A telling-off from the nurse was too much and the last thing I needed. I burst into tears

In winter, back gardens became ice rinks for children to skate and practise ice hockey on. Jean Nykiforuk’s back garden just across the road from us, had one such ice rink.

Her children, most of whom were older than ours, took the boys in hand. Jean had two sons and six daughters ranging in age from six to 17. I never saw the oldest one. She was working and living in Toronto but the next two were teenage girls – dark-haired beauties with long legs and graceful carriages. The younger girls by contrast were rounder faced.

I once said to Jean: “You’d almost think you had two separate families.” “I have,” she replied. “The mother of the oldest three was French. She died young.”

I got no further information at the time but learned later that Jean had married their father when they were all very young and had five more children. Strain She never complained but it was apparent that both her mother-in-law and her husband gave her a hard time. The French Goddess was dead. Jean was obviously considered less than perfect. It was Jean who got my admiration.

By the end of two months in Edmonton things were going reasonably well. Ronald had been able to sell one or two properties and we had enough money to pay rent and living expenses.

However, I was feeling tired after the strain of the past few months. I gradually stopped breast feeding Mahri-Louise earlier than the others. With the advice of Jean I put her on Carnation milk.

“That’s really all we have here,” she said. “The mothers all use it.”

I tried it but suspected that Carnation milk did not altogether agree with Mahri-Louise. I suggested putting her on cow’s milk.

“No. You sure can’t do that, not yet awhile. She’s too young – seven months at least,” Jean told me and so I persevered with the Carnation milk.

About this time Richard brought a virus back from school rather different from the ones we were accustomed to back in Scotland.

It ran its course and was gone. Apart from myself, only Mahri-Louise was left with after-effects – not serious but she had a cold that refused to clear up. Also she had a nasty rash on her bottom which remained even after being left with nappies off for long periods.

“If I was you,” Jean advised. “I would take her to the clinic. It’s only two blocks away and you don’t have to pay.”

The clinic, like so much we had found in Edmonton was new, spacious and clean. It smelled strongly of antiseptic.

I waited my turn in the queue of anxious mothers and snivelling children. My turn at last. A sharp-faced nurse, who barely looked at me, told me briskly to take the child’s clothes off. I did so.

She took one look at Mahri’s. “Her bottom’s very red,” she said. “What have you been doing to her? Tut tut, you young mothers!” Wave of fear I wasn’t feeling well that morning. I had not completely got over the effects of the virus myself. A telling-off was too much and the last thing I needed. I burst into tears.

All of a sudden the tone of the questioning changed. “You folk new around here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Where do you live?” she asked. I told her. “A basement flat?” “Yes.” “Well that’s what’s keeping the cold going. It’s not healthy. Bad air.

“Where do you come from?” “Scotland.” “When did you come over?’’ “Last February.” “Who are your sponsors?”

A wave of fear went through me. I felt the cold questioning of the KGB. I told her who our sponsors were but said nothing of having left their protection. Would she get us into trouble?

Now that Ronald had found a job that he liked I wanted nothing to upset things. I wished I had never come.

She handed me a jar of cream to help clear up Mahri’s rash and told me to keep her warm and on high pillows when she was sleeping.

“I’ll be along in a week or two,” she said, “to see how she is and how you are making out.”

“No need,” I said. “I’ll bring her back if she gets no better.” “I’ll be along,” she said. “We have to watch you immigrants.” Her voice was cold and harsh. I shuddered.

I didn’t say much to Ronald that evening not wanting to give him any more worries than he already had, but I made a new resolution.

When the health visitor came to see me she would find nothing wrong. I was quite convinced myself that it was the Carnation milk that was disagreeing with Mahri-Louise.

I put her on cow’s milk. The rash disappeared. Although she had been on solids for some time she still wasn’t eating much. I asked Jean’s advice. Persistent “I’d a kid like that once,” she said. “Try her on squash. They all like squash.”

I hadn’t heard of it before but I bought a tin of squash baby food from the local drugstore. I opened it and was immediately captivated by its glorious orange colour.

I tasted it – no taste at all, neither sweet, sour or salty. I had little hope of Mahri-Louise liking it. I was wrong. She lapped it up and couldn’t get enough.

Soon she began to improve on a diet of cow’s milk and squash but she still had the persistent sniffles. I thought the nurse was probably right.

The rather fuggy air of our basement flat was not the best environment for her. Fresh air would do her more good than anything else.

I had learned by this time from various Canadian women that taking babies outside before the age of one was anathema to most Albertans because of below zero temperatures or too bright sunlight.

It had become almost a superstition. At home my babies had always spent a lot of their lives outside in the pram. Certainly it had never got as cold as here.

I wrapped Mahri-Louise up carefully, insulated her pram with newspaper and put it in the porch which was sheltered from the little wind there was.

I went out often to see she wasn’t cold. Her sniffles cleared up quickly. (More tomorrow.)