“INTENSE AND COMPASSIONATE, PINDER'S STORY SKIRTS SENSATIONALISM BY FOCUSING ON CHARACTER. IT IS A POWERFUL TALE.” Publishers Weekly (New York)
UNDER THE HOUSE is the story of the Rathbones, a prominent Saskatchewan family living with a secret they're determined to keep. Only young Evelyn finds the courage to break down the wall of silence that keeps the truth at bay. Her ally is Aunt Maude, a timid woman who has lived with the secret from childhood. The secret made her different, the butt of playground jokes. The secret was like the apples in the cellar under the house—rotting, sticky and soft. It is timing that gives this novel its strength, from the confused wanderings of Aunt Maude at the start to the unanswered letter from her sister which ends it. Along the way, Leslie Hall Pinder gives herself every opportunity, right down to a courtroom scene, for sensation and melodrama, and skillfully resists each one in favor of her long-term aim: the creation of a family so determined not to look back at their past that they never see the chains that bind them to it.
Cover Design by Wendy Brown
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Praise for Leslie Hall Pinder’s
UNDER THE HOUSE “A haunting first novel by a writer of great talent and sensitivity. It treats a difficult theme with humanity and admirable complexity.” —Margaret Atwood “[Pinder's] writing takes chances that are poetically vivid . . . this is a brave work.” —The New York Times “[A] forceful piece of writing . . . the book is tense with a body-inthe-cupboard kind of chill, and it manages to convey a sense of the Canadian mid-west without being provincial or sentimental. Pinder is a lavish and intriguing writer.” —The Times Literary Supplement (London) “[A] very original first novel . . . Pinder's prose is suspenseful and held taut by striking images.” —The Independent (London) “Pinder's prose is stark and subtle—with barely a description of people or places she creates a chilling and claustrophobic picture of the sinister side of family life.” —The Sunday Times (London) “[A]n astonishingly accomplished debut . . . In the course of a technically complex and assured narrative . . . and in the slow unfolding of her absorbing tale Ms. Pinder has the reader eating out of her hands. A major talent.” —The Metropolitan Magazine (London) “[T]his is crisply poetic, powerful fiction . . . Pinder clearly registers as a writer with a future.” —Kirkus Reviews (New York) “Intense and compassionate, Pinder's story skirts sensationalism by focusing on character. It is a powerful tale.” —Publishers Weekly (New York)
UNDER THE HOUSE Revised Edition
by Leslie Hall Pinder
Copyright Š 1986 and 2012 by Leslie Hall Pinder All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Originally published in Canada by Talon Books, 1986 First American Edition by Random House, Inc., New York, 1988 First British Edition by Bloomsbury, 1987 (hardcover) and Faber & Faber, 1988 First Finnish Edition by Tammi Publications, 1992
Published by SHELFSTEALERS, Inc., Laredo, Texas.
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Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request. ISBN: 978-1-61972-008-4
Cover Design by Wendy Brown Book Design by Sheryl Dunn and Marzena Romanowicz
Revised Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Under the House Revised Edition
LESLIE HALL PINDER
SHELFSTEALERS LAREDO, TEXAS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thank you to Sheryl Dunn of Shelfstealers for initiating the idea of re-issuing Under the House, and for her unflagging work and inspiration in helping prepare this revised edition. And to Kim Baryluk, who keeps track of the pulse.
