An Excerpt from my novel-in-progress

     For the past year I have been researching and writing a new novel about an artist's life in Montreal in the turbulent 1930s and 1940s.  I've written earlier Canadian historical novels set during the Great Depression of the  1930s, and enjoyed revisiting this decade (and the following one) through the eyes of a fictional woman painter busy juggling art and motherhood.

    I haven't yet decided on a title for the novel, but think it will be either "Forty Mermaids" or "Beax,Arts."

    I will call the excerpt below, "A Father-in-law's Visit."

A Father-in-law's Visit.

(c) Ruth Latta, 2025

        Luke and his sisters called their father “Papa” and deeply respected him, so much so that the phrase “As Papa always says,” came to irritate Merle. Many people found Rev. Mr. Howard Croft profound, witty and wise, but to her he was a bore, and although he always treated her kindly, she doubted that he had the wisdom of the angels.  Naturally, she didn’t express her feelings.  Mr. Croft had been a leading force in uniting Canadian Methodists, Congregationalists and some Presbyterians into a new mainstream Protestant church, the United Church of Canada, in 1925. He was beloved and esteemed by many because of his genial personality, down-to-earth preaching style, clever turn of phrase, and  tireless organizing. Luke thought Papa might even be elected church moderator one of these years.

Concerned about the plight of Canadians in this Depression, Mr. Croft used his contacts and influence to petition the government on their behalf, though with no discernable results. Luke saw his own efforts in furthering social democracy as a continuation of his father’s mission.  Nevertheless, they tried not to discuss religion with him, for while he was a liberal theologically, he would be hurt that Luke and Merle were more or less agnostics, at best “seekers” for the meaning of life.

“Papa” was  not particularly liberal regarding the advancement of women. Comfortable in his traditional, Victorian household, he took for granted that “Mama’s” role was to serve him, take care of his physical and emotional needs, make his home comfortable and also do church work. After first meeting Luke’s parents, Merle’s mother had warned her not to let Luke turn her into a doormat. Merle had insisted that Luke had modern views, and wanted his wife to be a pal, not a domestic drudge, or his echo. Theirs was to be an egalitarian marriage based on mutual respect as well as passion. 

These days, she had to admit she’d been wrong about the passion and maybe the respect, too. She was riddled with anxiety and low self-worth, often so churned up over the thought of Luke with another woman that she couldn’t settle down to paint. They’d discussed her feelings, with Luke insisting that  jealousy and possessiveness were atavistic, the  product of custom and conditioning, something to overcome.

She kept telling herself that she was fortunate  to have a comfortable home, a child, and a  husband who was a fine companion  when available. Some women would be glad to have  husbands who didn’t bother them for sex, but Merle longed to be bothered.

One evening, when Luke was dining out, she settled on the sofa to hem a skirt and review her day, which had been pretty good. In the morning she’d taken Andy on a sketching expedition, first to a lookout with a panoramic city view, then to a neighbourhood where the predominantly Victorian houses were decorated with ‘gingerbread’ trim. She was planning to include several, close up, in a Picasso-esque picture of urban life. All went well until she said, aloud, “I just want to get this gingerbread right.” Andy threw down his banana and demanded “Gingerbread”, and on learning that she didn’t have any, he  kicked the dashboard until she  promised to take him to lunch in a department store cafeteria if he’d stop. Suddenly he turned into an angel, and forgot about gingerbread when ice cream was proposed.  Back home, she’d

settled him for a nap, threw on her painting shirt, and tackled  two bell peppers, one red, the other green, sliced open to show the complex seed patterns at their cores.  She was making them larger than life, like Georgia O’Keeffe’s floral paintings.

When Andy woke, he asked for tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches for supper, which sounded good to her. Before leaving for work that morning Luke told her he’d be dining with some of his social democrat friends at the Faculty Club, so she didn’t have to cook a meat-and-two-vegetable meal for him. After supper she and Andy played with his  Meccano set and listened to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio until bath-and-bedtime.  

Now, on the sofa with her feet up, hemming the skirt she’d bought on sale at Eaton’s, she promised herself that when finished, she’d reward herself with the  latest New Yorker.  While she admired the work of many Canadian artists, she craved the stimulus that the galleries and museums of New York provided. She longed to go to go there for a few days, on her own, to recharge her batteries. 

When the doorbell rang, she jumped up. Luke?  He was home early, wonderful! 

Opening the door, she saw on the welcome mat a tall, bulky figure.

“Hello, my dear.” The Reverend Mr. Herbert Croft smiled down at her and brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I haven’t seen you for a while so I decided to drop by.”

Merle had begged off from the last Croft family dinner because Andy  had a cold.

Papa  looked around the living room. “Where’s Luke?”

“Out with some colleagues from the League for Social Democracy. What can I get you, Papa? Tea? Sherry?”

