Maud and Me

By Marianne Jones

Maud and Me" is a novel set in the early 1980's in Marathon, a small mining town in Northwestern Ontario. Nicole LeClair, a middle-aged minister's wife has a secret: she receives visits from Lucy Maud Montgomery, also a minister's wife an"d famed author of Anne of Green Gables. Since Maud has been dead for four decades, Nicole is unsure if this apparition is a vision, a ghost, or a hallucination brought on by her own growing malaise. But one thing that she is sure of is that neither her husband Adam, nor the people in their church would approve.
In the early 1980's, the women's movement hasn't yet reached conservative Northwestern Ontario. Nicole deals with her frustrations through her painting and subversive sense of humour, even as she tries outwardly to please everyone: her well-meaning husband Adam, her angry, distant mother, and the congregation of Marathon Community Fellowship. When she becomes desperate for someone who understands, Maud shows up in her garden. Over cups of tea and long drives along the north shore of Lake Superior, they compare notes and hilarious observations about congregational life. But then news of her father's death and the discovery of her mother's betrayal drive Nicole to question everything about her family, her life, and even Maud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crossfield Publishing
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781999177973

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Copyright the author. All rights reserved. May 2021.

Copyright Crossfield Publishing. All rights reserved.

Jones, Marianne

ISBN 978-1-9991779-7-3 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-990326-15-8 (epub) (Crossfield Publishing Inc.)

Magdalene Carson RGD, New Leaf Publication Design: cover/interior design

Maura B. Brown: editor

Glenda MacDonald: publicist

Crossfield is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

We are proud to offer this book to our readers. However, the story, names, and experiences are attributed solely to the author.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Maud and me / Marianne Jones.

Names: Jones, Marianne, 1953- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana 20210174269 | ISBN 9781999177973 (softcover)

Classification: LCC PS8569.O5252 M38 2021 | DDC C813/.54—dc23

To Reg, Jen and Maureen

all my love always

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map of Lake Superior

Opening

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Silver light plays on the lake’s surface. My thoughts dip and trail their fingers in the currents beneath. I shift on my faded chair on the dock. Broken bits from the white cumulus clouds change shape and melt on their blue canvas. A woodpecker drills intermittently, and a crane waits in the marshes with enviable stillness.

I think of Adam back at home, wondering the same things that I’m asking myself. What am I doing here? Will I go back to Adam? Nothing had been the same since Maud. She had caused me to question everything. Especially myself.

Maud first appeared last spring. I was on my knees in the backyard, putting in bedding plants when I saw her pulling a branch of lilacs down toward her face. Eyes closed, she was breathing in their fragrance, She wore a brown flowered midi-length housedress and oxford walking shoes. Her grey, crimped hair was mostly hidden under a cloche hat.

I was puzzled by her old-fashioned attire and the sense of déjà-vu that enveloped me. Her clothing was reminiscent of the things I had seen my grandmother wear when I was a child. But my grandmother had never worn her outfits with the sense of elegance and gentility that this stranger exhibited, with her white gloves and perfect posture. As I tried to identify the vaguely familiar face, a photograph came to memory. The face I saw had the same rimless glasses and kindly, intelligent expression as L.M. Montgomery had in the photograph on the dust jacket of her books.

I felt dizzy. There was more than a similarity. This was Lucy Maud Montgomery, late celebrated author of Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, and a score of others. L. M. Montgomery, who died in 1942, long before I was born. I remained on my knees, gawping, unsure what the appropriate etiquette was in such a situation. She glanced at me and smiled.

Don’t you just love the smell of lilacs? They’re so full of promise of the delights to come.

Would you like some? It seemed the polite thing to do, to offer.

Oh, could I? It’s been so many years since I had flowers.

I went into the porch for gardening shears, hoping she

would be gone when I came back. A pre-migraine hallucina­tion. It had to be. It probably wasn’t a good idea for the minister’s wife to be having visions. Saint Paul, maybe, or the angel Gabriel, but I was pretty sure L. M. Montgomery was not on the approved list.

