Joan Calvert

Rain dripped through the decayed roof . I sensed invading squatters , and loomed over them with fearsome creaks , in vain . My mouse-sized apartments filled with squeaking , smelly tenants whose gnawing and unsanitary habits ruined floors and walls . I squeezed my sides together until the floors cracked across , then executed guerrilla tactics , rendering my interior uninhabitable . Temblors rivalling seismic convulsions broke the floors open , ejecting mice and filth into the cold , scattering them abroad ; a pyrrhic victory , for nobody would want me now .

Could I will myself out of such misery ? I clenched my teeth , focussed my considerable brainpower … Nothing … I descended into a dark , hopeless fugue .

I remember little of my youth , for my intellect lacked specific nurture . I had a good home with a family of eleven , including grandparents . On feast days , my sideboard groaned under serving dishes of steaming , savoury food .

I awakened to the older children ’ s increasingly protracted absences , as they stepped into adulthood . One of the sons emigrated to homestead in Alberta . The mother foresaw the pleasure I , as a wedding gift , would give his bride-to-be . Thus began my arduous journey through seasickness , train-induced heat-stroke , bone-jolting wagon-trek from Belfast to Drumheller ’ s badlands — and the isolated homestead .

I decided I wasn ’ t at home with Lottie ’ s Depression pieces for , in keeping with the splintery plank floor , most were disappointingly handmade . Furthermore , I disapproved of the Canadian accent . Their daughter , Sibyl , became my cherished friend and servant ; from childhood on , her Saturday chore was dusting and polishing my exterior . For Sibyl ’ s wedding , Lottie chose a valuable gift — me , for she recognized my importance .

We lived in the two-roomed “ honeymoon house ” nine years , until their little Sandra started school . We all thought a four-mile walk to school excessive ; therefore , we moved to a spacious old Edwardian house in the village . I stood in a central position , showing creative acumen , inviting admiration of my beautifully displayed china , silverware and linens . Sibyl ’ s childhood piano lived in the next room ; I daily heard his resonant voice . Sibyl , respectful of elegance , kept me shining — I ’ d never been so happy .

One day , I heard Sandra diffidently ask , “ Mom , could I have the old buffet when you ’ re through with it ?” It exhilarated me . No foreboding of future imprisonment and torture entered my thoughts .

One fateful day , Sibyl unwillingly packed my valuables into boxes . Two men pushed me into a strange truck-box , saying , “ No dining-room in the new house ; it ’ ll go in the old windmill-shack .” Dear Sibyl and Sandra protested , to no avail .

During exile , years pass slowly ; never a friendly voice , only resignation to filth and dissolution . I ’ ve relinquished the present , dreaming only of past glories … ceremoniously presenting sumptuous dishes for a clan banquet …

A figure moves through the daylight-striped gloom . In my near-unconsciousness , I still find the voice and movements familiar . “ Oh , you poor old dear ! You ’ re going to Sandra and Doug ’ s . You ’ ll be like new again , you ’ ll see !”

Sibyl ! This must be Heaven . Yours is the voice of an angel … Why didn ’ t you rescue me before ? Oh , the lonely years …

Laid on my back , travelling in an open vehicle , carried downstairs , set upright on my wobbly legs , back against a log wall … Pictures from my former life : The Reapers , an old castle , a beady-eyed red fox , sepia-toned photographs , braided rugs , old wooden table .

46 | arta . net DREAMS FOR THE FUTURE