For Trish Grainge (1940 - 2011)
PART I
CHAPTER ONE 1986 Maude Mason was losing her place. Time was melting and mixing like a thick liquid. At the beginning of her sentence she was married, and at the end she was widowed. Sometimes in the very midst of things she fell asleep; between lifting the tea cup and it reaching her lips, she drifted, waking with the cup at her mouth. It startled her, so that delicate drops of tea spilled. This confusion had come early in her old age. She was seventy-one and her skin was smooth. Her cheeks were rosy; but if you looked closer the red colour was made of tiny root veins that had come to the surface. Time in her life was liquid, moving between stone thoughts in underground places. The new doctor asked her if she’d had any operations. “No, no I haven’t. Not really.” The doctor was then surprised to find only one breast. “Mrs. Mason, you’ve had a mastectomy.” “I have?” “Yes, look.” “Oh, yes, so I have.” Her hands were gnarled. Her thin hair wouldn’t hold a curl. She weighed the same as she did at age eighteen. Most of her possessions were small. The big things she had moved to the lower floor where her husband used to smoke cigars in the evenings with his
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men friends. They would sit in the armchairs smoking and laughing, so that all of their large teeth showed. Sometimes she made sandwiches and took them down the stairs on a tray. She always knocked before opening the door. A cloud of smoke hung in the air, sinking into the pine-boarded walls and into the leaves on the plants. She could smell liquor. Laughter faded as she entered the room. Always it was the same. Geoffrey, her husband, would say, “Why, thank you, Mrs. Mason, thank you.” When she closed the door, it resumed, the harsh, big-fisted laughter. She paused, then, at the top of the stairs, the sounds curling after her, winding onto her feet and ankles. She was safe at the top of the stairs. The laughter was some good joke Geoffrey told. It wasn’t about her. Probably he had said something funny about the stock market or business, but not about her. She never heard the men leave. Geoffrey let them out through the garden room. She only sensed his presence afterwards in bed, the pressure of his silent laughter. He was dead now. Sometimes she remembered him. She never went downstairs any more. All the plants had died, their curled leaves shriveled around a thin layer of dust mixed with ancient smoke. As far as she was concerned there was nothing under the main floor of the house where she lived. She kept her house perfectly clean and neat, just the way she wanted it, always the same. No dust in her house. Even the birds that came to eat the breadcrumbs she placed on the front balcony left no mess. Bits of feathers, sometimes, that she brushed away. The birds flew out of the mountains and went back into the mountains. Often the girl came to visit. Maude was glad to see her, but didn’t always know how they were related. The girl stirred an old memory, standing outside the door, wanting to come in. Maude wanted her to come in, too, because she was sure the girl loved her more than anyone did. She just couldn’t quite remember how to do it; and then this nice girl would say the very helpful sentence, “Open the door, turn the handle. It’s your niece, Evelyn.” Sometimes the girl would look at the fireplace and say, “Aunt Maude, you haven’t been burning papers, have you?” Had she? “No, no I haven’t.” “You mustn’t burn papers when I’m not here. You can have a fire when someone is with you. Otherwise it’s too dangerous. Put the papers in the garbage.” “I always do.” “Okay, don’t forget.” “No, dear, I won’t.” Sometimes Maude wouldn’t let the housekeeper finish all the cleaning. Those chores were for her. Besides, the housekeeper always went over the line. No one paid attention to the line, even the girl, the niece; she didn’t seem to see it in the fabric of the rug. The line marked where she could vacuum. The next day she could do over that line, to the next one. Like a farmer doing fields.
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It was often hard to cross over the line, even when she wanted to. Maybe she was supposed to keep inside the line because S.D. claimed the part on the other side. No, he was dead. And Stanley, he always tried to take everything. He couldn’t make it stick, though, like in court. She might just ask that nice girl, just to make sure S.D. was dead and couldn’t take anything from her. The niece liked to ask her questions about long ago. That was fine, but Maude didn’t always want to think about those things. Answering questions was like touching something cold that hurt her skin. Her jaw stiffened so she had to speak between clenched teeth. It was better to have the tea the girl brought and watch the birds fly out from the mountains. “How are you feeling, Aunt Maude?” The niece hadn’t gone yet. Did she always stay so long? She looked nice, sitting there in the wingback chair, all comfortable and belonging. “I’m fine. Just fine.” “Mr. Cox called me. He said he was in to see you.” “Oh, was he?” She didn’t mean to say that. She meant to say yes, he was, but it was hard with all these people who needed to be remembered. “He told me he used to be a friend of your sister’s, a friend of Isabel. When you lived together on Gerard Street before she died?” “Yes. That’s right.” “What was it like then?” “It was nice. We had a two-storey house. It was a lovely house. I was young then.” “You’re not old.” The niece wanted to get up, touch her, say something comforting. Maude was glad she didn’t. “Seventy-one isn’t old, Aunt Maude.” “Yes. Maybe not too old.” Too old for what, Maude wondered. To remember things; to be cared for by this pretty young woman. “Now, tell me. Is there anyone left older than I am?” “Your brother.” “Yes, my brother. Which one is that?” “Clarence. He’s older.” “He’s still alive.” She tried to say it as a statement, not a question. “But S.D. is dead.” “A long time ago.” “Isabel has trouble with the stairs.” “You mean where you used to live.” “Yes. She can’t make it up the stairs any more. She had trouble the other day making it up to her room.” “Aunt Maude, there isn’t an upstairs in this house.” “Yes, there is, dear. But the stairs are too steep for Isabel.” The girl didn’t understand about stairs, or the line. If S.D. made the line, Maude couldn’t cross it, or—maybe he’d kill her. He always meant what he said.
