by Kit Pearson
“We do not know what awaits us when we open the door of 1945 …” said the hesitant, English voice. “The darkness daily grows less and less. The lamps which the Germans put out all over Europe, first in 1914 and then in 1939, are being slowly rekindled. Already we can see some of them beginning to shine through the fog of war that still shrouds so many lands.”
“That was his best speech yet,” said Aunt Dorothy at the end, wiping her eyes.
“And hasn’t his voice improved! He never stutters any more,” said Aunt Florence approvingly—as if King George VI were her personal responsibility.
While the family was walking along the snowy sidewalks to church, Gavin lingered behind the adults with Norah.
“You know those little gold things I got,” he muttered. “What are they?”
“They’re cuff-links, silly! You use them to keep your cuffs together.”
“But I have buttons on my cuffs!”
“Later you’ll just have holes, and then you’ll use cuff-links. Look at Uncle Reg’s shirtsleeves.”
Gavin sneaked a look at them during church. Sure enough, Uncle Reg’s sleeves were held shut with two gold circles, just like his. He sighed. What a boring present.
Beside him Norah ran her fingers along her pearls. “Isn’t it strange to think that next Christmas morning we’ll be in church in Ringden?” she whispered, as Reverend Milne talked about the growing possibility of world peace.
Gavin nodded miserably. Norah, however, looked eager, not miserable. That made him feel even more alone.
AFTER CHURCH they had Christmas dinner. Hanny roasted a goose and everyone commented on how it was just as good as a turkey. Gavin ate as much as he could to fill up the empty space inside him.
When the meal was over Uncle Reg and Uncle Barclay fell asleep in front of the living-room fire, still wearing the paper hats from their crackers. Hanny went home to her husband, and the aunts and cousins did the dishes. On other Christmases this was the time of day when Gavin and the younger cousins played with their new toys. This year he wandered into the living room, wondering what to do. He sat down and opened up one of his new books. It was called Rabbit Hill and it looked good, but he couldn’t concentrate. The uncles snored gently. He could hear the women singing “We all want figgy pudding” in the kitchen. He had offered to help, but they’d shooed him out.
Finally the dishes were done and the others came into the living room, teasing the uncles as always for falling asleep. Flo, the oldest cousin, stretched out her legs and sighed. “What a nice break. I wish I didn’t have to go back tomorrow.” She was in the RCAF and only had two days’ leave.
“I wonder what Andrew’s doing right now?” said her younger sister, Janet.
“His mother said his last letter was dated October,” said Aunt Dorothy. “All we know is that he’s somewhere in Italy.”
“I hope he got my parcel,” said Janet. “I knit him some socks.”
“We sent him some food and books but so many parcels don’t seem to ever reach him,” sighed Aunt Mary.
“I hope you girls are all writing to Andrew regularly,” said Aunt Florence.
“I do—every month,” said Flo.
“I write twice a month,” boasted Janet.
“Do you hear that, Norah? Norah says she doesn’t need to write to Andrew because she’s not related to him,” sniffed Aunt Florence. “But the dear boy needs all the letters he can get to keep up his spirits.”
Norah ignored Aunt Florence’s disapproving frown. Gavin was careful not to look at his sister. He knew that, ever since Andrew had spent the summer before last with them at Gairloch, Norah had been writing secretly to him. He occasionally wrote back, to Paige’s address.
Gavin also knew that Norah was in love with Andrew. She’d told him that one night after Andrew had gone to fight overseas and he’d found her in tears.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she’d said. “They’ll tease me and say I’m too young. But I won’t be too young when he comes back.”
If he came back. That was why everyone looked so grave at the mention of his name, and why Norah always snatched the paper and scanned the casualty lists before the aunts saw it. Whenever Gavin watched a newsreel showing dead soldiers he closed his eyes in case one of them was Andrew.
Gavin squirmed. Norah wasn’t quite fifteen. She wasn’t even allowed to date. If the war was over soon, surely she would still be too young for Andrew. Surely she couldn’t get married—would she?
