More Than Sorrow Read online

  And never quite get around to it.

  There were times when I wanted to get better, when there was nothing I wanted more. But those times were quickly superseded by periods of pure inertia. And, if I were to be honest with myself—self-pity.

  I’d barely managed to eat a quarter of my burger and a few leaves of lettuce and had passed on the potato salad. The chocolate cake, covered in a shiny layer of thick ganache, a ball of vanilla ice cream melting alongside, looked highly unappealing. Lily was watching me, “Go on,” she said, “Try some.”

  And so I did. I lifted my fork and broke off a tiny piece of cake, scooped up some of the icing and then ice cream. I put it all into my mouth. It was good.

  But I only had one bite.

  They were always watching me, my family. My sister and her daughter most of all, but occasionally I could see Jake poised to run for me if I stumbled, and even Charlie, as self-absorbed as only a seven-year-old boy can be, was quick to apologize if he made a loud noise or did anything that startled me.

  It was nice to know they cared. It could have been annoying. In that as in many other things these days, I couldn’t summon up enough energy to mind.

  As soon as she’d finished eating, Marlene pushed her chair back and announced that hard-working farm families need to get to bed early. She gave Lily a hug and a loud smack on the cheek, tousled Charlie’s hair, thanked Joanne for the meal, kissed her son, and marched down the steps. Ralph followed after saying his own goodbyes.

  I helped Joanne carry in the dishes, while Jake took the kids to the paddock to gather the horses and settle them into the barn for the night.

  “Lily’s going to be a fabulous young woman,” I said to my sister.

  “I can only hope so. As soon as Mary Beth’s daughter turned thirteen she became a screeching harridan. Poor Mary Beth figured the girl had been replaced by an alien look-alike.”

  “I seem to remember something like a screeching harridan in my own house,” I said with a laugh.

  “Oh, god. Don’t remind me. Do you think my past sins will come back to haunt me? Do you remember when I went to Dad’s office on take-your-child-to-work day in full goth regalia?”

  “Yup. Good old Dad. Didn’t blink an eye when you marched into the kitchen and announced that you were ready to go.”

  “And you, goodie two-shoes, looking all prim and proper to go to the hospital with Mom.”

  I stuck my tongue out in the same way Lily had to Charlie, and Joanne grinned. “Brat.”

  “Hamster-brain,” I replied.

  We laughed together.

  Then I said, “I don’t think your mother-in-law likes me very much.”

  “Don’t take it personally. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way she is. I sometimes think she spends her life accumulating points. One for her, minus one for everyone else. Except for Jake. He can do no wrong. Well, other than marrying me and getting into organic farming, that is.”

  We finished cleaning up in companionable silence. Outside, the sun had disappeared and slashes of pink and gray decorated the sky.

  My sister and her husband farm ten acres of organic vegetables. Marlene may disdain small-scale organic farming, but despite growing corn and wheat and canola and raising factory-farm chickens they barely eke out a living. Seeing that agriculture‘s changing and the traditional way of life disappearing, Jake knew if he were to stay on the land he’d have to learn new ways of doing things. He went to the University of Guelph to get a degree in agriculture. There he met Joanne, studying biology.

  It was a match, my mother always said with a hearty, approving laugh, made in manure.

  Jake and Joanne were lucky to find a good piece of land for sale at an affordable price that they could farm. Land that came with an old barn and even older house. That was the only luck they needed. They worked hard to establish not only the farm, but the business. Can’t do much with ten acres of vegetables if you don’t have a market.

  They’ve made quite a name for themselves, and their business, J&J Farms, provides the family with an adequate, if not lavish, income. I never would have figured my younger sister, the rebel, for a farmer. Unless it was growing marijuana. But I guess a small-scale, organic farmer has to be something of a rebel.

  I snuck a peek at her. She was wiping down the countertops. Her round face glowed with health; the muscles in her arms and legs were strong. Her hair was long and uncut and wayward strands fell out of her casual ponytail. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a matching, but faded, shirt.

