No Small Victory

by Connie Brummel Crook

  After she was gone, Bonnie stared up at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, her chest tight with guilt and anxiety. When she finally fell asleep, dark dreams kept jolting her awake again.

  The next morning, she was as exhausted as if she hadn’t slept at all. Dully, she dressed and went down for breakfast.

  School had been a relief, but the day was over all too fast. Exhausted from her poor night’s sleep, Bonnie bent low as she ran over to the cedar hedge and then turned into the dirt road that led home. The sun was shining brightly, and as she walked along briskly through the woods, Bonnie couldn’t believe she’d ever been scared in here. As she walked down the lane toward the barnyard, two robins were singing on the fence, and her dog jumped up to greet her. She patted the star on his forehead and said, “Down, Boots!”

  She stepped into the back shed, took off her muddy rubbers and shoes, and opened the door to the dining room. As she stepped inside, she stopped in shock.

  Her mother was staring right at her. Anger blazed from her eyes. The chickens!

  Bonnie turned to run but hesitated. In that second, Mum caught Bonnie’s arm and yanked her inside. She plunked her down on the chair just inside the door and stood staring at her daughter. There was a long silence.

  Then Mum gasped out, “Our chickens are all dead! Our money—our only house money! There’ll be nothing but fish again all winter—no sugar for canning—no material for clothes or even curtains—nothing for the house—nothing—nothing…!” Between each statement of loss, Mum’s fists clenched at her sides as though she were keeping herself from grabbing Bonnie again.

  Bonnie stared at her mother in stricken silence.

  “Your dad found them this morning. The food trough was empty and knocked over against the wall. It would take a strong animal to do that! And one of the watering sealers was broken—with glass trampled on the floor. More than chickens had been in there. The pig must have gotten in, but the door was closed just fine. No pig could open that door and no pig could close it! What happened?”

  “But it was the pig!” Bonnie sobbed. “The pig did it!”

  “Who let the pig in?”

  “I didn’t let him in! It was the storm—the wind blew the hook off the nail.”

  “And who put him out? Who latched the coop afterward?”

  Again, a silence fell heavy between them.

  “That hook held through the worst of the storm in the early evening. It was closed when your dad looked out. It was still closed this morning. If only you had told us! Chickens are known for crowding when they are frightened. They should have been pulled apart as fast as possible! We might have revived some of them. Now they’re all dead—suffocated. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Winded, Mum fell into a chair. Her hair hung across her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and clouded over with despair.

  Bonnie sat on the chair where her mother had left her, and buried her head in her lap, and sobbed.

  Then she heard heavy footsteps coming through the back shed kitchen. The door flew open.

  “Where is she?” shouted Dad.

  Mum did not make a sound but she must have motioned to Dad. Bonnie heard his heavy footsteps and then she felt him grabbing her by the shoulder.

  “Look at me, girl,” he growled. “How did it happen?”

  Bonnie raised her head and stammered out, “I…I…I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure! That’s no answer,” said Dad in a louder voice.

  “The storm…it was the wind. It blew the door open. The pig got in but then he came out. I don’t think he touched the chickens. But they were all crowded together when…”

  “Oh, Thomas, what…are…we going to do?” Mum sobbed out.

  As if in a daze, Bonnie heard her parents’ voices.

  “I don’t know, Amy,” said Dad. His voice was heavy and tired. “I don’t know. I’ve tried my best. Every cent we have from the pigs and our cream has to pay the rent this fall and part of our debt. We can’t touch it. We’ll have to manage.”

  “You always say that. Years go by and you keep saying that, and it never gets any better. I’m only twenty-eight, and I feel seventy. I just can’t take it anymore!”

  “I’m doing my best!” shouted Dad. Then Bonnie heard the back door slam, and her father’s footsteps faded outside. Now the only sound she could hear was her mother’s sobs.

  With the flock of chickens, things had been starting to look up. But now all hope was gone.

