by Jean Little
Sunday, July 15
Father preached about the Prodigal Son this morning. Do you like him, dear Reader? I never have. I feel too sorry for the elder brother, although he does sound a little like Verity. Father says the story should not be called the Prodigal Son but the Forgiving Father. This morning I wondered, for the first time, what really made that father run. I don’t think my father would run, but he is a dignified man. Maybe the bad son felt ashamed at the last minute and turned away. Then his father would have run. But the boy does not sound like someone who would feel ashamed.
Cornelia has recovered but she looks so different. She does not have a pudding face any more. She is pale as milk and has no strength. She reminds me of a stalk of celery that has been left in water too long, all limp and bendy. Dr. Webb is talking of moving away from Uxbridge.
Guess what, dear Reader? This will astonish you. I truly hope she does not go. She is not a kindred spirit, but we are friends.
No letters have come from Jack to Mother or Father for nearly three weeks. Nobody says anything. Verity seems to get all the mail these days and she is secretive about it. The envelopes are big and official looking. I wonder what she is up to.
I miss being in the country. I wanted to come home so much, but it is a bit tame here. We still have war work, of course. Bandages to roll, boxes to pack and soldiers to write to. I am glad I don’t have to write to strangers the way some girls do. I write to Jack. We also go out collecting bits of scrap metal for the war effort. We also weed the stupid garden. Everyone was too busy while we were gone so the plants are not all that healthy. The watermelon vines I planted are growing well though. It will be lovely to eat something so sweet and not have to stint.
Being at Aunt Martha’s was a happy time in some ways. We went on walks in the woods most every day. Because Grandmother and Aunt Martha live close to the edge of town, we could walk down by the river or out to the ridge. I know there are birds and stars and trees and everything in Uxbridge but they seem closer and more our own private blessings at the farm. The moon is bigger and the stars are brighter and closer there without so many buildings close by. My room at Aunt Martha’s had a high casement window and, when I lay in bed, one star shone in at me particularly brightly. I felt as though it knew I was there and I could talk to it about Hugo. It helped, somehow, that he must have seen it shining too, since he was always a stargazer. He taught me how to see the Big Dipper and Orion with his belt and Vega and Cassiopeia and so many more. The others weren’t interested, so it was special between Hugo and me. When I was at Aunt Martha’s, I taught Charlie and Susannah to find them and, when Belle can stay up late enough, I will teach her too.
I kept thinking that Hugo would never again see violets in the grass or the kingfisher down by the pond at Aunt Martha’s or the sun on Belle’s hair when it is just washed and looks like spun gold. Then, today, I made up my mind that it is up to me to see them all and enjoy them for him. I will try anyway. And, whenever I see something special, I will not only see it for Hugo, but remember him while I look. He would want me to be happy remembering him because we were always so happy when we were together.
Oh, that is fancy talk, but I want to feel his arms hug me and hear his laughing voice say, “Hello, Monkeyshines!” I thought, at first, that I could not bear it, but you do not get to stop bearing it if you keep living. So I’ll turn it around and try to make it into something good.
Wednesday, July 18
Dear Reader, another terrible battle in which many Allied soldiers died. We don’t know much about it yet except it is happening at Passchendaele.
I really thought the War would be over by this time, especially now the “Yanks are in it,” as the song says. “Over there, over there …”
Thursday, July 19
Dear Reader, I got another letter from Jack and it is astonishing. He and Rufus both love Rosemary. Jack finally told Rufus that he wanted to ask her to marry him, and Rufus said he thought as much, but he wanted to ask her himself. So — and this is the amazing part — they tossed a coin to see who would propose first. Jack won the toss. But Rosemary said she did not love him like that. She felt like a sister to him.
The next weekend they had leave, Rufus asked Rosemary to marry him and she said yes. They are not supposed to marry while they are at war, or something like that — I don’t understand why not — so they must wait. And Jack will be their best man.
