THE WOMAN FROM BEAR RIVER by David Weale

The letter arrived at the Charlottetown Police Station early in January, 1954. The return address was Bear River, and the pencilled handwriting on the front of the envelope could easily have been mistaken for that of a child. It referred to a calamitous chain of events in the life of the sender which had been altered dramatically by the caring intervention of two city policemen. The note recalled a painful episode two weeks earlier when the Christmas spirit had moved unexpectedly to touch the life of a destitute family , where grim poverty had almost succeeded in crushing out the last spark of Christmas cheer.

The dark side of Christmas is the curse of failed expectations, and of sadness, made even more sad, by the contemplation of unhappy circumstances during the season of mandatory joy. That, at least, was how it was for the woman from Bear River. It was the day before Christmas and she was desperate. She had gotten up early that morning, long before daylight, to catch a ride to town on the back of the milk truck. It would be a rough, cold trip, with many stops along the way to pick up the cream cans, standing straight like little armoured sentinels at each farmer's gate; but she was expecting an unemployment cheque, and knew if she didn't go to town to intercept it there would be nothing to put in her children's stockings, and no food for the Christmas table.

The fire had died down during the night and she shivered as she dressed quietly in the darkness of the curtained-off, single room dwelling which was home to herself and her seven children. Her husband, still in his clothes, had staggered to his bed sometime during the night and would be there when the children woke up. He wouldn't be in any condition to care for them, but she consoled herself with the thought that he would at least be at home, and could be roused in the event of an emergency. She felt guilty abut leaving, but the prospect of a Christmas without toys or treats drove her to action. She knew the children would be upset when they discovered her absence, but she had awakened her eleven-year-old daughter, the eldest, and told her of her day's plan. "I will be back by suppertime," she whispered, "so you look after the others and tell them Santa Claus will be coming tonight." Before leaving the house she removed the cover from the stove, stirred up the few remaining live coals with the poker, and put in two pieces of wood. It was some comfort to know the chill would be off the room by the time the children got up.

She walked to the road in the dark, blocking out what she was leaving behind, and feeling a faint pleasure in being by herself. The stars were still out, and it suited her that they were so bright and serene, and yet so distant. It was not long before she saw the bounce of headlights as the milk truck made its way slowly along the icy road. She stood sideways to the lights as the vehicle approached, and when it stopped went immediately to the back. The hired man was standing in the big doorway, and helped her up. There was a wooden box near the door and he pointed and said, "You can sit over there for now, but I'll have to move ya when we get loaded up."

His voice was cold and impersonal and his abrupt manner made her feel her presence was an intrusion. She sat down without speaking, and there were no more words during the trip. He had treated her like a piece of unwanted cargo, and there was nothing she could do now except stay out of his way.

By the time they neared town it was daylight. As she stood at the back, gazing out the door at the passing December landscape, it occurred to her that the colour had pretty much gone out of everything. Along the ditch the stripped stalks and stems of old growth protruded starkly through the snow. The last blush of summer green had long since been covered over, and apart from the full orange of swamp juniper, and the faint yellow of lichen on the grey trunks of old poplars, the countryside seemed altogether drab and subdued. The harbour was still open, but even that would soon snap shut.

As they drove at last through the streets of Charlottetown she observed all the houses with pretty decorations in the windows and wreaths on the doors. She hadn't been to Charlottetown since her trip in on the train several years earlier; and now, as then, she felt out of place. It seemed a long way from Bear River, and the small sagging house which had become the centre of her confined world.

When the truck pulled into the dairy she clambered down and asked the driver when he would be heading back. He said he had to pick up some "truck" at the wholesalers, and at Canada Packers, and that after that he would be having his dinner at the hotel. He didn't mention the bootlegger, but she knew from the talk around home that he would almost certainly be stopping there sometime before he left the city. He was usually quite drunk but the time he returned in the evening, and in Bear River everyone wondered how he managed to keep the truck on the road. But as far as anyone knew he had never had an accident, or paid a fine.

"I'm not exactly sure when we'll be pulling out," he concluded, "but you probably should be back here by two o'clock, or a little before."