She was still there when I returned, studying the garden.

Your roses would benefit from some good manure, she said. So few people know how to tend roses properly. Your pansies are nice, though.

I’m just a beginner.

I snipped off a few stems of white lilacs for her. She smiled as she accepted them.

Thank you. That’s so kind of you. Do you think perhaps we should take them inside and put them in water?

I was uneasy about the idea of having her in the house, but couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse. I led the way through the porch, removing my gardening shoes before entering the kitchen. She followed serenely, holding her bouquet as though she were the queen on a state visit.

Would you like something to drink? Are ghosts able to drink, I wondered.

A cup of tea would be lovely. More likely she was a hallucination. They could do whatever they wanted.

I put the kettle on and began to arrange the lilacs in a vase while we waited for the water to boil. When it was ready, I warmed the teapot, aware that she was watching. I retrieved two of my grandmother’s china cups and saucers from the top cupboard. Maud would expect a teacup.

Despite my sense of panic, I did myself proud. Linen napkins from a drawer, a gift from a church member who had visited Ireland. Cake I had made that morning. She sipped her tea with enjoyment.

That’s delicious. There’s nothing like a good cup of tea.

Are you here for any special reason? I asked. I mean, it’s not just for flowers and a cup of tea, is it?

Well, that’s what I call getting straight to the point. No, no, that’s all right. I like people who are direct and honest. Much better than being sly. I think you and I are kindred spirits.

You mean because we’re both minister’s wives?

No one understands the lot of a minister’s wife better than another minister’s wife. It can be a terribly lonely life. I so wished in my day that I had someone to talk to who understood. It would have made life more bearable. My closest friend was my journal. It was the only place I could speak frankly, saying all the things I didn’t dare say out loud, in case one of my husband’s parishioners was to overhear.

That was a troublingly familiar sentiment.

Her eyes travelled around my kitchen, taking in details with interest.

Pardon my curiosity. I feel a teensy bit like Alice in Wonderland. What is that black box?

I turned to see what she was looking at.

It’s called a microwave. It’s an oven that cooks food very quickly.

Seeing her intrigued expression, I thought I should demonstrate it to her. I took a bag of microwave popcorn from the cupboard.

She watched intently as I pushed the controls with my finger, eliciting beeps from the machine. She stooped, wide-eyed, to watch the rotating tray and the expanding bag with its small firecracker noises. When I took the bag out and opened it to reveal the popped corn, she looked as delighted as a child on Christmas morning.

How amazing! Do you cook all your food in bags?

No, but you can get a lot of things like that.

I showed her the other appliances. I felt like a tour guide, enjoying impressing her, as though I was personally responsible for the advance in technology. My kitchen was well appointed by 1991 standards. My husband, Adam, loved gadgets.

Maud was amazed by everything, but was especially taken with the food processor.

I wish I had had this during canning season. I usually enjoyed cooking, but after putting up jams and pickles and relishes I could have slept for a month.

The dishwasher is my favourite, I said, but then, I don’t can that much.

Housework must be a pleasure with all these gadgets, Maud remarked.

You’d think so, I replied.

She peered at me sympathetically through her round, frameless glasses.

What you are experiencing is the dark night of the soul. Ewan, my husband, struggled with it for years. In those days, of course, it was a terrible secret. The disgrace would have ended his career had anyone learned of it. I had to work terribly hard to hide it from people. I would smile cheerfully and tell everyone that Ewan was busy working on his sermons. Then I would go home and see him white and shaken, terrified that he was lost, that he had committed the unpardonable sin. I was at my wits’ end.

How did you manage? I asked.

My work was my salvation. I got up early every morning, before light, and worked on my stories. I could escape the demands of my life for those few hours before it all began again. Without that I think I would have gone mad. This is excellent pound cake. Not quite as rich as I used to make it, but quite nice.

Are you saying I need a place of escape? I said, sliding the cake plate toward her. She shook her head slightly in refusal and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

My dear, I don’t presume to know what another person needs. I took refuge in doing my duty. It’s remarkable how stable that will keep one through life’s crises. And when my duties became too much, I turned to my imagination.

