by Anna James
Grandma turned and looked intently at Tilly just as the phone rang, startling them both. Grandma’s knife slipped, catching the tip of her finger.
“Oh shoot,” she said, grabbing a nearby tea towel and pressing it on to her finger, which was undramatically but consistently leaking blood.
“Tilly, I very much want to talk more about this, but right now I need you to go quickly and get me the first-aid box from the bathroom.”
Tilly nodded and went to get the box as the phone rang off. By the time Grandma’s finger had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged their conversation seemed to have been forgotten.
12
An Active Imagination
The next morning brought a sheepish-looking Oskar to Pages & Co. carrying the book Tilly had helped him to pick out.
“Hey,” he opened with.
“Hi,” Tilly said shortly.
“Can I come and hang out here for a bit?”
“I guess.”
“It’s really busy at Crumbs because of half-term and Mum says I can’t take up table space.” Tilly nodded and went back to her book. Oskar shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Um, where should I sit?” Tilly was in an armchair and there was nowhere else free apart from the floor. She made a big performance of standing up and gathering together her bits and pieces.
“We can go to the third floor, I guess. It’s always quiet there, plus no kids come up so the beanbags stay nice and clean. I brought them up from the children’s floor to protect them.”
They went upstairs and settled themselves into the colorful beanbags nestled behind the philosophy shelves.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Oskar blurted out. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was laughing at you, or that I thought you were silly.”
“I know the characters I’m seeing are fictional,” Tilly conceded, glad that he’d raised the subject again. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not real. I don’t know what’s happening but I promise I’m not making it up.”
“I know,” Oskar said. “I’m not sure I know what’s going on either, but I believe you. Who did you say you’d seen? Your favorite characters, right?”
“Yes,” Tilly said, relief washing over her. “I saw Alice from Wonderland and Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables. Anne was just like I’d hoped, although Alice is kind of blunt.”
“I sort of wish I was seeing fictional characters,” Oskar said, scratching his forehead. “There are plenty of everyday people I like fine, but I’m not sure I’d count on them as friends, if it came down to it.”
“Apart from me,” Tilly said quietly after a beat.
“Apart from you,” Oskar agreed with a smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
They were interrupted by the sound of Grandma and Grandad coming upstairs, and sitting down on the other side of the bookcase, where Oskar and Tilly were hidden from view.
“We need to talk about Tilly,” they heard Grandma say.
Oskar and Tilly exchanged a look. Oskar gestured to see if they should move, but Tilly shook her head fiercely and put her finger to her lips. Oskar looked uncomfortable, but stayed put.
“You know what I’m talking about, Archie,” Grandma said when Grandad didn’t reply. “Yesterday, she asked me if I sometimes felt like I was really inside a book when I read. Do you think it’s happened?”
“She’s always had an active imagination, Elsie. Could it just be that?” Grandad said.
“You know it’s more than that, Archie—and she found those books of Bea’s. That could have been the trigger—you know there’s often one along those lines . . . She hasn’t asked about him, has she?”
“No, not yet.”
“But, Archie, far more concerning at the moment is the fact that she seems to be able to see Holmes and Lizzy. You know that shouldn’t be possible.”
“I know, I know,” Grandad said quietly. “There’s something else. I should have told you straightaway, but I hoped it was nothing. It’s about Chalk.” Oskar and Tilly heard Grandma take a sharp breath. “He was here, Elsie; he came to the shop. He was asking about disturbances at the Library, and he met Tilly.”
“Tilly? Does he know who she is? And what disturbances? What did you say?” Grandma asked.
“I told him I had no clue what he was talking about, of course. And yes, he knew she was my granddaughter. I had hoped he would never have found out about Tilly,” he said, sighing.
“What do we do?” Grandma asked quietly.
“I don’t know. Wait and see what happens, I suppose. Keep a close eye on Tilly. What else can we do?”
“Is it worth speaking to Amelia, do you think?”
“Not yet,” Grandad said. “It could all still blow over.”
“I hope you’re right, Archie,” Grandma said, and they heard her stand up. At that Oskar and Tilly scrunched down into their beanbags, trying not to be seen, and they heard Grandad head upstairs to his desk and Grandma going back downstairs to the till.
Oskar looked at Tilly. She felt a little sick.
“Do you know what they’re talking about, Tilly?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “But there’s definitely something weird going on.”
Oskar shrugged helplessly at her.
“Speaking of which, things sort of escalated yesterday . . .” she went on. “To start with it was characters coming out of their books into Pages & Co. and talking to me,” Tilly explained.
“To start with . . . ?” Oskar said nervously.
“Yes, because yesterday Alice took me to the Mad Hatter’s tea party,” Tilly said all in a rush.
“To the Mad Hatter’s tea party . . .” Oskar repeated slowly.
“To actual Wonderland,” Tilly said, in case he didn’t understand yet.
“And how, exactly, did you get there?” Oskar asked.
“Well, we were here, and then I held Alice’s hand, and everything sort of fell down around us, and behind everything normal was Wonderland,” she explained.