It took her a few minutes to walk uptown. Not knowing where to go from there she stood for a short time outside Holman's on Grafton Street, almost paralysed by her fear, and the daunting prospect of having to ask a complete stranger for directions to the Unemployment Office. Realizing she didn't have much time she finally stopped a woman in a long brown cloth coat; one who seemed as poor as herself. "Of yes, dear," the woman replied kindly, "you're almost there. It's just up the street to the corner and another block down."

When she stepped inside the office there were several people in front of the wicket, lined up like grey birds of winter on a bare limb, waiting their turn at the feeder. She took her place in the queue without looking at anyone's face, and as the line moved forward she began to feel a very great tightness in her chest. It was all she could do to keep from fleeing, but she remembered the long trip in the truck, and the children waiting at home, and began to go over in her mind what she would say.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter had a large Christmas corsage on her smooth white blouse, made up of shiny green leaves and waxed red berries. She wore a pair of glasses with tiny rhinestones in the upper corners, and her perfectly grey hair was styled neatly in some kind of bob; so neatly, that the overall effect was one of prim severity. As she moved nearer, the woman from Bear River found herself wishing it was a man she was approaching.

Finally, it was her turn. She told the woman her name, and where she was from. "I'm expecting a cheque any day," she explained, "but I need the money for Christmas. I heard that the cheques come in here before they're mailed out to the country, so I came in his morning ...."

The woman broke in, interrupting her before she could finish her rehearsed explanation. "We can't do that," she said curtly, "the cheques aren't due for almost a week. It's impossible to get them now. You'll just have to wait, I'm sorry."

The words stunned her.

She wanted to say more, or at least have a chance to explain, but the women's blunt response had left no opening. She remained there, dumbfounded, for just a moment, and then turned and talked to the door, her eyes downcast and her head bowed. There was little anger in her, or feeling of any kind. The encounter had left her numb, and like a dog turned outdoors she went outside and just stood there.

There had been many times during the previous few years when she had felt at the end of her resources; many days when she felt so little power in herself she could scarcely breathe. On those days, when it seemed she might disappear entirely beneath the surface of her own salted grief, it was the children who saved her, or at least kept her going. And now, standing motionless on the sidewalk in Charlottetown, it was the same. The thought of her children, waiting for Santa Claus, made it impossible not to act. There was nothing left for her now but to take what she needed, and as she set off up the street towards Woolworth's she determined what she would do.

The store was crowded with shoppers, and filled with the aroma of freshly made doughnuts, arranged on trays at the bakery counter between the two front doors. Her heart pounded as she walked among the aisles, and stopped in front of the stationery and school supplies. There were pencils there, and packages of crayons, and as she slipped two of each into the pocket of her coat she resolved to send the payment by mail the day her cheque arrived. There were now four gifts in her possession, but she needed three more. She thought she should probably leave, and go to another store, but when she turned her head to see if anyone was looking, and noted that the other people in the store seemed preoccupied with their own shopping, she decided to finish what she had started.

Thinking of combs or barrettes for the girls, she moved around the end of the aisle and made her way to the cosmetics department. She believed her presence in the store had gone unnoted, but could not have known that her shabby appearance, along with the clear language of her carriage and movements, had made her stand out conspicuously in the experienced eyes of the manager. As she was slipping the three small hair clasps into the same pocket, he moved quickly to her side and took her by the elbow. "What are you doing?" he asked accusingly.

She was speechless, and the breath went out of her, as though she had just been struck a tremendous blow in the stomach. The man waited just a moment, expecting some kind of response, but when it became obvious the women wasn't going to say anything, he ordered her to come with him to the store office. She followed him, dazed with fright, and when he asked her to empty the contents of her pocket onto the desk, she obeyed mechanically.

"Do you have the money to pay for these?" he asked.

She didn't speak - just have her head a quick, barely perceptible shake.

"Then I'm going to have to call the police," he said, reaching for the phone. "Lady, you can't just pick up things and walk out of here, you know," he added, as though to convince himself of the necessity of the call.