  We’ve never been close. Too different, I suppose. But since my…injury, she’s watched over me like a mother hen.

  “I’m going out to the root cellar,” she said. “Cheryl Foster’s coming by later for a bag of carrots. We’re almost out, and I’ll be glad to get rid of them. I have about twenty pounds left. Can you finish up here?”

  “I’ll come with you. Give you a hand.”

  She eyed me carefully. “The ramp’s steep and it’s dark down there.”

  “Dark is good. I’m fine. Let me help you. Please.”

  She looked dubious. But I was fine. Omar had temporarily departed. As always he lurked in the back of my right eye where he’d taken up what looked to be permanent residence. A black, malignant dot.

  I gave Joanne a smile. I did want to be helpful, when I could. I’d been here for a month, and I was beginning to sense that Jake was wondering how much longer he’d have me on his hands.

  “Okay. Might as well show you the cellar.” She put down the tea towel and headed for the back door. “You’ll need good boots.” She pulled on the mud-encrusted Wellingtons she wore around the farm. I’d been provided with a similar pair on my arrival. They were too big for me, but I hadn’t needed to go far in them.

  The root cellar was beneath the old building close to the road that served as a small shop. Most of the farm’s produce is sold to restaurants, community share agriculture holders, or at Saturday market in Kingston, but Joanne kept the store to serve tourists and passers-by. Introducing city people to fresh, local produce, organic or not, getting them hooked on real food and real flavor, she believed, was the key to the farm’s profitability. Being spring, not much was for sale yet. Eggs, some early baby greens, jars of soup Joanne and her helpers had put up in the fall. By late summer the shop would be crammed almost to the rafters with an abundance of fresh vegetables. The building was made out of roughly-hewn logs, gray with age, gaps in the mortar. It was about the size of the master bedroom in my condo in Toronto.

  “Can you believe a family of five lived there,” Joanne said as we crossed the patch of grass and weeds they called a lawn.

  “In the shop? It was once a house?”

  “Yup. The first settlers here were United Empire Loyalists, refugees from the American Revolution. The British government gave them land and enough supplies to get them started. That old building was built in 1784. They would have lived in tents the first few months while they cleared a patch of land to get the farm started and used the wood to build the house. All the rest,” Joanne waved her arm, encompassing the big house, the driveway, the outbuildings, the neat, orderly fields, “came later. Much later.”

  “Imagine living there. With a family.”

  “I think they had a maid as well.”

  “No matter how low you are in this life, there’s always someone worse off than you.”

  “I bet they were glad to have it,” she said. “Everything they owned, except the clothes on their backs, would have been left behind in the States.”

  I shuddered. Joanne was right. I’d seen refugees, lots of them, in my time. They’d be nothing but thrilled if they’d been given a house like this one. With virgin land to farm. Hardship, yes. But safety above all.

  “How do you know about them? The original settlers?”

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bsp; “They were Jake’s ancestors, and stories get passed down. Jake’s always been interested in his history, and he liked to come here when he was a kid and poke around. When he was growing up the land was falling into disuse. The farm people moved away and sold to city folks who used it as a summer home. Sometimes he’d find a piece of rusty old metal from a horse’s bridle, a broken wagon wheel maybe, buried in the weeds. He found a belt buckle once. He still has that. He was over the moon when he learned that the property was up for sale.” She smiled at the memory.

  “Must be interesting,” I said, “to know something about your ancestors.” Our family history went all the way back to my grandparents. Who’d come from England at the end of the Second World War and never talked about it. Not that I’d ever asked. I didn’t even know the maiden name of either of my grandmothers.

  Joanne ducked through a small hole in a jumble of overgrown bushes. A steep wooden ramp laid over a packed-mud floor led down to the entrance to the cellar. “Watch your footing,” she said. “Stay in the middle of the boards. It can be treacherous.”

  I followed her, placing my feet with care. The old wood creaked and swayed.

