A taut, exquisitely rendered story exploring the repercussions of a woman’s decision to hide her Métis identity while living in a small, predominantly white prairie town in the 1940s, for readers of The Berry Pickers, Tommy Orange, and The Vanishing Half.
Torduvalle, Saskatchewan, 1946.
Florence has created a beautiful life for herself. Her home is immaculate; she is a model employee at Pratt’s Insurance, where she works as a secretary. Her hair is the perfect shade of movie-star blonde—never once does she allow her brown roots to show. She dyes them every Saturday night, without fail.
But one morning at the end of summer, everything changes.
Florence notices a new group of men at the local diner, Métis workers from out of town, hired on for the season at a nearby farm. And one of them has a connection to the past that Florence has spent her entire life outrunning. He has one simple request for her.
Suddenly, Florence is thrown back into memories of her life before. Suddenly, the line between who she once was and who she has chosen to be feels very thin.
And when Florence learns of the government’s plans for the Métis community on the fringes of town, she will be faced with a choice—one that will shatter her carefully constructed life forever.
This extraordinary novel asks us what we will do for our community, for our families, for our friends, even at our own expense. It examines the harrowing effects of choosing to live as someone else—and the radiant peace that comes from finally living one’s truth. Gripping, wrenching, and utterly immersive, Wild People Quiet is a stunning achievement by a remarkable literary talent.
Release date:
March 3, 2026
Publisher:
Scribner Canada
Print pages:
336
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THE AIR SIZZLES in from the hopper window. The heat’s been excruciating this past week. Florence nudges the bathroom door closed so the air doesn’t warm the house and reaches for the peroxide under the bathroom counter. She pours some into the spray bottle and dilutes it with water from the tap, measuring by eye only. A faded towel wrapped around her shoulders, she works at her hair in sections, using a brush to guide the mixture as close to her scalp as possible, covering the brown roots that are just beginning to show. A Saturday-night ritual every other week for nearly thirty years.
No one has ever asked her about her hair. Most don’t even know, though there have been a few women in town in recent years who’ve commented, either praising her particular shade or deriding her not quite out of earshot for trying to emulate those Hollywood starlets. She’s flattered they would think that of her, that she would be the type of person to aspire to looking like a star.
Florence sits on the toilet lid and waits for the peroxide to tingle, never using a timer now, knowing by instinct the moment when the roots will be lightened to the perfect hue but before the skin on her scalp blisters. She plans her day tomorrow. Church at ten; return home to prepare the pork roast, gravy, and potatoes. She’ll also make a pot of tomato and macaroni soup to eat with some cold roast pork buns for the workday evenings when she’d rather read or listen to the radio than prepare a meal.
A wave of heat rolls in and she looks up at the slit of sky. A branch from the Manitoba maple in her front yard stretches into view. It’s not quite September but its leaves are already turning at the edges, bright and golden yellow. The colour is startling. Searing. She holds her breath.
Colours used to consume her. She spent so many of her waking hours, and sometimes her dreaming ones too, thinking about colours and how to work them into her floral designs. How to craft a story with her beadwork. She was careful when selecting a particular hue, deliberate in her choices, because colours held meaning and feeling. Meaning and feeling that was different for everyone. A shade could ignite joy in one person, pain or regret in another. Colours could spark memories, sometimes ones you’d tried to forget.
Florence pushes back her thoughts as she forces the window shut. It’s all just history, all in the past now. She waves the towel shawl around herself to create a breeze. She is Florence Banks, a secretary at Pratt’s Insurance and Real Estate in the town of Torduvalle and a respected member of the community for the past eleven years. She blends in with everyone else. The tingle on her head turns to a sting, almost a burn, while her dark hair fades to a perfect shade of blonde.
FLORENCE STEPS OUT OF the tub and pulls out the plug. The drain glugs and spurts, choking down the water. A cool bath before bed for a better sleep. She slips on her cotton nightdress and inspects her drying hair in the mirror. A soft sand or even hay colour. Not radiant or luminous, but she wouldn’t want that anyway. She can hardly wait until it’s all silvery grey and sparkly and she won’t have to dye it anymore, but even at fifty-one she still has a ways to go. At least she has the curls that everyone wants, no curlers or bobby pins needed.