The woman collapsed into a chair, like a person before a judge who had just received the death sentence.

It had been a routine morning at the police station. Two of the men on duty had returned with one of the well-known downtown "derelicts" who had slipped on a patch of ice outside Moore and MacLeod's and opened a deep gash on his forehead. They had taken him to the doctor for stitches and he was now in the station lock-up where he would spend Christmas Eve. There would be others with him before the day was over; men who had no better prospects for the holiday than a small cot and a free meal within the warm, familiar confines of the police station.

The year before, these same two policemen had gone out on Christmas Eve and brought back some chicken sandwiches and a few bottles of pop from the Island Grill. They had organized a party of sorts for the five men in the lock-up, and had even brought in a guitar and sang a few carols. It was a sorry, comical affair, but the incarcerated men were touched by the gesture, and after Christmas, when they were back on the street, had told everyone in town abut their experience. Further, it seemed likely that on this Christmas, a year later, some of those men would be back in the same place, hoping for a repeat performance. It would become, they hoped, a Christmas tradition.

Hanging up the phone the officer at the desk turned to the two policemen and said, "That was Woolworth's. The manager's got a shoplifter in his office and wants someone to go down and take care of it. He caught some poor wretch with her pockets full and no money to pay for anything."

"Somebody doing her Christmas shopping the cheap way," laughed one of the cops.

"Why doesn't he just forget about it?" replied the other, without moving out of his chair, "It's Christmas Eve, for God's sake!"

"I suggested that," said the man at the desk, "but he says there's just too much stuff walkin' out the door, and that he has to put a stop to it. I think he wants to press charges."

The two veteran policemen had seen it all over the years, and had become accustomed to the various patterns of despair of men and women who had become the victims of their own desperation. The job required a thick skin. You could break up a fight, arrest a thief, or intervene in a domestic quarrel, but you soon discovered that in most cases there was little you could do to change the patterns. It was like mopping the same soiled floor day after day, and you learned it was easier to go to work if you kept your hands out of the dirty water. But there were exceptions, and on that Christmas Eve day, when the two policemen walked into the office of the manager and saw the accused woman, they sensed immediately that this was one of them.

She was obviously terrified, and had drawn herself together into as small a space as possible, Bent lightly forward in the chair, her legs were together, with one foot on top of the other, and her red, chapped hands clasped together on her hap, on top of an old back purse. She looked up furtively when they came through the door, but immediately dropped her eyes and began to rock back and forth.

"What's the problem here?" asked the first policemen through the door.

"I caught this woman stealing from the store," replied the manager from his seat behind the desk. "She's the third one this week, and I've got to clamp down on it."

The words "clamp down" were especially frightening to the woman. She knew she was guilty, and that she had no money to pay a fine. The only thing she could think was that they would probably put her in jail. She knew what it was to feel abandoned, and the thought of her own children, alone and unattended on Christmas Eve, not knowing where their mother had gone, was excruciating. There was a howl of protest in her which longed for expression, but she kept her teeth together and her mouth shut. Now, as ever, it seemed impossible to fight back, or give vent to her compacted pain.

"What did she take?" asked the policemen.

The manager pointed to the small collection of items on the desk. "That's how much she had when I caught her, but who knows how much she would have taken if I hadn't seen what was going on."

The officer turned and looked at his partner, and then back at the manager. "What's it worth?" he asked.

"Ninety-seven cents."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" interjected the second policeman, "you want to press charges for ninety-seven cents?"

"Well what am I supposed to do, just let people walk in here and take whatever they want and then walk out? This is a store you know, not a charity depot."

The first policeman turned again and looked at the other.

"I wasn't going to take anything else," the women said softly in a pleading tone. "I have seven children waiting at home, and no presents, and all I wanted was one little thing for each of them. And I know you might not believe it, but I was going to send the money in the mail next week. I'm expecting a cheque but it didn't get here in time for Christmas."

The manger shifted uncomfortably in his seat, with a look on his face which said, "I've heard all this before." He was about to say something when the first policeman spoke.

"If we give you the ninety-seven cents will you forget about the charges?"

