by Kit Pearson
Praise for Kit Pearson
“Kit Pearson is a great talent in Canadian children’s literature.”
—The Guardian (Charlottetown)
“One of Canada’s best junior fiction writers.”
—The StarPhoenix (Saskatoon)
“Pearson is a strong writer whose work puts to shame most of the books that kids spend so much time reading these days.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“Kit Pearson gives young readers a strong testament of the interlocking nature and power of reading, writing and living.”
—The Vancouver Sun
“Another magical tale from the master.”
—Toronto Star
“Dazzle. It’s not the right word for what Kit Pearson manages to do … but it’s close. Closer would be a word that catches the irregular glint of light reflected on water, street lights suspended in fog, an opalescent fracturing of time and genre to create something with its own unique glow.”
—Edmonton Journal
“Through the vivid observation of two summers, Pearson weaves a summer out of time and weaves as well a spell over her readers.”
—The Globe and Mail
“The very best in fiction for young adults. Kit Pearson does herself proud.”
—The Windsor Star
“Kit Pearson’s careful and exact research brings the period vividly before us.”
—The London Free Press
“The woman is a brilliant writer.”
—Kingston This Week
“Pearson superbly and gently captures the welter of emotions that beset a young teen who is experiencing the onset of adolescence and having to cope with its physical and emotional demands.”
—CM
“This is a writer at the top of her craft.”
—Quill & Quire
“Pearson’s real strength … lies in her ability to convey the texture of a specific time and place…. So vividly and lovingly evoked that it is almost possible to smell the pine trees.”
—Publishers Weekly
PUFFIN CANADA
THE LIGHTS GO ON AGAIN
KIT PEARSON was born in Edmonton and grew up there and in Vancouver. Her previous seven novels (six of which have been published by Penguin) have been published in Canada, in English and French, and in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, China, and Korea. She has received fourteen awards for her writing, including the Vicky Metcalf Award for her body of work. She presently lives in Victoria.
Visit her website: www.kitpearson.com.
Also by Kit Pearson
The Daring Game
A Handful of Time
The Sky Is Falling
Looking at the Moon
Awake and Dreaming
This Land: An Anthology of Canadian Stories
for Young Readers
(as editor)
Whispers of War:
The War of 1812 Diary of Susanna Merritt
A Perfect Gentle Knight
The Lights Go On Again
GUESTS OF WAR
BOOK THREE
KIT PEARSON
PUFFIN CANADA
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, Auckland, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
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South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in a Puffin Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),
a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1993
Published in Puffin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),
a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1994
Published in this edition, 2007
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)
Copyright © Kathleen Pearson, 1993
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
“WHEN THE LIGHTS GO ON AGAIN (ALL OVER THE WORLD)” Words and Music by EDDIE SEILER, SOL MARCUS, and BENNIE BENJAMIN © Copyright 1942 by MCA MUSIC PUBLISHING, a division of MCA INC., New York, NY 10019. Copyright renewed. USED BY PERMISSION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
“WHEN THE LIGHTS GO ON AGAIN” (Bennie Benjamin, Sol Marcus, Eddie Seiler) © 1942 (Renewed) BENNIE BENJAMIN MUSIC & CHERIO MUSIC PUBLISHING CORP. All rights for the U.S. administered by Chappell & Co. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305636-2
ISBN-10: 0-14-305636-0
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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For Ian
He who would valiant be
’Gainst all disaster
JOHN BUNYAN AND OTHERS
1
What Am I Going to Do?
The large boy hulked in front of Gavin on the sidewalk, blocking his way.
“Hold it right there, Stoakes.”
Gavin looked behind him, to where he’d just left Tim and Roger at the corner. They were already too far away to call back. And it was no use running. Mick could easily catch him.
“What do you want?” Gavin breathed.
Mick’s mean face came closer. His eyes glittered like hard blue marbles. “I want you to do me a favour.”
“Wh-what?”
“I need some cash. Bring me two bucks tomorrow morning. You can meet me at the school flagpole before the bell. Understand?”
“But I haven’t got two dollars!”
“Then get it. I know your ma’s rich.”
“She isn’t really my mother,” said Gavin. “She’s not even related to me. She’s just looking after me and my sister until the war is over. My real mother lives in England.”
Mick grabbed Gavin’s arm and gave it a savage twist. “So what? You live w
ith her in that fancy house, doncha? Bring me the money by tomorrow morning—or you’ll be jelly!”
Gavin tried to curb his tears. Pain blazed up his arm. “Okay, Mick. Could you please let go? You’re hurting me!”
