At recess on the first day, Denise sighs dramatically and says she has a crush on Mr. Ambrose. She is going to ask her mother to invite him for supper. After lunch, she raises her hand and asks if she might sit in the front row, so that she can be nearer … and then she pauses, every bit like a movie star. Will she dare say, “nearer to you”? That's pretty forward, even for Denise. It's what she means to say, and we all know it, but she changes it to “the blackboard, because I suffer from migraines.” Fainting spells and now migraines?
Mr. Ambrose says, “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Tetrault (he calls us by our last names). I shall send a note home to your parents and suggest they have your eyes checked. My wife's mother suffered from headaches, and wearing glasses cured them. For the present, you will all stay in your customary seats.”
Then he announces that we have the next half hour to memorize the names and dates of all our prime ministers since Confederation, for a test tomorrow. He hopes there will be no frivolous questions, as no one can afford to waste any time.
Denise tosses her head – she's not accustomed to being put in her place. I think it's going to be a good year, if I can only find time to do my homework! I rush over to Mrs. Ludlow at noon, gulping my sandwich, worried about leaving Eddie all day. Father had left the final decision about who was to take care of Eddie to me. Both Grace's mother and Sadie's mother offered to watch him, but I chose Mrs. Ludlow because he's used to her family and he loves the twins. Father told me not to worry about the money, that it had all been arranged.
Of course I know the baby will be fine, but he cried a little when I left this morning, so I want to make sure. Mrs. Ludlow says he stopped the moment I left, and told me to go off and enjoy being a student.
If I wasn't so tired, I would enjoy school, but by Friday, I'm worn out. We have to write a composition for Monday. Why do teachers always give out homework on the very first week? Our topic is the person whom we admire most. I'm going to write about my father – how he came to be apprenticed to Papa Joe, and how he can make something useful from things that other people discard.
I'm barely able to get through my three hours' work at the drugstore without letting Mr. Mercer see my yawns, and by Saturday morning my head is pounding. I'd stayed up too late, planning my composition, and there are a week's chores waiting for me. I'll never get everything done by Monday morning.
The empty pill bottles, which I've already washed and labeled with their customer's names, are lined up in a row, waiting for me to fill. Twice, I forget how many pills I've put in the bottle. Was it thirty or thirty-four? Now I have to count them all over again.
I make myself concentrate. What if I were to put in too few or too many? I can't help it – I've got so many different things pulling me in a hundred different directions: work and school and home and what to prepare for the next meal.
Mr. Horace's head appears round the door. “Miss Reed is waiting for her prescription, Millie. Is it ready?” Thankfully it is.
By the time I pick up Eddie at noon on Saturday, I've almost made up my mind: if I quit my job, I'll lose a dollar a month, and that is a lot of money. Grace will lose that much too, but I'd have seven hours a week more – to do my homework, to bake, to wash, to help Hamish with his homework, and to play with Eddie.
On Monday morning, I tell Grace at recess that I've decided to give my notice, and I thank her for her help. She says not to worry about her, and maybe she'll get taken on somewhere before Christmas.
After school, I wheel Eddie over to the drugstore. Mrs. Mercer is there and she compliments me on Eddie's healthy appearance. “What a wonderful little mother you are turning into,” she says.
I thank her politely, hating that phrase. I'm not a “little mother” – it's hard enough being a big sister!
Mr. Mercer comes over and says, “Well, Millicent, what may I help you with today?” He thinks I've come to buy something!
“Mr. Mercer (and this is really hard to say because I have loved being here), you were right, sir. I am finding it too difficult to look after things at home and go to school and work here. Thank you for giving me the opportunity, but I have to hand in my notice.” There, I've managed to say it … it's done.
I had written my words down, and have been practising them in my head all day. “I will be pleased to stay on until you find a replacement for me, sir.”
“Well, Millicent, I am sorry to lose you, but I do understand. Perhaps you would ask your friend Denise to come in and see me tomorrow? She has already dropped by a number of times to mention that she is still available.”
Has she? Well, I should have expected her not to give up so easily. This time I am not going to keep quiet. “Mr. Mercer, I didn't tell you before, but Denise and I have never been friends. I did not send her to see you, sir. Denise made that up.”
“Indeed? Well, that certainly puts a different complexion on things. Thank you for letting me know, Millie. Mr. Horace,” he calls, “be so good as to put a HELP WANTED sign in the window, please.” He shakes my hand. “I am sorry to lose you, but no doubt I shall have someone in your place by the end of the week.”
“Excuse me, sir, I do have a very reliable friend who was looking after Eddie for me while I worked here. Her name is Grace Ludlow.”
“I shall make a note of her name. Good-bye, Millie, don't forget to come and see us.” All I can think of is how much I am going to miss being here.
At supper time, Hamish reports that he saw a lineup outside Mercer's on his way home from school.
“I've quit working there,” I announce. “I'd rather spend after-school hours at home, Father.” I clear the dishes away, so he won't notice I'm almost in tears.
“I am sorry, Millie. I wish things were different. I know that the work meant a lot to you, but the boys will like having you home more, and so will I. Thank you.” Father's voice is so sympathetic, it makes me feel worse.
Next day, Grace tells me that Mr. Mercer offered her my old job, on a two-week trial basis. “Denise didn't even apply,” she said. “She and Francine passed us in the lineup, pushed their way through to the window, and read the notice. In a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, ‘I'm not going to line up with all the riffraff.’ I bet she's waiting for Mr. Mercer to ask her personally. I won't give him a chance to complain about me. I'm going to really work hard, and won't let you down.”
