by Jean Little
But Marianna has straightened me out and promised never to let on to either of the boys.
After church, there was a parade, which Tom marched in.
Jubilee Day, June 22
Nothing happened yesterday that was worth writing down. We just seemed to work all day long. Today was Jubilee Day. Jubilee is such a glad word but all it means is that Queen Victoria has been our queen for sixty years. She is seventy-eight now. “Jubilant” must be part of the same word, but I can’t imagine somebody that old being jubilant. A jubilant person dances and sings and cheers. She is nearly as old as Aunt Lib, and Auntie certainly is not jubilant, not for a minute.
We went to watch the fireworks. They were grand. For once, Marianna got to come and I did not have to feel bad about her staying home.
“She’s Mary’s queen too,” Mother said, smiling at Marianna in a way that makes me jealous and pleased at the same time.
Just a week until the school concert. I am ready. Everyone will be surprised.
Wednesday, June 23
Now I have my diary back and can write things as they happen. What a relief! I hated writing on loose sheets and I just know they would have gotten lost if I hadn’t copied them out into you, dear Diary.
Celebrating the Jubilee is grand but it makes people do strange things too. One man was stupid enough to put a firecracker in his mouth and light it for a dare. He burned off his moustache and eyebrows and half of his hair. Father read this out loud from the paper to Aunt Lib. Then he grinned and said, “I’ll say it for you, Aunt Lib: There’s a fool born every minute.”
“How about, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’” Tom said. His eyes were sparkling.
Aunt Lib managed to sniff. But I could tell she was pleased. She didn’t laugh aloud, of course, but I think she did inside.
She still is far from her old self. She seems smaller and much more feeble. Not a bit fierce.
I am too busy practising my piece to write.
Friday, June 25
I came up to bed tonight and found Marianna asleep with my old doll in her arms. She looked so tired. I was sitting on my bed staring at her when she woke up and saw me. She burst out crying.
“I’m sorry, Victoria,” she cried out, jumping up to put the doll back on my shelf. “I didn’t hurt her. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have —”
“Stop it, Marianna. It’s fine,” I said. But I felt confused. I don’t play with Charlotte now I am eleven. And Marianna is twelve.
“I never had a proper doll,” she muttered. “My father carved me one out of a piece of wood when I was little, but it didn’t look human. Mother could not afford to buy me one. But I’ve wanted one just like yours ever since I can remember. I just meant to hold her for a minute. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You can hold her whenever you like,” I said. I had a lump in my throat and I couldn’t look straight at her. I wish she would hold Charlotte, but something tells me she never will again. I wonder what she would say if I offered to give her one of my other dolls for her own. I have four. Five if you count my old rag doll whose face is almost worn off.
I can’t. I wouldn’t mind, but she is twelve. I am sure she would say no and we would both be embarrassed.
Wednesday, June 30
Tonight was the school concert and I astonished them all right. So did Marianna. It was wonderful.
“Next to recite for us is Victoria Cope, if she is ready …?” Mr. Grigson said.
“I am ready,” I said and marched up with my knees knocking. I gulped once and then opened my mouth and went bang into it. The poem is called “Romance” and it is by Robert Louis Stevenson. I will copy it all out here in case I lose it or forget it in years to come.
Romance
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of birdsong at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me,
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will keep my kitchen and you shall keep your room
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
I wish life could really be like that when I grow up. Imagine having a husband like Robert Louis Stevenson, who would write you such lovely poems.
I kept glancing over at Father while I was reciting. I saw his grin. He wrote this poem out last year and gave it to Mother on Valentine’s Day. He certainly liked it more than “Little Boy Blue.” Mr. Grigson looked red in the face, as though he was afraid Father might think he had picked out the poem for me to learn. He would have felt better if he knew how much Father loves everything written by Robert Louis Stevenson. I knew he would be pleased.
When I sat back down, the surprises weren’t over.
Right near the end, Mr. Grigson called on Marianna. I was amazed because she had not said a word about taking part. Up she stood, looked straight at me, winked and started in on,
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever.
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long,
And you will make life, death, and the vast forever
One grand sweet song.
I almost fell off my chair laughing, but I smothered the whoops. She nearly broke down once, but she got to the end without tripping up. She knows how much I dislike that prissy poem.
A few of the people did not clap for her. David just sat there looking like a thundercloud. I wanted to kick him. But everyone else clapped twice as hard to make up for them.
July
Thursday, July 1
No more pencils. No more books.
No more Grigson’s dirty looks.
We danced out of school. Tom actually threw away his books and then had to climb into a thorn bush to get them back. He said it was worth the scratches to see them go flying. I noticed that he didn’t throw the ones he really likes. Father has told us, since we were babies, that books are our friends and we must cherish them the way we do people. He would not have cared about the arithmetic book, though.
We’re going with the Johns to Puslinch Lake. I’m happy right to my bare toes. I still have to wear shoes where strangers or Father’s patients can see, but that leaves lots of time to go barefoot.
David is leaving to help out on Grandpa Cope’s farm. I won’t miss him. I think Tom and Marianna will be pleased as well.
Aunt Lib heard me call David “you fool” once and she said I would burn in Hell for saying that. So let me just say that my brother is not a fool. He is merely an out-and-out dunce. A ninny. A blockhead.
Friday, July 2, Early afternoon
It happened! We heard something about Mrs. Jordan. We were all sitting there calmly when Cousin Anna announced she was going to visit an old school friend, Pansy Jordan.