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And he hated birds. He’d shoot them and laugh. Or was that Stanley? No, it must have been S.D. “S.D. is a mean bugger.” “But he’s dead now.” Yes, that’s right. She was confused. “He’s still mean.” “Why was he mean?” “He can’t help it. He’s drawn the line.” “What line?” Evelyn was looking around, as if the line was in the air. The girl didn’t understand. “The borderline. It’s beside you.” Maude pointed. “Right there in the rug.” “I can’t see it.” Evelyn was looking down, shaking her head. She should be able to. “Is Stanley alive?” “No.” “Who killed him?” “No one. He just died.” “Somebody should’ve killed him.”
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CHAPTER TWO 1915 Maude was raised on a farm in Saskatchewan. Gradually her father acquired the property around the farmhouse for seven miles in every direction. Everyone called him S.D. Kathryn, his wife, wasn’t involved in her husband’s business. She had her children, and S.D. put the sons to work with the hired hands. One girl, the firstborn, had died. The winters were too long, and the baby’s death had broken Kathryn. She became withdrawn; some even thought she was slightly stupid. Then Maude, the last child, was born. Kathryn loved this one who stayed alone with her. She would rock her back and forth, shielded from the loud voices of the men by singing: Sweet Maude, sweet Maude You’re sent from God You came to me From far away Maude, sweet Maude, my own. That night was cold. All the big-boned men were heavy in their sleep. Maude stopped crying when Kathryn sang. Except for the embers of the fire that Kathryn could see through the grate on the stove, the house was dark. Lawrence, the hired hand, had brought in enough wood for the day and evening, but it was now late into the night. She had to get more wood.
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At the back door she picked up a stack of newspapers and magazines, as many as she could carry with the baby in her arms. She opened the stove with the cast iron lever, removed the metal plate, and placed the papers on the fire. They flared, making a harsh light on Maude’s face. “Kathryn. Come to bed.” Her husband yelling woke the baby and she started to cry. Kathryn clanged the metal plate back on to the stove. Her tent of calm had been shredded by his voice and the sound of her baby. “Kathryn.” “Yes, I’m coming.” She felt her way up the stairs. S.D. would not allow the baby in their bedroom. She put her in the spare room that had been set up for her. She rocked Maude but didn’t sing. She could hear S.D.’s heavy breathing in the silent house, but dared not return downstairs for fear he would holler and wake Maude again. She got into bed, taking up a small place. His breathing did not alter. She woke up, coughing. Smoke filled the room. “Fire.” The word she dreaded. “Fire.” She couldn’t see anything. “Fire. Fire.” She crawled along the floor, reaching for the door handle. When she opened it, the smoke banged into her lungs. She called for her sons. “Stanley, Clarence.” A hand came forward and grasped hers, leading her down the stairs and through the thick smoke into the cold air. Everyone streamed from the house and out beneath the cackling yellow moon. One side of the farmhouse was in flames. She remembered the baby. “Maude. Where’s Maude?” She ran toward house but was pulled back by the older son, Stanley. “Let go of me. Maude’s inside. Stanley, let me go.” She screamed and clawed his arm. He heard her but would not let go. He was drawn into the fantastic panic of his mother’s face. Time stopped in the grip he had on his mother’s arm. “Stanley, for God’s sake,” she yelled. “Maude’s in there.” His mother was weak and pitiful. “Please, Stanley.” She was begging him. His mother begged him to let her go. “Please.” His cruelty snapped. “I'll go in.” He released her arm. She watched and cursed her husband and her son. The men yelled, their voices like bats darting through the shadows. “Get the pumps.” “Pa’s gone for them.” “The baby’s inside.” “Canvas. We need canvas.” “Stanley’s gone back in.” “Get the tarp.”
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The men ran to the window and stretched out the canvas. “Toss her down, Stanley.” “Out here.” He threw the baby from the window; she landed on the canvas with a sound of soft butter dropped into a pan. “Jump, Stanley.” “Jump, for god’s sake.” The voices vaulted up to the window. “No, I’ll make it down the stairs.” Kathryn hugged the child. “Maude, my Maudie.” She encircled the baby and took her to the corner of the yard, to the edge of the mown grass where the endless fields of wheat began. She could barely hear the baby’s screams above the voices of the men. The fire from the house webbed Maude’s face in streams of shadow. Kathryn sang the song of Maude, sweet Maude, come from God, and saved from a fire.
