by Kit Pearson
Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary knitted as they listened—long grey scarves for soldiers. Gavin put down his book and ran his fingers through Bosley’s silky fur. The dog’s loose skin was dark under his black patches and pale under his white ones. His long ears were the softest part of him; Gavin massaged one between his palms and Bosley thumped his tail in ecstasy.
When the programme was over, Gavin lay down on the floor and rested his head on the soothing warmth of Bosley’s side. I wish I was a dog, he thought, as the problem of Mick came rushing back. Dogs never had to worry about anything.
“Turn to the news, Mary,” Aunt Florence told her daughter. As usual, Gavin didn’t listen. For most of his life he had sat with grown-ups around a radio while an announcer droned on about the war.
He watched his two guardians. Quiet, plump Aunt Mary, her greying hair in a neat bun, had a peaceful expression on her plain face. When her mother wasn’t around she let him and Norah do whatever they liked, as if all three of them were Aunt Florence’s children. She was always ready to listen or to laugh at a joke. Safe …
Aunt Florence was even safer. Gavin remembered the only other time in his life he had felt this scared: travelling on a big ship to Canada, then living in a hostel with lots of other children while they waited to be assigned to a home. During those endless, confusing days he had clung to one person after another for protection, but they had all been temporary. He’d had to leave the nice women on the boat and at the hostel who’d taken care of him. And Norah had been so wrapped up in her own misery, she hadn’t noticed how much he needed her.
Then he had stepped into this solid house where majestic Aunt Florence had welcomed him warmly and claimed him as her own.
“Why do you like her so much?” Norah sometimes asked Gavin. She preferred Aunt Mary. Although she and Aunt Florence secretly respected each other, they had always had a stormy relationship.
Gavin couldn’t explain. The older he got the more he realized how conceited and snobby his guardian was. She was often unfair to both her daughter and Norah, and she drove Hanny wild with her bossiness. But whenever Norah and Hanny sat in the kitchen making fun of Aunt Florence, Gavin defended her. Her utter, rock-like confidence—and knowing that he was the most important person in the world to her—protected him.
“You let her baby you too much,” was another thing Norah told him. “You should stand up to her more.”
But he didn’t mind all the hugs and kisses and mushy nicknames. Aunt Florence often told Gavin how much he was like Hugh, her son who had been killed long ago in another world war. Sometimes she went on too much about his clothes, or how blue his eyes were. But when he politely objected she would laugh, hug him, and stop.
Aunt Florence thought he was perfect—coward or not.
“You’re growing so fast, sweetness,” she smiled when the news was over. “That shirt is much too short in the sleeves. We’ll have to get you some new clothes, so your parents don’t think I haven’t been taking good care of you.”
She almost grimaced when she mentioned his parents. But quite often lately Aunt Florence had brought up the subject of Gavin and Norah’s return to England, even though it was obviously painful to her. Gavin had overheard the social worker from the Children’s Aid Society who had visited last month warn the aunts that they had to prepare them.
He turned over and buried his face in Bosley’s neck, sniffing in his warm, musty smell. He couldn’t imagine his life without these two women. It was even harder to think of leaving Bosley. He’d known, ever since Aunt Florence’s brother Reg had “lent” him the dog the summer before last, that he’d have to give him back one day. He knew in his head that Bosley wasn’t really his. But in his heart he was.
Moping over leaving Canada wasn’t any help. The end of the war might be soon—but facing Mick was tomorrow!
“I’ve been thinking, Gavin,” said Aunt Florence. “Now that you’re ten, I don’t see why you can’t stay up until nine. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Gavin sat up with surprise, and both the aunts laughed. The more Aunt Florence made herself talk about the coming separation, the more she filled Gavin’s life with treats to cushion the pain.
Gavin knew he was spoilt; his friends often told him so enviously. He probably could ask for two dollars and get it; but only for a good reason. If he could think up a convincing lie, Aunt Florence would believe it. She trusted him. She thought that he was worth trusting; that he was good. And he liked being good—like Sir Launcelot, and the Lone Ranger, and the Shadow, and the pilgrim they talked about in Sunday School.
