No Small Victory

by Connie Brummel Crook

  “Yes, and here’s a report from Miss Anderson, her teacher at the Massassaga school. That’s in Prince Edward County. Bonnie attended that school for the past three years.”

  “Who’s that? Shirley Temple?” a voice grumbled from the back of the room. “Do a dance for us, squirt.”

  Mr. McDougall lifted his head and gave the back-bench boys a look that would have made a giant shrink.

  “I’ve heard you have a good, iron hand,” said Mum.

  “Yes, I do—when it’s needed.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Bonnie’s mother, handing Mr. McDougall the report. Then she turned and disappeared out the door she had entered.

  It all happened so quickly that Bonnie’s “goodbye” didn’t have time to come out. It turned into a hiccup instead. She stood there, stunned, staring at the four-foot, black box-stove near the door. It had a tin frame around it, which Bonnie thought was strange. Her last school was heated from a big furnace in the basement.

  Inside the schoolhouse, the October sun was shining through the tall, narrow windows, throwing beams of dust and light on rows and rows of wooden desks. As Mum had predicted, most of the twenty-five pupils were busy writing in their scribblers. Bonnie looked for Archie and Angela, but she was so nervous she could not even spot Archie’s white-blond hair among the darker heads. In the back row, on the east side, sat five big boys who looked too old even for Grade Eight. One of those had called her a squirt.

  “Come here, Bonnie,” said Mr. McDougall, ignoring the second hiccup and motioning her to the front of the room. “Stand beside my desk and I’ll introduce you to the class.”

  Bonnie’s hiccups turned into hacking coughs. Mr. McDougall ignored them, too. He just sat down in the big armchair behind his desk and said, “Class, we have a new pupil, Bonnie Brown. I know you will make her welcome at recess. For now, please go back to your work. Lawrence and Tom—no recess for you this morning. You’ll be staying in and cleaning the blackboards. Now, Bonnie,” his voice became softer, “I have some questions to ask you.”

  “Yes, ss…irrr,” said Bonnie, stopping a cough by putting her red polka-dot handkerchief over her mouth. As she walked closer to Mr. McDougall’s desk, she noticed a head of white-blond hair out of the corner of her eye. Archie! So he was at school today. Maybe she’d find Angela in a minute, too.

  “To begin with,” said Mr. McDougall, “what grade did you start this September?”

  “Grades Four and Five, sir,” Bonnie coughed.

  “How could you possibly be in two grades at the same time?”

  “Well, I finished Grade Three last Easter; so the teacher started me in Grade Four. She said I’d be finished Grade Four by this Christmas, and could finish Grade Five by—”

  “Enough! How many years have you gone to school?”

  “Three.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I turned nine at the end of August.”

  “You are the right age for Grade Four.” Mr. McDougall took a book from the stack on his desk and handed it to Bonnie. “You’ll do the same exercises as the Grade Fours. Turn to page ten in the arithmetic book and start with those sums.” He pointed to his copy of the book on the front of his desk.

  “But, sir, we used that very same book, and I did all those sums. I’m on page ninety-eight!”

  “Do you have all those answers with you?”

  “No, sir. Only the report from Miss Anderson.” They had left Massassaga in such a hurry that all of Bonnie’s scribblers were still at the school.

  “I’ll read the report in a while. For now, sit at the empty desk in the seat beside Betty.”

  Mr. McDougall gestured toward a pale-haired girl at the front of the room, then rose and turned toward the blackboard. As Bonnie walked toward Betty’s desk, someone on the other side of the classroom leaned out, grinning and waving—Archie. Bonnie smiled and waved back, relieved.

  A tall, lanky boy got up from a back seat, hiked up his dark blue overalls, and slouched his way toward the pencil sharpener at the window. A small scuffle took place as he passed Archie’s desk. Archie was left sitting on the floor.

  “Yowww!” said Archie, glaring after the back of the boy.

  Every eye turned. Loud guffaws came from the back.

  “Take your seat, Bonnie,” Mr. McDougall said sharply. “You’ve interrupted us enough for one day. Back to work, everyone!”

  Archie slid back into his seat, his face flaming red with shame.