  And she was to blame. She had promised herself that she would never be like her parents and have a debt. But now it had happened. She must pay them back for all the chickens she’d killed through her neglect. But how? There weren’t nearly enough jobs for the grownups—let alone children! How could she ever repay her debt?

  Then her mother’s sobbing stopped and all was silent.

  Bonnie crept quietly across the dining room. She mounted the stairs slowly, gripping the banister for support. Her head was pounding. Inside her spring bedroom, she sat down on the side of her bed and then lay out and sank into the feather mattress.

  Why didn’t I tell my parents about the chicken coop last night? Bonnie had known they would find out. But she had been so afraid. She had thought she could escape the blame by not telling them about what the pig had done.

  She had been wrong.

  She would be more careful and cheerful in all her tasks from now on. She would keep the woodbox full. She would fetch the cows on time every morning and night, and never forget to water the new little trees all along their white picket fence. She’d not keep forgetting till she saw the trees drooping in the sun.

  She’d even help Mum weed the garden. Maybe Mum would let her cut the lawn with that old rusty lawnmower. And in the house, she’d be more careful when she washed and dried the dishes. If she really kept her mind on her work, she might never break another dish.

  Maybe, too, if she tried even harder, she might learn to mend worn-out clothes. But the last resolve was probably one she couldn’t keep. As Mum said, she did have two left hands. Some things were just too much for her. She knew that. Mum had told Bonnie many times that she couldn’t sew a stitch correctly. Someday, though, she’d be a teacher and then she wouldn’t need to sew anyway. That was a long way ahead. First, she would pay for the chickens. But how?

  Maybe they could start another flock before fall. This time, Bonnie would take care of them. She’d be so careful. And maybe when she told Angela and Marianne and Archie, they’d insist on giving her some hens’ eggs.

  If only Bonnie could figure out a way to get Mum to accept them.

  TWENTY: A SPOT OF SUNSHINE

  Bonnie was glad to be at school, away from home, though she could hardly concentrate. Mum and Dad had listened to her apologies and her plans at breakfast in silence. Mum had said only, “Well, Bonnie, we’ll see.” But she hadn’t sounded very hopeful.

  All the pupils were still wearing old clothes because of the coal-oil cleanup. Just before lunch, Mr. McDougall kept them in their seats. “I have an announcement to make,” he said.

  Now, here it comes! thought Bonnie. At long last, their punishment for the walkout.

  Mr. McDougall said, “The school board has hired a new teacher for the upcoming school year. She will be arriving after lunch today to see the school and to meet you.”

  The classroom was silent as the pupils digested this news.

  “And you, sir?” asked Tom. “Will you be teaching next year?”

  Mr. McDougall didn’t bother to remind Tom to raise his hand. “Of course I will be teaching. I have been hired to teach Grade Eight in a Peterborough school.”

  A gasp travelled around the room. Everyone knew about big schools, where a teacher had only one grade in each room. They also knew that Grade Eight teachers always became principals after a while. So this explained Mr. McDougall’s not bothering to punish them. Bonnie sighed in relief.

  “Miss Clarke has just completed her training at Normal School in Peterborou
gh. She will be with us most of next week also. She will be interviewing each of you about your work to date and may even teach a few lessons.”

  Slinky raised his hand but Mr. McDougall ignored him. “I expect you all to give her your complete attention. Be respectful or you will answer to me.” Everyone knew that a few young teachers in that school had had a difficult time disciplining students. Mr. McDougall wanted to nip any problems in the bud.

  Streaks of afternoon sunlight streamed across the clean, fresh classroom when Miss Clarke arrived. She was wearing a blue cotton dress with a wide collar and a slight flare to the skirt. All eyes were on her as Miss Clarke stepped sedately to the front. She placed her small schoolbag on the desk, then turned to face the class.

  A golden crown of hair framed her full, rosy-cheeked face, and she glowed with a sunshine of her own. She was not smiling, but her keen blue eyes twinkled. She looked up and down each row, as if she were fastening their faces in her mind forever. She appeared to like what she saw. The students, even Slinky, eagerly sat up straighter under her steady gaze.