Down the hall to the kitchen she goes to fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and place a cup and saucer beside the canister of tea bags on the counter for the morning. The last thing she does every night before bed. As she lifts a cup and saucer from the cupboard, the doorbell rings, and Florence freezes, arms midair. It’s well after nine at night. Who’s at her door at this hour? Another peal of the bell, followed by a loud knock. Her legs fill with lead.
“Florence? Are you there?”
Jennie Broughton. Her neighbour. An emergency, maybe? The kids? But why come here, why not a house with more people, with a husband? Someone who could do something to help.
Florence forces herself to the door.
“Oh, goodness, I startled you,” Jennie says, “I’m sorry.” She stands there, cool in her culottes and summer blouse, nothing awry about her or her disposition. No emergency, then.
Florence is suddenly aware of her bare feet, sweaty soles on the linoleum. Nails unpainted. Her thin summer nightdress fluttering loosely in the night breeze, and no brassiere. She might as well be naked.
“I… was in the bath.” Florence stumbles over her words.
“Are you okay?”
She left out the bottle of peroxide. Left it on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, on display. Fumes perhaps still in the air. But it’s a common household cleaner. That’s all. Still.
“I’ll be right back,” Florence says and heads to the bathroom. Tucks the peroxide bottle under the sink, finger-combs her hair, and grabs the housecoat hooked on the back of the door. It’s far too warm for it but she puts it on and ties it around her waist anyway.
“I saw the lights were on!” Jennie shouts from the door.
“Is everything all right?” Florence asks, heading back.
“Yes, I didn’t mean to give you a scare.” Jennie shifts on her feet in the doorway. “It’s just…” She pauses, waves to her own house next to Florence’s and to the empty driveway. “Garth and the kids are away and the house is so quiet tonight.” She shifts again.
“I’m sorry, come in,” Florence says, compelled to find her manners and stepping back to make room for her.
Jennie glances around the living room as she crosses the threshold. She’s never come over like this before. Unannounced, uninvited. Florence doesn’t invite guests over. Private, everyone calls her. Keeps to herself. Is respected for it.
“This is the first time I’ve been inside your house. Isn’t that crazy, after all these years?” She wanders through the living room as if through a gallery or museum.
“Nonsense.” Florence feigns shock.
“It’s true. I’ve popped my head in once or twice before but I don’t remember you having so many lovely things.”
Florence feels a small ripple of pleasure. Grandmother wall clock, walnut, with a Westminster chime. Delft-blue vase on the antique French side table. Two painted atmospheric seascapes from another country, framed in gold. The Cogswell, reupholstered with soft green velvet, hand-embroidered doilies resting on its arms.
Jennie scans the room, seeming to appreciate what she sees.
“I purchase them as I find them,” Florence says. But she doesn’t just find them; she hunts for them. Tracks them down. Pores over catalogues, mines the papers for news of estate sales, garage sales, and yard sales. Never knowing what she’s looking for but always finding something she desires, each item calling to her as if it will safeguard her or offer her some kind of protection. Her precious purchases are insulation against the poverty she never wants to know again.
“That’s beautiful,” Jennie says, looking at the candy dish in the china cabinet.
Milk glass with diamonds cut in relief and a finial lid. Funny that Jennie notices that piece. Florence bought that dish specifically for the Chicken Bones candy that Jennie gave her as a housewarming gift when she first moved in. Florence starts to tell her this but stops herself, worried it would make her sound strange.
“It’s one of my favourites,” Florence says instead.
“I can see why,” Jennie says, eyeing it a moment longer before stepping away from the cabinet. “Were you just about to make tea?” Jennie says when she passes by the doorway to the kitchen and sees the teakettle on the stove.