If only he could be brave, as well.
It was swell to be able to stay up later. But Gavin’s stomach lurched as he thought of the bully’s words: “… or you’ll be jelly.” Which part of him would Mick hit first?
“Oh, Bosley,” Gavin whispered, “What am I going to do?” He almost started crying again.
Aunt Mary got up and peeked out the window. “It’s snowing again! You’ll have good tobogganing tomorrow, Gavin.”
Gavin didn’t answer. All at once he had thought of a solution—for the time being, anyway.
He would pretend to be sick. Aunt Florence would let him stay home from school if he said he didn’t feel well. That wasn’t really a lie … he didn’t feel well, not when he thought about being pounded by Mick.
Gavin opened his speller again, limp with relief. It was a coward’s way out, but it was all he could think of.
2
The Big Snow
That night Gavin dreamt he was Superman. He picked up Mick by the scruff of his neck, flew to the top of a high building, whirled the bully around his head three times, and dropped him. Mick screamed all the way down until he landed with a SPLAT—just like in the comics.
Gavin woke up tangled in his sheet. His clock said six-thirty but he hadn’t heard the milkman’s horse clomping in his dreams the way he usually did. His windowpane rattled and a branch scraped against it.
He hopped out of bed and opened the curtains. Snow raged against the glass, as if trying to get in. A blizzard!
Gavin grinned—then frowned, as he remembered his plan. If he pretended to be sick, he couldn’t enjoy the fresh snow. But he could go out now, then get back into bed before anyone was up.
“Come on, Boz!” Bosley looked up from his basket with sleepy surprise. He stretched his long front legs out of it, leaving his hindquarters in place as he decided whether or not to wake up. He lumbered to his feet, then stretched again with a complaining groan.
“Lazybones,” chuckled Gavin, flinging on his clothes. “Get up. We’re going out. For a walk!”
At the word “walk” Bosley jolted awake. He danced and whined around Gavin, his stubby black tail wagging furiously.
“Shh!” Gavin held the dog by the collar as they crept downstairs. In the hall he put on his jacket, ski pants, tuque, mitts and galoshes. Then he unlocked the front door and pushed at it. It wouldn’t budge.
“That’s funny.” He went into the kitchen and unlocked that door. But it, too, was stuck. He peeked out of the window.
“Wow …” The snow came halfway up the panes and the back yard was a whirling landscape. Gavin pushed at the door again but the snow blocked it. Bosley scratched at it and whined.
“You need to go out, don’t you boy? But we’re trapped!”
Gavin thought a minute. Then he hauled the kitchen table over to the window, stood on it, pulled down the upper sash and pushed out the storm window. Snow and cold air rushed into the warm kitchen. He poked out his head and looked down. The drifts were so high it probably wouldn’t hurt to simply fall into them.
“Come on, Boz, you go first.” Gavin lifted Bosley onto the slippery tabletop, climbed up himself and put the dog’s front paws on top of the open window. His hind legs scrabbled for a foothold and he whined again, his liquid brown eyes looking back imploringly at Gavin.
“Be brave,” Gavin told him. “Jump!” But Bosley kept wh
ining and trying to get off the table. Gavin sighed. His dog was a coward too. “Come on … pretend you’re Lassie.” With great difficulty—Bosley was almost as big as he was—Gavin hoisted the protesting dog and spilled him out of the window. Then he tumbled out after him.
Down they both dropped, like stones into water, until the snow stopped their fall. They emerged caked in white, Bosley sneezing violently and Gavin laughing.
He brushed off his face, but the wind blew more snow into it. He struggled to the front of the house; it was like wading through waist-high mud. Then he stopped in awe.
Gavin had seen lots of snow since he’d lived in Canada, but never as much as this. He blinked through the swaying curtain of flakes. The street, sidewalks and front yards merged into one white expanse. Each house had several feet of snow heaped on its roof, with tall drifts blown against its doors and lower windows. Every car was buried. Snowflakes scraped against his jacket, melted on his eyelashes and tickled his nose.
