Brighid brought along no pretense this morning. She handed over the buns and found the man she was looking for.
“Mr. Bowden,” she said to the surgeon, as he rose withthe others to leave in a group and not have to face Olive. “I have a dilemma. You’re the surgeon.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said, even though Olive saw no smile on his face. “Sit down. Tell me.”
The others left. Olive sat, too, which made Douglas Bowden tighten his lips. She knew he wanted no audience but she ignored the look. Brighid, on the other hand, flashed her a relieved smile and patted the bench next to her.
“It’s this, sir: Poor Flora cries herself to sleep, and then she wakes in the night in tears. I hurry to her room, and all she can do is cry and say there is no one to help.” Brighid patted her generous bosom. “I tell her I am here to help, but it does not bring her comfort.”
“She must be remembering when the soldiers came and put her dying mother out of the house, to lie on a mattress while they burned down her home,” Olive said. “She told us that one day. Don’t you think that is the problem, Mr. Bowden? She has terrible memories and they haunt her.”So there, she thought.I don’t care if you think I am a managing woman, Douglas Bowden. You are a sore vexation to me.
The sore vexation sighed and stared beyond the tearoom wall into a place she was not invited. “Charlie MacGregor has told me the same thing about his daughters,” he said, still not looking at either of them. “I think if I were to ask all the Highlanders, they would tell me the same thing. The fathers might be working now, but there is a greater problem, a sore trial of the mind.”
He surprised Olive by addressing her directly. “Miss Grant, would you gather all the children of the Highlanders here? Those above, say, three years of age? How many would you think that is?”
“Maybe fifteen. Boys and girls?”
“Yes. Everyone up to thirteen years or so.”
“That makes it sixteen. When?”
“Now.”
With no explanation, he got up and left the tearoom. She looked out the door to see him walking toward the boat docks, then beyond to the shipyard.
“Something is wrong with our Mr. Bowden,” Brighid said.
“Very wrong,” Olive agreed, “but let us do as he asks.”
To Olive’s surprise, no parents questioned her. All she had to do was tell them that “our Mr. Bowden” wanted the children in the tearoom. She wondered if the surgeon had any idea of the vast respect that the Highlanders and people had for him. All he seemed to see were his own flaws.
In less than half an hour, she and Mrs. Dougall had rounded up the children. From some magical place, more cinnamon buns emerged, which brought out smiles all around, even among the restless.
Olive took a good look at the restless ones, watching their eyes rove about the room, as if looking for an escape route. Maeve dropped a wooden bowl in the kitchen, which made some of the children jump up, then look around, hopeful they had not been noticed. They slunk down in their chairs then, seeking invisibility.
If there was a name for what confronted the children, she did not know it. Their mothers and fathers were stretched past bearing to find food and work and a place to lie down at night. With such huge worries, it was easy to overlook the children.
When the children were seated and through eating, the door opened. She turned to see Douglas carrying sheets of paper and a handful of pencils. She had watched Homer Bennett and Joe Tavish working over a table in the shipyard, instructing and drawing on similar paper.
He set down the paper on one of the tables and did nothing more to get their attention. He commanded respect and he got it, no questions asked.
“I want you to tell me something,” he began, “and you must be honest.”
The children looked at each other, then back at the surgeon, their eyes wary now. He sat down to be on their level and motioned them closer. Soon his arms were around two of the little boys, and the younger MacGregor girl was on his lap. Without needing a cue, Olive sat down too, with the same result. Mrs. Dougall was not slow to follow. Flora MacLeod nearly leaped into her lap.
“It is this, my little friends. How many of you are troubled with bad dreams?”
Silence. One hand went halfway up, then another and another. The girl on Olive’s lap turned her face into Olive’s breast.
“You went through a terrible time,” he said, his voice soft. He looked at Flora, who sat on Mrs. Dougall’s lap, her eyes so troubled. “There was no one to help you, but you survived and you have my deep respect.”
Again the children looked at each other, but there was something in their eyes besides fear now. One of the young boys sat a little taller.
“I want you to do something very hard now.” Douglas took a deep breath. Olive found herself breathing with him because she understood too plainly what this cost him.
“I want you to draw what happened there in your homes.”
Two of the girls gasped and Euna MacGregor on his lap began to cry. He cuddled her close.