“I was getting it ready for breakfast… but I—”
“I suppose it is too late for tea. Perhaps a nightcap, though?” Jennie looks away, embarrassed by her own brazenness.
Florence has noticed in recent weeks that Jennie awkwardly prolongs conversations between them in the driveway and finds excuses to be outside in the yard at the same time as Florence. There’s a neediness in her of late. Florence feels her own twinge beneath her ribs. “Of course, please sit. I’m going to change first.”
“There’s no need, Florence. We’re friends and we’ll both be off to bed soon. Please.”
But Florence throws her a smile and goes to the bedroom anyway, shuts the door behind her. A loose gingham skirt and a short-sleeved button-up blouse. Open-toed slippers to cover her feet. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Neighbours for over six years and always pleasant. Chatted across their lawns. Helped each other carry groceries, push the mower, shovel walkways. They’ve even walked to church together a few times and sat at the same table during fundraising teas. But they’ve never visited each other. It’s never been just the two of them.
Florence heads to the kitchen for the Harveys Bristol Cream. Maybe it’s silly to be so distressed about a guest. Six years in this house, eleven total in town. It’s fine. No reason to feel like her skin has come right off just because her neighbour wants company and a drink. Deep breath. She finds the bottle in the fridge and closes the door. Carries it back to the living room.
“I can’t have nice things at my house with those two little terrors. It’s always a mess and I can never keep up,” Jennie says, taking a seat on the settee when Florence returns.
“You said everyone’s away?”
“Yes, the kids are with Garth’s parents at the farm this weekend,” she says. “They’ve been missing their grandparents.” A wistful afterthought.
Florence grabs two ruby red sherry funnels from the china cabinet. “It’s only natural.” When Garth went overseas and Jennie took a job at the post office, Garth’s parents stepped in to help. The kids even lived at the farm for a while.
“I suppose,” Jennie says, watching Florence pour the sherry.
“Is Garth at the farm too, then?” Strange Jennie wouldn’t also be there, but she won’t ask that. Garth—Mr. Broughton when they’re at the office—works at Pratt’s Insurance and Real Estate too but she hardly knows him. He was hired as a junior agent just before the war and was there only a few weeks before he signed up and left. When Garth returned, Pratt’s was in the midst of its ever-growing expansion and immediately promoted him to a senior agent. Moved him upstairs to his own private office where Florence goes only to pick up and drop off paperwork. The Second-Floors keep to themselves.
“He’s in the city for the night.”
“Senior management had meetings there yesterday, didn’t they?” Florence hands Jennie a glass.
“They did.”
The Second-Floors have been commuting somewhat regularly to the city, but no one tells the Bottom-Floors what it’s all about, and Florence doesn’t poke her nose in. It’s not her job. That’s one reason why she’s so respected at her workplace—her discretion.
“Apparently, the meetings went very well, so they stayed to celebrate.” Jennie stops, then smiles as if deciding whether to share. “He said they met Tommy Douglas.” She sips her drink.
“He met the premier?”
Jennie lowers her voice and says, “He was at one of the meetings,” then adds quickly, “But Garth’s a man of few details and even fewer when you ask.”
Hard to imagine why Pratt’s would meet with the premier of the province, especially when so many of the Second-Floors thought his socialist government was as bad as Hitler’s National Socialists. Such silly nonsense, but again, it’s none of her business. She sips her own drink. “Are you no longer working at the post office?”
“Mr. Klein is back full-time so I’m superfluous.” She shrugs it off playfully, but it’s clear it bothers her. “He caught some shrapnel in his left leg and has a limp now, but he says he’s ready to return. It’s quite a physical job, though. You wouldn’t think sorting mail would be, but it is. I was so exhausted at the end of the day.” She smiles, proud.
“Will you look for other employment, then?”
“No.” Jennie takes a large sip, mood changing. “Garth thinks things have been too topsy-turvy for the kids and we should get back to normal.” A tautness surfaces.