Gavin stood spellbound in the dim morning light. He put out his tongue to catch the flakes, feeling like an Arctic explorer—Nansen, he decided—setting foot in an untouched land.
Bosley had followed gingerly in Gavin’s path. Now he began to play, springing out of the snow like a jack-in-the-box. Gavin leapt and stumbled after him, throwing sprays of snow into the air. His laughter and Bosley’s barking rang out in the silent street.
The snow was seeping into Gavin’s cloth jacket and he began to shiver. He started towards the house, then stopped.
How was he going to get back in? The open window was too high to reach and both doors were blocked. And if he were trapped outside, that meant Norah and Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary were trapped inside!
What would Sir Launcelot do? Or Nansen? He floundered to the back yard and looked around. Then he spied the snow shovel under the porch, where Hanny’s husband had left it the last time he’d shovelled the snow. He picked it up and began working on the four-foot drift blocking the back door.
His sore arm made it difficult to lift the shovel and he had to keep stopping to pound snow off the blade. Sweat ran down his forehead and his breath steamed around him. He pretended he was Nansen again and hummed to himself as he imagined freeing his fellow explorers from their igloo. The snow blew back almost as fast as he cleared it, but finally he had shovelled away enough to jerk open the door. He and Bosley ran through the kitchen into the hall.
“Wake up, everyone!” Gavin shouted. “I’ve rescued you!”
By breakfast the glow from the family’s praise, which made Gavin feel like a hero, had worn off. While he was outside he had completely forgotten about Mick. He couldn’t pretend to be sick now that he’d demonstrated so much healthy vigour.
“I’ve never seen so much snow!” marvelled Aunt Mary. “It must be a record!”
Aunt Florence brought in their breakfast. “I’m sure Hanny won’t make it in at all today. And the milkman probably won’t either, or the bread wagon. We’re almost out of both. Only one piece of toast each, please.”
Gavin looked out the window at the shifting white world. He glanced across the table at Norah, who smiled back. She was obviously hoping for the same thing he was. Then the radio confirmed it: all Toronto schools were closed.
“Hurray!” shouted Norah. “No exams!”
Gavin couldn’t stop grinning as his fear rolled away. It would return tomorrow, but right now he had a whole day of freedom from Mick.
THE HOLIDAY STRETCHED to two days; two days when the city was paralysed by what everyone later called “the big snow.” The grown-ups looked grave as calamities kept being reported on the radio. Several people died of over-exertion as they struggled through the drifts. A streetcar was overturned on Queen Street, trapping everyone inside. By Wednesday thirteen people had died and all deliveries were still delayed.
But for Gavin and his friends the blizzard was a profitable adventure. He and Norah strapped on their skis and struggled to the local store, where the owner allowed one quart of milk a customer. After the snow finally stopped falling, every young person in the neighbourhood began to shovel. They shovelled paths to doors. They shovelled sidewalks. They shovelled out cars. Gavin thought his arms would fall off, they ached so much. But it was worth it to feel like a hero again, as the people he shovelled out thanked him warmly. Best of all, many of them insisted on paying.
“You shouldn’t take money,” said Norah sternly, when he told her how old Mr. Chapman had given him a quarter. “This is an emergency!”
“I tried to refuse but he said I had to!” said Gavin.
“Oh, all right. I guess it’s okay as long as you don’t ask.”
By Wednesday afternoon Gavin had $3.15—more money than he’d ever had in his life. Now he could face Mick when school opened again, and even have some left over.
“You’ll always remember this, Norah and Gavin,” said Aunt Mary that evening. “You can tell your grandchildren you experienced the worst storm Toronto has ever had.”
They were relaxing in the den after dinner, as usual. The house had a huge living room but the family spent most of their time in the smaller, more comfortable den. Gavin sprawled on the floor, reading the funnies. Aunt Florence and Norah were huddled over a game of cribbage. Aunt Mary was unpacking Christmas tree ornaments, inspecting each one to see if it was broken.
