Margaret Laurence - The Fire Dwellers

MARGARET LAURENCE was born in Neepawa, Manitoba, in 1926. Upon graduation from Winnipegs United College in 1947, she took a job as a reporter for the Winnipeg Citizen.

From 1950 until 1957 Laurence lived in Africa, the first two years in Somalia, the next five in Ghana, where her husband, a civil engineer, was working. She translated Somali poetry and prose during this time, and began her career as a fiction writer with stories set in Africa.

When Laurence returned to Canada in 1957, she settled in Vancouver, where she devoted herself to fiction with a Ghanaian setting: in her first novel, This Side Jordan, and in her first collection of short fiction, The Tomorrow-Tamer. Her two years in Somalia were the subject of her memoir, The Prophets Camel Bell.

Separating from her husband in 1962, Laurence moved to England, which became her home for a decade, the time she devoted to the creation of five books about the fictional town of Manawaka, patterned after her birthplace, and its people: The Stone Angel, A Jest of God, The Fire-Dwellers, A Bird in the House, and The Diviners.

Laurence settled in Lakefield, Ontario, in 1974. She complemented her fiction with essays, book reviews, and four childrens books. Her many honours include two Governor Generals Awards for Fiction and more than a dozen honorary degrees.

Margaret Laurence died in Lakefield, Ontario, in 1987.

THE NEW CANADIAN LIBRARY

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ADVISORY BOARD

Alice Munro

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Guy Vanderhaeghe

If I pass the burial spot of Nero
I shall say to the wind, Well, well
I who have fiddled in a world on fire,
I who have done so many stunts not worth doing.

Carl Sandburg, Losers

Ladybird, ladybird,
Fly away home;
Your house is on fire,
Your children are gone.

C razy rhyme. Got it on the brain this morning. Thats from trying to teach Jen a few human words yesterday. Why anybody would want to teach a kid a thing like that, I wouldnt know. Half those nursery rhymes are gruesome, when you come to think of it. Here is a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head. Just the thing to make the sprouts sleep soundly, especially if followed by that prayer about if I should die before I wake. Maybe its okay, though. Prepares them for what they can expect. Stacey, you sure are joyful first thing in the morning. First thing, hell. Its a quarter to nine, and heres me not dressed yet.

The full-length mirror is on the bedroom door. Stacey sees images reflected there, distanced by the glass like humans on TV, less real than real and yet more sharply focused because isolated and limited by a frame. The double bed is unmade, and on a chair rests a jumble of her clothes, carelessly shed stockings like round nylon puddles, roll-on girdle in the shape of a tire where she has rolled it off. On another chair, Macs dirty shirt is neatly folded. Two books reside on the bedside table The Golden Bough and Investments and You, Hers and His, both unread. On the dressing table, amid the nonmagic jars and lipsticks are scattered photographs of Katie, Ian, Duncan and Jen at various ages. Hung above the bed is a wedding picture, Stacey twenty-three, almost beautiful although not knowing it then, and Mac twenty-seven, hopeful confident lean, Agamemnon king of men or the equivalent, at least to her. Sitting on the bed, Stacey sees mirrored her own self in the present flesh, insufficiently concealed by a short mauve nylon nightgown with the ribbon now gone from the neckline and one shoulder frill yanked off by some kid or other.

God knows how old this damn nightie is. Ive got to get some new ones. One, anyway. Were not all that broke any more. Ill get two, today, both fancy as hell. What difference will that make? None. Look at that Christly book why do I keep it on the bedside table? Ill never get around to reading it. Essential background, the guy kept saying. He had probably read it a thousand times. If I wanted to take yet another evening course, why did I have to pick Mythology and Modern Man? Sounded classy, thats why. I went twice. Fees wasted.

Stacey looks at her underwear on the chair but makes no move toward it. Her eyes are drawn back to the mirror.

Everything would be all right if only I was better educated. I mean, if I were. Or if I were beautiful. Okay, thats asking too much. Lets say if I took off ten or so pounds. Listen, Stacey, at thirty-nine, after four kids, you cant expect to look like a sylph. Maybe not, but for hips like mine theres no excuse. I wish I lived in some country where broad-beamed women were fashionable. Everything will be all right when the kids are older. Ill be more free. Free for what? What in hell is the matter with you, anyway? Everything is all right. Everything is all right. Come on, fat slob, get up off your ass and get going. Theres a sale on downtown, remember? Singing ad on local station Dollar Forty-nine Day plink plink. Funny thing, I never swear in front of my kids. This makes me feel Im being a good example to them. Example of what? All the things I hate. Hate, but perpetuate.

Stacey gets dressed and takes Jen, two, over to Tess Foglers, next door. Tess is still in her housecoat, but being tall and slender looks as though ready to receive the Peruvian ambassador. Tesss hair is honey-blond and even this early in the day is done in a flawless French roll. Stacey, who is shorter than she would like to be, is wearing her pale-blue last years spring coat and, because her dark unruly hair needs doing, a small white veil-enfolded straw hat which she dislikes.

My God I look awful how does she always look so

Tess, its terribly kind of you.

Heavens no, Im always glad to

Well I certainly appreciate

Jens no bother, are you honey?

Mumble mumble squawk

My, shes determined not to communicate, isnt she?

Thats right, rub it in. If you had kids, youd know its not such a laugh.

I guess the other kids wait on her too much.

Come on, honey, want a cookie?

Shes just had breakfast.

Dont feed the animals. I know your cookies. Shortbread. Last time she threw up when I got her home. God, Im ungrateful.

Tess, thanks a million Im really grateful.

Its nothing. Now you run right along now.

What cat noises go on in her head? Maybe none. Maybe only me. Stacey, you rotten old bitch.

Tess, Katie will pick up Jen on the way back from school at lunchtime if Im not back, okay?

Sure, okay.

Stacey walks to the corner of Bluejay Crescent and gets the bus downtown. But she does not go to the sale. She gets off near the waterfront and starts walking. She is not cracking up. It is just that she has lived in this city, jewel of the Pacific Northwest, for going on twenty years, and she does not know anything about it. Inexplicably and suddenly, she feels it is time she learned. She knows she will not learn this way.

The pigeons are shitting all over the granite cenotaph, she is glad to see. Stacey stops and reads the inscription. Their Names Shall Live Forevermore. And on another side, Does It Mean Nothing to You. No question mark. Along the steps at the base, three old men sit in the feeble sunlight, coughing and spitting, clenching their arms across their skinny chests, murmuring something to one another, memories, perhaps, or curses against now.