Florence understands the need to work. Her own job at the insurance office sustains her, and not just in the monetary way. Yes, she can buy her precious things, but the work itself keeps her going. She can’t imagine her life without it. She’d never be in Jennie’s position, though. She’d never want anyone who told her what she could and couldn’t do. She’s lucky in that way, not to have anyone to constrain her—no husband, no children; no one, period. Her whole life has been about getting to this point. This town, with this house and her job—a life without constraints. She’s worked hard for it.
“Hmm,” Jennie says, something coming to her as she swallows, “did you hear about the Sanderson twins?”
“Graham and Isla’s boys down the street?” Seventeen but already like grown men, their frames topping six feet and their faces with perpetual five-o’clock shadows.
Jennie nods. “They got into a bit of trouble,” she says, a mischievous lilt in her voice.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I can’t believe it, really.” She shakes her head, then leans forward to divulge. “Bootlegging. Illegal home brew.”
“Those boys?” Florence says. They’ve always been so helpful, offering to shovel her sidewalk or rake her leaves. You never know the other sides to people. She sips, and the raisin-y metallic syrup slides down her throat.
“They purchased it—didn’t make it,” Jennie clarifies. “But still. They bought it in town, apparently.”
“From whom?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, but they haven’t said.” She downs the rest of her glass with one swallow. “But… bootlegging. In our town.”
It is shocking. “How’s their mother taking it?”
“I haven’t spoken with her.” Jennie looks away. “I only heard her telling Mrs. Larsen when I tried calling Garth’s parents yesterday,” she says.
Hazards of the party line—you never know who’s listening in. Florence tightens her grip on her glass. “The twins are all right, though?”
“Yes. They were stopped just after their purchase, so they hadn’t gotten into any of it. Thankfully. You never know what’s in moonshine, if it’s safe or not. Remember when all alcohol was illegal? There were all kinds of stories about people making their own and then falling seriously ill. Dying, even. I can’t believe people are still doing it when you can just buy it off the shelf now.” Jennie shakes her head.
Florence nods in agreement. Prohibition doesn’t seem that long ago, but when she thinks about it, the Sanderson boys wouldn’t have even been born then.
“This town,” Jennie says, “it’s changing.” She worries the empty funnel in her hands.
Florence tops up her glass.
“Don’t you feel that, Florence? That this town is changing? And fast?”
“I do.” The town has grown busier since the men returned from the war. It’s busier than before the war, and she liked it when it was quieter. It’s why she came here.
“Hard to believe those boys would get up to something like that. Just goes to show you that people are always full of surprises.”
They are, indeed. Florence downs her glass, then reaches for the Eaton’s catalogue she received a few weeks ago. Best to get back to safer ground. “Have you seen the latest issue?”
Jennie peruses it, commenting on the latest styles and fashions. They make fun of the hats that are too ostentatious, the undergarments that are too impractical.
Jennie stops at a dog-eared page. “You’re buying a new skirt?”
“Bought. It came in the mail yesterday but needs alterations.”
“Which one? No, no, let me guess.” There are four on the page. Four slim, blonde models wearing four different skirts. “The tattersall wool.”
“How’d you know?” It’s the most expensive. Not by much, but still. She should save more, though. She’s been saying that for years.
“It’s elegant but understated. It’s you.” Jennie continues browsing. “Have you ever thought of something like this?” She points to a dress, a gold silk gown with off-the-shoulder sleeves.
“Where would I wear that?”
“A dinner party.”
“I don’t go to dinner parties.”
“Why not? You’d turn heads in something like this.”
“Those days are done for me.” She never turned heads when she was younger—or maybe not never, but never the heads she wanted to turn.
“Your dinner-party days don’t need to be done, Florence. Any man would be lucky to win you.”
“There was only one for me.” Florence looks at the fourteen-karat yellow-gold band on her finger. Bought at a Goodwill in the city just before moving to Torduvalle.
“Gerald. Was that his name?” Jennie’s voice is gentle.
Florence nods. Sips.
“How long were you married?”