  Bonnie sat down beside Betty, a pale girl who peered at Bonnie through round, steel-rimmed glasses. Then Betty pushed her scribbler toward her new classmate. “You may copy my answers,” she whispered.

  Bonnie looked at the page. It was a mess of blurred numbers and erased sums. There were even two holes where Betty had erased too many times. The one or two answers that Bonnie could read were wrong.

  “No, thank you!” said Bonnie.

  Betty snatched back her workbook in disgust.

  Bonnie opened her own scribbler and started copying out the questions from the textbook, as Miss Anderson had taught her to do.

  As she was copying, Mr. McDougall came pacing by. “What are you doing?” he said, peering at Bonnie’s work. “Just filling time, I see—you haven’t added up a single sum. I doubt you are ready for Grade Four, never mind Grade Five!”

  “But, sir, I’ll answer them. This is the way we did it back home.”

  “A likely story,” Mr. McDougall sniffed. “Now, stop copying the questions and start writing down the answers.”

  Bonnie knew she had better do as she was told. Mr. McDougall had that teacher tone of voice that meant trouble could be on the way. She started writing down the answers, and in a few minutes she had finished the whole exercise.

  “Grade Four, bring all your arithmetic answers to the front,” said Mr. McDougall a few minutes later.

  The Grade Fours scrambled forward and left their scribblers in a pile on his desk. Mr. McDougall straightened up the pile and then ignored the books.

  “Now, class,” he announced, “it’s recess time. All but the five of you at the back are dismissed.”

  Most of the pupils jumped up and rushed for the door in a mass. Only the big boys stayed in their seats—and Bonnie. She’d noticed a copy of Anne of Green Gables on a bookshelf against the wall. Grandma Brown had told her about that book. Ever since, she’d wanted to read it.

  “What are you waiting for? Go out and play,” Mr. McDougall told her. His grey-green eyes made her think of a garter snake.

  Bonnie got up slowly and marched down the long aisle between the empty rows of desks. She opened the door at the back and stepped out into the sunshine. There on the steps stood her new neighbours—a smiling Angela, a giggling Marianne Hubbs, and Archie. He grinned at Bonnie and said, “Guess what I found under the steps!”

  Once she got over the sight of yet another snake, Bonnie had a fine time playing hopscotch with her new girlfriends. When Mr. McDougall rang the bell, Angela went to the Grade Six section and Bonnie went back to sit with the Grade Fours. Angela had also skipped a grade. That gave Bonnie hope that Mr. McDougall might change his mind.

  Not yet, though. The Grade Four scribblers were handed out again, and Bonnie was left to sit in front of the sums she’d finished before recess, doing nothing. Meanwhile, her new teacher was telling the Grade Fives all about the French explorer, Jacques Cartier.

  “And so he arrived at Hochelaga,” Mr. McDougall said. “Now, what do we call Hochelaga today?” The Grade Five pupils were looking down, hoping Mr. McDougall wouldn’t ask them to answer. Bonnie couldn’t resist the impulse to rescue them.

  “Bonnie, why is your hand waving in the air?”

  “It’s now the city of Montréal!”

  “Young lady, I am teaching Grade Five. You are in Grade Four. Do not interrupt. Continue with your own work.”

  “But, sir, I’ve finished.”

  “My name is Mr. McDougall! Address me as such. And c
heck over your answers. You could not possibly have answered them all correctly in such a short time!”

  Bonnie looked down at her scribbler. She knew all the answers were right. But she blinked and said, “Yes, Mr. McDougall.”

  No teacher had ever spoken to Bonnie in that tone of voice. In fact, Miss Anderson thought it was wonderful that Bonnie listened in on the lessons ahead of her grade.

  Miss Anderson! Bonnie looked over at her new teacher. The report from Miss Anderson was still sticking out the top of his back pocket. When he read it, Mr. McDougall would know that Bonnie really was ready for Grade Five. She was sure of it.

  She would just have to be patient and wait till after class to find out.

  Finally, at the end of a long first day (filled with more lessons that Miss Anderson had already taught Bonnie), Mr. McDougall stood up to address the class.

