The Whirlpool by Jane Urquhart Read Free Book Online

practical man, and one who had a family to feed, he adjusted, accepted his fate, and became the local undertaker, saving his more creative work for those times when, inexplicably, the steady flow of deaths abated for a while.
    As the century progressed and the business of burying humans became more complex, several additions were tacked on to the original building. The population of the surrounding villages increased until the entire area became a sizeable town called Niagara Falls, not to be confused with the town on the lake which was also called Niagara. Now there were professionals living there who not only wanted, but could also afford, mahogany and velvet. But the second and third Grady did not construct tea tables and used these materials only in their more expensive caskets. The business prospered.
    All of the Mrs. Gradys occupied themselves with arranging and rearranging the half-acre of land behind the frame building that housed not only the business, but their living quarters as well. They planted bulbs, trimmed rose bushes, installed arbours and miniature artificial waterways. They gave little thought to the fact that the land they worked was rich with recent history, the Battle of Lundy’s Lane having been fought where the garden was now and in the orchard and cemetery adjacent to it. Occasionally, they would unearth a bullet or a button, which they would place in an apron pocketwhere it would lie forgotten until it was thrown in the trash by the housekeeper at wash time. More excitement was caused by the discovery of cannon-balls, which were taken into the stables by the men, scrubbed and kept, although, until the military historian at the hotel across the street became interested, no one quite knew why.
    Main Street was situated far enough up the hill from the river to be spared any of the garish tourist attractions that dominated the lower town and so, in appearance, it resembled the principal thoroughfare of any other Southern Ontario settlement of a similar size. Its inhabitants, therefore, were able to ignore the presence of the giant waterfall in a way the rest of the world seemed unable to. They were familiar enough with its existence that it aroused in them absolutely no curiosity, and they were too far away from it to use it to their financial advantage. The spray and fog which in winter caused the trees closer to the river to be covered with ice, producing a totally altered landscape, did not reach as far as Main Street. Even the roar of the cataract (which was never as loud as it was purported to be) was very rarely heard. Only on exceptionally still, exceptionally cold nights, when all motion had stopped or was frozen, buried, or asleep – only then could you hear it. And then it sounded like the ghost of some battle, so distant, so forgotten, that the rhythms of the cannon fire were practically lost.
    Forgotten history, buried bullets; a long, even breath of noise, an incessant sigh, rubbing against the night.
    Her abrupt awareness of the season had moved Maud over to the windows. She was gazing down at a small mud puddle watching the sun perform inside it like quicksilver. Touched by the wind the fiery ball became fragmented there, broken into piercing shards. Maud closed her eyes. The shards remained, fractured, in her mind’s eye. But the puddle was gone.
    Outside, a trolley approached and moved on. The clock on the mantel ticked. A rectangle of sun on the carpet crept a fraction of an inch closer to the wall.
    Down the hall Maud could hear the housekeeper speaking to the child, dressing him for an outing. “Now you can put on your coat,” she was saying encouragingly. “You can do it all by yourself.”
    No, thought Maud, he can’t. He can’t do anything all by himself. Anger flickered for a moment in her nervous system, like the sun in the puddle, then it drifted away.
    “Now, let me tie your hat,” the housekeeper was saying.
    Maud heard their footsteps move down the hall towards the