AGNES RANKIN WATSON:
Immigrant, Widow, Divorcee.
It’s me, Aggie. Back at last.
I’ll give the apology for our delay since ye likely won’t hear it from th’ lass’s mouth. I can nae believe it’s 2025 – a stowed oot year she’s left me waitin’ in the cold! What bits have changed on this computer I’ve barely come t’ ken? At least the start button is the same as I recall. But it’s almost like goin’ back t’ the very beginning. I’d have a word or two with her if I cuid ever pin her down.
Enough is enough. Let’s just get oan with it then, shall we …
After just one nicht on that wee wooden kip, my entire body ached like nothing I ever knew. ’Twas clear the train ride ahead would be painful as well as laing.
When we pulled into St. John that first morning the’ sun was just keekin’ up from behind the station t’ show the braw day ahead. In all the excitement of stopping an’ folks wantin’ t’ get off an’ stretch their legs, I cuid nae believe my ears t’ learn ’twas true that no youngsters wuid be permitted off the train. Och! Not just at St. John but the entire trip.
I recalled that handsome Glasgow CPR agent Mr. Ian Brown mentioning t’would likely be the case, but I’d scoffed an’ put it from my mynd. An’ by the sound of enraged voices around me, I was nae the only passenger fit t’ be tied by the news.
Rumour said ’twas due to the high risk of youngsters bein’ left behind. Now I admit there’d been times in my life when such temptations flashed through my own heid but I cuid nae picture followin’ through. ’Twas a muckle great piece o’ land we were headed across an’ over seven days, the poor weans cuid use a bit o’ fresh air now an’ then. But th’ rule was tight an’ the doors well guarded. I had no choice but t’ watch our neighbours Iain and Mary MacGregor step out while I sat with my restless bairns and bided time knitting and gawking out the window.
A few feisty pedlars were permitted t’ step inside the cars, one or two at a time, and while I was sorely tempted by the aroma of fresh bread and the braw slices of cheese ‘n’ ham in their baskets, aside from a crakin’ bottle o’ milk or two, and a couple o’ weary looking apples for the bairns t’ share, I held out at every stop.
Lots o’ passengers preferred t’ cook their own meals an’ make their own tea ‘n’ such at the tiny stove provided, but queuing up t’ take a turn in that wee neuk of the train turned the blood in my veins t’ steaming hot lava. Every mornin’ I did a check in my bag of dried mutton, oatcakes, shortbread, ‘n’ such t’ be certain we’d get by. Especially important was makin’ my small stash o’ tablet fudge last the trip. What wuid I do without my daily taste o’ home?
It all made me glad o’ the dining compartment two cars up from us. ’Twas a solid divider between us an’ the cushioned, upholstered coach-cars nearer the front that got hitched onto the train in St. John. Though I hated t’ spend the dosh, we were trapped on the train for a full-on week, a wee walk an’ a daily change of scenery t’ fetch a cuppa, a bit o’ broth an’ maybe a biscuit, was something we cuid all look forward to. I decided early on that my funds wuid manage the stretch.
I made my mind up – even if it meant having t’ make our way past the men’s smoking seats at the end of each car. They occupied that section the entire day, an’ while I cuid enjoy a whiff or two of a braw pipe, ’twas the ones divin’ into their cups and makin’ rude comments that set an uneasiness in me. But the break wuid make our own tired provisions more satisfactory an’ give me good reason t’ dress a bit fine an’ keep up my spirits. Given the circumstance.
I can ne’er forget that lang, scorchin’ hot wait in Montreal, though. When Iain MacGregor told me he’d found a thermometer on the platform reading 86 F – och – I could nae believe they still would na let the bairns out t’ get some air. I’d ne’er been so heated in ma life and was sure t’ die.
The confusion that day was especially bad an’ prevented us movin’ up t’ the dining car. I’d heard whispers of a new ship having landed at Montreal’s port in the wee hours. First, there was the jerking about as more new cars were added on. Once the pedlars and passengers’ comings an’ goings slowed down, new folks started arriving t’ fill the handful of empty spots.
With a hammer pounding inside my heid, I kept wonderin’ how many ships the CPR had runnin’ at the same time. Cuid they nae have ’em all land at the same port. Or at the very least sort their passengers better?
But then I spied a wee lad on the platform an’ perked right up. With his brown smilin’ eyes an’ dancing curls, despite the heat, he kept on grinnin’ and calling out “Get your Globe – Canada’s national newspaper! Just two cents”. He was no more than 8-years-old an’ won my heart right off. If I was missin’ anything in that moment, ’twas a gae newspaper. The stories, the gossip, the advertisements!
I scolded the weans t’ sit tight in our berth an’ wait while I stepped off the train t’ trade a couple o’ pennies for a bit o’ fresh news.
The very thought took me back to my printing press days in Perth when John Campbell was first sweet on me. A sudden sense of homesickness stabbed my insides an’ for a moment, I cuidnae breathe, missin’ him more than e’er. I’d have done anythin’ for my guidman. How was I t’ manage the rest of the ride across this great countryside with our three bairns? Then I remembered them – my weans waitin’ inside – an’ blinked hard t’ collect myself before turning back in t’ the stuffy car.
Lily ‘n’ Jean both had heavy eyes when I returned with my newspaper so I stretched ’em out on one hard bench, heads at each end, feet touchin’ in the middle, and called Colin t’ sit beside me, opposite them. I loosened the top two buttons of my shirtwaist and fanned myself with my folded treasure before opening it t’ the front and lifting the newsprint t’ my face just t’ breathe deep the fine aroma of fresh ink. But the scent that met my nose was more tired than fresh.
I pulled the paper from my face an’ in spite o’ my disappointment, had t’ chuckle at the day-old date, printed bold as brass on the front: May 20, 1911. That wee newsboy was a clever one but in that moment, with being trapped on a train in a strange country, the wee bit made na difference t’ me.
“Open it, Mummy. Open it.” Colin squirmed on the hard bench an’ tugged at my sleeve.
We flipped through the pages, one by one. I helped Colin read the headlines an’ shared interestin’ details with him. I don’t recall many aside from the deaths of an auld couple due to the extreme heat an’ five young girls perishin’ in a house fire somewhere in the United States.
One article did stand out for a gey lang time. ’Twas was far too gruesome t’ share with my laddie but the tragedy has ne’er left me. A letter t’ the editor defending a poor woman sentenced t’ hang for choppin’ her guidman with an axe. And her with a babe in her belly at that! The gey idea sent a swirl o’ confusions through my head an’ I cuid nae land on a single reason for the story t’ make a bit o’ sense. My heart started beatin’ so solid ‘n’ fast I cuid feel it richt in my ears.
“This heat is too much, lad. I’m needin’ t’ rest.” I folded the paper, rested my head on the back of the wooden bench and set t’ fanning myself. But I cuid nae escape the gruesome photie in my heid …
Like I said, ’twas a lang journey across Canada ‘n’ it takes wirk to clear the blur in my mynd. I surely am needin’ a rest. A wee dram o’ whisky would sit nice richt now, though, while I think aboot what t’ tell ye next time.
Let’s hope it doesn’t take another year for th’ lassie t’ get movin’ again.
Cheerio th’ noo.