When the family switched from Andrew to news of other relatives Gavin let himself glance at Norah. She was staring into the fire dreamily. She looked as grown-up as Flo, he realized with alarm. Aunt Florence had let her wear lipstick and stockings and her long hair was carefully curled at the ends. Did Norah have to change along with everything else?
NORAH DIDN’T LOOK very grown-up after supper, as she helped her team act out the first syllable in their word for charades. She and Aunt Mary huffed and puffed, their hair in their eyes, as they jumped around the room with their feet together, clutching the sides of their dresses.
“Can-can!”
“Hop!”
“Rabbit!”
“Give up …” gasped Norah. “We can’t do this forever. And it’s only one syllable!”
“I know!” said Janet. “It’s a sack race! Sack!”
“Right!” laughed Aunt Mary, collapsing on a chair.
But no one could guess the next two syllables. First Aunt Dorothy and Flo dressed as tramps, then everyone on the team drank something and held their imaginary glasses up to their ears. For the whole word they carried in Norah, her hands and feet tied up, and pretended to burn her on a fire.
“Aha!” said Aunt Florence. “Sacrifice!”
“You always guess,” grumbled Flo.
“But what was the second syllable?” asked Janet. “The third was ‘ice,’ but what were all those rags you were wearing? ‘Riff’?”
“The first part of riff-raff!” said Flo, as the others groaned.
“Our turn,” said Uncle Reg. “For our first word I want to change things a bit. We’ll do the whole word at once, with no syllables. And only Gavin and I will know what the word is.”
“But why can’t the rest of your team know?” demanded Aunt Florence.
“You’ll see,” said Uncle Reg. He took the dressing-gown belts that had been used to tie up Norah and formed them into a figure eight on the rug. Now, Florence, you sit down in one circle facing outwards, and, Barclay, you sit in the other.”
“This sounds like one of your tricks, Reg,” said Aunt Florence.
“It’s just charades, Florence. Will you please sit down?”
Finally she lowered her large rear into one of the circles. Uncle Barclay stoically sat down in the other.
“That’s the word,” grinned Gavin. “It has four syllables.”
Everyone tried half-hearted guesses but no one came near.
“Really, Reg, I feel very foolish sitting here,” complained Aunt Florence.
“Not as foolish as you’re about to feel!” smiled her brother. “Give up?” Everyone nodded. “Tell them, Gavin.”
“Assassinate!” crowed Gavin. The uproar that followed—even Aunt Florence laughed—made Gavin forget for the only time that this was his last Christmas in Canada.
THE VISITING RELATIVES caught the train back to Montreal on Boxing Day. Gavin spent the morning at Roger’s, but after lunch he had to stay in to write his thank-you notes. He sat at the desk in the study, staring at the list Aunt Florence had given him and swinging his legs. Bosley snoozed at his feet. Writing thank-yous was so tedious, but Aunt Florence always insisted it be done right away.
Finally he dipped his pen into the inkwell and began the first letter on the list. “Dear Mum and Dad. Thank you for the wooden truck and the hat. I like them very much.” He put down his pen. Didn’t his parents realize that he was much too old for wooden toys and that he already had plenty of hats? Then he wiggled with guilt. He knew
that Dad had carved the truck and Mum had knit the hat. Their letters often said how impossible it was to find new toys in England. Norah’s eyes had filled with tears when she’d unwrapped the homemade blouse Mum had sewn her. Gavin wished they wouldn’t send anything at all—then he wouldn’t have to feel so ungrateful.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember his real family, but their faces were blank. They were simply names: Mum, Dad and Grandad; his sister Muriel, her husband, Barry, and their new baby; and his other sister, Tibby. They were like distant relatives he never saw, as distant as a cousin of Aunt Florence’s in Manitoba, who always sent him a small Christmas present, but whom he’d never met.
He picked up his pen and finished the letter, describing Christmas Day and his other presents. Then he scribbled his other notes as quickly as he could to get them over with.
Finally he blotted the last envelope. He piled them on the hall table and went up to his room to read. But Bosley wouldn’t stay with him. He kept going out of the bedroom, then coming back to Gavin and whining.
