Free Burden of Memory by Vicki Delany Page A

startled she leapt to her feet and failed to catch her hostess’ mug before it hit the floor. The thick carpet absorbed the impact and the cup bounced away, unharmed. A bare dribble of tea seeped into the fibers.
    “Oh, that is so true. I will remember that. When things are the hardest. Please pour me more tea, dear, I seem to have lost what bit I had.” She wiped her eyes with a scrap of tissue tucked into the sleeve of her T-shirt, but the smile died too soon. “There are times I wonder if the alternative might actually be better. That is why I want to work on these memoirs. So it is not forgotten when I’m gone. Just a touch, thank you.”
    Elaine checked the tape. “You were telling me about when you were young.”
    “Indeed I was. The parties, the dances, the picnics, the boat races, games on the lawn. The summers passed in an endless haze of fun and irresponsibility. My grandmother loved her garden with a passion and the property blazed with flowers all season long. We had a full-time grounds staff of three, here at the cottage, and that’s apart from the staff at the house. Can you imagine?”
    Elaine couldn’t imagine. Her idea of a garden was two tomato plants stuck into plastic pots, struggling to survive out on the balcony.
    “Ralph was always inviting school pals up for a weekend, or boys from other places on the lake. We had the grandest parties, and the boys absolutely swamped us, Ralph’s sisters, with attention. At the time, of course, I assumed the force of my sparkling personality attracted them. Now I know that being the oldest daughter of Frederick Madison was more than enough.
    “You must see some of the wonderful photographs of those days. I’m sure they can explain it all better than I. Would you like to use our pictures in the book?”
    “With your permission, it would add a great deal.”
    “Take whatever you find, as long as you return it.”
    “I will.”
    “My father would come up for the weekends sometimes, and my grandfather a good bit more as he got older, but usually it was only we children with my mother and grandmother. Better that way.”
    “Why?”
    Moira looked startled. “What do you mean why? It just was.”
    “If you want this to be an honest account, you have to tell me everything.”
    “And you think there is something to tell?”
    “Of course there is. Most children would welcome their father’s company, particularly when it was sporadic. When they don’t, I have to ask why.”
    Moira sighed. She turned her head and looked out the window. A minute passed in total silence. Then the old woman took a deep breath, as if she was coming to some sort of a decision. “Because he was a bully and a tyrant. Because my mother hated him and did everything she could to stay out of his way. Because when he was here she spent the days locked in her room with a headache and a bottle of gin and the maids tiptoed around the place as if the smallest sound would bring it all crashing down around them. We lost at least one maid and one groundskeeper every summer. They would do something my father didn’t like, or be in the wrong place when he wanted to be there, and they would be sacked on the spot.
    “It was easier the rest of the year, when we were at home in Toronto. The house was bigger, we had school, and Father didn’t normally come home until long after the children were in bed. We weren’t as close to the servants in the city, even if they were the same people. Things were different. If a maid was gone one morning, no one cared, another would be in her place by the afternoon.”
    “Did he abuse you?”
    “What an amazing question. Are all you young people so blunt?”
    “I am not young, Moira, as I’m sure you noticed. And we are writing your memoirs after all.”
    “Oh, I understand that it is quite the thing these days to display all your family’s dirty laundry for a good airing. But please remember I was a nurse, and in the army. Quite out of place for my