A Lucky Friendship
I am fortunate that I am able to speak French. I say fortunate because it happened through serendipitous circumstances which were unlucky for many but brought that particular piece of good luck to me.
When I was five, my family moved to Rimouski. Rimouski’s residents were probably 99% unilingual Francophone and Catholic. But the mill management staff (a small handful of families) were Anglophone and Protestant. They lived in homes built by the company close to the mill. Their children attended a one room school also built by the company, but which was part of the Quebec Protestant school board.
This is where fate stepped in. Just before we moved, there was an enormous fire in Rimouski destroying much of the town and affecting even the company property. Housing was scarce everywhere. My father bought a lot and had a house built. The new house was located in an area across the river from the mill, the Protestant school/church and the company houses. The physical distance was not far, but too far to walk, so though I attended the Anglo school, I had little extracurricular socialization with the Anglo children.
Next door to my family lived Denise, who was my age. Denise was an only child and immediately introduced herself to me. She would show up at the kitchen door and ask my mother if I could come out and play. I was happy to have a friend though I couldn’t understand most of what she said. Denise was dark haired with skin that easily tanned, sturdily built and tall for her age. I could see she looked like her father physically, and it seemed to me she was like him in personality also, as both were calm, uninquiring, even stolid. Denise’s mother was petite, pretty and curious. She often invited me to stay for dinner (the noon meal) and I accepted as often as my mother would let me as she was a good cook. I told her I loved her cooking which pleased her greatly. During the meal Denise’ mother liked to question me about the Anglo world. I struggled to comprehend and even more to respond! Once she asked me what I thought of Princess Elizabeth and whether my family might be related to her. I didn’t even know who Princess Elizabeth was but I was thrilled at the idea and went home and asked my mother. Denise’s mother was disappointed when I relayed my mother’s negative on the issue.
Denise’s mother was also a fastidious housekeeper and yelled at us constantly over small mars in the order of the house. Denise paid no attention to her mother’s vitriol. This astonished me but I followed her example. Denise shared all the exotic (to me) events in her life such as her preparations for first communion. I was fascinated and impressed by the lengthy and incomprehensible rituals and prayers that she laboured to memorize. I tried to repeat them and peppered her with questions about their meaning. I adored her outfit of lace and satin with white stockings and veil attached with a band of white satin roses. I begged to try them on, but Denise refused. I yearned to also be a Bride of Christ. Denise invited me to the celebration but my mother refused to let me go.
I could tell many stories relating to my friendship with Denise and perhaps I shall. But fate again stepped in, this time to erode the relationship. When I was in 4th or 5th grade there was a sudden influx of Anglo families in Rimouski, about a dozen. The fathers were American pilots working with the new airline, and engineers involved with placing cables under the Atlantic. My school went from seven students to 25!
These new families did not live on company property but were all unilingual Anglo, and their mothers drove us around to visit each other. There were weekend sleepovers. I spent less time with Denise. When I was 12, I was sent to attend Protestant high school in Quebec City. That year, my parents sold their house and moved to the company enclave across the river. I continued to lose touch with Denise and truthfully, I did not try very hard. I did not call when I was home on holidays and I did not bicycle to our old neighborhood to try and visit her. Neither did I hear from her. It seemed that both of us had accepted our places in the expectations of the time.
For 10 years I spoke little or no French. Then at 22 I needed to do so for my job in another province. To my surprise I found it was still there. I have treasured it ever since. If I could find Denise I would embrace her and thank her for her wonderful friendship and the gift of speaking French. And I would find out if she ever learned to speak English!