The silence that followed was eventually interrupted by a sad sniffle, and Tilly looked up to see Anne leaning against a bookshelf, about to burst into tears.
“I can’t believe she did that,” Anne said mournfully.
“You can’t believe who did what?” Tilly said.
“Who did what?” Oskar repeated in confusion.
“Alice!” Anne said.
“Not you—Anne!” Tilly said at the same time.
“What?” Oskar said.
“Oh—he can’t see or hear me,” Anne said in an offhand manner as if that was the least pressing thing to deal with.
“Oh goodness,” Tilly said.
She turned to Oskar, who still looked utterly bemused. “So . . . Anne is here,” she said, not sure how to prove to him what was going on.
“Anne . . . ?”
“Anne of Green Gables. From the book. Like I said!”
“Tilly, there’s no one here but us,” Oskar said, gesturing around them.
“Anne, why can’t he see you? Can you do something about it?” Tilly said desperately. “Can you, like, knock something over or something?”
“I’m not some kind of performing monkey, Matilda,” Anne said woefully. “He can’t see me because I’m yours. The only way he could see me would be if you both . . . Oh, but I shouldn’t.” Anne looked over at Oskar thoughtfully. “Actually I don’t see why not, considering the circumstances . . .”
“What are you—” Tilly started, but in one swift movement Anne leaned down and took both Oskar and Tilly by the shoulders, and the burned marshmallow smell filled the air as the walls of the shop seemed to topple down around them, leaving them standing in a startlingly beautiful wood with late-afternoon sun dripping through the leaves above them.
Anne breathed in the fresh air in delight.
; Oskar fell to his knees and was sick in the bushes.
“First time?” Anne asked kindly, giving him a pat on the back. “It can make your stomach feel a little bit funny. But it’s lovely to meet you properly. I’m Anne. With an ‘e,’” she said, sticking her hand out.
Oskar shook it feebly, still looking rather worse for wear. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Avonlea, of course!” Anne said. “Come on, we’re going to be late for school.”
“We’ve traveled magically inside a book and now we’re going to school?” Oskar said to Tilly, looking horrified, but they didn’t have time to argue as Anne had already set off briskly through the trees and they were left with no choice but to follow her.
13
The Story Is the Thing
Tilly and Oskar followed Anne’s bobbing red plaits up a thin, twisting path with tightly packed, silvery trees on either side. Around the feet of the trees were flowers and plants of all different kinds, and Tilly could hear birds above them and the wind whispering. She was not sure she had ever been in such a lovely place before.
“This is the Birch Path,” Anne called back to them as they jogged to catch up with her. “Diana named it. Diana is my best friend in the whole world,” Anne explained to Oskar. “I know the name is a little unimaginative, but I try very hard to let people with less imagination than me join in too.” She pointed up the hill. “If you go farther that way, you get to Mr. Bell’s woods, and down in the valley is Avonlea school, where we’re headed. And then, if you go even farther that way, you’ll see Green Gables.”
Oskar was still very quiet, stumbling over his feet as he stared around as they walked.
“Tilly, are we really inside a book? I don’t . . . How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know any of the answers either,” Tilly said. “This is only the second time it’s happened to me.”
“Excuse me,” Oskar said, tapping Anne on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound rude but are you real? Is this real?”
“Depends on what you mean by real,” Anne said. “Does this feel real?” She picked up a twig from the ground and poked Oskar in the side with it.
“Yes! Ow!” he said. “So you know you’re a character from a book?”
“Yes, of course, although the story is the thing, not where it’s written down. You’re thinking about it too hard.”
“I hate it when books don’t explain how everything works,” Tilly muttered. “It’s all very well saying that it’s magical and wonderful, but what happens if I’m sucked into something like Animal Farm and get stuck there?”
“Animal Farm sounds lovely!” Anne said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d read it,” Tilly said, feeling slightly mutinous.
“Have either of you ever been to Canada before?” Anne asked as the three of them ambled along.
“Wait, we’re in Canada?” Oskar stopped walking abruptly, but Tilly and Anne ignored him.
“No, never,” Tilly said. “I’ve never been abroad at all. Oskar lives in France sometimes, though.”
“Sorry, can we go back to us being in Canada?” Oskar said, catching up.
“Well, Avonlea, where we are now, is in Canada, therefore we are all in Canada, you see?” Anne said in a kindly tone as if she was speaking to a small child.
“But how did we get to Canada?”
“Because I live in Canada.”
“Right, but how did we get here from London?”
“You came with me!” Anne said, her patience fraying.
“Okay, guys, stop, please,” Tilly said. “Can this wait? Oskar, we are in Avonlea, where Anne is from—that’s what matters. We are in her life, in her story, like I told you about Alice.”
“I still can’t believe Alice took you to hers first,” Anne said, obviously still smarting. “But I got Oskar!”
“Yay,” Oskar said weakly.
“Do you truly live in France sometimes?” Anne asked. “How awfully romantic. That must be a very long journey. Some of the folks around here can speak a bit of French, but I can’t at all.”
“Yes, I really do. My dad lives there,” Oskar explained.
