Free Flint and Feather by Charlotte Gray Page B

biggest girl, who took to her heels, screamingwith laughter and calling back: “Georgie, porgie, pudding and pie, kiss the girls and make them cry.” Of course, he caught her, kissing her a half-dozen times; then he chased and captured several others, and finally made a rush for where I stood, my little back fortified against a tree trunk, my face sullen and sulky. “Run, he’ll catch you!” shouted the others, but I never stirred, only stood and glowered at him, and with all the indignation my eight years could muster, I shouted at him. “Don’t you dare insult me, sir!” The “sir” was added to chill him and it did.
    On this occasion, and all subsequent ones, she was left alone.
    Both Eva and Pauline appeared to recall their childhood with nostalgia, but theirs was an upbringing that was stiflingly inflexible by today’s standards. There wasn’t a dainty rule of conduct that Emily Johnson didn’t enforce. Never reach in front of a person, but ask for what you want. Don’t make a noise with your lips when you are taking soup. Never say a person is sick; say he is ill. At dinner always break your bread, never bite it. Always put your hand over your mouth whenever it is necessary to sneeze, cough or yawn. Never tip your soup plate to get the last of the contents or drink the last of a cup of beverage; always leave a little at the bottom of a cup…Sometimes the catalogue seemed endless. The children were never permitted to eat in the kitchen, or to take a slice of bread and butter or cake unless they were sitting properly with a plate and napkin in front of them. And gossip was never permitted, no matter how much Pauline longed to discuss with her sister the rumour that a local clergyman was too fond of a tipple.
    Emily Johnson’s strictures worked. The reputation of the Johnsons as a model Victorian family rippled throughout Brantford and beyond, as did the renown of Chiefswood as a home of refinement. George Henry Johnson and Emily Howells Johnson were themselves the kind of attractive couple of whom everybody wanted to believe the best. Both were slim and good-looking, and fastidious dressers. Whether George Johnson was dressed up in buckskin as an Indian chief or wearing his everyday starched collar and broadcloth jacket, he madesure that his buckles shone and his dark hair was oiled smooth. Daytime callers at Chiefswood always met Emily in an immaculate afternoon dress, with freshly laundered lace collar and cuffs, her side curls neatly pinned up. The Johnsons entertained frequently. There were musical evenings, with family and friends grouped around the piano. There were games of croquet on the lawns. There were lavish Sunday teas, at which the best linen, silver and china were set out, and Emily gracefully received local dignitaries.
    George Johnson’s reputation as a skilful mediator between Indian and European interests was also spreading. Thanks to his dual responsibilities as both George Johnson, government interpreter for the Six Nations, and Onwanonsyshon, member of the Six Nations Band Council, he found himself the reserve’s de facto chief executive officer. He was simultaneously paid by the government in Ottawa to enact its laws and empowered by the Council to enforce its rules and regulations. He often found himself in a difficult position, straddling two systems of government and uncertain how secure his position was with either of them. This balancing act was a source of stress and, at times, danger.
    Trouble first erupted one evening in January 1865, when Pauline was only four. Emily was just lighting the parlour lamps when George lurched through the door with blood pouring from his head and mouth. The children stared in horror at him until their mother shooed them upstairs and sent the stableman to Brantford for the doctor. George stammered that he had been attacked in a local village by two men while walking home; then he passed out. When the doctor arrived, he quickly ascertained that