  “Everyone, close your books,” he said. “You may take your scribblers home, but leave all textbooks in your desks. If you wish to copy out questions to answer at home, you may stay to do that now.” A ripple of laughter ran across the back of the room where the big boys sat.

  “Dismissed!” Mr. McDougall snapped. The bigger boys stampeded for the door and the others followed. Only two pupils remained—Lizzie Johnson, who was in Grade Eight and studying for her high school entrance exams in June, and Bonnie.

  “Bonnie Brown, come to the front,” Mr. McDougall snapped again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bonnie,” he said severely, “this report from your teacher is simply last June’s report card—that is all!”

  “But, sir, I thought—”

  “What is my name?”

  “Mr. McDougall. I thought—”

  “Your report card states that you completed Grade Three successfully last year, and achieved fine grades doing so. But without some evidence of Grade Four work completed, I cannot promote you beyond your proper grade. You will continue with Grade Four, but there will be no nonsense about completing Grade Five this school year as well. Do you understand?”

  Bonnie blinked again. She could see there was nothing she could do.

  “Thank you, Mr. McDougall,” she said politely. Then, for the second time that day, she marched alone down the long aisle between the desks.

  SIX: TROUBLE AND TURNIPS

  Archie was waiting for her just outside the door. “Don’t worry, Bonnie, no snakes!” He beamed, his freckles bunching up on his nose. He had found another aspen branch and was waving it in the air. But Bonnie could not see him too well. She was blinking to keep back the tears.

  Then a hand took hold of her own smaller one. “C’mon, Bonnie.” Angela smiled. “We’re going home by the long way round. That way we’ll go right by your woods!”

  Archie was as nice as could be all the way home, and Angela picked a wildflower bouquet for Bonnie to take to her mother. “Don’t worry about Mr. McDougall,” Angela told Bonnie. “He’s just not used to letting people do two grades in one year. It was the last teacher who let me skip a grade. Most teachers just take it for granted that we can skip grades. But he’s new at the job.”

  Bonnie appreciated the thought, but still, she breathed a sigh of relief when Angela and Archie turned along the north-south road toward their home. She just wanted to be alone.

  A flock of geese flew in a V over Bonnie’s head as she turned into the path that went through the woods. It seemed Bonnie and her Mum and Dad were the only ones in the neighbourhood who did not have a proper place to live. She supposed that everyone else owned their farms but theirs was rented. And it was far away from everyone. At least the Hubbs lived just south of the Johnsons. And back in Massassaga, the farmhouses were all in a row along the highway at the front of the farms. They weren’t stuck in the middle of the land where no one could see them. Here, their house was the most remote—you had to pass through woods and hills and hills to reach it.

  Bonnie threw herself down on a pile of red maple and brown oak leaves. Her blue lunch pail rolled out of her hand and down the hilly path. Her bouquet of goldenrod and asters dropped to the ground beside her. She stared up at the sky, but a stately pine tree blocked her view. It seemed to be observing everything—the chipmunks and squirrels hustling about and the breezes ruffling the leaves at the tops of the other trees. The pine just stood there silent and serene while here on the forest floor, small creatures scurried about in lively activity.

  A short time later, Bonnie gathered up her things with a sigh, and walked on.

  “What kept you, Bonnie?” Dad asked when Bonnie reached the bottom of the long lane and unhooked the gate to the barnyard.

  “I…I…it’s a long walk home from school!” Bonnie stuttered.

  “And a long way back for the cows, too!”

  “Oh, Dad. I forgot all about the cows! I’m sorry! I’ll go back for them right away.” Dad took his watch out of the pocket in the bib of his overalls. “Well, you could, but now that you’re here, you might as well get yourself a piece of bread and brown sugar before you head back out to the pasture.”

  While she was grateful for the break, Bonnie didn’t tell her father that she no longer liked plain bread topped with a sprinkle of brown sugar. She wished she could have fried donuts and oatmeal cookies like other kids had.

  “Cheer up, Bonnie!” her father was saying. “Boots will help you round up the cows. He’s a spirited little fellow.” Hitching up his overalls a notch, Dad walked back to the barn.

  Bonnie nodded and headed for the house. She looked down at the bouquet she was still clutching in her hand. Mum liked flowers but she wouldn’t want these. Bonnie threw them on the ground before she opened the gate into the dooryard.