“Almost twenty years.” Florence smiles as if remembering happy memories. She tells everyone that she was married when she lived in Regina, and when her husband passed, that’s when she decided to move to a small town. For a quieter life. It’s easier—widows draw less suspicion from people than women who have never married.
“I wish I’d met him.”
A small silence in the room.
“You are lucky, though. You can just order a skirt when you want. You can have all this nice furniture and not have it ruined. No husband, no kids to look after—” Jennie stops herself. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate. I didn’t mean it to be.”
“It wasn’t, and I’m fine.” Florence had tried for children. Tried and tried, and it just never happened. At least, that’s what she tells people when they ask. In a way it’s true. “I’m very happy with the life I had then and with my life now.” Most of that is true as well.
“I often think about where I want to be in the future,” Jennie says, then pauses. “And when I do, I sometimes think of you.” Jennie’s crossed leg gives a little bouncy kick.
For the first time, Florence realizes she’s almost old enough to be Jennie’s mother. The thought is shocking but funny too. It makes her want to giggle. Or maybe it’s the sherry.
Florence pours them both some more. Her whole body tingles; she’s enjoying the surprising turn of the evening. She’s sitting in her living room with her neighbour on a Saturday night. She’s sitting in her living room with her friend on a Saturday night.
THE PHONE RINGS AS Florence pulls the pan from the oven to check on the pork loin. It’ll be Mrs. Clarkson’s mother again—she always calls the Clarksons on Sunday around this time and she always dials the wrong number. The Clarksons live across town but their number is only one digit away from Florence’s and the elderly woman seldom gets it right. Florence takes her time, poking and basting the roast, before she answers on the seventh ring.
“Florence,” Jennie says on the other end, surprised. “I was just about to hang up. If you’re busy I can call later.”
“No, it’s fine,” Florence says, any annoyance she felt immediately dispelled. “I was just busy at the stove. Is everything all right?” Jennie wasn’t at church this morning.
“Everything’s fine. Lovely, actually.” Then Jennie’s voice drops as if she’s confessing: “I’m still in my pyjamas.”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Florence blurts out before she can stop herself.
“I know! I’m having a wonderfully lazy day,” she says, and Florence can practically hear her smiling through the line. “Though I should get dressed soon because Garth said he’d be home with the kids before supper. But,” Jennie continues, “I was calling because…” She trails off. “Well, last night was such fun—it’s rare I get to spend time with adults.” A breezy laugh. “And I was wondering if you’d like to come to the city with me next Saturday. With school just around the corner, I need to go to the department store for new clothes and supplies, and I thought you and I could do a little shopping together.”
“A trip… to the city,” Florence stammers as she processes this.
“Only if you want,” Jennie says. “I just thought we could both do with a girls’ day out, and there’s a new restaurant on Scarth Street Garth’s been raving about that I thought we could check out.” Jennie pauses. “But please don’t feel obligated to say yes.”
“I’d love to,” Florence says, hoping she doesn’t sound too eager. She hasn’t been back to Regina since she moved to town, and in all those years it’s surely changed as much as she has. It’d be nice to see it again. And with company too.
“Perfect. Let’s chat later this week,” Jennie says.
When Florence hangs up, she heads to the closet in her bedroom to plan her outfits for the week, with special focus on Saturday’s attire.
UP AT SIX. TEA and toast with butter and marmalade. Cooler this time of day already, so it’s her blue brushed-wool cardigan, which will be far too hot by the afternoon but that’s just how it is. Headscarf knotted snugly under her chin. Purse and package under her arm and she’s out the door. When the weather’s poor, she drives, but she prefers the clip-clip of her shoes on the way to work when everyone else is just getting dressed or still lounging in bed. Clip-clip-clip, like the chirp of a bird.