“What’s the matter, boy? You’ve just been out.”
He got up and followed the dog into the upstairs hall. Bosley was standing at the half-open door of Aunt Florence’s room. He looked back anxiously at Gavin.
Gavin listened for a moment. Surely it couldn’t be … crying. Not Aunt Florence. She never cried.
But the sound was unmistakable. He peeked through the crack of the door and saw Aunt Florence sitting at her dressing table. Her back was towards him and her shoulders were shaking. One hand clutched the woven paper mat he’d made for her in school. He’d written “Merry Christmas to Aunt Florence from Gavin” on it in his best handwriting.
Gavin scurried back to his room. Aunt Florence wasn’t ever supposed to cry! He read his book intently, letting the story carry him away from her weeping.
4
An Ordinary Winter
Nineteen forty-five began with the coldest January Toronto had had in twenty-five years. Whenever Gavin went outside he had to wear extra clothes: long underwear, another pair of mitts, a fleece-lined leather cap with flaps, and a scarf tied over his mouth and nose. The scarf kept falling down, freezing into a hard woolly clump where his mouth had wetted it.
At least the cold weather slowed down Mick. No one stood still long enough for him to threaten, and many recesses were spent indoors, where teachers supervised them more than usual.
Every morning Mrs. Moss talked about how the Germans were being cornered by the Allies—but still the war didn’t end. Aunt Florence stopped mentioning Gavin and Norah’s return to England. Gavin decided to pretend it wasn’t going to happen.
The winter days and months slipped by like beads on a string—orderly and normal. Gavin threw himself into his activities in a sort of dream.
The city streets were still so blocked with snow that the scrap-paper pick-ups were halted. Instead the schools had a competition to see which one could collect the most paper. Gavin and Tim and Roger hauled paper to the schoolyard on their toboggans, then bundled and stacked it until their arms ached. The piles in the schoolyard grew and grew. Mr. Evans, the principal, told them proudly that even though they hadn’t won, Prince Edward School had collected several tons of paper.
Gavin and Tim and Roger went downtown to see the helicopter that was being exhibited in Simpson’s department store. If you brought some war savings stamps with you, you were allowed to climb inside and sit at the controls.
Gavin got three more badges in Cubs and two goals in hockey. Roger turned eleven, and Tim ate so much at his party that he threw up all over the rug and was sent home in disgrace. Gavin and Tim were caught chewing gum by Mr. Evans. He made them stay after school and scrape off enough gum from under the desks to fill up a piece of paper each.
ON FEBRUARY 2 the groundhog saw his shadow. Tim’s parents took him and Gavin to the Ice Follies. The Ogilvie household celebrated Norah’s fifteenth birthday by all going to see Blithe Spirit at the Royal Alexandra Theatre.
Mick got the strap again, for beating up Russell Jones in the washroom. A teacher had been walking by and heard the commotion.
Norah had an argument with Aunt Florence about staying out late at the new canteen that had opened for teen-agers. “Everyone stays until midnight!” she protested, but Aunt Florence just said, “Fiddlesticks! You’re not everyone and I want you home by ten-thirty.”
Norah won first prize in her school speech contest. The topic was “My Hero.” Norah spoke clearly and fervently about Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly an airplane across the Atlantic Ocean.
“You were very good, my dear,” said Aunt Florence.
“You were wonderful!” cried Aunt Mary. “I never could have stood up in front of all those people when I was your age. And what a fascinating woman! Why did you choose her?”
“Miss Gleeson at the library gave me a book about her.” Norah grinned, stroking her trophy. “Maybe I’ll be a pilot too, one day.”
“A pilot!” spluttered Aunt Florence. “Don’t be absurd, Norah.” But Norah looked thoughtful.
Three more girls in grade five kissed Gavin. Jamie and George kept getting kissed too. Then Jamie tattled and Mrs. Moss told the girls they had to stop “all this kissing nonsense.”
Gavin got fourteen valentines—the same as the number of girls in his class. Roger and Tim teased him and he pretended to despise the valentines. But he went through them all at home, trying to guess which one was Eleanor’s.
