Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

Eventually the flames abate and he takes up a place beside her, sweating in the cool air as the doused mounds smoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just wanted to get it all done.”

He pats her on the shoulder and tells her not to worry. When she returns to the farmhouse, Brid’s waiting at the mud room door in her bikini top, one of its straps askew to reveal the sear of a tan line. She smiles and extends an arm to draw Maggie inside.

“Good idea, kiddo,” she says. “Burn the place down.”

It takes an hour of seclusion in her room before Maggie thinks that she should have filmed the fires. There’s still time for her to record the ashes, maybe even a whiff of smoke, but when she goes for the camera, it isn’t there. Then she discovers it isn’t just the camera; all her reels are missing, including the one with Fletcher on the bed. She searches the house and finds nothing. He’ll have destroyed the film by now. It isn’t right. Those reels weren’t his to take.

Twenty-four hours and no phone call from him. There’s just the single page of writing he left for her in the envelope, a list of instructions laying out in legalistic prose what to do while he’s away. George Ray Ransom’s contract is to be extended until the thirty-first of October, and only Margaret Dunne and Brigid Garland shall continue in the employ of Morgan Sugar. Fletcher listed dozens of farm chores too, with no suggestion of when he might return.

At lunch, Maggie breaks the news that there’s no more money forthcoming. Dimitri says it doesn’t matter because he and Rhea are heading back to Cambridge anyway. Everyone else is furious; almost unanimously, they vow to pack their bags. Jim and Sarah won’t even look Maggie in the eye, as if it’s her fault. They don’t seem to care when she tells them Fletcher will be coming back soon.

Most go that evening, the rest the next day. Nobody expresses regret or concern for her well-being, and no one asks her to accompany them. Their hearts are already bent on some other place. Part of Maggie wants to cry out, “Wait! I could be pregnant,” but they’re a pack of mutineers. After each round of goodbyes she circles through the house picking up relics forgotten or forsaken: clothes, books, homemade jewellery, toys. In the playroom, she stares at the blank wall, waiting for it to present her with some revelation.

The Centaurs are the last to go, Rhea with her makeup on, Dimitri freshly shaved, Judd and Jeffrey in their good shoes as if they’re heading off to church. It’s Labour Day, exactly when Dimitri always said they’d leave. Maggie expects him to be triumphant in the wake of Fletcher’s desertion, but he bids her farewell without any evident emotion. She wonders whether he has bothered saying goodbye to Lydia. When Maggie waves from the porch as they drive off, none of them returns the gesture.

Only Brid and Pauline stay. Maggie half wishes they’d go too, but Brid expresses no interest in leaving. A few minutes after the Centaurs’ departure she starts doing calisthenics in the living room, jumping in place and shaking out her arms, while Pauline lies on the couch watching TV with her doll.

“Cheer up, babe,” Brid says to Maggie. “You’ve still got me, at least. We’ll be a real pair here, sitting in our rockers all day.”

This is an image to chill Maggie’s blood, yet at dinner Brid’s too preoccupied with Pauline to bother with Maggie, wiping her daughter’s nose and cutting up her food as if she’s a baby. Maggie considers asking about Wale but thinks it safer not to mention him. After Pauline has been put to bed, the two of them watch television without speaking. Onscreen, people are talking politics; it turns out that Canadians are having their own election soon. Maggie’s too distracted by the day’s departures to be interested. Until Fletcher returns, this is how things are going to be: just her and Brid, alone together for hours. What is Brid thinking and feeling as she sits there? Might she too be waiting for the phone to ring? Maggie imagines Wale on his way to Laos. No, it’s impossible. He wouldn’t go there just because of one missed call. Even Wale isn’t that deranged.

“Brid,” Maggie can’t resist asking, “did Wale ever mention my father to you?”

At Wale’s name, a ferocity comes into Brid’s eyes. “Why would he do that?”

“He said he met him in Laos, when he was on the run from the army.”

Brid laughs harshly. “Wale’s a bullshitter.”

“So he never mentioned my dad?”

“He never even mentioned Laos. When he called after he’d gone AWOL, he told me he was in Saigon.”

Then Maggie notices the silver watch on Brid’s wrist. It’s too big for her and hangs loosely, the skin beneath looking irritated. Before Maggie can turn away, Brid catches the direction of her gaze.

“Yeah, I stole it from him,” she says. “Figured he might cut out, so I grabbed a souvenir. I’m not proud of it.” She waits for Maggie to challenge her, then replies to an unspoken allegation. “Some people give you zilch. If you want anything from them, you have to take it for yourself.”

The next day, Maggie wakes up determined to make the best of things. For breakfast she eats dry toast and tries to ignore the nausea’s return. Afterward, with Fletcher’s account books open on the kitchen table, she begins to make her own lists: bills to pay, jobs to do, vegetables to grow next summer. Brid comes upon her going over figures and offers to help, though Pauline tugs at her to play outside. Maggie says she’ll manage on her own, then at lunchtime bolts down a sandwich before Brid and Pauline can turn up. When she’s finished, she heads to the barracks for a talk with George Ray, taking with her a list of questions about the orchard. Since the incident with the burning brush piles she has spoken with him only once, to confirm the extension of his contract. Then he told her Fletcher had already raised the subject the morning he left. It must have been the busiest hour of Fletcher’s life, packing, scribbling orders, and telling everyone but her that he was leaving, all while she was out on her walk, imagining how the two of them might go on together.

At the barracks door, George Ray greets her with a welcome that seems at once thankful and anxious, as if someone’s pressing a revolver to his back. When she steps inside, she finds Brid sitting at the table. There’s no sign of Pauline.

“Where’s—”

“Napping,” says Brid.

Maggie nods and surveys the barracks. As if by magic, the place has been rendered immaculate, all traces of other inhabitants removed. She thinks of George Ray stripping mattresses, clearing the fridge of other people’s mouldy leftovers, desperate to reclaim his solitude.

“We were just talking about George Ray moving into the house,” says Brid casually, as though this notion has been circulating for a while. A glance at George Ray confirms it isn’t his idea. “It would make things easier on all of us,” Brid continues. “For one thing, we could share the cooking.”

“We settled this back in June,” Maggie replies. To George Ray, she says, “You’d rather have your own space, right? It’s fine if you want to stay out here.”

“Maggs, you’re such a wet blanket,” says Brid, then flashes a smile at George Ray, who’s avoiding her gaze. Her smile wavers, and Maggie worries about what’s at stake for Brid in all this. Judging by George Ray’s expression, he has a similar concern.

“It’s a very kind offer,” he says in a diplomatic tone. “I think, though, I’d prefer to remain where I am. Wouldn’t want to cause any botheration.”

“Don’t like us?” says Brid, pushing back from the table so that the chair legs grind against the floor. “Fine, then.”