I stood and went to the window to look out to where the Brownlees’ son, home from kindergarten, was riding his tricycle down the sidewalk.

I hate this mask I have to wear, I said.

She looked up in surprise.

My dear, we all have our masks. Every single being on this planet. And a good thing it is, too. Our masks are what make survival possible. Even with our most intimate friends there is always some element of pretence, some secrets we don’t tell.

I rubbed with my finger at a speck on the window. When I was in my teens it was the fashion to want to strip away all pretences. They were seen as hypocrisy.

Maud tilted her head to one side and smiled at me. The very young and the very beautiful may look agreeable naked, but most of us are improved with some covering. I’m not sure I would want to live in a world where I was forced to see into the ugliest recesses of other ’s minds — or where they could see into mine. A little hypocrisy can be a very useful thing.

I hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. Functional hypocrisy. Practical masks. Well, they certainly saved a lot of time trying to explain yourself, especially where the truth could be a liability.

I hadn’t planned on marrying a minister. Adam was studying to be a high school teacher when we met. He had a passion for biology. He used to get excited about spruce bogs and marshes and microbes, and could talk about them at length, the light flashing from the steel frames of his glasses as he talked, gesturing with his long, expressive hands. But more than his excitement about his subject, he had a kindness about him that wasn’t tacked on as an afterthought. He couldn’t walk across the campus without encountering someone who wanted to talk to him: some girl about her boyfriend problems, or a classmate who wanted to drop out mid-year. He listened to them all seriously, sympathetically, interposing a question or comment from time to time.

By the time we married, he had become a popular teacher with the students, as much for his manner outside the classroom as for his teaching. They went to him, rather than to the guidance counselor, with their problems and secrets.

I was raising a baby during those years, content to think that life would continue on in this manner, punctuated only by small milestones of junior kindergarten, first two-wheelers, birthday parties, and school plays. So when Adam announced that he felt called to leave teaching for the ministry I was incredulous.

He explained his reasons to me with the patience one reserves for children. He anticipated all my objections, my confusion. His decision was already made.

I want my life to mean something, he said.

It already does. Look at how you reach all those kids. They need you.

I could do more, he said kindly. He understood how I felt, which I found infuriating..

I’m not cut out to be a minister’s wife, I said.

He reached for my hand. I pulled it away.

You’re not changing careers, I am, he said with a smile that was meant to impart confidence.

I couldn’t win. I never had been able to with him. I was always in the wrong. If I yelled at him, he wouldn’t shout back or defend himself. He’d just look at me with that steady, disappointed look. It was like kicking Bambi.

Would you like more tea? I asked. Maud nodded, and I returned to the table.

My mother used to tell me that you marry the man, not his career, I said as I poured. She wasn’t a minister’s wife. She would sit in her brocade armchair, calmly sewing, reciting clichés as though they were Scripture. She didn’t have a mind for questioning things. She cooked from recipes, sewed from patterns.

It’s a trial living among people with no imagination, said Maud. I lived with my grandmother until her death. She was a worthy soul, and I loved her dearly. But she had no sympathy for my passions. Nor did anyone in Cavendish. They were good people for the most part, sturdy, honest, salt of the earth types. But they never thought a thought that wasn’t told them from the pulpit or read from the Bible. It made a lonely life for me.

Nowadays most people don’t think a thought unless they hear it on television first, I said. That’s the modern Scripture. Only they believe they’re thinking for themselves.

Maud laughed, an infectious laugh. So that is what they call progress.

The telephone startled us. I put down my cup and crossed the room to answer it. It was Adam.

I’m just finished with the budget committee meeting, he said. I need to rest up before the board meeting tonight. Do you want me to pick up anything at Angelo’s on the way home?

No, we’re fine. See you soon. I felt a stab of panic as I put down the receiver. Turning to Maud I said, That was Adam. He’s on his way home.

I quite understand, she said graciously and stood up. One must attend to the man of the house. Thank you for the tea and the delicious cake. I’ve so enjoyed our chat. And thank you so much for showing me all these wonderful cooking devices. It’s been delightful.

