1. August 1946: Torduvalle, Saskatchewan AUGUST 1946 Torduvalle, Saskatchewan THE AIR SIZZLES in from the hopper window. The heat''s been excruciating this past week. Florence nudges the bathroom door closed so the air doesn''t warm the house and reaches for the peroxide under the bathroom counter. She pours some into the spray bottle and dilutes it with water from the tap, measuring by eye only. A faded towel wrapped around her shoulders, she works at her hair in sections, using a brush to guide the mixture as close to her scalp as possible, covering the brown roots that are just beginning to show. A Saturday-night ritual every other week for nearly thirty years. No one has ever asked her about her hair.
Most don''t even know, though there have been a few women in town in recent years who''ve commented, either praising her particular shade or deriding her not quite out of earshot for trying to emulate those Hollywood starlets. She''s flattered they would think that of her, that she would be the type of person to aspire to looking like a star. Florence sits on the toilet lid and waits for the peroxide to tingle, never using a timer now, knowing by instinct the moment when the roots will be lightened to the perfect hue but before the skin on her scalp blisters. She plans her day tomorrow. Church at ten; return home to prepare the pork roast, gravy, and potatoes. She''ll also make a pot of tomato and macaroni soup to eat with some cold roast pork buns for the workday evenings when she''d rather read or listen to the radio than prepare a meal. A wave of heat rolls in and she looks up at the slit of sky. A branch from the Manitoba maple in her front yard stretches into view.
It''s not quite September but its leaves are already turning at the edges, bright and golden yellow. The colour is startling. Searing. She holds her breath. Colours used to consume her. She spent so many of her waking hours, and sometimes her dreaming ones too, thinking about colours and how to work them into her floral designs. How to craft a story with her beadwork. She was careful when selecting a particular hue, deliberate in her choices, because colours held meaning and feeling.
Meaning and feeling that was different for everyone. A shade could ignite joy in one person, pain or regret in another. Colours could spark memories, sometimes ones you''d tried to forget. Florence pushes back her thoughts as she forces the window shut. It''s all just history, all in the past now. She waves the towel shawl around herself to create a breeze. She is Florence Banks, a secretary at Pratt''s Insurance and Real Estate in the town of Torduvalle and a respected member of the community for the past eleven years. She blends in with everyone else.
The tingle on her head turns to a sting, almost a burn, while her dark hair fades to a perfect shade of blonde. FLORENCE STEPS OUT OF the tub and pulls out the plug. The drain glugs and spurts, choking down the water. A cool bath before bed for a better sleep. She slips on her cotton nightdress and inspects her drying hair in the mirror. A soft sand or even hay colour. Not radiant or luminous, but she wouldn''t want that anyway. She can hardly wait until it''s all silvery grey and sparkly and she won''t have to dye it anymore, but even at fifty-one she still has a ways to go.
At least she has the curls that everyone wants, no curlers or bobby pins needed. Down the hall to the kitchen she goes to fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and place a cup and saucer beside the canister of tea bags on the counter for the morning. The last thing she does every night before bed. As she lifts a cup and saucer from the cupboard, the doorbell rings, and Florence freezes, arms midair. It''s well after nine at night. Who''s at her door at this hour? Another peal of the bell, followed by a loud knock. Her legs fill with lead. "Florence? Are you there?" Jennie Broughton.
Her neighbour. An emergency, maybe? The kids? But why come here, why not a house with more people, with a husband? Someone who could do something to help. Florence forces herself to the door. "Oh, goodness, I startled you," Jennie says, "I''m sorry." She stands there, cool in her culottes and summer blouse, nothing awry about her or her disposition. No emergency, then. Florence is suddenly aware of her bare feet, sweaty soles on the linoleum. Nails unpainted.
Her thin summer nightdress fluttering loosely in the night breeze, and no brassiere. She might as well be naked. "I. was in the bath." Florence stumbles over her words. "Are you okay?" She left out the bottle of peroxide. Left it on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, on display. Fumes perhaps still in the air.