Mick gave one more tortuous twist, then freed Gavin’s arm. Gavin picked up his speller out of the snow and fled, the bigger boy’s words shouting behind him, “Don’t forget—tomorrow morning before the bell!”
The icy December air made his lungs ache, but Gavin didn’t stop running until he reached the towering house at the end of one of the winding streets. He pounded up its wide steps and slammed the door behind him. Safe!
“Is that you, Gavin?” Hanny, the cook, came out of the kitchen, wiping floury hands on her apron. “Why are you so out of breath?” She pulled off his tuque. “And look at your hair—you’re sweating!”
“I—just—felt—like—running,” panted Gavin. “Where’s Bosley?” Usually his springer spaniel waited for him at the end of the block.
“Norah took him for a walk. She got out of school early today. And your aunts are having tea at Mrs. Bond’s. Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes, please. Can I have it in my room?”
Hanny gave him a glass of milk and an apple. Gavin carried them carefully up the stairs. He changed out of his school breeks, rubbing the itchy places behind his knees where the wool chafed. He sat down on the rug beside his bed and tried to eat.
But his tears escaped. They burned against his cold cheeks, as his chest still heaved.
“Stop it!” he whispered fiercely. “Crybaby …” Gavin sniffed deeply, wiped his eyes on the bedspread and began to nibble the apple. Think …
Two dollars! He’d never be able to find that much money by tomorrow. He glanced at the iron bank shaped like a bear on his desk, but he knew it only contained the fifteen cents he was saving to go to the movies on Saturday.
Tomorrow was the day Aunt Florence gave him a quarter to take to school for his weekly war savings stamp. If he kept that and the fifteen cents and next week’s stamp money and allowance quarter …
He counted on his fingers. That made only ninety cents. Besides, it was stealing. And he knew Mick wouldn’t wait.
He couldn’t ask Aunt Florence for two whole dollars without telling her why he needed it. And he knew enough not to tattle on Mick. Ken Cunningham had last month. Mick got the strap and Ken appeared in school the next week with a black eye. He told everyone he’d fallen playing hockey.
Gavin winced as he lifted his glass to drain it. His arm still smarted. Why was the meanest boy in the school suddenly picking on him?
Ever since Mick Turner had arrived in September he had been the terror of Prince Edward School. He was large for grade seven—even the grade eights were afraid of him. He bullied alone, stalking the corridors, the washrooms and the playground for his victims. So far Gavin and his friends had managed to avoid him—until today.
Gavin found The Boy’s King Arthur on his shelf, climbed onto the bed and opened the book to the picture of Sir Launcelot facing Sir Turquine.
“I am Sir Launcelot, the bravest knight in the world,” he whispered. Then he read what Sir Launcelot had done to Sir Turquine, how he “leaped upon him fiercely as a lion, and got him by the banner of his helmet, and so he plucked him down on his knees, and anon he rased his helm, and then he smote his neck asunder.” For a second or two Gavin felt as satisfied as if he had cut off Mick’s head. Then he clapped the book shut.
In real life he wouldn’t even attack Mick with his fists. It wasn’t just that Mick was so much bigger. It was because Gavin hated fighting. Lots of the other grade five boys got into fights. But it made Gavin feel sick to think of hitting someone, or being hit back. He was such a coward! Sir Launcelot wasn’t afraid of fighting. Or of bullies like Mick.
But fighting was dangerous. Once a long time ago, when Gavin had been five, everything had been dangerous. Then there was talk of Hitler invading England, and bombs, and enemy planes crashing. But after he and his older sister Norah had come to Canada as “war guests” he’d been safe.
Lately, though, even his security in Toronto had begun to crumble. The war, which had been going on as long as Gavin could remember, was ending. The grown-ups talked about how the Germans were being driven farther and farther back. Troops had landed in France on D-Day and now Paris was liberated. In school they sang songs about the end of the war: “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow,” “The White Cliffs of Dover” and “When the Lights Go On Again.”
Of course Gavin wanted the Allies to beat Germany and Italy and Japan. But once the war was over, there would be no reason for him and Norah to stay in Canada. They’d have to go back to England, to that place where he had felt so unsafe. To a scary new country and a scary new school. To a family he barely remembered, though Norah talked about them all the time.
Gavin shivered and, as usual, tried not to think about it. But it was so hard not to, when his parents’ letters talked about their return, when Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary kept giving him sad looks and when Norah, especially, was so excited about going back.
“Just wait, Gavin,” she said. “You’ll really like our village. There’s a pond where you can fish and woods to play in.”