One Saturday evening a boy turned up at the Ogilvies’ front door, asked for Norah, and was ushered into the hall.
“This is—um—Michael Carey,” Norah told Aunt Florence.
Michael shook hands nervously as Aunt Florence inspected him. Gavin sneaked a look at him and Norah as they sat together in the living room. Both had flushed faces and neither spoke much. Norah seemed relieved when Michael left half an hour later.
“Is he your boy friend?” Gavin asked her.
“No! He’s just a boy in my class,” muttered Norah.
Aunt Florence came into the hall. “He seems like a presentable young man, Norah. I know his grandmother.” She smiled. “Now that you’re fifteen, my dear, I will allow you to go out with boys, as long as I meet them first.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to date,” retorted Norah.
“Very well … it’s up to you, of course.” Aunt Florence walked away huffily; she didn’t like having her favours refused.
“Why don’t you want to date?” asked Gavin. “You do other things with boys.”
Norah lifted her chin proudly. “I like dancing with boys at the canteen and I like talking to them when we go to Murray’s for a milkshake. But I refuse to be attached to anyone! There’s only one person I’m interested in. Michael and the other boys in my school can never come up to him. But don’t forget, Gavin, that’s a secret.”
“I know. Norah …”
“Mmm?” Norah looked dreamy.
“Do you—uhh—do you think ten is too young to like girls? I mean for a boy.” The minute he said that he regretted it. What if she teased him?
But Norah regarded him seriously. “Nope. If you like someone, you like them. It doesn’t matter how old you are.” She took his hand. “Come on—I’ll teach you how to play crib.”
IN MARCH THE SNOW finally melted. Gavin and Tim and Roger spent most of their after-school time fixing up their fort in the ravine behind the Ogilvies’ house. Bosley tried to help by chasing away squirrels.
Mick cornered Roger one afternoon in the ravine. He forced him to take off all his clothes and ran away with them, leaving Roger shivering and crying in the fort.
When the others found him there, Gavin raced up the hill to the house to get some of his clothes while Tim wrapped Roger in his jacket.
“We should tell on Mick!” said Gavin when he’d come back. He turned pale at the thought of his friend’s ordeal. “He shouldn’t get away with this!”
“No!” cried Roger. �
�The more he’s punished the worse he gets!”
“He should be expelled,” said Tim.
“That’s the only solution,” said Roger. “But how can we be sure Mr. Evans would expel him? He’s never expelled anyone before.” He looked down at the sleeves of Gavin’s sweater dangling below his wrists. “What am I going to say to my mother? That jacket was brand new! I’ll have to make something up so she won’t tell.”
“From now on we have to stick together all the time,” said Gavin.
“All for one and one for all!” cried Tim. But Roger just sat on a log looking wretched.
The weather became warmer and warmer. The grown-ups smiled and said it was a good omen. Tulip bulbs sent green swords up through the damp earth, and Aunt Mary ordered seeds for this year’s Victory Garden. In school they kept singing “When the lights go on again / All over the world.” But all over the world the war carried on.
5
The Telegram
“See ya later, alligator,” called Tim as the three of them parted at the corner.
“After a while, crocodile,” Gavin answered.
“Don’t forget your glove,” came Roger’s distant cry. They were meeting again in twenty minutes to play baseball.
Gavin peeled off his jacket as he walked home. The soft spring air was almost hot. His shoes felt wonderfully light on the bare sidewalk, after trudging along it in galoshes all winter.
He turned into Sir Launcelot, rescuing a princess from a dragon. The princess looked just like Eleanor. He whacked a bush with a stick as the dragon’s head fell off.
“Oh, Sir Launcelot, you are the bravest knight in the kingdom!” the princess cried. A passing woman smiled at him and Gavin realized he’d been muttering to himself.
“Wave, Boz!” he cried as he neared the end of his block. The dog lifted his paw in a comical salute, then hurtled towards Gavin, jumped all over him and licked his face. He led Gavin the rest of the way to the Ogilvies’, his tail beating. The two of them raced up the stairs and into the hall. Gavin stopped to check the mail.