I saw her to the door and watched her as she walked away. Once I was sure she was safely out of sight, I washed up the china, dried it, and returned it to the top shelf, feeling light-headed. Clearly, I was losing it. The question was: what to do about it?

It had been hard to concentrate on things of late. My thoughts would ooze out in every direction, like an undisciplined classroom of fifth graders. As soon as I reined one in, the other would escape.

It was starting to worry Adam. Sometimes he would look up from his books and give me a long, concerned look, his brow furrowed, as it was when he is wrestling with a sermon or a problematic issue at church. I wondered if he was concerned about me, or afraid that I would do something to embarrass him.

I tried to behave, really I did. I’d always had an inordinate desire to please, like a puppy. In 1976, when Adam got his first posting, at a community church in Marathon, a northern mill town, Calvin was just starting school I tried to settle into my new role, but I always had the feeling of having stepped into the wrong movie. All the other characters seemed at home with their lines, while I was always fighting the urge to pick the script apart.

On our first Sunday there, Annie Laakso, who headed up the women’s group, invited me to their Wednesday morning Coffee and Crafts group.

We have a lot of fun at these mornings, she said. We have coffee and goodies. There’s babysitting for the little ones in the nursery so that the young moms can get a break. We learn a new craft every week, followed by Bible study. It’s a great way to fellowship and get to know one another better. We’d love to have you join us.

My first assignment as pastor’s wife. I showed up for duty Wednesday morning, armed with a smile and a large pan of banana cake. Annie greeted me.

Oh, that’s so lovely, she said, as I handed her the pan. I should have told you that we have a sign-up sheet for baking. But today we’ll be twice blessed.

She waved me to the long table in the centre of the room, set with a dozen chairs around it. At each place was a bundle of Phentex yarn and a handful of wooden beads. Two women were already seated, chatting and joking together. They broke off their conversation to smile at me.

Welcome, Nicole! Glad you came, said Helen, a plump, grey-haired woman in a peach-coloured jogging suit.

Hi. I’m Lise. The speaker was a tall, slender fortyish woman.

Lise is in charge of crafts, said Helen. She’s teaching us macramé today.

Voices on the stairs and clomping feet announced more arrivals. Several young women with toddlers in tow appeared. They waved at us and herded their children to the nursery before returning to settle themselves around the tables.

Nice to have you with us, Nicole, said Mona, one of the young moms.

Glad you could make it, Mona, Helen said.

I wasn’t sure I would. The kids were acting up, and I was tempted not to bother.

When everyone was assembled and introductions and small talk had been dispensed with, Lise took us through the steps of making macramé plant hangers. After that, we broke for coffee and cake and Annie led the study.

We’re doing a book study this fall, she told me. I brought an extra copy for you. We were reading through chapter two this week and answering the questions at the back of the chapter.

I looked at the book she handed me. A paperback with the title The Joyful Woman superimposed on a background of daisies.

Any thoughts on chapter two? Annie asked the group. Did anyone relate to the idea that depression is the child of ingratitude?

Well, said Helen, breaking the brief silence following Annie’s question, When I was a girl, whenever I complained, my mother would tell me to count my blessings instead of my sorrows.

And did that help? asked Lise.

It taught me to stop complaining, so I guess it helped my mom.

We laughed.

There’s one thing I don’t understand, said a young woman who had been introduced to me as Trish. She was one of the young mothers who had settled her baby in the nursery. Keeping her eyes averted, she continued in a timid voice, You know, I was so excited when I was expecting Charlene. I had looked forward to having a baby so much. But for some reason, I have felt so sad ever since she was born. It doesn’t make any sense to me.

Oh, honey, you’ll be fine, said Annie, patting her hand. It’s always a big adjustment getting used to a new baby. Getting up at night with them, changing diapers. Once she starts sleeping through the night, you’ll feel so much better. You just keep giving thanks for a healthy baby.

Trish nodded and smiled faintly. She blinked rapidly and kept her gaze