by Jean Little
“If she got a place, she was going to write to her family. She didn’t want to beg from them after they had cast her off.”
By now, we had both stopped working. She was staring at Mother’s long basting spoon and trying not to cry, I think. She had been angry, but the anger sputtered out like the flame in a candle stub. It confused me. Yet I thought about it later, and I guess you can’t keep your anger burning hot for years, not unless something more happens to keep it going.
That sounds like something a writer would think. Does that maybe mean I am a writer?
“That is terrible, Sparrow,” I said softly, scrubbing away the tears in my own eyes and getting soot into them instead.
“I saw her once more,” she whispered. “My mother. She came and looked through the bars of the Barnardo’s gate just on the chance she might catch sight of us, I suppose. I told one of the women who worked there and she said it was only my imagination. If I could have found Dr. Barnardo, I’m sure he would have let me see her. But that woman gave me some errand to do and went out. We were sent to Canada three weeks later.”
At that moment, Moses charged into the kitchen with Snortle right behind. I sprang to separate them before Moses turned on my puppy and gave him a swipe across his tender nose. When I sat down again, the time for talking together had passed. Marianna went off to shine the knockers. And I scooted up here to put it all down in my diary before I forget. As if I ever could!
Bedtime
Ten minutes after I finished writing and went downstairs again, Mother called in a frantic voice, “Victoria! Victoria! Run and get your father. Hurry!”
I dashed to his office and banged on the door.
“Father, Mother wants you to come quick!” I shrieked.
He was there in an instant. The two of us ran to the foot of the stairs. Mother was still leaning over the banister. She looked scared to death.
“Oh, Alastair, thank the Lord you are home,” she said. “Aunt Lib has fainted or something. We found her on the floor by her wardrobe. She’s moaning. But we can’t understand her. Come up here. Quick!”
Father was already going up the stairs two at a time. I ran after him. I knew I would be shooed away if I went into her room, so I hovered just outside the door, listening with both my ears.
“She’s had an apoplectic fit, a stroke,” Father said. “She can’t speak. See her mouth and the way her face is drawn down on the one side. Let’s see if she can squeeze my hand. Can you squeeze my fingers, Aunt Lib?”
I could hear a sound. It was more like a moan than a word, but I think she was trying to say, “No.” It was horrible, not like a person.
“How about this hand? Well, that’s better, isn’t it? Now you just rest a while. I know it is frightening. But Anna is right here beside you. Lilias, step outside with me for a moment.”
I ducked back out of sight behind the hall bookcase and held my breath. As you know, dear Diary, I am always getting in trouble for listening in. But I had to know.
As he came out of her room with Mother, my father spoke more quietly. He said Aunt Lib couldn’t be moved and was paralyzed down one side. She wouldn’t be able to talk or feed herself or walk. “I can get Graham over to take a look at her if Anna wishes, but there is no doubt what has happened.”
“Poor Auntie,” Mother said, her voice filled with tears.
“I think it is probably the beginning of the end,” Father told her. “After all, she’s eighty.”
Mother sighed and said Aunt Lib was going to hate being dependent on all of us. She also told him not to bother Dr. Graham because he seemed to call by daily anyway.
“We can’t cure her, but she will need careful nursing,” Father said. “You can’t do it, Lilias, in your condition. What about Anna?”
I peeked out and saw Cousin Anna herself coming to the door, her face shining with tears and her mouth wobbling. She looked AWFUL!
“She can’t,” Mother said. “She’s had no training and she isn’t strong.”
“You are not a trained nurse either, Lilias,” he began. “Surely Cousin Anna could —”
“No,” Cousin Anna whimpered like a baby. “It is all too much for my nerves.”
Father gave her a disgusted look. Really, Diary, that is what it was. Then he told Mother she must not do any lifting. He said Dr. Graham had cautioned him not to let her overdo, in her condition.
“He is under the mistaken conviction that you listen to me,” he finished.