He says he has to talk to someone about it or he might burst, and he is sorry if I don’t want to hear all his news. He would have told Hugo, but Hugo is gone and he thinks Verity would not understand. I think he might be right.
I wrote back and told him I was honoured to be confided in and I thought Rosemary was crazy to like Rufus better. Rufus is nice but Jack is the prime article.
I do feel sorry for him. Rosemary is a nursing sister in a convalescent hospital near their aerodrome. She worked there before the War when it was a children’s convalescent hospital and she stayed on. She is a civilian though, not an army nurse. For some reason, this makes things better for Rufus. Jack did not say why. Maybe she can leave the hospital without having to get permission from an officer. That is probably it.
Saturday, July 21
Jack sent me a picture, but Rosemary is standing between him and Rufus and is too small to show up clearly. They are in uniform and she has on her nurse’s uniform with a strange, high cap.
“Hugo would understand how I feel,” Jack said.
It is true. My brother Hugo was the most understanding person I have ever known. But the strange thing is that I believe I understand too. I have not been in a battle, but I have sat with Richard Webb. I didn’t write about it but he and I have become friends in the past few days.
It was all because of talking about the trenches. He was sitting in their garden after dark, crying. I could hear him and he was going on about the black mud.
I went over because nobody else was paying attention. He had a letter from a friend at the Front. It told terrible things. So many are dying.
I cried too and now he and I are friends but I have not told anyone. They might make fun of us or of him. And Mother and Father might worry. They do worry about unnecessary things.
Jack and Rufus have been flying night after night. They are too busy and tired to write much. That is what he tells Mother and Father. I keep going to the post office to pick up the mail so they won’t know when I hear from him and they do not.
“He is so busy,” Mother says, sighing.
Too busy with Rosemary, I think, but I keep my mouth shut about that.
Mother looks happier. She does not laugh though, even when Charlie is cutting up a lark.
They clearly were comforted by the letter that came yesterday.
Tuesday, July 24
Isaac killed a baby rabbit this afternoon. I don’t know if Belle will ever forgive him. He did not tear it apart, just shook it by the neck. It looked exactly like Peter Rabbit in our Beatrix Potter books. Isaac has killed a few rats and even Belle thought that was fine. Her face is swollen from weeping and every time she looks at the poor dog she says, “Murderer!” He hangs his head. I wonder if he will remember next time a little rabbit ventures into the vegetable garden.
Tuesday, July 31
They go on and on fighting at the Front. It sounds dreadful. Richard has nightmares. I told him about my dream after Hugo died. He just looked at me.
“It is bad,” he said, “but worst of all are the ones which cannot be told and which come back again and again.”
He shuddered and sweat came out on his face. I did not ask any questions. It might help him to talk but it would not help me to listen.
I did ask how long a battle could last.
“Weeks,” he said in a dead cold voice that frightened me. When I looked at him, he seemed not to know me. I was so nervous, all at once, I jumped up and ran home.
August 1917
Wednesday, August 1
Cornelia came running
to our house this morning. Richard has had another nerve storm. He had to be hospitalized in the night. His father could not quiet him this time. I am such a coward. I was so glad she did not tell us about any of it until it was over. I am not much of a friend. Poor Richard.
I am sure it was hearing from his friend that upset him so.
Friday, August 3
Richard is going to be staying at a special hospital in Cobourg for some treatment. He frightens me sometimes, even though we are friends. Last time I looked into his eyes, it was as though he had gone away from himself and left only a husk behind. Some kids say their parents say “shell shock” just means you are a coward and lost your nerve, and that it is put on to get out of going back to the trenches. They have never looked into Richard’s eyes or watched him when he breaks down.
The Webbs have invited me to go with them to their summer place in Muskoka for two weeks, to be company for Cornelia. The little ones thought I was the luckiest girl alive, but I do not want to go. Dr. Webb is always criticizing.
