The Innocent. Lynne Golding

I was.

      That realization brought tears, quiet at first and then louder and louder. The noisy tears brought my aunt, who came to me clad in a billowy flannel nightgown, her red hair stacked high on her head in cotton ties, her face covered in white cream. Had I not already been awash in tears of pity, the sight of her would surely have brought tears of fright. Aunt Lil immediately assumed my tears sprang from worry, and, too ashamed to declare their real cause, I did not disabuse her.

      “Oh Curly Top,” she cooed—a term of endearment reserved for me, her lone niece with hair the texture if not the colour of her own. “Your mother is going to be perfectly well.”

      Taking a deep breath, I managed to ask why, if Mother’s health was so certain to be fully restored, it was necessary for Ina and me to leave our house?

      “As I understand it,” she replied, “that prescription had less to do with your mother’s health and more to do with Ina’s. Dr. Heggie determined that the best way to treat your sister was to remove both of you on the pretense of your mother’s poor health. And you don’t mind, do you? We’ll have lots of fun together while your mother rests.”

      Because the explanation was provided by Aunt Lil, I knew it to be true. But as I continued to rue my part in the events of the past three days, my tears did not abate. Finally, Aunt Lil grew tired of trying to reassure me, and, possibly because she had so little experience dealing with children in this state, she asked me how my tears could be overcome. No one had asked me that question before. I thought about it and between more shallow sobs suggested what I knew my mother or father would suggest: “Should I pray?”

      “You can do that if you like,” she said, with little conviction as to its utility. “But for myself, when I get into that state, I look for a diversion.”

      “A diversion?” I inquired, not understanding her meaning.

      “Yes. Something to get your mind off your worries.” As she said that, I recalled my last crying jag. It wasn’t that long ago, and I realized diversion was the method ultimately employed by Grandpa on the verandah swing as we waited for my parents, Ina, and Jim to return in the storm. She was right. Diversion worked perfectly well—at least it did when I didn’t know that someone was attempting to divert me. But I was willing to try it when consciously applied. I had not heard the whole of Grandpa’s story. Aunt Lil was a history teacher. Maybe she could tell me more.

      “Aunt Lil, do you know the story of Grandpa and Grandma?” I asked.

      “Their story?” she replied. “Do you mean their story about how they met and how they settled in Canada?” Seeing me nod, she went on. “I know that story. It is a very romantic one. Do you know any of it?”

      “Not really,” I said. “I only started to hear about it recently.”

      “Then I shall tell you it all—but I warn you it is a long story, and I won’t be able to recite all of it tonight. We will make it your bedtime story this week!” She was quite enthusiastic. “But tonight we can get started.”

      “Wait,” I said. “Before you do, do you have a picture of Grandma? I would like to see what she looked like. I heard she was very pretty.” Aunt Lil left the room and returned a few minutes later holding two framed photographs.

      “This was taken about ten years before she died,” she said, holding out one of the two photographs. “It doesn’t do justice to the beauty she possessed in her youth—but her eyes and her mouth are little changed from their younger days.” I stared at the sepia portrait of my grandmother. She had a well-lined forehead atop a square-shaped face. Her wide cheeks and solid chin allowed ample space for her well-defined nose. Her thinning grey hair was parted in the middle and pulled severely to the back of her head. Of her neck nothing could be known, for it was covered to the top of her throat with the long bodice that extended over her upper frame. Her mouth, like all mouths portrayed in photographs of the time, was unsmiling. Her lips were full. In her large, piercing eyes, there was only steel. I was mesmerized by the photograph as I tried to determine the character of this obviously strong woman, but before I had an opportunity to do so, the picture was taken from my hands and replaced by another.

      “Here,” Aunt Lil said. “Don’t you want to see what your grandfather looked like at that time?”

      “I already know what he—” I began as my eyes moved disinterestedly toward the frame being extended to me. But as the picture came more fully into view, I realized it was not of a man I recognized. “This isn’t Grandpa,” I said as I took the picture. I had no idea who this thin-faced man was. He had light hair pulled straight back from his high forehead. He had mutton chop sideburns and a moustache, which dropped down on both sides of his mouth, giving his lips at rest the image of a frown. His chin was small. His skin was smooth—barely wrinkled, except for the little crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes, which, extending upward as they did, made his eyes, visible under heavy lids, appear to smile. I could see that he had once been a very handsome man.

      “Of course it is your grandpa,” Aunt Lil replied. “It was taken when he was very late in life and does not show his very handsome face. But it is him.”

      I was still not convinced. “That’s Grandpa?” I asked. “Grandpa Brady?”

      “No. Of course it is not your Grandpa Brady!” Aunt Lil replied, clearly disgusted with my lack of intelligence. “Grandpa Brady is your mother’s father. This is a picture of Grandpa Stephens: my father; your father’s father.”

      “Oh,” I said, realization dawning. “Then this Grandma,” I said, pointing to the first photograph I studied, “this is not Grandma Brady?”

      “Jessie, why ever would I have a picture of your Grandma Brady? This is my mother, your father’s mother, Grandma Stephens. Are you interested in your Stephens heritage?” If I were more like Aunt Lil, I would have replied in the negative. But I was able to fib to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, and so I quickly proclaimed my heartfelt interest in that side of my family. Over the next week, Aunt Lil made an honest girl of me.

      * * *

      Jas and Selina Stephens’ emigration to the new world was entirely different from that of Jesse Brady. Jesse and his few worldly possessions travelled to North America in the cramped, vermin-infested, squalid quarters available to those crossing the Atlantic in a ship’s steerage section. Selina and Jas Stephens travelled on a similar ship but resided in an airy upper compartment surrounded by all of the comforts of home—at least all of those comforts that could be accommodated within the three large trunks with which they travelled. Their vast remaining possessions were packed in crates shipped ahead of them under the stewardship of her maid and his man servant.

      Jesse spent his many days crossing the ocean longing for fresh air, decent food, and relief from those moaning, groaning, and retching near him. Jas spent most of his journey happily gazing at the cloud formations in the skies above the ship and befriending the captain and the ship’s other officers.

      My grandfather Brady arrived in the new world with no particular destination in mind, settling in Brampton at the urge of a fellow traveller. My Stephens grandparents arrived in the new world determined to settle in Springfield, an area west of Toronto on the banks of the Credit River known for producing the Clinton grape. Jas Stephens, a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, was confident that an area that could cultivate European bound vintner-quality grapes was worthy of his domain. Upon their arrival in Upper Canada, Jas was disappointed to learn of the absence of any available land in Springfield or its surrounds. Although Selina urged Jas to take his time in considering other options, Jas quickly purchased a large farm property considerably north of Springfield in a township called Chinguacousy, just north of the village of Brampton.

      While Jesse Brady came to the new world to forget the love, the desired spouse, and the family he knew he could not have, Selina Stephens came to the new world to embrace her love, her spouse, and to create a family. Though she and Jas had been married for five years, they had not been successful in producing children. Selina, a devout Protestant, attributed the deficiency to an insufficiency in their humility and