Torduvalle. A small, square town with rows of straight, square streets. A game board with houses and cars for pieces and easy-to-understand rules. She’d taken the bus from the city for an interview with Mr. Hicks for the secretarial position at Pratt’s eleven years ago. Caught the earliest one so she could walk around the town first and see what it had to offer. Within an hour she had covered all the streets that bordered Pratt’s and still had three more to go until her interview, so she crisscrossed the remaining residential streets, then looped back to Main for a late lunch. She knew before her cream of mushroom soup arrived she wanted the job. More than that—she wanted to live here forever. It wasn’t the smallness of the town that attracted her—she’d interviewed for jobs in tinier places—it was something else. There were no statues of its first residents, no historical buildings with plaques to describe their past importance. It was a town with no history. It was perfect.
She breezed through the interview and demonstrated her skills: seventy-five words per minute with one hundred percent accuracy. At forty years old, she was middle-aged, but her life was really just beginning.
Key in the lock, ka-thunk of the bolt, flick of the lights. Always the first one to arrive. It’s a nine-to-five job and she’s been told she doesn’t need to come in before nine, but the time between seven thirty and nine—between her arrival and everyone else’s—is her favourite part of the day. She gets so much accomplished when no one else is around. Today, there’s dictation for the Schneider file to type, two correspondence letters to draft for review and type once approved, the accounts receivables and payables for the previous business day, and the contracts to prepare for the new clients’ signatures. And all the other daily tasks and emergent jobs.
Some might say it’s easy work—it’s just pressing keys, moving paper—but she doesn’t see it that way. It takes concentration, real concerted effort, because you can’t make mistakes. The stakes are too high. A decimal point in the wrong spot or an extra l in MacDougal means documents do not get filed by the deadline, which means dates get pushed back, which means lives are thrown into turmoil. Not everyone can be so precise. It’s why she has the reputation she does in town. Other employers have tried to lure her away from Pratt’s, and honestly, she considered a couple of those offers, but when it came down to it, why rock the boat? She’s perfectly happy where she is. She’s a small cog in a giant wheel, a cog that’s easily overlooked, and she likes it that way. Invisibility doesn’t diminish her importance.
She slides a fresh sheet of paper in her typewriter and the carriage catches it, curls it around the roller. Her Remington Rand. The clack of its hammers is musical. Reminds her of that one time she saw the Regina Symphony Orchestra at Darke Hall. When she reaches peak speed, when her fingers have found their rhythm, her chest even lifts. No, this work is not easy but when it’s done right, there’s something about it that makes life easier. Manageable. She knows what is expected of her and she meets those expectations. Plus, she’s always at her best when her hands are busy. It’s when her mind finally calms, unwinds itself. She discovered this as a child with thread and a needle. Those small beads in every colour. Typing has replaced beading. Florence hits the carriage return and pushes the thought away.
Refocuses.
At twelve minutes after nine, Florence has finished the dictation, processed the receivables from Friday’s clients, and prepared the cheques for the Second-Floors’ signatures for the bills that are due. And at twelve minutes after nine, Shirley arrives for the day. Shirley seems to subtract two minutes from her start time every year she’s there. But Florence doesn’t mind. It makes her own performance stand out.
“Good morning,” Shirley singsongs, removing her homburg-style hat. Always the latest fashion for Shirley—blazing and bright, like her personality. Her bubbly presence fills up a room, and that’s why Mr. Hicks hired her six years ago. They needed someone to welcome clients to the office. Greet them, serve them, converse with them to make them feel comfortable and at ease. Florence needed to focus on the actual work required and not the pleasantries. Chin-wagging only increases her stress levels. It’s upsetting to listen to someone go on about how their Scottie dog chased a coyote from their yard when a claim has to be filed that very day. She was relieved when the Second-Floors suggested another hire. It eliminated a significant amount of pressure for her.
“How was your weekend?” Shirley asks.
“Jennie Broughton came over for a visit on Saturday night,” she says, pleased that she actually has something to share.
“Really? No theatre program on the radio?” Shirley’s shocked.
“We even had a little sherry.” Silly to disclose such a detail.
“Look at you, Flossie, I always knew you had a wild streak,” she teases.
“It was just a visit,” Florence says, waving it off as if it were nothing. But she had such a pleasant time. And plans for a trip to the city for some sh
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