I thought I would have to go, and I know they are nice to ask me. I said I had to ask permission, but I know I will get it.
I told Mother last night just before I went up to bed. This morning she gave me a long look when we were by ourselves. She said she thought it would be kind of me to accept, for Cornelia’s sake, but she could understand my reluctance. “Would you be happy to go for a weekend if you did not have to stay longer?” she asked.
I nodded. I was so relieved she did not ask me to explain. She said she would tell them she could only spare me for the weekend.
But I agreed, in the end, to go for a week. Cornelia cried and I gave in. I feel homesick already and I have not left yet. I don’t like being away from home right now.
Cornelia is as happy as a baby with a feather duster. Have you ever seen a baby playing with feathers, dear Reader? Belle used to lie absolutely entranced with Mother’s.
Windermere House, Muskoka
Tuesday, August 7
We are here at a fancy summer hotel. We came up on the train and were met at the station. The Webbs brought mountains of luggage. Some families come for the entire summer and a boat takes them to their cottages. Vegetables come by boat and newspapers and laundry and almost anything else you can imagine. People play tennis and croquet. We have been out for a ride on Lake Rosseau on the steamer. Tomorrow we are going to visit friends of the Webbs’ in Port Carling and I will see the locks. I was the soul of politeness, dear Reader, and did not tell them I don’t care about such things. Maybe it will be fascinating.
But I did find some old books here in the “library,” which is a dim room with big chairs. Some of the books are new but lots have been left by previous guests. I just finished Prudence of the Parsonage. It is a bit goody-goody. Prudence won’t let any boy kiss her because she is saving her first for her husband. It sounds nice but not very real.
Life at Windermere is very posh. You have to watch your manners. We dress up for supper as though it is Sunday. Nobody talks about the War, but I think that is only because everyone knows about Richard. I’m glad they don’t know about Hugo, although I am afraid Mrs. Webb will confide in them. One lady has patted me already, as though I am her puppy dog.
One of Dr. Webb’s friends took us for a drive. I like going for car rides except for having to stop to change the tires. I should warn Aunt Martha about what a nuisance this is. But, on the other hand, Blueboy leaves steaming droppings on the road behind.
Thursday, August 9
I should be longing to stay here but I am longing to go home instead. Tomorrow we are taking the train to Algonquin Park. Each day that passes I check off on my secret calendar.
Sunday, August 12
We went to a little church in Windermere today. I felt strange being at church without one of my family. Some of the summer visitors, especially the men, had trouble singing the hymns, even Holy, Holy, Holy. We sang All Things Bright and Beautiful and it seemed to be written about Muskoka, even though there are no purple-headed mountains here. There are huge rocks that give you a strong feeling of God though.
True is trying to teach me to play tennis. I hope I do learn because I could play with Jack when he comes home. He is a very good tennis player. Verity plays but she is too timid. I think True is bored too. Why didn’t she ask Verity to come? I told her she should have and she smiled and said, “Your sister has other plans.”
What on earth did she mean by that?
Monday, August 13
We went to Canoe Lake. I saw bears, raccoons, deer (one was a doe with a fawn), porcupines and a beaver swimming. We also saw lots of birds. A tiny deer ate right out of my hand, dear Reader. It was so wonderful. And we went for a canoe ride. I learned to paddle bow while kneeling on the dock, and then Dr. Webb took me out with him. Cornelia would not go, which was good. She gets too flustered. She could have tipped us over in one of her panics. I liked Dr. Webb when we were out on the lake. It was so tranquil that all my fear of him just dropped away. I wish, dear Reader, that you had been with us. He even began to sing while we paddled. He sang “The Skye Boat Song” and “The Road to the Isles.”
Thursday, August 16
Home again, home again, jiggety jig.
We are home in Uxbridge at last.
Saturday, August 18
When we arrived home on Thursday I found I had three letters from Jack waiting for me. Mother handed them to me with a curious look. “I didn’t know you had become Jack’s confidante,” she said.