I'm happy for Grace. If I can't work there, then she's the one person I'd choose to replace me.
Tomorrow is September 10 – my thirteenth birthday. Evenings and early mornings are already getting chilly. I've been meaning to air the patchwork quilt Mother and I made for Eddie last spring. So, before I go to bed, I open the lid of the old trunk with Mother's name written in faded white letters across the top: Lillie Bridges, her name before she married Father. Mother used to keep the trunk in their room and used it for storing winter blankets. The day after we found Eddie, Father asked me if I'd like to have the trunk in my room. I've waited until now to open it.
Eddie's quilt lies right on the top. I lift it out, holding the quilt against my face for a moment. The lavender from the dried sprigs Mother always placed between each blanket puffs out from between the folds.
To make the quilt, we used scraps of red and blue and white diamond shapes, cut from remnants of old sheets, shirts, and blouses. Mother made a big white star for the center. Eddie loves bright colors. When he is older, I can tell him where all the patches came from. I'll say, “Look Eddie, this piece is from Mother's apron, and this one is made from the sleeve of Father's Sunday shirt….”
Breathing in the scent of lavender reminds me of Mother … how we talked and planned for the baby as we sewed. I sit back on my heels on the floor and think of the afternoon when Mother was sitting just the way I am now; of that awful day when Mrs. Bates read the tea leaves. A shiver goes down my back. I've tried hard to put the woman out of my mind, but every now and then, something like this brings everything back.
Fathe
r told us that the magistrate had ordered Mrs. Bates to a special hospital in Toronto. “Don't think about her anymore, Millie,” he said, and I do try not to.
Before I shut the lid of the trunk, I smooth the next blanket and there's a rustling between the folds. I pull out an envelope – my name is on the front and I recognize Mother's handwriting. I draw out a letter, and an old five-dollar bill falls onto my lap. Five whole dollars? I read:
July 1, 1935 (Mother must have written this the day before her death.)
Dear Millie:
Here I am, sitting up in bed, looking out at the branches of the apple tree, heavy with fruit. I'm thinking about all the jellies and jams and pies you and I will make in a week or so. Tomorrow Eddie will be three days old, and I shall be up and about once more.
Who knows when I will have a lovely lazy time like this again? I am going to use it to write you a birthday letter, now, while the baby is asleep and you are busy downstairs, taking care of everything.
I feel blessed to have a daughter like you, and grateful for all the extra chores you do so willingly. When I finish writing this, I mean to hide the letter in the trunk, to give to you on your thirteenth birthday. I can't wait to see your face when you receive your gift. This five-dollar bill is for you, to do with as you wish: to spend or save or even give away. Take it with my love.
There is a story attached to this money. You love stories, Millie, and you have had so little time lately to sit and read. When I was about your age, a year older perhaps, I was hired by a kind lady to take care of her baby daughter, and that five dollars back in 1909 was my very first month's wages. The first wages I had ever earned.
Somehow, I never found an occasion important enough to spend the money on, until now. Often I was tempted, but when I thought about it, it didn't seem urgent enough, or the right time. Your birthday is the right time….
On the day that we were shelling peas, you asked me something. I should have answered more truthfully. Somehow I kept putting off telling you, until now. You asked if I had lived in an orphanage and I said no. It's true the cottage in which I lived looked beautiful, but it was still an orphanage – never a real home.
Your grandmother, my mother Helen, was a maid in a big house. No one was allowed to know she had a little girl – I was her secret. She had to board me out and come to see me when she could. I never told Helen how cruel the woman was to the children in her care, but I lived for those outings with her. She showed me there is always something better waiting for us if we look for it, something to laugh and sing about. Once we danced in the street, can you imagine?
“Yes, I can Mother,” I tell her, as though she can hear me, and maybe she is listening. “I can see you looking up into Grandmother's face, and holding her hands.”
When I was twelve years old, I was one of Dr Barnado's orphans, a Home Child, sent to Canada. I was foolish to keep this a secret from you – it was nothing to be ashamed of, but people made us feel ashamed because we were poor and unwanted. I grew up dreading to hear the words “Home girl.”
Millie, my life has been a good and happy one, with Father and you and Hamish and our new baby, and long before that, with the kind family for whom I worked as a nursemaid.
My birthday wish is that you will be happy too. That is what Father and I wish with all our hearts.
From your loving mother
I sit on the floor, and rest my head against the trunk, reading my letter over and over again. It is almost as good as having a long talk with Mother, the way we used to.
When I go to bed, I put the letter under my pillow – words from Mother to me, words for me to keep forever. The scent of lavender fills my room, and I sense that Mother is near. She will always be a part of our family, sharing our lives, watching over us. I close my eyes and imagine I hear her humming.
The End
Copyright © 2007 by Irene N. Watts
Published in Canada by Tundra Books,
75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,
P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006940102
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced,
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system,
without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of
photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian
Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Watts, Irene N, 1931–
When the bough breaks / Irene N. Watts.
Companion vol. to Flower.
eISBN: 978-1-77049-026-0
I. Title.
PS8595.A873W44 2007 jC813′.54 C2006-906813-5
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada
through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP)
and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media
Development Corporation's Ontario Book Initiative.
We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the
Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.
v3.0
When the Bough Breaks Page 10