He chose tea, “The cup that soothes but does not inebriate,” and settled himself in the big armchair.   In the kitchen, Merle  felt in need of a strong alcoholic beverage.  Her hard-won contentment evaporated. Usually she was with the Reverend in a larger group and sat smiling and silent among the whole “fam-damnly”, as Mr. Croft referred to the brood. Now, as she put the kettle on and got out two china cups and plates, she wondered what snacks to offer. “Mama” baked every Tuesday, and Luke’s sisters were talented cooks who churned out fruit loaves and squares with the greatest of ease, but Merle had no such goodies in the house. Finally she put out  arrowroot biscuits, Oka cheese and crackers.  Her father-in-law seemed happy with what she served, and asked her what she’d been doing.

Sitting down opposite him, she decided to be herself and see how that went over.  She told him about her sketching morning with Andy and her plans for a Cubist painting combining several architectural styles.  When he asked if she’d taken the streetcar, she said no, she’d asked for the car, because Luke could easily walk to the campus and she’d needed to look at buildings in various locations. Then she  invited her father-in-law  into her studio to show him her work-in-progress, the two peppers.  He studied them, looking puzzled and disapproving at their exposed  regenerative parts.

“I had Cezanne’s ‘Apples’ in mind,” she told him.

“You’ve made the peppers three times their normal size.”

“Yes, to make the seed arrangement stand out.”

“Hm. Quite the little studio you’ve set up for yourself.”

  He looked around at her experiments with Cubism and Surrealism until his eyes lit on a picture over the door. “That’s  charming,” he said.

This 8 ½ by 11inch painting dated back ten years, from a photo taken on her whirlwind European tour.  It showed a pretty shop in France, with blue pots around the door sporting bougainvillea, yellow daisies, alyssum and red geraniums. An ancient bicycle leaned against the wall, its basket full of the same flowers.  Back home, she’d recreated the scene from memory and had won second prize at a spring art exhibit.   These days, though, she hated “pretty” and “picturesque”, and wanted her art to do more than hold a mirror up to nature.

“It’s so cheerful. You should do more flowers.”

“I may try some flower close-ups along the lines of Georgia O’Keeffe,” she said, as if he’d know who she meant. “I like to tackle new subjects and styles, and make art that addresses the challenges of our time. Admittedly, the peppers don’t do that directly, but the multiple seeds reassure us that life will go on in spite of depression and war.”

“Ah, I see.” He looked uncomprehending.

“Enough about me,” she said, leading him back to the living room. She poured more tea, still warm, thanks to the tea cosy Mama had knit for her.  

“What are my sisters-in-law doing?”

“Well, Faith is doing some typing at home for a medical office, in addition to looking after her family. She uses something called a dictaphone.  My girls used to tell Mama and me that they wouldn’t be dictated to - and then they both became stenographers.”  He chuckled.  “Hope has thrown herself into preparations for the bazaar at Trinity and her girls are crocheting doilies for it.  All the youngsters are thriving. How is Andy these days? Still a picky eater?”

“He likes nursery foods like shepherd’s pie, macaroni and cheese.”

She still felt cross about their last meal with the Crofts. Mama had served roast beef with Yorkshire pudding which Andy’s much older cousins had lapped right up.  This dish was unfamiliar to Andy so he refused to eat it and  picked at his mashed carrots. Faith had muttered something about wasting good food, and Hope had warned, ‘No dessert for you,’ until Luke solved the problem by taking Andy’s portion as his second helping. 

“He must be great company for me, with Luke away so often,” Mr. Croft remarked.

“He is.  Take a peek at him if you’d like.”

“I shall, on my way out.  You’ve been blessed with artistic talent, my dear. I always say a woman needs something in her life above and beyond housekeeping and child-rearing. Mama, for example, is a talented pianist. She taught all our children to play, and could have earned her living that way, though she has never had to.”

Merle picked up her hemming. She knew where he was going with this topic.

“Andy must find it lonely without siblings,” he said.

“He sees children his own age at nursery school and has friends there. Believe it or not, he can read a little.  When I’ve been reading to him, he has been following along, and now he can decode quite a few words.”

“He’s bright, like his dad. A shame he has no brothers and sisters. Isn’t it time for you and Luke to have another baby?”

Merle was mute with indignation and pain.

“You’re still in your twenties, but a woman has a limited window of opportunity for childbearing.”

“This is very personal,” she murmured. “and my life is quite full as it is.”

“Sorry to intrude, my dear, but it’s my duty to say something.” 

“I’ll tell Luke that you asked.”

How would the Rev. Mr. Croft react if she said, “You’d better pray for the Holy Spirit to give me another child, because Luke doesn’t love me in that way. If I didn’t have my painting I would die of despair.”

The old man rose. “I should go. Thank you for the tea. May I look in on my grandson?”

“Of course.” In the dim night light, Andy looked like a cherub.

“A beautiful blend of  you and Luke,” Mr. Croft murmured. 

At the door, he shook her hand and said, “God bless you, my dear.”