  She was not surprised to find her mother still cleaning. Bonnie watched as Mum tipped boiling water from the big copper boiler on the stove into the mop-pail. She shook the soft-soap carrier into it, then dashed the mop back and forth till suds started to rise up over the edge of the pail.

  “Bonnie!” Mum exclaimed disapprovingly.

  “What?”

  “You’re a mess! Your skirt is all wrinkled and your white middy is filthy. What happened?”

  Bonnie looked down. It was true. Her middy was covered with huge streaks of dirt from the leaf-pile in the woods. Her navy blue skirt was wrinkled and dirty, too.

  “Go and change immediately. I’ll have to wash your clothes right away to have them ready for tomorrow,” Mum said. “And put your lunch pail by the sink to be washed with the supper dishes.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  Bonnie ran up the steep back stairs to the only place she could really call hers. It wasn’t a bedroom, exactly. Mum and Dad had put her bed on the stair landing close to the stovepipe, so that she would keep warm in winter. At least, that was what they told her. Bonnie thought her parents wanted her next to their room so they could keep an eye on her. She was always trying to read in bed and forgetting to blow out the coal-oil lamp.

  Bonnie stepped out of her skirt and tried to pull the middy up over her head. But it got stuck because she’d forgotten to unbutton the front V-piece. Maybe she really was the clumsiest child in Ontario. That’s what her mother always said. Or maybe the problem was the clothes. She had no trouble slipping on her faded red shirt and stepping into her homemade blue patched overalls.

  The kitchen was neat and quiet when Bonnie came downstairs. Mum’s stiffly starched red gingham curtains were hanging beside the windows, and the long, bumpy couch at the north side of the room was covered with soft, red feather-pillows. The sewing machine, Mum’s pride and joy, was in front of the back window, and her dark buffet was standing against the east wall. The stove stood in front of the opposite wall, its gleaming black top polished to a shine, as usual. Mum sure knew how to make a house look good.

  As Bonnie walked past the stove on her way to the pantry, she lifted the lid of the big frying pan at the back. She took a sniff and nearly gagged. Then she peeked inside. The pan was filled with horrible turnip chunks. Warmed-u
p turnip chunks. Fresh ones were bad enough—but warmed up! That was too terrible to think about.

  Bonnie felt so sickened by the smell that she didn’t even bother going into the pantry for a snack of bread and butter. She went right outside and headed for the barnyard. Boots came bounding up beside her and they trotted off to the pasture.

  “Go get ’em! Round ’em up!” said Bonnie when they arrived at the last steep field.

  Boots went off in a streak of gold and rounded up all four of the black-and-white Holsteins in no time at all.

  “Atta boy, Boots! Atta boy!”

  Boots raced back to Bonnie, his tail wagging. He circled around her like a spinning top. Bonnie reached out to pat his thick coat. At least Boots was one good thing that had happened in this strange place.

  But Boots did not stop to be patted. He rushed past Bonnie and started barking at the cows. The four Holsteins broke into a run, their heavy udders swaying from side to side. Bonnie knew that meant trouble. It was not good for cows with full udders to run like that; they would be harder to milk when they were all excited.

  “C’mon back, Boots! Here, Boots! C’mere, you bad boy!” The dog didn’t seem to hear. He was too happy thinking he’d been successful. Bonnie kept running and running and calling out to the pup. Finally, she caught up to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

  “Stop! Stop!” she shouted. Boots finally understood. He dropped his fluffy tail and put it between his legs.

  Still, Boots had perked up again by the time Bonnie had the cows at the barnyard gate.

  “Good job, Bonnie,” said Dad. “You did just fine!”

  Bonnie thought she’d better explain what Boots had done, in case Dad had trouble milking. Dad frowned at what she told him. She knew how much he valued his prize cows.

  “I’d better train him a little more this week, then. But don’t get too used to the holiday,” he cautioned. “Next week you’ll have your job back.”

  “Eat up, Bonnie. You’re too thin. You need all the strength you can get.”

  “Sorry, Mum, I’m just not hungry anymore!” Bonnie looked down at the blob of mashed turnips and the fried fish patty on her plate.