When he was gone and Mother was downstairs again, I got up my courage and asked her what Father meant by “in your condition.”
“Victoria Josephine Cope, stop eavesdropping. One of these days, you’ll hear something that will make you a sorry girl,” was all she said. “Now get busy and clear away the breakfast dishes and then give Mary a hand changing the beds.”
When we were tucking in Tom’s bottom sheet, Marianna said, “Don’t you really know what the trouble is, Victoria?”
“No,” I said, not wanting to admit it, but desperate to find out the truth.
“Your mother is increasing,” she said, as if that explained everything.
I did not know what she was talking about. My face must have showed my ignorance.
“She’s going to have a baby, you ninny! I don’t see how you didn’t know. She’s worried because she’s lost two since you were born.”
I didn’t believe her. I still don’t. Babies don’t come that way. Yet she says she should know, because she was with her mother when Emily Rose was born. I was so shocked that I blurted out, “Why would Mother tell you and not me?”
“I could see she was in the family way,” Marianna said quietly, pretending she was smoothing every last wrinkle out of Tom’s bedsheet. “I asked her when she expected the baby to be born and was the doctor worried about her. She told me the baby should come in early September and the doctor was worried because of the two she had lost. But she miscarried much earlier those times. So they are hoping everything will go smoothly.”
I ran out of the room then. I didn’t want to talk about such a thing. But since then I keep staring at Mother, trying to see if Marianna is right. I see now that my mother is pale and weary. Her eyes look darker and there are shadows under them. Sort of blue. But even though her cheeks look hollow, her body is much thicker. Marianna says that is the baby. It is inside her. Why didn’t she tell me? Why don’t people talk about it to their own daughters?
I actually brought in two armsful of wood and a pail of water from the outside pump, without being asked. I didn’t even say, in a loud voice, “This isn’t my job!” Well, it would be a waste because the boys are out fishing and cannot hear me. But lugging wood and water are supposed to be boys’ work.
Mother smiled down at me and gave my pigtail a gentle tug.
“What a thoughtful daughter,” she said absent-mindedly.
Dr. Graham came then and, after he had seen both Mother and Aunt Lib, he arranged for a nurse to come. Her name is Mrs. Thirsk and nobody likes her, although nobody says so right out loud. I think she’s going to be extremely bossy. She smiles all the time, but her eyes stay cold as ice. I can tell that even Mother does not like her. She is always extra polite to people she cannot stand. Mrs. Thirsk wants to rule the roost. I actually wish Aunt Lib was well, because she would know just how to take Mrs. T. down a peg or two.
I cannot write another word. My hand is cramping. And I have a lot to think about. I keep going over and over the things Marianna told me. All that happened to her family makes me feel sick, and then there is Aunt Lib making those awful noises and Mother going to have a baby. It must feel so strange. So many shocks all at once leave me feeling muddled.
Sunday, June 13
I woke up this morning thinking this was a day like every day and then I remembered yesterday. I put my pillow over my head and tried to hide but I could not keep it up. Wish me luck, dear Diary.
Later
Sunday was Sunday, extra busy but not terribly int
eresting. Uncle Peter dropped by in the afternoon and asked for a bed for the night. Mother looked at him and then politely explained that we had no spare bed. And that Aunt Lib had had a stroke the day before and wouldn’t he be more comfortable at a hotel.
“Don’t worry about a bed, Lilias,” he said, smiling away. “Your sofa will suit me down to the ground.”
So he’s down there on the sofa and David is in a bedroll on the floor. It is amazing what people can get away with when they are adults. He took our “No” and turned it into “Yes” without batting an eye.
Monday, June 14
No inspiration about how to find Jasper struck me in the night. Before school, we were so busy not running into each other and getting everybody fed that Marianna and I could not say one word about anything important. I admit I was a little bit glad. I had no helpful, comforting words ready.
Uncle Peter left right after breakfast, which was one mercy. Uncle Peter eats enough for two. And, of course, being a man, he does not peel a potato or dry a dish.