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CHAPTER THREE 1924 Maudie, Maudie, she’s an oddie. Maudie, Maudie, she’s an oddie.” The other children chanted her name outside in the playground. Their voices came through the doors and windows of the schoolroom. She never went out for recess after that, but kept to her books or helped the teacher clean the blackboards. Whenever her name was spoken she expected the insult. Maude was named after the firstborn child who had died. Her shield against the schoolyard taunt was the first Maude. They were like twins. It was her twin who was odd. The cruel jokes of the ugly children were meant for the other one. The real Maude wasn’t odd, she was only different because she had a dead sister with the same name. People were confused. Even her parents were confused; they treated her as though she were a baby, filmy and insubstantial. She wasn’t allowed to go too far from home. She shouldn’t visit the neighbours. She couldn’t ride the horses. Her parents guarded her from everything. They had a secret she shouldn’t know about. It had to do with her twin. It had to do with the apples. Apples were kept in the dark root cellar where it was cool and close, full of rot and decay. Going down into that cellar was clouded with terror. There was a sticky clamour of earth smells as she pushed the heavy wooden door and entered the darkness. She was always afraid the door would close behind her and she wouldn’t have the strength to lift the latch and get out. The scented darkness would catch her, keep her, and forget her. That was the first terror.
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The apples were in a rough burlap bag at the farthest corner, next to the potatoes. She’d feel inside the bag and pull out apples, one by one, putting them into her bowl. They were the eggs from the earth that she took to her mother. This time when she reached inside the bag, she touched a withered thing, soft on one side. She screamed—a short, choked sound that threw her backwards against the sack of potatoes. She lay on the ground, looking up at the monster apple bag. Now she was caught between two terrors: going back upstairs without any apples or again touching that wrinkled shape, the shrunken head of the first Maude, her other sister, there in the bag, withered and rotten. She rubbed her hand back and forth in the dirt of the floor, trying to get it clean. She crouched on the ground, her eyes darting from the bag to the door and back again. If she didn’t get the apples, she couldn’t return to her mother. She would have to stay under the earth with the other Maude. Her mother would find them there, shrunken and vegetable. She stood up. With one hand on the bowl and the other on the outside of the bag, she forced the apples out, whispering, “Baby Maude, stay back. Please stay away.” She ran out into the cold winter light, unable to look at the things in her bowl. She lifted it up to her mother. Her face didn’t change; she took the bowl. Maude waited. Still nothing happened. The other Maude had stayed under the ground. Every time her mother asked her to get apples, her fear was mixed with victory, her death with survival. She had to go down where her dead sister was waiting. If she could keep her there, she would be safe above the earth. Maude had this secret, so cavernous and root-bound, she could never be like the rest of them. When she lifted the bowl of apples, she offered up the possibility of exposure, not only of herself but also of the other Maude and the dark place under the house. She held her secret away from them.
Leslie Hall Pinder was born in a small town on the prairies. After her undergraduate work, she decided to become a full time writer; therefore, she needed a job. She found one at the police department in Vancouver. Fascinated with the law, she became a court reporter in the criminal courts. She finally entered law school, graduated with her LLB (UBC, 1976), and was the first woman litigator in a large Vancouver law firm. When the firm had its monthly meeting at a club that did not admit women and required them to enter by the servants’ entrance, she walked through the front door. There was hell to pay. She formed her own law firm, working exclusively for native people, taking cases through all levels of court, from Cache Creek, B.C. to the Supreme Court of Canada. During her 28 years as a litigator, she continued to publish. In 1986 Under the House was brought out in Canada by Talonbooks, then by Bloomsbury Publishing in the U.K., and Random House in the U.S. Faber and Faber published the softcover edition. Her second novel, On Double Tracks, was published in Canada in 1990 by Lester and Orpen Dennys, and in the U.S. by Random House. It was nominated for a Governor-General's Award, the highest literary award in Canada. When Leslie discovered Shelfstealers (and we discovered her), she had decided to re-publish her first novel on her own. We convinced her that our team approach to publishing might be the better route; we're glad she agreed. Her second novel, On Double Tracks, was short-listed for the Canadian Governor-General's Award for Fiction. She has published short stories, poetry, a libretto for an opera and many essays, and is completing her third and fourth novels. 37 years after deciding to write full-time, she does. Shelfstealers is honored to publish UNDER THE HOUSE, almost concurrently with Leslie's third novel, BRING ME ONE OF EVERYTHING (Grey Swan Press, 2012.)
You can watch Leslie write her memoir, EVERY LAWYER SHOULD BE SUED, via Shelfstealers' WATCH OUR WRITERS program at http://www.shelfstealers.com/watchlesliehallpinderwrite/
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