  “Greetings, everyone. I’m so pleased to be here this afternoon. I don’t know all your names yet but hope to change that very soon. I would like to meet you one at a time, so I will be calling you individually for a little chat, starting right now with Grade One…Lucy Almay, please.” The small girl toddled out of her seat and up to the front. Miss Clarke had pulled an empty chair beside her own and motioned the small child toward it.

  “The rest of you, return to your work,” Mr. McDougall barked, but Bonnie couldn’t help peeking up from her book. Miss Clarke looked like an angel compared to Mr. McDougall. She could hardly wait for her turn with the new teacher.

  As soon as Miss Clarke called out her name, Bonnie was on her feet and hurrying up the aisle. But then she slowed her pace. Now that it actually was her turn, she felt strangely shy. She wanted to make a good impression. She stood beside the desk, twisting her handkerchief into a knotted roll in her hands and waiting for Miss Clarke to look up from the report she was reading. No doubt it included Mr. McDougall’s comments about her—maybe even the beginning of the final report card.

  Then Miss Clarke motioned Bonnie to sit in the chair beside hers. Mr. McDougall always made the pupils sit on the opposite side of his desk. But this was more comfortable.

  Miss Clarke glanced at the report. “I see you transferred here from the school in Massassaga at the beginning of October,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is that exactly?”

  “It’s in Prince Edward County—across the Bay Bridge—about four miles from Belleville.”

  “Did you like it there?”

  “Very much.” Bonnie was starting to glow with the memory.

  “You’ve been working hard in this school, too, I see. Mr. McDougall says that you have worked ahead in all your sums and in your reading too. He says that you even listen in on lessons for the older grades.”

  Bonnie was not sure if this was a criticism or not. “Well, when I get my work finished, there’s nothing else to do,” she said. “I like listening to the other lessons. But I don’t interrupt. I don’t offer to answer. I really don’t…” She was looking at her lap now and her voice was lowered to a whisper.

  “Well,” said Miss Clarke. “Why shouldn’t you listen in on the other lessons? It’s a good way to learn the work ahead. Bonnie, I predict that you’ll be taking two years in one—and soon.”

  Bonnie looked up in rapture. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it?”

  “I can’t make any promises until I see more of your work. But I do mean it. Pupils who can work ahead should be promoted ahead. Perhaps you would like to take home the Grade Five arithmetic textbook and reader for the summer. Would you have time to work in them at all?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d make time,” Bonnie promised.

  “Many teachers think that pupils can get into bad habits while working on their own. If they start on the wrong track, there is no one to correct them.” Miss Clarke smiled. “But I think pupils can do anything, if they have the right tools. In arithmetic, the answers are in the back of the book. I trust you’ll use them only to check the accuracy of your own work. For the reader, you will need the help of a dictionary. Do you have one at home?”

  “Yes, but it’s very thin. There aren’t many words in it.”

  “Well, do the best you can. Perhaps I can find a dictionary to put in with the other books. Anyway, I’ll be here the last day of June even though school is out, and if I haven’t already found one for you, I will then. Just drop by sometime in the morning.”

  “Golly, Miss Clarke, I’ll be here. Thanks.”

  Miss Clarke smiled and said, “You may take your seat now, Bonnie.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Anderson,” Bonnie said in her excitement.

  “Clarke. My name’s Miss Clarke.”

  “Sorry, Miss Clarke,” said Bonnie. She then floated to her seat in a daze of happiness. She’d finish Grades Five and Six next year—she was sure of it!

  After school, Bonnie was plodding along home. She’d been so wrapped up in meeting the new teacher that she’d forgotten about everything at home. But as soon as she’d stepped out the door, it had all come rushing back to her.

  “What do you think of the new teacher?” Archie asked. His sisters had taken the shortcut across the Hubbs’ farm but he had decided to go by the long route.

  “She’s wonderful,” mumbled Bonnie.

  “So why don’t you sound so wonderful?” Archie asked.

