Barbara Weiler lives in St. Catharines. She writes articles for the magazine The Rural Voice. In 2006 she was one of six women to publish a book of poetry “The Price of Eggs.”

Niagara This Week presents its summer reading series with the help of members of the Canadian Authors Association — Niagara Branch (canauthorsniagara.org).

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I was wandering through an old churchyard in Niagara-on-the-Lake last summer when I noticed that all the tombstones faced the east. I hadn’t thought about Mrs. Billings for a long time, but the tombstones reminded me of her.

“Stella,” my mother called to me. “Please take this basket of strawberries over to Mrs. Billings.”

My mother often sent me to the farm across the road to exchange eggs or strawberries at the fence corner of Mrs. Billing’s yard.

“Now don’t tell all our business,” mom said.

It was not that my mother was especially secretive. Mrs. Billings had a way of asking questions that was sneaky. Her quiet tone could lead me to confide more family news than I should.

I‘d known Mrs. Billings my whole life, and she’d always been kind to me. I ran across the road to the fence corner, and sure enough, Mrs. Billings was headed towards me, followed by several of her black-faced sheep with their lambs. Her housedress was covered by a faded apron and her hair was neatly combed.

“Hello, Stella. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it? Oh, those strawberries look lovely. Are your grandparents coming from Toronto this week?” she asked in her soft voice.

“My dad is picking them up at the train station tomorrow.” I said. I knew that it was OK to answer that question. I just had to be careful not to volunteer anything about my brother getting in to a fight at school, or that we were short of cash until the milk cheque came in. I stroked the lambs through the fence and was relieved when I could run home, hoping I hadn’t said anything I shouldn’t.

We watched Mrs. Billings drive at twenty miles per hour down the county road to the village where she did all the shopping and other business. Her husband Manley seldom left the farm except to do his part at threshing time. I never heard Manley say much. I thought he must be like Matthew Cuthbert in the book I’d read, “Anne of Green Gables.” Maybe he was shy with women, like Matthew. But then, how did he come to marry Mrs. Billings?

That was the root of my curiosity. Mr. and Mrs. Billings were mysterious. Their relationship was a riddle.

One day my brother Mike and I were hoeing cabbages in the field near our house. We could hear yelling coming from somewhere and we stopped to listen. We could see the Billings’ horse-drawn wagon and hay loader in the back of the field across the road. The voice we heard was loud, with quick staccato stops and starts. It sounded like swearing but we couldn’t hear the words. We knew it wasn’t Manley shouting. Was Mrs. Billings screaming at the horses or at Manley?

Some weeks later my mother sent me over to the Billing’s house to deliver a message because the party line was busy. The verandah of the old house was shrouded with shrubs and vines climbing up the yellow bricks. As I stood at the door I heard that same strident voice coming from inside. I didn’t want to knock on the door because Mrs. Billings would know that I had heard the yelling. What could I do? I waited for a bit, but I knew I would get in trouble at home if I didn’t deliver the message. I knocked.

There was no answer for a minute. Finally, Mrs. Billings came to the door. “Yes dear, what would you like?” she asked in her other voice, the soft one. I was flustered, but I stood firm. “M-mom said to tell you that one of your cows is out on the road. She would have phoned but the line is b-busy,” I stammered.

“Thank you dear,” Mrs. Billings said. I left as quickly as I could. I didn’t offer to help with the cow.

Once, in the winter time, Manley fell in the barn, so Mrs. Billings said. She dragged him into the house somehow and then phoned my father to finish moving some steers.

Dad saw Manley on the couch with his face very white. “When’s the doctor coming?” dad asked.

“He doesn’t need a doctor,” Mrs. Billings said.

“Oh I really think he does, Mrs. Billings. Look how pale he is. Something may be broken,” my father answered.

“No, no he’ll be fine,” she insisted. This was before the days of Medicare, but the Billings weren’t poor.

“If you don’t phone, I will.” Dad was never one to waste words.

Mrs. Billings gave in and phoned. Manley had a broken hip.

A few years later, Manley got sick, of some other serious illness. My dad and Gordon from the next farm went to visit him after the evening chores were done. The conversation was general — talk of crops, weather, the price of beef, milk quotas. But one time when there was some difference of opinion expressed, Manley said, “Well, as the wise old man said, ‘It’s a good thing we don’t all like the same thing, or everyone would want my woman.’ ” Dad repeated this to my mother when he came home, as if it had significance.

Manley died shortly after that, in the winter time. There was a funeral in the old stone church near the lake. Manley’s body was kept in the vault until the ground thawed in the spring. Mrs. Billings phoned to ask mom to go with her to the cemetery when he was finally laid to rest. She explained that she needed to make sure that he was placed facing the east, since the Bible says the Lord will come from the east on the Day of Reckoning.

When I saw the tombstones facing east in the old graveyard I kept thinking about Mrs. Billings, that despite the discord, she wanted Manley to be ready.