At breakfast Mother was so tired she scolded him for helping himself to jam with his knife instead of using the jam spoon.
“But what’s the matter with my knife?” he asked.
“You get your buttery toast crumbs in the jam
and …” she began. Then she burst out crying and left the room in a rush.
“What’s the matter with her?” he asked the rest of us.
“She’s expecting a baby,” Father said. “It makes her touchy.”
I was furious at Uncle Peter. I picked up the jampot. “Look,” I said. “See the crumbs and butter.”
He couldn’t help seeing. He hadn’t even wiped his knife off on the edge of his plate. My own uncle is a boor.
“That’s enough, Victoria,” Father said. But I saw his eyes gleaming. He liked my standing up for Mother even if I was rude.
And now there is no doubt about it. Marianna was telling the incredible truth. I am going to be somebody’s big sister.
I wanted to show Mother that I knew all about everything. When she came back into the room I asked her if she knew when it would happen and she shrugged and said early in September, she thought. “God decides,” she told me.
At school, all we do now is practise for the end of term concert. Well, most of what we do is practise. Mr. Grigson will not let me recite “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” He says it is a poem meant to be said by men, and that Burt Snodgrass was going to say it. He told me not to worry.
“Here’s one for you, Victoria,” he said and handed me the book.
I could not believe it: “Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever …”
“I’d rather do ‘Little Boy Blue,’” I yelped.
“Well, choose something yourself, Miss. But remember, the concert is only two weeks away.”
I decided to find something, but tell him at the last moment so he could not change it. I wanted to shock him too. I think I have decided, but I won’t write it down in case somehow word gets to him.
Tom says he will not recite, but he agreed to play “God Save the Queen” on his harmonica. Mr. Grigson wanted him to say “If” again. It is a good poem, but Tom says he is tired of keeping his head while all about him others are losing theirs.
He’s not as clever as David, maybe, but he’s much funnier.
After school we went to the Chalmers Sunday School Picnic. It was terribly hot. I wished we didn’t have to wear so many clothes and keep our shoes on. But Nan Bryden and I won the girls’ three-legged race.
We practised ahead of time so it was easier for us. The boys who won weren’t a patch on us but, of course, they would not let us race against them.
Then I made Roberta go in the wheelbarrow race with me. When I was pushing her, the stupid wheelbarrow kept twisting sideways, and finally, we got laughing so hard that I could not hold it level and I tipped her out. I need not tell you, dear Diary, that Victoria Cope and Roberta Johns were not the winners.
Roberta did win the potato sack race. I might have won if I had not gotten the giggles. Giggles slow you down.
Marianna stayed home to help Mother look after Aunt Lib. I felt mean going off without her. She’s never been to a Sunday school picnic. I told Father and he gave me a funny look. “Next year we’ll see to it she goes along,” he said.
Tom ate so much ice cream I thought he might be sick. It WAS so good!
After the picnic was over Father actually took Cousin Anna to the Sacred Concert at Knox. She was sure nobody would come and she was worried about it being a flop. Over 600 people were there!
Mr. Kelly played “The Spanish Retreat” on his mandolin. I wish I had heard that. It’s one of my favourite songs.
Tuesday, June 15
Nothing to say. No peace anywhere. Told Mari-anna that we’ll concentrate on Jasper the minute school lets out. Surely, when we have no school, and when Aunt Lib gets better, there will be more time again. I get so sick of nothing feeling normal.
Wednesday, June 16
Still no good ideas about finding Jasper. Too tired to write.
Aunt Lib is still bedridden but she is doing her best to talk. It is hard to understand her and, when you don’t, she is furious.
I am learning a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson for the concert. It is so beautiful. It is a love poem. I told Mr. Grigson it was by Stevenson and let him think it was from A Child’s Garden of Verses. He just nodded his head as though I’d said, “I’m memorizing ‘Bed in Summer’ or ‘The Lamplighter.’” I like those poems a lot, but I am eleven and the other one is enchanting!
