The Lemon Tree. Helen Forrester
for peevish monosyllables. Hope died in the girl and was replaced by dread.
Finally, in search of comfort, she went out into the street and made her way, through crowds on their way home from work, to Mrs Ghanem’s tiny home. Perhaps another widow would be able to help her rouse her mother.
Mrs Ghanem was still at work, her five-year-old told her solemnly. He was helping Mama by looking after his little brother. He pointed to a crawling child behind him.
The children were filthy and the house stank. Poor Mrs Ghanem, thought Helena compassionately; her children and her home had always been immaculate before Mr Ghanem’s death.
She promised the child that she would come again another day, and, feeling suddenly very weak, she walked towards home.
As she turned into the familiar narrow street, she caught a glimpse of Sally coming towards her, and her depression lifted a little. She ran towards her.
Sally caught her in a bear hug. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she inquired. ‘I was just dropping by to see how your ma is.’
‘I went to see Mrs Ghanem – but she’s still at work.’ She turned back towards her home, arm-in-arm with the cleaning lady.
‘Uh-ha. So what’s new with you, hon?’
Helena hastily told her about her uncle’s letter. Then she added uneasily, ‘I’m scared, Sally. Mama won’t do anything. And we haven’t paid the rent for weeks – and in a few days there won’t be even rice to eat. At least Uncle James would feed us, and perhaps I could find some work in Liverpool; it’s a very busy city.’
Sally paused on the ragged doormat at the foot of the stairs leading up to Leila’s living quarters. ‘Want me to talk to her?’ she asked.
‘She’d never forgive me for telling you.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
As they came up the last step, they were both surprised to see that Leila was up. Her hair had been combed and pinned up; she had put on a clean white blouse and her black stockings and boots. She had lifted the nearly empty sack of rice onto the table and had spread some of the grains on a tray in order to pick out any small stones in it.
Helena was astonished. It looked as if Uncle James’s letter had had an effect, she decided thankfully.
Sally said to Leila, ‘My, you do look pretty! How’re you doing?’
The pale, delicate mouth quivered and the eyes were full of pain, but she answered Sally quite firmly, ‘I’m better, thank you. Sit down.’ She pulled out a chair for her visitor. ‘Coffee?’
Sally accepted the proffered chair. Knowing how short they were of everything, she said she did not need coffee. Leila, however, was suddenly aware of neglected social obligations, and she insisted on using the last of their coffee to make a decent cup for her friend.
Helena went quietly to the table and took over the cleaning of the rice. She was afraid that if she said anything she would upset Leila again. Let Sally do the talking.
Sally did talk. She brought in all the polite gambits of the state of the weather, the price of vegetables and the latest news of the war raging further south, while she gravely sipped her coffee and Leila sat with her hands clasped in her lap, barely attending to the rich musical voice.
Finally, Sally told her, with real excitement in her voice, that she had managed to get a full-time job as a waitress in a new coffee shop being opened by Italian immigrants. It was close to the Al-Khourys’ old shop.
Leila was genuinely pleased, and congratulated her. Then she sat looking at her hands for a moment, before she went on to say determinedly, ‘Tomorrow, Helena and I, we go to tailor to ask for sewing work. Helena sew as good as me.’
‘Well, that would keep you going for a bit.’ Sally smiled at her, and then said very gently, ‘With your looks you could get a healthier job, a clerk in a store, say.’
Leila smiled wanly back. ‘Later. Tailor give job now.’ She shrugged. ‘Nobody give me good job now. English so bad.’
‘You’re doing just fine,’ Sally assured her robustly.
Helena looked up from the rice. She was dumbfounded at her mother’s decisiveness. A quick warning glance from Sally told her to be careful what she said.
She deftly picked out a piece of chaff from the rice. ‘I’d love to work with you, Mama,’ she said softly.
Her mother turned and smiled at her. ‘Would you? That’s good. We’ll manage, darling, won’t we?’
Thankfully, Helena got up and went to her. Leila took her warmly in her arms, and Helena wanted to burst into tears with relief.
The Civil War had caused an insatiable demand for uniforms. The tailor was very glad to have two skilled sewers for finishing work, though he bargained the wages down to near-starvation levels, on the grounds that Leila’s English was poor and that, at nearly fourteen, Helena was not yet entitled to a woman’s wage.
The two clung to each other and managed to continue to exist, two tiny boats bobbing along in a sea of other immigrants, all competing for jobs, cheap rooms and cheap food, in a country where war had caused prices to skyrocket. Their Greek landlord was appeased, and the shop beneath their small nest was re-rented, to a locksmith and his family, who both worked and slept there. Because they had a side entrance, the two women were not disturbed by them.
Helena had never in her life felt so exhausted. Underfed, she also lacked sunlight, diversions, and exercise. One day, on their return from work, she fainted.
Leila bathed her daughter’s pinched, white face, and decided desperately that she would sell her best gold chain. In that way, she could pay the landlord his arrears instead of having to give him extra money each week. They could then spend more on food. She herself felt apathetic and intensely weary, and she thought, with real horror, of what might happen to her daughter if she herself should die.
She took the necklace to a jeweller in a better area of the city, and it was in the jeweller’s shop that she met Tom Harding.
Tom was a widowed settler from Fort Edmonton, a Hudson’s Bay Company Fort on the banks of the North Saskatchewan River in western Canada, an area as yet barely explored. Though Tom claimed to be a settler, he was, in fact, a squatter on land owned by the great fur-trading Company which had established the Fort. To the Company’s annoyance, he also trapped, and, having once been a miner, was apt to dig Company coal out of the banks of the river and to pan small amounts of gold out of the river itself.
His younger brother owned a prosperous grocery shop in Chicago, and their acerbic old mother lived with him. Tom had received an urgent letter from his brother, via the Hudson’s Bay Company, saying that the old lady was in very frail health. She had several times expressed a strong desire to see him before she died, and he should hurry.
When he received the letter, Tom thought wryly that his brother had obviously no idea of the distances involved or the difficulties of the journey. He was, however, extremely depressed himself. He had recently lost his Cree Indian wife and his infant son in childbirth. An Indian wife was an enormous asset, besides which he had been quite fond of her and had been looking forward to the child. He wondered if he should return to Chicago and settle there.
After discussing the matter with his friend, Joe Black, who worked with him on his illegally held piece of land, it was decided that Joe could manage to look after the farm, while Tom made the journey. ‘And mind you come back!’ Joe shouted after him, as he prepared to leave. ‘We haven’t built this place out of nothing, just to see it go back to forest again. You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve had a change – and I know lots of Cree women who wouldn’t mind being Mrs Harding Number Two.’
Tom grinned and saluted him, as he turned his horse onto the trail which led to the Fort, where he expected to join the Company’s boats going down the river to Lake Winnipeg. Then another boat down to Fort Garry – about