“I think we should all be very proud of ourselves,” said Aunt Florence. “Mary and I are pretty good cooks, aren’t we? I believe my biscuits are even better than Hanny’s. And you children were splendid, the way you got us milk and shovelled all that snow. I’m going to write to your parents and tell them.”
They all beamed at each other, even Norah and Aunt Florence.
“I hear there’s a shortage of Christmas trees and turkeys this year,” said Aunt Mary.
“Then we’ll do without a tree and have a goose instead of a turkey,” said her mother calmly. “After all, we already do without using the car to have enough gas coupons for the summer.” She put away the cards. “Beat you again, eh, Norah?” Norah grinned ruefully.
Aunt Florence took out Oliver Twist and began where she’d left off last time. This fall she had started reading aloud every evening, the way she did in the summers at Muskoka.
Gavin settled back against Bosley, who was snoozing peacefully. The snow pressing against the house made the den even cosier than usual. Sitting here listening to Aunt Florence’s rich, reassuring voice was like being on an island. An island of safety in a world of dangers—Mick, and having to leave Canada. He closed his eyes and tried to will the evening to last forever.
But Mick finally had to be faced when school reopened on Thursday. The streets were still glutted with snow. Gavin kicked a hole in a snowbank as he waited at the usual corner for Tim and Roger. The money was safe in his mitt but he shivered inside. What if Mick wasn’t satisfied?
“Hi, Gav.” Tim threw a soft snowball at Gavin’s stomach. “I was thinking about Mick.” While they were shovelling together yesterday Gavin had told his friends all about the bully’s threat.
“What about him?”
“Why don’t we ambush him with snowballs? From behind the school fence so he won’t see us. Then you could keep your money.”
Tim was always suggesting things like this. He was brave—but too impulsive. “That wouldn’t do any good,” Gavin told him. “It might put Mick off for a while but he’d still look for me later to get the money. And if he found out it was us he’d be even madder.”
Tim looked disappointed. “I guess so. Jeepers, why are people like Mick? Mean like him …”
Gavin shuddered. “He’s even meaner than Charlie was.” Charlie had been last year’s bully, but now he went to Norah’s high school.
“Remember when Charlie and his gang beat up your sister’s friend just because he had a German last name?” said Tim.
“They cracked his rib!” said Gavin indignantly.
“I wonder if Charlie still picks on Bernard. Does you
r sister ever talk about him?”
“Bernard doesn’t live in Toronto any more,” said Gavin. “He and his mother moved back to Kitchener.” Gavin remembered how Bernard had always been nice to him. He could have told him about Mick.
Roger joined them, out of breath from running. “Sorry I’m late. Mum couldn’t get out of bed and I had to make breakfast.” As usual Roger looked worried. His mother had a bad back and his father, an officer in the navy, was fighting overseas. Roger was the only child—sometimes he even had to do the grocery shopping.
“What were you talking about?” he asked, as they started walking the remaining two blocks to school.
“Mick,” sighed Gavin.
“Oh, him.” Roger looked even more worried. “I just saw him.”
The other two stared at him. “Where?”
“Hanging around by the store. He was making a kid in grade three eat some snow that had dog pee on it.”
“He’s such a creep!” cried Tim. “He’s like a Nazi.”
“A nasty Nazi,” said Roger quietly.
Tim grinned. “Mick’s a nasty Nazi … Mick’s a nasty Nazi …” He and Gavin and Roger goosestepped along the snowy sidewalk as they continued the chant. But not too loud, in case Mick was lurking nearby.
Gavin felt braver now that both of his friends were with him. Norah called them “The Three Musketeers” and they often pretended they were. They’d been friends since grade one.
Tim Flanagan was the middle one of six. He was round and emotional, but despite his frequent outbursts, he never let anything bother him for long—except for being hungry, which he always was.
Skinny Roger, on the other hand, appeared calm and quiet, but he constantly picked at the skin on his fingers and usually had an anxious frown on his face. “That Hewitt boy looks like a little old man,” Aunt Florence said. Roger got high marks in all his subjects but after each report card he always said they could have been higher.
