This historical mystery novel re-imagines a little-known time in the life of famous Canadian painter Emily Carr.
When Emily leaves her restrictive home in Canada to study art in London, England, she longs to prove herself as an artist, trying to carve a path for herself towards financial security. But her dreams don’t receive a warm welcome, as her disapproving English relatives believe that the only respectable path for a woman is marriage.
Before Emily can prove the worth of her artistic career, she falls ill and finds herself trapped in a sanatorium, forming an unlikely friendship with Beth, a Florence Nightingale nurse assigned to her care. As a web of intrigue and poisonings tightens around them, Beth and Emily find themselves in a race against time to prevent an attempted murder.
Catherine Walker lives in Claremont, Ontario with her partner. She lives near her three children and four grandchildren so has rich family connections. A proud Canadian citizen, Catherine was born in Scotland. She is a retired nurse with BScN and M.Ed. who taught community nursing and Nightingale nursing theory at Toronto Metropolitan University. She was also manager of clinical placements for nursing students. Most of Beth’s experiences at nursing school were similar to her own. Like Beth, she was almost expelled for audacious behaviour while advocating for her patients. As a member of the Equal Pay for Work of Equal Value Coalition, Catherine fought for and secured a fair wage for public health nurses. While on the board of Women’s Education, Referral and Counselling Service in Toronto she was a member of the coalition that organized and promoted the International Women’s Day marches in Toronto. Catherine strove to emphasize feminist theory in all her teachings and when raising her three, now adult, children.
The Stephen Lewis Foundation supports African grandmothers who are caring for AIDS orphaned children, Catherine organizes local fund-raising activities.
BETH; A CALLING
“These I have loved: Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;/ And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; /And, flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours.” – Rupert Brooke, The Great Lover
Beth lay on the soft new grass at the bank of the river in a splendid idle moment. She reached over and plucked aimlessly at some daisies that were growing amongst the grass. Beth remembered the times when she and Sally made daisy crowns. Then they had chased Tom, trying to crown him king of the fields – their kingdom-playground. She knew that Sally was already in the kitchen helping her mother with the preparations for the tea. She halfheartedly thought she shouldn’t tarry, but the sky was so blue and the sound of the river, replete with spring thaw, was so musical as it burbled over the submerged rocks – come summer these rocks would be exposed and serve as a bridge. With the river full she had to take the long walk over to the stile in the fence between the two farms. She looked over and saw Tom mending the fence and she waved.
The grass was soft and smelled so sweet and made a bed on which to rest after her exertions. After all, she deserved a rest; let Sally do the kitchen work. Beth would choose shears or a hoe any day rather than a broom and bucket and scrub brush. She was happier and more proficient in the shearing pen or assisting an ewe birthing than in the kitchen. Being outside in the sunshine and spring air was much preferable to her than a steamy kitchen.
Florence Nightingale had forsworn a lady’s duties and she decided she would too. Beth took an adolescent rigid stance lacking the compromise that maturity would eventually bring. The hero treasured by the country had invited Beth into the sorority of independent women. Due to her high marks in science and her fulsome education she had been accepted into the ‘Lady’ class of students despite being a simple farmer’s daughter. Lady Arby, sworn to secrecy, had also sent a reference letter on her behalf. These women chosen as ‘Lady nurses’ were destined for the role of Matron. There were two classes of students, these ‘Lady’ students, and probationers, who were generally older women with no formal education. They attended classes together.
She thought her hero brave for going into the bowels of war to save the soldiers – uncharted territories for a woman. Beth, like many who aspired to noble ambitions, was not cognizant of the less romantic realities of dirt, blood and suffering that Florence Nightingale and her nurses withstood. Nightingale was now a heroine, lauded across the land, but more importantly she had proven herself so now her wise counsel was valued by policy makers, and she was making a difference. Beth believed this was where she belonged, among the Nightingales. This would be her destiny, her calling.
Beth, who was considered by others and by her parents to be the perfect daughter, polite, smart and kind, had a strong streak of vanity. She was proud of her intellectual pursuits, proud of her auburn hair and tall, regal stature. It was this pride that nourished her stubbornness. She had fought ferociously to keep her academic standing. Even traits that could lead to positive outcomes might throw a shadow or flaw on a personality, and it was such a flaw that kept her here on the grass when she knew she was needed elsewhere. Perhaps a privileged childhood had contributed to her disdain for domestic duties. She didn’t realize it now, but she would soon be reunited with a scrub brush and hot water with cleanliness being an essential remit and practice for nurses. This, however, was not part of her romantic imaginations.
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