I like it here, Gavin wanted to answer—but that would show what a scaredy-cat he was.
He tried to think of how brave all the men were who were fighting in the war. Like Andrew, Aunt Florence’s great-nephew—he was a soldier stationed in Italy. Gavin and Tim and Roger often pretended they were fighting in the war, but Gavin knew he’d never have the guts to really do it. Just as he didn’t have the guts to fight Mick.
Gavin flipped up his eiderdown on each side, forming a snug cocoon around him. He tried not to cry again. If only Bosley were here to comfort him. Or Creature …
Creature was the name of his small stuffed elephant. When Gavin was little he took him everywhere and talked to him as if he were real. He’d never do that now, of course—not now that he was ten. But he wished he still had him.
A year ago he’d lost Creature. The family had helped him search the whole house. “He must have fallen out of your pocket outside,” said Aunt Florence. “Would you like me to buy you a new elephant?”
“No, thank you.” Gavin had smiled and pretended he didn’t care …
He sat up and wiped his eyes. Think! Think about Mick, not about a stupid toy elephant! He had only this evening to find the money.
“NORAH … CAN I TALK TO YOU?” Gavin stood in Norah’s doorway after dinner.
“Sure! I need a break anyway.” Norah turned around from her desk and stretched as Gavin came into her room. It was in the tower, the highest part of the house. Whenever he was up here he felt safe; like being in a fortress.
Should he tell her about Mick? He studied his sister. Now that Norah had started high school she had turned into a “bobby-soxer.” She and her best friend, Paige Worsley, looked like twins, in their Sloppy Joe sweaters, saddle shoes and pleated skirts. Norah wore lipstick whenever she was out of the house. Photographs of Frank Sinatra plastered her walls. Last month, when Aunt Florence had been away in Montreal, Aunt Mary had let her have a slumber party. The house had resounded with the shrieks of six teen-age girls, as they played records, curled each other’s long hair and talked on the telephone all evening. Aunt Mary, Hanny and Gavin had retreated to the kitchen to escape the racket.
But underneath her teen-age disguise Norah was still Norah: his kind older sister and his best friend. She was also the bravest person he knew.
That was why he couldn’t tell her about Mick. She’d be so furious that someone was picking on her brother that she’d tell on Mick. Then he would be even meaner to Gavin.
“Well?” smiled Norah. “Why are you staring at me like that? What did you want to talk about?”
“Do you have any money?” Gavin asked quickly. “I need two dollars really fast.”
“Two dollars!” Norah looked apologetic. “I’m sorry
, Gavin, I’m broke. Why do you need so much?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh. Well, why don’t you ask Aunt Florence?”
“I can’t tell her either,” said Gavin, “and you know she wouldn’t give it to me unless she knew why.” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. “It doesn’t matter.”
Aunt Mary’s voice called up the stairs. “Ga-vin … it’s almost time for your programme.”
“Coming down to listen to ‘The Lone Ranger’?” Gavin asked her.
“Not tonight—I have to study! Maths is the first exam and I’m not nearly ready.”
“I thought maths was your best subject.” It was Gavin’s worst.
Norah looked sheepish. “It usually is. But I missed some important parts of algebra when I was—um—out of school.”
In October Norah had been suspended from high school for two days. She’d written an essay about how she didn’t believe in war and how killing people was always wrong. When her teacher had given her a low mark she’d protested to the principal.
Gavin remembered how steadfast she’d been all through the huge fuss both at school and at home. The adults had called her “disrespectful,” both to them and to her country, but not once had Norah faltered in her firm beliefs. No one, not even Aunt Florence, had been able to squash her. Finally her mark had been reluctantly raised and she’d returned to school in triumph.
Gavin sighed; if only he were unsquashable. “You’ll do okay, Norah,” he told her. “You always do.”
“Thanks, Gavin.” Her clear grey-green eyes searched his face. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me why you need so much money? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Gavin almost told her. But he thought of Norah confronting his principal the way she had hers, and of Mick’s reaction.
“I’m sure,” he mumbled, turning to go.
Norah swivelled her chair back to her desk. “All right, then. I’d better get on with maths. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning!”
Neither am I! thought Gavin as he trudged down the two flights of stairs to the den.
GAVIN TRIED TO FORGET about Mick as the galloping music and the Lone Ranger’s call of “Hi-yo, Silver … away!” began his favourite Monday evening radio programme. He held open his speller as he listened but he couldn’t concentrate on the list of words he was supposed to learn for tomorrow. Instead he let his mind fill with images of cowboys who always beat their enemies.
