It’s been many months since you left Sable Island, but because you and my father established a close friendship during the short time you were a guest here, I felt it was important to deliver some unfortunate news. I’m not sure if you recall, but I had planned to leave Sable at the end of August to attend Dalhousie University. A few days before I was supposed to board the ship for the mainland, my father and I went strolling on the beach, where he was bitten by a large gray seal. He considered it “only a small nip,” and we went home thinking nothing of it. The next morning, however, I couldn’t wake him, so I called Abigail, and we discovered that the wound had become infected.
My father was taken by air to the Victoria General Hospital in Halifax where it was determined that he had contracted a bacterial infection that was spreading quickly up his leg. To prevent further spreading of the bacteria, the decision was made to amputate. Thankfully, the surgery was a success, and for that I am grateful.
I’m not sure why I felt compelled to write to you about this, but since you had come to know all of us so well while you were stranded at Sable, I thought you might want to know.
The good news is that, after a lengthy recovery in the hospital, my father is now home with us and has resumed his duties as superintendent. He can’t get around as quickly as he used to because he has a prosthetic leg, and I’m sure you can imagine how challenging it is for him to walk on the dunes or even in the station yard where the sand is shifty. But he always loved working at his desk, so that is unchanged.
Thankfully, the Canadian Government has been excellent, and they sent supplies for the construction of concrete walkways between all the buildings at Main Station. Everyone loves our modern “sidewalks” and I’m sure the nesting beetles in the sand appreciate it as well because, when we all keep to the concrete, it prevents them from getting stomped on.
As for the rest of us, we are doing well. The weather has been mild lately (shockingly fog-free!) and the staff men are busy with some seasonal repairs at Station Number Two. Philip McKenna is still launching weather balloons every day, and Abigail has been knitting non-stop. She gave my father a lovely afghan for the parlor sofa to celebrate his return from the hospital.
Unfortunately, I must report that there has still been no word about your crewmen who rowed into the storm on that dreadful night, nor has there been any sign of the boat they sequestered. It has therefore been concluded that they were lost to the sea. I’m very sorry.
As for my own situation, sadly, I had to postpone my studies, but the university was understanding of mycircumstances, and they expect me next fall. Hope springs eternal!
In all seriousness, despite these setbacks, I am not discouraged, and I am enormously content to be here with my father, helping him navigate this new existence with so many unique challenges. (I think, after the long war, we’ve all learned how to be patient and wait for the things we want, am I right? Nothing is ever instant or predictable. Occasionally, a grenade is dropped into our best laid plans, and we must leap out of the way and adapt to a changed environment. Oh, dear me. Now I’ve become philosophical.)
In more practical terms, I remind myself that one day I might have patients with physical disabilities who will need care regarding their mental health, so in a way, I consider this a valuable prologue to my education, because Papa certainly has his struggles.
So that is all the news from Sable Island. I hope this letter finds you well and that things were not too difficult for you with your employer after what happened during that deadly spring storm that brought you to our shores.
Best wishes,
Emma Clarkson
Chapter 11
Christmas on Sable Island required much planning. Preparations began in the fall with the arrival of the Eaton’s catalog, and Santa’s much anticipated arrival depended entirely on the Christmas boat, which laid anchor mid-December. Spruce trees were shipped from Nova Scotia, and each family enjoyed their own traditions. Some waited until Christmas Eve to decorate their trees, while Emma had grown up with an early celebration of stringing lights and hanging tinsel the same day the tree came ashore.
The Christmas following “the Great Seal Attack” (as that horrendous event came to be known), Emma took charge of dragging the spruce tree into the great room and setting it up vertically in the stand, which she had, that morning, pilfered out of deep storage. Luckily for her, Frank knocked on the door just as she was wrestling with the tree in an epic battle to stand it upright.
Frank helped string the lights while her father sat in his leather chair, supervising the placement of the ornaments and sipping sherry in an exquisite crystal glass that was reserved specially for the holiday season. It had been a gift from him to Emma’s mother the first year of their marriage.
Frank and Emma took some sherry as well, and it was a lovely day. Snow began to fall shortly after sunset, and Emma felt blessed to see her father in a state of good physical health and cheerful optimism—arare thing since the accident. She looked forward to ringing in the new year and hoped that 1947 would be better than ’46.
“What’s this?” Emma asked on Christmas morning as she reached for a large but unfamiliar package under the tree. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tucked against the back wall.
“You’ll have to take that up with Santa Claus,” her father replied as he sipped his hot chocolate.
Emma raised a curious eyebrow and carried the box, which was quite heavy, to the sofa. “There’s no tag.” She sat down and held it on her lap. “Who’s it from?”
“Open it and find out.”
Emma tore at the paper and unearthed a decorative box with brass fittings and images of peacocks. When she raised the lid, she found an antique sextant and three books inside. She withdrew each one and read the titles aloud to her father.
“A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, by Sigmund Freud. How wonderful.” She examined the second one and opened to the first page. “Black Beauty. Oh, my goodness, this is a first edition.” She moved on to the third. “Modern Man in Search of a Soul, by Carl Jung, also a first edition. Good heavens.”
Her heart fluttered with cautious hope as she began to suspect who had sent the gift. She dug into the box, hoping to find a tag or a card, and there, beneath the white tissue paper at the bottom, was a sealed letter with her name written upon it.
“It’s from Captain Harris,” she said, feeling breathless and slightly dazed. “The sextant must be for you. How nice of him to remember that you collected them.”
“The package arrived on the Christmas boat,” her father explained, “with a return address from England, so I hid it away until this morning. I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.”
She smiled across at him. “Thank you, Papa. And thank you for being so cheerful this morning.”
He sipped his hot chocolate. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be cheerful tomorrow, but it’s Christmas Day, so I’ll do my best not to be an old grouch.” He set his cup on the side table and rubbed his hands together. “Well then? Don’t keep me in suspense. What does the letter say?”
She reached into the box and discovered a second sealed envelope beneath the first. “There appears to be two of them—one for each of us.”