“By himself?” Anne said.
“With my sister. My parents got divorced a while ago.”
Anne looked scandalized.
“It’s pretty normal where we’re from,” he said.
“You are very fortunate to have both of your parents,” Anne said solemnly, linking arms with Tilly. “For we are both orphans. I haven’t met many other orphans since I came to Avonlea,” she said, turning to Tilly. “I rather thought it might mean we were kindred spirits. You see, Diana is my absolute best friend in the whole world, but she has two parents who care for her so much that I sometimes think that she doesn’t quite understand the plight of an orphan, even if I have found somewhere I might belong at Green Gables. Do you remember them at all, your parents?”
“No,” said Tilly shortly. “My dad died before I was born and we don’t know what happened to my mum. She disappeared when I was still a baby.”
“How simply awful,” Anne said. “It is such a cross to bear not truly knowing one’s own mother and father. I like to imagine details about mine sometimes to try to make up a little of the loss. The facts of the matter are that my parents were called Walter and Bertha, and they were schoolteachers who died of a fever when I was only three months old. But I imagine so much more about them. I imagine that my father used to love reading poetry aloud to my mother by a roaring fire, and that my mother made excellent currant cake, and that for a treat at Christmastime they would go for a sleigh ride across the snow. Do you ever imagine things about your own parents?”
“Well, the other day . . .” Tilly stopped, feeling self-conscious, but Anne squeezed her arm and nodded encouragingly. “The other day I was sitting in my room and I imagined that my mum was downstairs in the kitchen, helping make dinner with my grandma. Is that silly?”
“Why, not at all!” Anne said. “It is a lovely thing to imagine. And what about your father?”
“I don’t imagine things about him so much,” Tilly said. “My grandparents didn’t know him very well so they don’t have any of the little details about him that they have about my mum. My parents weren’t married, you see; they hadn’t known each other very long.”
Anne let out a gasp before clapping her hand over her mouth as if she could put it back in. Her cheeks reddened.
“Honestly, all this is a lot more common where we’re from; lots of people’s parents aren’t married. It’s just the way things are sometimes. There are all kinds of different-shaped families.” Tilly watched Anne trying to process all of this. “I do have this of my mum’s,” she said, pulling out the delicate bee necklace and showing it to Anne. “Her name was Bea, short for Beatrice. She had a matching necklace to this one—my father gave it to her and she got one for me.”
“How awfully romantic,” Anne said wistfully.
At that moment they stepped out of the woods onto a wide red-sand road lined with spruce trees, and Anne immediately jolted out of her reverie and started fizzing with excitement as she gestured to the top of the hill, where Tilly could see Avonlea school, a whitewashed wooden building with big windows.
“Now,” said Anne, “let me just set you straight about a few things. You need to watch out for the Pye girls, who are not to be trusted, and Prissy Andrews is ever so elegant but not quite so smart, although it isn’t very generous of me to say so, and Marilla scolds me if I do. Prissy is the one with the beautiful curly brown hair. And, of course, there is Diana, who you will adore as much as I do. But I am fond of Ruby and Sophia and Jane too—and oh, of course, there’s another girl called Tillie, and she let me wear her ring all afternoon the other week because I admired it so much. And there’s Mr. Phillips, our teacher. And look! Here comes Diana!” Her face
lit up as a girl with glossy black hair raced down the hill toward them.
“Diana, these are my friends Tilly and Oskar, who are visiting and are going to come to school with us!”
Diana didn’t even pause to question this but launched herself into a hug with Tilly before giving Oskar a polite little curtsy.
“How wonderful! And what a good day to visit as you’ll be able to meet Gilbert too!” she added conspiratorially. “He is such a tease, but he’s awfully handsome. He’s nearly fourteen, you know. He’s always top of the class.”
“Well, I would hope so if he’s three years older than you,” Oskar said.
“Oh, but he’s only in our class because his father was awfully sick and went to recuperate in Alberta and Gilbert went with him. You mustn’t say anything like that to him because it was terribly noble of Gilbert to go with his father and tend to him, and he didn’t have the opportunity to go to school much in Alberta, you see,” Diana said sternly as they walked into the schoolroom.
The classroom was remarkably familiar, despite the old-fashioned clothes and desks; children were hugging and shouting and arguing and laughing, hanging up coats and hats, but pulling out slates and chalk instead of paper and pens. The children acted in much the same way as the children in Tilly and Oskar’s school too; Tilly could see one group of girls obviously laughing at another girl, and a boy tipping what looked suspiciously like ink into another boy’s satchel.
Tilly felt a familiar discomfort settle on her that seemed inextricably linked to classrooms. She tried to take it all in and reassure herself that this was a different classroom, in a different time, full of different—not to mention fictional—people.
Anne maneuvered Tilly toward a double desk with a space next to a girl with a long blonde plait, and pointed Oskar toward a free desk near the back of the classroom.
Oskar stumbled toward it and stared wide-eyed at the children piling in, sitting down gingerly as if he expected to go right through a chair that couldn’t possibly really be there.