  “Oh, Archie! It’s just terrible!” Bonnie gulped back her tears with a choking sob. “I killed the chickens!”

  “Whaaat?”

  “Well, it’s almost the same thing. I guess I didn’t fasten the chicken-coop door tight enough. And anyway, the pig got inside and scared the chickens and they were all piled up in a heap, crowded in the corner, and when I didn’t tell Mum and Dad, they found them the next morning all suffocated, and now we don’t have any money to buy more eggs to hatch and we won’t have any all year,” she finished breathlessly.

  “That is bad,” said Archie. “If only you’d told your Mum, she might have revived some of them. You could have even phoned me and I’d have come over to see what I could do.”

  “No! It was during that terrible storm. You couldn’t have come.”

  “You’re right. The Danfords’ chicken coop fell over and their chicks were lost, too. Now folks are giving them a “bee” to build a new henhouse. The women are going to take eggs to start them up again. I’ll tell my folks and the neighbours will do the same for you.”

  “No! My mother would never stand for it—she’s too proud. The Danfords are still grieving over Grace, so the neighbours are being extra kind. And anyway, everyone’s busy making their own repairs after that storm. Dad’s coop stood up fine. It was really my fault!”

  “But the storm made it worse and—”

  “No, Archie. Mum truly won’t take anything from anybody. She says we have to earn our own way. I don’t know what to do.”

  Archie turned to go up the sharp hillside road. “Don’t worry, Bonnie. I’ll think of something. I promise!”

  Bonnie gave Archie a wan smile as she waved goodbye.

  TWENTY-ONE: THE SOMETHING PROMISE

  A few days later, Bonnie’s father needed to have grain ground at the Lang mill, and Bonnie went along, taking her swimsuit just in case. By mid-June, the water was generally warm enough for a nice swim. And sure enough, Angela, Archie, and Marianne were already there. “You’ll have lots of time for a swim,” said Dad. “Several wagons are lined up ahead of me.”

  The sun shone brightly across the meadow on the west side of the dam, a few hundred feet from the mill. A big maple tree shaded two picnic tables between the mill and the Lang houses, farther west. People from Keene were going to have a picnic!

  Angela, Archie, Marianne, and Bonnie watched from the east side of the river. “I just hope the Keene kids s
tay on that side,” grumbled Marianne.

  Bonnie had butterflies in her stomach as she took one step onto the log bridge and looked down. On the left, clear water gushed over the dam and foamed where it hit the stones below. On her right, the water was dark and deep—no bottom in sight. She looked along the sturdy log bridge ahead. It had a double purpose for her, for one could easily cling to the side in the deep water. She’d keep coming back and cling to those logs for a rest. Having surveyed the spot, she stepped back onto the grassy side near her friends.

  “How did you finally persuade your mum and dad to let you swim here where the river is so deep?” asked Archie. “I thought we’d have to go and help you do it.”

  “Her mum knows we’ll look out for Bonnie,” said Angela. A whistling sound came from behind them and everyone turned around.

  Slinky and Tom were coming along the grassy path. Their full brown wool bathing suits slouched a little from narrow shoulder straps.

  “Look!” said Bonnie, pointing at the new arrivals. “No towels or dry clothes!”

  “They just run around in their bathing suits all day. Keeps them cool,” sighed Archie, looking back over his shoulder. “I can’t say I blame them.” Archie was scratching a freckled shoulder, now peeling from a burn.

  “No one seems to keep track of them much,” said Angela. She stepped onto the bridge with Marianne and Bonnie following. “I’m not waiting for them. Let’s go.”

  “Look over there at all those Keene kids,” said Bonnie.

  “Most Saturday afternoons, some group has a picnic there,” said Angela. “Looks like their parents are here, too.”

  “The boys are coming onto the bridge. Why don’t they just swim over there?” asked Bonnie.

  “I hope they don’t think they’re going to swim with us,” said Marianne. “Look at those awful bathing suits!”

  “They’ve got no tops!” exclaimed Bonnie. She thought all bathing suits had tops. It was a little shocking to see them without.