  “Wait there while I get the light. We had electricity put in to run the fridge in the shop.”

  The sun had disappeared behind the trees lining the property. A soft night breeze had risen, and shadows filled the entrance to the root cellar. The wooden ramp wobbled beneath my feet, and my sister made a dark outline ahead of me. The acrid scent of damp earth, stored vegetables, and burrowing earthworms filled the air.

  The door opened with the protesting creak of old wood and rusty hinges.

  A wave of foul air poured out of the cellar, and I staggered backwards. “What on earth?” I covered my mouth and nose with my hand, but that did nothing to cut the stench. A gush of icy wind reached cold probing fingers beneath my sweater and scraped slowly down my spine. The black spot behind my eyes throbbed and grew. But for once it brought no pain.

  “My god, Joanne,” I said. “Something’s gone bad. Have you stored meat down here?”

  “Of course not. It always smells like this. It’s the moisture in the dirt walls and floor.”

  A blaze of harsh white light burst forth. I screamed and clutched my head. Nothing happened. There was no sudden pain, and Omar was still.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry, Hannah. I forgot to warn you that I was about to turn on the light. Do you want it off?”

  “No. It’s okay.” I lowered my hands. The smell, of death and decay and rot, was gone, leaving only traces of damp earth and last season’s vegetables. The cold wind had died as quickly as it began and air coming out of the root cellar was merely cool.

  I ducked my head and carefully followed my sister inside. The roof, packed mud reinforced with round logs that had once been whole tree trunks, was only about five feet high, and the floor was dirt. Piled rubble formed the walls. The room was largely empty. A bunch of brown bags containing carrots and potatoes were stacked against the back wall. The shelves lining the room held a few lonely jars of pickles, jam, and soup. Joanne swiped at a large cobweb hanging from the ceiling. A long-legged, fat-bellied spider dashed for cover.

  She picked up one of the bags with a soft grunt and balanced it in her arms. “Got it. Let’s go. You first. I’ll get the light.”

  I scarcely heard her. A one-hundred-watt bulb hung from the ceiling. It should have been enough to illuminate the entire small room, but the shadows in the corners were long and deep and very black. Nothing moved.

  “Hannah?”

  “Sorry, I’m thinking of the people who built this place.”

  “There are some old documents and things in the attic, if you’d like to look through them. Jake was thrilled when we got possession of the house and found that over the years no one had bothered to throw out several generations’ worth of letters. I was downstairs, unpacking, pregnant with Charlie, trying to keep Lily out of everything, and Jake disappeared for hours. His mother would like to take everything to her house, but Jake told her the items need to be properly inventoried first. Since we arrived, no one’s had the time to do much about it, although Jake’s made a start.”

  I was vaguely aware of my sister’s voice as I walked out of the root cellar, my back bent to avoid the low ceiling. She switched off the light and we were plunged into darkness.

  Tendrils of icy cold air wrapped around my ankles as the door shut behind Joanne. Did I hear a moan carried on the wind?

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning a crowd had gathered in the farm office at the rear of the house. The seasonal employees had arrived. Two ruddy-cheeked young women and one man. The girls were university students, interested in learning about farming. Joanne had told me, with something approaching wonder in her voice, that young people were going into farming these days, not fleeing for jobs in cities like their parents and grandparents had done. And, as it was entirely possible that these young people hadn’t been raised on a farm as were past farm generations, they had to come to places like hers to learn practical agriculture.

  The man was older, in his mid-thirties perhaps. He’d been in the army, his letter of application had said, but that life wasn’t for him, and he wanted to settle down and grow things.

  As the summer went on, Joanne would supplement these three with WWOOFERS: willing workers on organic farms. People who travelled the world working on small farms in exchange for room and board. Jake had bought an old camping trailer at auction and placed it behind the greenhouse. The WWOOFERS would live there for the duration of their stay. The two university girls, introduced to me as Liz and Allison, had taken rooms in town, and the man’s family had a summer place in Wellington near the lake. His name was Connor and he looked ex-army, all right. He wore a white T-shirt that stretched across a six-pack, and his arms were thick with muscle. He was good looking with prominent cheekbones, rough stubble on a hard jaw, and shaggy black hair, a mass of curls.

