Extensions by Myrna Dey

with women she believes to be important. She recounts a story of how two fine china teacups were put with the wrong saucers, and she was the first one to notice it. Jane stops Stella’s giggling by telling her Lance was home.
    Stella freezes, as she stares at the dishes Jane is just finishing.
    â€œThe baby and I kept quiet in the bedroom,” Jane says quietly, watching her face release some of its fear. “He thought you had taken Norman with you and never did find out I was here.”
    Stella’s shoulders remain rigid. “Why was he here?”
    Jane shrugs. “He had another man with him. I think they had a drink. The bedroom door was closed so I couldn’t hear much.” She mumbles, as much to cover up the event for herself as for Stella. She unties her apron, stuffs it in her cloth satchel. “He might tell you why.”
    â€œHe’ll tell me something, all right. You hadn’t done the dishes when they came in?” Her voice begins to rise in accusation until a sharp glance from Jane causes her to look down guiltily. When she raises her eyes, they plead not to be left alone. But Jane has her long cardigan on, her hand on the door.
    â€œOh,” she says before stepping outside, “a tumbler got broken when the men were here. I found it in the sink and threw the pieces in the waste pail.” It was the kind of thing Stella would blame her for when she found it missing.
    Jane says goodbye without looking back and bounds down the path like a deer, hardly touching the ground. She chooses the forest trail rather than the main road home to avoid meeting anyone, her heaving chest forcing her to pause in a grove of arbutus trees to catch her breath. The information is like a lump of coal smouldering inside her. If she hangs onto it, it will burn, but she must be careful where she lets it go, for it will also cause cinders wherever it lands. Mama would scold her for repeating hearsay, so she will not tell her. Maybe Tommy would do well to know, for it might take away some worries about future work. No, unlike Roland Hughes, Tommy always says he wants no part of secrets until they’re not secrets anymore. And he would think she was wrong being hidden in the Cruikshanks’ bedroom, regardless of her explanations.
    But it is not the talk of new coal causing agitation — that goes on in shops, school, at her own kitchen table all the time — rather, the words about Louis Strong hang heavy on her heart. He looked tired when she returned his clothes last time, but nothing in his manner or words hinted that Edgar Mackie had personally paid a visit to his cabin. Have the mine bosses been threatening him, or is it Lance’s rough tone of voice making everything bigger than it is, the same way he thinks of himself? Butch Hargraves is supposed to be Louis’ friend. What can she tell Louis that he does not already know? She does not want to give him more worries, especially when she is not even sure if they are justified. The word of Lance Cruikshank is nothing to take such a risk for, so she must keep this news to herself, carry on as if she has never heard it.
    Scratched by brambles she has not bothered to sidestep, Jane at last reaches home. Feathers of smoke greet her from the chimney. Tommy should be sleeping — is Mama tending the fire herself? Inside the back door, Louis Strong has deposited his bundle of clothes to be washed. Her mother is clearing the kitchen table in her good skirt and blouse with rouge on her lips and more than a normal flush on her cheeks, all signs of visitors. Mama never has callers, being too sick to have made any friends in Canada. At the sight of Jane, her shoulders slump and she sits down abruptly on a chair.
    â€œLouis was here?”
    â€œHe brought the clothes. Said there was no rush, as usual.”
    â€œHow was he?” Jane asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean, how was he? Tired, same as ever, far as I can see. He’s an