.”
“I think in English it’s also called ironwood, Mrs. Giroux. There’s a version of it in North America. I don’t know if it’s black, but from what I hear it’s hard enough on tools. And I’ve read about winter wood cut by the moon.”
“Yes,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then nodded at him and said she did not want to keep him. She walked away down the stairs, holding on to the wooden rail.
Back in Montmagny after the interminable return journey, she and Juliette took turns at Mother’s bedside. Mother had become pale and thin, and she lay with her eyes closed much of the time. She had difficulty breathing; at times her breath stopped altogether and then restarted with a convulsive effort.
“A grave illness,” Dr. Menasse said to Hélène after oneof his visits. “I am quite certain now what it is.”
“You are? What, doctor?”
“It’s a form of cancer, Madame. In the lungs, mostly. But perhaps also the liver and the spleen.”
He said he’d sent slides of blood and saliva to a laboratory and had viewed some slides himself under a microscope.
“Perhaps the fumes in the factory,” he said. “The shellac and the glue. We know that solvents can change the chemistry of blood, which would then affect vital organs. And all that wood dust, fine cellulose clogging the lungs.”
He looked down into the black crown of his hat and said, “The hospital might be a better place for her now, Madame.”
And so Mother was moved to the Misericordia, and Hélène rode there twice a day on her bicycle. Juliette would take a taxi and spend hours at Mother’s bedside and help the nurses look after her.
Hélène ordered cartons of surgical masks and made it a rule that they be worn by everyone on the factory floor. Claire had to put one on when she walked through the door, and Hélène wore one as well. When she saw men not wearing a mask, she called them into her mother’s office one by one and sat them down and spoke to them. In the finishing room she had a second exhaust fan put into the exterior wall and more filtered air intakes in the wall opposite.
Mother, who had always been so relentlessly clear-minded and strong-willed, who had been able to wrestle the cast-iron harp for a baby grand onto a dolly and drag it across the floor to the place of assembly, could nowhardly lift a cup to her lips.
Hélène rinsed her mother’s face and did her hair and put lipstick on her lips, and her mother was so thankful for each small kindness it made Hélène want to weep.
They were working long hours to fill the orders coming in now from all over, she told Mother. Business was good, and since there was a bit of money now she was speaking to an engineering firm about electrifying the system. Apparently it could be done by widening the millrace at the top and narrowing it at the end, and then by replacing the old wooden water wheel with some kind of in-stream system with several rows of blades for much more power. A dynamo would then be connected for stronger electricity than was available on the house current. This would speed up all the wood preparation, and it would eliminate the dangerous and antiquated transmission belts on the floor.
Mother listened. She closed her eyes and said, “Good, Hélène. You are strong and courageous, and your heart is set to the truth. You’ll do well. I know it absolutely.”
“Thank you, Maman. Juliette has offered to move into the house. She thinks she can help me better that way. Should I accept?”
“No. Juliette likes her independence, and if she moves out of that little apartment she’ll never get it back. Thank her, but say no.”
“All right. I will. She still comes every day, and
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