There was a long pause.

"All right, all right," replied the manager, "but tell her that she is never to set foot in this store again, and if she does I will be watching her like a hawk."

Ignoring the man's comments, the policeman took out his wallet and tossed a dollar bill onto the desk. "Keep the change," he added sarcastically.

He then gathered up the crayons and the other items and handed them to the women. "Put these in your purse," he said, "and please come with us. You can tell us about it back at the station."

The woman stiffened and when he saw that his words had caused new fright he softened his voice and attempted to reassure her. "We're not going to lay charges, Madam, but we need to talk with you for just a few minutes. Don't worry, everything's going to be all right."

There was kindness and understanding in the man's voice, and it reminded her of the woman on the street who had given her directions, but as she walked down the block to the police station in the company of the two policemen she felt embarrassed and tongue-tied. When one of them asked her where she lived she said, "Bear River, near Souris," but couldn't think of another thing to say. Fortunately it was a short walk, and she was relieved when they arrived at the station and the men escorted her directly to a small room with no one in it, and pulled the door almost shut behind them.

She was invited to have a seat, and one of the cops asked her if she would like a cup of coffee. "Yes," she replied, "if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," he said, and left the room.

It was almost noon, and she hadn't eaten anything all day so when the policemen returned with coffee, and a doughnut, she responded gratefully, "Oh, thank you! Thank you very much!" she said, feeling slightly less apprehensive, even though she was still unsure why they had brought her back to the station, or what was going to happen next. She remembered the seven small gifts in her purse, and her worst fear was that she might have to give them up.

"It's true what I said about the cheque, " she volunteered, "and if I can keep these presents for the children I'll send you the money next week."

"Don't give it another thought," replied the man who had paid the dollar. "The reason we asked you to come here is to find out more about your children. Maybe we can help out with your Christmas. How old are they?"

As she listed off their names and ages he copied it all down on a notepad. "Do you have a husband?"

"Yes," she replied, "but he hasn't had any work all fall."

She was relieved when he moved on to another question. The reference to her husband had created a new consternation in her, and she could feel her arms and legs beginning to tremble unaccountably. Her feelings about her husband were largely buried, but the cop's question had opened the door to that sealed chamber, and it was with some difficulty that she managed to shut it again.

"How did you get into town?" he asked.

"I came in on the back of the milk truck."

"And is that how you're going back?"

"Yes," she replied, "and I have to be at the dairy by quarter to two or I'll miss my ride."

"Well that doesn't leave us much time," he responded, pushing up his coat sleeve and looking at his watch. "You just sit tight. We'll make some calls and see if we can round up some toys for those kids of yours."

Within a few minutes the two officers had contacted the President of the Kinsmen Club, the Captain at the Salvation Army, and the Sister in charge at Catholic Social Services. While the woman sat alone in the room, still in a state of shock from her experience at Woolworth's, they made the rounds. Arriving at the station just before one, they came back into the room, their arms loaded with food. They were both conspicuously pleased with themselves. Their uniforms were the wrong colour, but with their red cheeks, and their faces fairly shining with goodwill, they looked for all the world like two Santa Clauses in blue. Further, they were no sooner in the door when a man from the Kinsmen Club arrived on the scene with two large cardboard cartons filled with toys.

"This is all for you," they announced proudly. "There are a couple of toys for each of the children, and two turkey dinners complete with all the trimmings."

"And we've got something else for you," one of them added, reaching into his pocket.

The woman didn't realize it, but the story of her misadventure, and of her seven children waiting at home in Bear River for the arrival of Santa Claus, had spread quickly throughout the police station. Even the Chief heard all about it and was, like the rest, moved by the story. When the two good Samaritans told him they were taking up a collection for the woman he immediately reached into his pocket. His donation, along with the contributions of virtually everyone else at the station, amounted to thirty-seven dollars, and it was this sum that the policeman handed to the overwhelmed woman. The unanticipated generosity of these strangers was almost more than she could comprehend. She couldn't say anything, but the look of surprise and amazement on her face did not go unnoticed by her two benefactors.