But it''s a common household cleaner. That''s all. Still. "I''ll be right back," Florence says and heads to the bathroom. Tucks the peroxide bottle under the sink, finger-combs her hair, and grabs the housecoat hooked on the back of the door. It''s far too warm for it but she puts it on and ties it around her waist anyway. "I saw the lights were on!" Jennie shouts from the door. "Is everything all right?" Florence asks, heading back.
"Yes, I didn''t mean to give you a scare." Jennie shifts on her feet in the doorway. "It''s just." She pauses, waves to her own house next to Florence''s and to the empty driveway. "Garth and the kids are away and the house is so quiet tonight." She shifts again. "I''m sorry, come in," Florence says, compelled to find her manners and stepping back to make room for her. Jennie glances around the living room as she crosses the threshold.
She''s never come over like this before. Unannounced, uninvited. Florence doesn''t invite guests over. Private , everyone calls her. Keeps to herself. Is respected for it. "This is the first time I''ve been inside your house. Isn''t that crazy, after all these years?" She wanders through the living room as if through a gallery or museum.
"Nonsense." Florence feigns shock. "It''s true. I''ve popped my head in once or twice before but I don''t remember you having so many lovely things." Florence feels a small ripple of pleasure. Grandmother wall clock, walnut, with a Westminster chime. Delft-blue vase on the antique French side table. Two painted atmospheric seascapes from another country, framed in gold.
The Cogswell, reupholstered with soft green velvet, hand-embroidered doilies resting on its arms. Jennie scans the room, seeming to appreciate what she sees. "I purchase them as I find them," Florence says. But she doesn''t just find them; she hunts for them. Tracks them down. Pores over catalogues, mines the papers for news of estate sales, garage sales, and yard sales. Never knowing what she''s looking for but always finding something she desires, each item calling to her as if it will safeguard her or offer her some kind of protection. Her precious purchases are insulation against the poverty she never wants to know again.
"That''s beautiful," Jennie says, looking at the candy dish in the china cabinet. Milk glass with diamonds cut in relief and a finial lid. Funny that Jennie notices that piece. Florence bought that dish specifically for the Chicken Bones candy that Jennie gave her as a housewarming gift when she first moved in. Florence starts to tell her this but stops herself, worried it would make her sound strange. "It''s one of my favourites," Florence says instead. "I can see why," Jennie says, eyeing it a moment longer before stepping away from the cabinet. "Were you just about to make tea?" Jennie says when she passes by the doorway to the kitchen and sees the teakettle on the stove.
"I was getting it ready for breakfast. but I--" "I suppose it is too late for tea. Perhaps a nightcap, though?" Jennie looks away, embarrassed by her own brazenness. Florence has noticed in recent weeks that Jennie awkwardly prolongs conversations between them in the driveway and finds excuses to be outside in the yard at the same time as Florence. There''s a neediness in her of late. Florence feels her own twinge beneath her ribs. "Of course, please sit. I''m going to change first.
" "There''s no need, Florence. We''re friends and we''ll both be off to bed soon. Please." But Florence throws her a smile and goes to the bedroom anyway, shuts the door behind her. A loose gingham skirt and a short-sleeved button-up blouse. Open-toed slippers to cover her feet. Friends . They are, aren''t they? Neighbours for over six years and always pleasant.
Chatted across their lawns. Helped each other carry groceries, push the mower, shovel walkways. They''ve even walked to church together a few times and sat at the same table during fundraising teas. But they''ve never visited each other. It''s never been just the two of them. Florence heads to the kitchen for the Harveys Bristol Cream. Maybe it''s silly to be so distressed about a guest. Six years in this house, eleven total in town.
It''s fine. No reason to feel like her skin has come right off just because her neighbour wants company and a drink. Deep breath. She finds the bottle in the fridge and closes the door. Carries it back to the living room. "I can''t have nice things at my house with those two little terrors. It''s always a mess and I can never keep up," Jennie says, taking a seat on the settee when Florence returns. "You said everyone''s away?" "Yes, the kids are with Garth''s parents at the farm this weekend," she says.
"They''ve been missing.