Thursday, June 17
Great-Aunt Lib is slowly getting better. I actually heard her try to yell at Cousin Anna this morning. I was the only one near enough to hear. I could see them, too, through the open door, although neither of them noticed me.
Cousin Anna looked down at her and said all at once, in this thin strange voice, “You are not really my mother. If you go on berating me, I am going to leave this house and you as soon as I am able.”
So maybe, any day, we will be rid of one cross we have to bear.
Friday, June 18
I told Mother what I heard. She says Cousin Anna won’t really go because she has no money. “We all like to eat occasionally,” she said.
I told Marianna when we were upstairs. I thought she’d laugh but she didn’t. She gave me one of those Barnardo Home Girl looks, priggish. “You’ve never gone hungry, Victoria,” was all she said.
I wanted to slap her. It isn’t my fault that she used to live in a workhouse. I wonder if she felt like Oliver Twist. I’d like to ask but I won’t.
Victoria Cope, I did NOT feel like Oliver Twist. I felt like Sparrow Wilson with her belly twisting with the pain of hunger. Gruel or one slice of bread does not fill you. When they made us sing “God Sees the Little Sparrow Fall” I whispered swear words. God didn’t love us Wilsons. If He did, my father would not have died and my mother would never have taken us to Barnardo’s. Then you would not be having to live with a PRIG.
Wednesday, June 23
I am writing this in on Wednesday, June 23. My diary has been missing since the last time I wrote. I searched and searched. Finally, tonight, Marianna dug it out from under her mattress and gave it back to me. She was shaking. She read what I wrote about her last week and it made her angry.
“Mad as a hornet,” was what she actually said. Then she stuck on, “a hornet looking for jam and finding vinegar.”
Anyway she wrote what she wanted to yell at me right onto the page before she stopped to think. Mad hornets are given to making foolish mistakes. Then, when she calmed down a bit and saw what she had done, she hid the book away. Once she even pretended to help me hunt for it.
But we have become such friends that she could not keep it up. So tonight she gave it back and confessed. I held you, dear Diary, and I did not look at her. I read what she had written. Then I burst out with, “I’m sorry” at the very same moment that she said
the same. We both laughed and cried. She says she will never write in you again. She did not say she would never read what I write again, but I know she won’t unless I let her.
We are not so different.
I missed keeping a diary so much that I wrote down a few things on loose pages during the days you were lost. I’ll copy them in as though I had written them into you, dear Diary. I did not write anything the first day but I began on Jubilee Sunday.
Jubilee Sunday, June 20
I will write this on a sheet of scrap paper because I cannot find my diary anywhere. I hope Mother does not find it before I do.
I can copy things in.
Today was Jubilee Sunday. We sang ALL the verses to “God Save the Queen.”
We had a guest preacher named Dr. Guthrie. Father liked what he said. Mother does not go to church any longer.
One Sunday, before she had her stroke, Aunt Lib said it wasn’t seemly for Mother to be “parading herself before the congregation in her condition.” Mother stiffened and Father said, “Don’t get her dander up, Auntie, or she’ll give birth in the pew.” Aunt Lib went purple, rose to her feet, grabbed Cousin Anna’s elbow and left the room in a huff.
Once she was out of earshot we burst out laughing in spite of ourselves. Even David joined in.
“I’ll bet Cousin Anna still thinks a stork brings them,” he snickered.
I did not tell him that lots of my schoolfriends believe in that stork. Nellie said they come in the doctor’s bag. The Phillpot twins insist an angel slips in and puts them in the mother’s arms. It isn’t their fault. People should tell children the truth.
I wouldn’t admit it to anybody but you, dear Diary, but I used to believe the doctor brought them. I’d heard Father say he was out “delivering a baby.” Well, the postman delivers parcels he brings in his bag. Why not doctors doing the same thing for babies?