Neither of the policeman had mentioned it, but their call to the Catholic Social Services had confirmed the truth of her story about her children and the wretched circumstances of their homelife; further, they had learned that two of the children were diabetic, and that the husband was an alcoholic who contributed little or nothing to the care of his large family. And so it surprised her somewhat when the policeman made a point of saying, "This money is for you. No one else needs to know a thing about it. No one!"

The insinuation was clear.

It was shortly after two when the milk truck pulled up outside the dairy. When the woman pointed it out to the policeman, he got out of the car. During the time they had sat waiting he had told her a little about himself. He enjoyed talking about his own little girls, and how excited they were about Christmas. Earlier in the day, when they were leaving Woolworth's, he had introduced himself and his partner, but in the panic of the moment she hadn't picked up on the names. She now wanted very much to know who they were, but couldn't bring herself to ask.

"You stay here for just a minute," he said as he closed the door, " I want to have a few words with the driver."

She watched as he walked slowly to the truck, and could see the taut look on the face of the driver as the policeman approached him. He got out of the truck and the two men had a brief conversation. They then walked back over to the car and began removing the boxes from the back seat. She made a move to get out, but the cop told her to stay inside where it was warm.

When everything was loaded into the back of the truck he came back and opened her door. "I had a word with him," he reported, nodding his head in the direction of the driver, "and he said you can ride up front on the way home. The fella who came in the cab has agreed to ride in the box."

He spoke matter-of-factly, but she would discover months later that he had insisted on the new riding arrangement, and that when the driver hesitated he had been warned menacingly that if he didn't comply he could look forward to being pulled over and checked every time he came to town.

He walked her to the truck, and before she climbed up into the cab she thanked him again for his kindness. He touched her lightly on the shoulder and smiled. "I'm just glad we could help," he said, "and I hope you and your kids have a Merry Christmas." She never saw him again.

The trip home alongside the sullen driver was almost as mute as the trip in, but she was grateful for the silence, and wrapped it around herself like a protective shawl. Mile after mile she reflected on the day, and determined to write a letter to the police station expressing her gratitude. Each time she recalled the gifts and the food in the back of the truck, it sent a wave of delight through her entire body. She returned to the thought again and again, fondling it happily the way a child caresses a new toy.

When she was away from home she often dreaded her return. But tonight it was different. As the truck neared Bear River she began to think about the supper she would prepare, and how she would hide the gifts. There was a small building near the road about a hundred yards from her own gate. It was an old forge where, in earlier years, the horses in the community had been shod, and broken wheels restored to roundness. No one used it anymore and she decided it would be a good place to get out.

She pointed out the place to the driver and he pulled over and stopped. She thanked him for the chance to Town. "It looks like a big Christmas at your place," said one of the men in the back as he handed down the boxes. There was some envy in his voice and she wondered about his circumstances and what he had waiting at home.

He asked her if he could help with the carrying, but she declined. She wanted to be alone with the packages and was looking forward to the prospect of carrying each of them into the old forge, and exploring there the full extent of her good fortune.

When everything was inside she want through the contents of the boxes. There would be no presents for her on Christmas day and no pretty ornaments in her windows, but there, kneeling in that dilapidated building, in the stillness and soft last-light of Christmas Eve, surrounded by the bounty of others' kindness, and filled with the certain anticipation of her children's delight, she experienced the full grandeur of Christmas joy.

When the happy task of sorting was finished, she took the money from her purse and hid it beneath a board in the corner, near the place where the old canvas bellows once fanned the nutcoat embers into bright heat. She left behind the toys and the two turkeys. Later, when the children were asleep, she would return for them, but for now she filled the largest carton with the potatoes and vegetables, the oranges and apples, the package of tea, the cans of milk, the pudding and the bag of hard candy. It was a heavy load but pleasant to carry.

As she walked down the road toward her laneway she could see the light of a lamp in her window and the outline of a child looking out. The stars were appearing overhead, and in the frosty silence of the darkening countryside, she took pleasure in the white bursting forth of her breath, and the crunch of her feet on the frozen road.