She wanted to read the letters, but I asked if they had not heard from him too. They had. So I smiled and said he told me about the girls he was meeting in England.
She asked if I thought he was serious about any one of them.
“He likes Rufus’s girl best,” I said. I kept my voice light and she looked relieved. I did not say he only wrote to me so he would have somebody to talk to about Rosemary. But it is true. He goes on and on telling me how funny she is and how kind and how much Rufus loves her.
They might be married by now. Rufus asked his commanding officer for leave and he would not grant it to him. He disapproves of wartime marriages. He says that worrying about a wife interferes with a pilot’s concentration. But Rufus is getting a special license, and another pilot, who is a minister in civilian life, will perform the ceremony. Jack says that if Rufus does not get permission, they will marry anyway and then do it with permission after the war is over.
Jack was still going to be the best man. He wrote the letter back in early July. Letters take an age sometimes and then I was away when it arrived. Rufus had a leave coming up and they were planning to do it then. It is a dead secret. Rufus would be in big trouble if the news got out that they had married without leave.
In the third letter Jack said he had promised he would take care of Rosemary if anything should happen to Rufus. But nothing will, he said.
Reading the words made me shiver, though. He hardly mentions the flying they do or the dangers they face. But everyone knows how dangerous it is.
Tuesday, August 21
Here is a monumental news flash, dear Reader. Verity told me and the infants last night that she is not going to go to Normal School and train to be a teacher after all. She is going to be a nurse. She applied to the Sick Children’s Hospital as soon as she turned eighteen. Mother and Father were worried, at first, that the work might be too hard for her. She said she was not going to the Crimea and that conditions had changed since Florence Nightingale’s day.
Her Red Cross work persuaded her, and nursing Belle through her bilious attacks and fever. She was so calm and comforting and Belle clings to her. Hearing the veterans talk too was part of it.
September 1917
Saturday, September 1
Verity has packed her things and moved out. Our bed feels enormous and, last night, how I wished I still had my penny whistle! Not to hear Verity breathing close to me is so eerie.
Monday, September 3
I
neglected you, dear Reader, because I wrote to Jack and went to church and Sunday school and read a wonderful book called The Harvester. David Langston is the man I want to marry except, of course, Gene Stratton-Porter married him off to Ruth James. He practically glows with health and goodness and I love his dog and his cabin. I have put it on the shelf where I keep Read Again Soon books.
Jack has never said if R. and R.’s wedding took place. Maybe he is afraid someone would see the letter, but I keep them hidden away in a very safe place.
I have started high school and am in the First Form. It is different. There are so many more students and the noise they make is startling. I think I will get to like it. But I do feel shy. We will be doing some Shakespeare. That’s exciting.
Wednesday, September 5
I got another letter from Jack. It is utterly different from the earlier ones. He says nothing about a wedding. I will copy out a bit of it but not all.
Eliza, sometimes I do get frightened. Yesterday our section got caught in a heavy fog and only three of us came safely home. One went down and we have no idea what happened to him — the fog was so thick. The fighting was heavy and we lost sight of him. We joke around and pretend we are invincible, but under the acting we are all afraid that next time we’ll be the ones missing.
I think they may be transferring Rufus and myself into a program to train new pilots. We pretend it is a bore, but the relief is enormous. I am not a born fighter like Billy Bishop or the Red Baron. That sort seems most alive when they are airborne. This is not the case with Rufus or myself.
I should not go on like this, but we do go to visit some of our old friends who are now in the hospital where Rosemary nurses. I cannot tell you of them. I must stop this. It is not fair of me to talk this way to you when you are only twelve.
At that point, he signs off. But last night I could not sleep for worrying about him.
Thursday, September 13
Everyone in town is so excited to have some good news. The 116th made a raid near Coulott, in the Lens district, and they did so well that General Currie even mentioned them.
