The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel Page B

up. Mary Seta was in charge. Mary wore a colourful beaded dress that went down past her knees and moccasins with a quilled piece of velvet on top of the tongue. She was as old as Delta, with a deeply grooved face and soft brown eyes, a thin grey braid hanging down to her waist. Mary has had grandchildren or great-grandchildren in every grade for years and years. None of her descendants was in my class, but Mary would teach us to make bannock anyway.Mothers were everywhere. They flitted like moths around hot little bodies, straightening collars, tucking shirts into pants. The children came polished this morning, scrubbed clean. Peter wore a tie under his sweater, his mother a black dress buttoned all the way to her chin. They had identical round glasses, mother and son, and the same frozen frown. Kenny had his nose wiped and his church shoes on, shiny leather without any scuff marks. The girls wore skirts and leotards, princess and fairy sweaters, and bows in their hair. Except for Rebee, who was in yesterday’s pants and black T -shirt, hair matted at the back where she hadn’t thought to brush. She was prettier than the others without even trying.
    Everyone seemed to know about bannock and about one another, children and mothers alike, calling out first names, laughing and jostling, milling about at their own private party. Rebee and I stood off by ourselves at separate corners of the room, watching the tumult.
    Mrs. Bagot, who’d suddenly had enough, clapped her hands violently, ordering the children to go sit on the mat. The mothers gathered in a circle behind, arms crossed, a few reaching down to touch a head or shush up a child, one of their own or one of their neighbour’s. I sat on top of Peter’s desk, over to the side. Peter kept looking back, scowling at me, anxious I’m sure that I’d crumple his papers.
    â€œOur people used to hunt and fish and live off the land,” Mary began, her voice low and pure, nothing churchy about it. “We lived in family groups and set up both summer and winter camps, travelling between them by foot or by dog team.”
    Mrs. Bagot looked pleased, nodding her head as though she remembered these days.
    â€œBut that was a long time ago,” Mary continued in her beautiful voice. “I was taken from my family to live at a residential school. Our land was taken away too. Stolen because of the war and the oil industry.”
    The mothers shuffled. Throats cleared. Everyone knew someone who worked at the weapons testing area. I wanted them all to go away, to leave me alone with Mary in a wide-open space. She could pour out the story to someone who cared about this social breakdown, a way of life lost forever. But Mrs. Bagot stepped in. The oil people were coming to the school assembly next week; it had all been arranged.
    â€œThank you, Mary Seta,” Mrs. Bagot said. “Now, please, tell us about bannock.”
    Bannock, she said, was a food of her people and a taste of the north. It was a special bread of flour and lard and black currants, the dough wrapped on a long stick and cooked over a campfire until golden brown.
    Kenny asked if we could have a fire. Peter said that would be against the fire regulations. Peter’s mother nodded approvingly. Mary explained we would use the school stove instead. It was going to take us all morning. The first cooks were given their folded aprons, which they were to hold in their arms until they got to the kitchen. A line formed behind Mary. Off they went, children flanked on both sides by most of the mothers, Mrs. Bagot taking up the rear.
    I stayed with the rest to work on our craft. The coloured construction paper had already been cut into animal shapes. Rabbits and bison, wolves and elk. I had nothing to do with it. The children were to choose an animal to decorate with felts and gluey glitter bits and then make up a Chipewyan name to write in the centre. The mothers were to help print the letters,