  He turned his smile on me, teeth white against the tanned face. “I’m Connor. Farmer-wanna-be.” He held out his right hand and I took it. It felt warm and comfortable.

  “I’m Joanne’s sister, Hannah.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hannah.”

  He held my hand slightly longer than necessary, then let go with a twinkle in his eye and turned his attention back to Joanne, who was telling the group about the farm.

  I hadn’t slept last night. Omar had visited me, which was rare in the dark and quiet. I took an extra pain pill, which helped only minimally, and lay awake thinking of the root cellar beneath the shop that had once been a refugee family’s house.

  My doctors had thought a stay on a farm would be good for me. Out in the country where I could enjoy fresh air and peace and quiet away from the bright lights.

  The farm was located on a peninsula that jutted out into Lake Ontario in the center of the island that is Prince Edward County, Ontario. Half way between Toronto and Ottawa, the County, as it’s known to everyone, is a place all its own. The 401, Canada’s busiest highway, speeds past to the north ferrying people and goods between the cities, and a surprising number of people don’t even know there’s a big island in Lake Ontario. Nothing stays undiscovered for long, and city people, the comfortably retired or those fleeing high property prices, are moving in bringing with them expensive housing developments and cheap vacation complexes. The Lake Ontario beaches are as good as beaches anywhere and still not overcrowded, although the population of the County quadruples in the summer months.

  But what makes the County attractive for people like my sister and her husband is the farming. This is agricultural land, mostly, rich and fertile with a moderate, by Canadian standards, climate. The locavore movement, eating locally and eating fresh and pesticide-free, has been a god-send for farmers here. Restaurants in the cities and shoppers at Saturday farm markets can’t get enoug
h of J&J Farms’ organic heirloom produce, the soups, sauces, and baking Joanne makes from it, eggs from the chickens I dislike so intently. Largely propelled by local agriculture, there are restaurants in the County as good, maybe better, than in Toronto. Celebrity chefs are living and cooking and farming here. They even make wine, and vineyards and small-scale wineries are popping up all over.

  It’s a nice place to live, Prince Edward County, but if I was up to doing anything about it, it would be back to the big city for me. Too quiet here, particularly at night, too dark. A forty-five-minute drive to the mall, one solitary theater screen in town, no public transit, no coffee shops or restaurants within walking distance.

  Joanne took Allison, Liz, and Connor outside to show them around and introduce them to their duties. Today, I heard her say as they left, they’d be getting the tomato fields ready to receive seedlings which had been started in the greenhouse. I walked through the kitchen, opened the sliding doors leading onto the deck, went outside, and leaned on the railing. Joanne had brought her huge collection of terra-cotta pots out of storage, but hadn’t planted the annuals yet. It was still two weeks away from the May 24th weekend, when everyone rushes to the garden center and in a flurry of hopeful expectation puts in their fragile plants. She was hurrying the season a mite bringing the tomato seedlings out, but the forecast was for above-normal temperatures.

  I took a deep breath and consciously tried to be aware of my environment. That was supposedly good for me. I could smell the air. Trees coming to life, manure from the horse barn, freshly-turned earth. Perhaps even a trace of freshwater from the lake on the other side of the road.

  No exhaust, no neighbor’s trash left out too long in the heat, no neighbor burning steaks on his gas barbeque. No neighbor at all, by city standards. There were houses down the road, other farms, some newer homes. But you couldn’t see or hear them.

  I reminded myself that all this peace and tranquility meant there was no stroll to the corner for a latte and muffin and a relaxing hour spent with the newspaper. No film festivals. No drinking too much at a bar and not worrying about it because home was only a stagger away.