I had a big bite of roly-poly pudding in my mouth and I choked, making a great splutter. Marianna dropped the bread knife and her face went white. Everyone jumped at the clatter, but I am the only one who saw how pale she looked. She bent to pick up the knife and when she stood up, her cheeks had some colour again, but not much. We stared at each other. Then I swung around and stared at Cousin Anna.
“You never told me you knew somebody called Pansy Jordan,” I blurted out.
Mother looked at me as though I had lost my wits.
“Why on earth would she, Victoria?” she said in a low, deadly voice. Then she asked Cousin Anna where her friend lived.
Cousin Anna said it was on a farm just south of Fergus, which is a fair distance. She said they were friends in Sunday school. Pansy’s husband, Mr. Jordan, died two or three years ago, and after a while she went to liv
e with her brother Carl.
“I’ve written asking if she would like a visit,” Cousin Anna said. “I should get an answer soon.”
“How nice,” Mother said, smiling at her.
Cousin Anna smiled back, but managed to look flustered at the same time. She kept talking in a high, excited voice that sounded like somebody else’s. “I never liked Carl, but I suppose he may have mellowed since we were children. I hope so. Pansy will be miserable if he hasn’t. He was a cruel boy. We did our best to keep out of his way.”
Her cheeks were red and her eyes sparkled. They really did. I had never heard her say so much all at once.
Aunt Lib has improved enough to be at the table again, propped up with pillows. She still can’t speak clearly, and Mrs. Thirsk still has to take care of her a lot of the time. Mostly she mutters and we catch a word or two and make up the rest. Mother or Cousin Anna feed her as though she were a baby.
Mrs. Thirsk prefers to eat upstairs. She comes down, loads her tray with the best of whatever we are having, and then sails off to gobble her food in peace.
After the first shock, I watched Aunt Lib’s face to see what she thought of this Pansy Jordan, but her expression was set in sour lines. She gave no sign of having heard Cousin Anna’s announcement. But she so hates us looking at her being fed like a baby that her face is locked against us.
I tried to think of a way to ask what Pansy’s brother’s last name was, but I could not come up with a good excuse. It would be a VERY odd question. Why should I care? Once again, I wanted to pour out the whole story to Mother the minute we were on our own, but I couldn’t without breaking my promise to Marianna.
That stupid promise!
Bedtime
I thought we were stumped. I should have known better.
Marianna Wilson herself managed to find out his name. She was so smart. Right after dinner she said she had an errand to run to the post office and could she mail Cousin Anna’s letter to her friend? It wouldn’t be any trouble.
Cousin Anna actually smiled a real smile at our Home Girl. I think it was the first time.
“How thoughtful!” she said. It took her a few minutes to get the letter ready and we were on tenterhooks until she handed the envelope over. It was addressed to Mrs. George Jordan, Care of Mr. Carl Stone, General Delivery, Fergus, Ontario.
We were so excited. Marianna went off with it before she had finished washing the dishes. I picked up a dishtowel so Mother would not notice.
Sparrow has fallen asleep now. She was helping make jam all day and she is worn out. But I cannot sleep. How on earth are we going to find Mrs. Jordan? And how can we be sure it is the right one? Pansy is the name of a flower, it is true, but I know so many ladies named after flowers. Mrs. Dalrymple is Violet and Peggy’s middle name is Rose and even Mother gets called Lily.
I’ll pray about it. Mother believes prayers have enormous power. I think God must be too busy worrying about life and death matters to pay attention to my troubles, but she says He can do both. I can’t understand how, but Marianna needs me to do something right away.
Saturday, July 3
Nothing new or even faintly interesting to tell. Too hot, too tired, too many chores. That is my story. When I think how I looked forward to my summer holidays! Instead of being allowed to rest after a hard year’s schooling, Mother keeps piling on the jobs that need doing. David probably has it easier on the farm! Some of them are jobs Mother has always done herself before. I have discovered how deeply I hate every sort of cleaning, from washing windows to scrubbing the pan after someone has cooked eggs in it.
Sunday, July 4
Church, church, church all day.
No answer yet from Mrs. Jordan, of course. But surely a letter will come tomorrow or Tuesday. Aunt Lib is trying to talk more, but she is no nicer. When Cousin Anna spoke of her friend, Aunt Lib FINALLY got out the two words, “No … grit.”
Did she mean Mrs. Jordan or Cousin Anna? Either way, it was mean. Then she started coughing and had to be CARRIED back to bed.
Marianna and I talk of nothing else but finding Jasper. Summer should mean more play time and it does. But you have to stay out of sight while playing or somebody will give you a task to do. I am so sick of being told that the Devil finds work for idle hands. I wanted to tell Mother that that meant SHE must be the Devil himself, since she is forever setting my idle hands to work. But I couldn’t. She looks so tired.
Oh, I so hope Mrs. Pansy Jordan writes back.
We had fresh strawberry and rhubarb pie for dessert. So good!
“I need a second piece,” Father said. “You haven’t lost your light touch with pastry, Lilias.”
“Thank you,” Mother said. “But you will have to compliment Mary. She made this pie.”
David was back home for the day. He looked at what was left of his piece as if he’d been poisoned. But he finished it and had another slice.
Wednesday, July 7
I know Mother wanted me to write in here every day, but I can’t. Now I am feeding the chickens and helping weed the garden. On Monday I made a big mistake and pulled some poison ivy up with my bare hand. How it got growing in that out-of-the-way corner nobody knows. But I got a rash and my hand was too swollen to write with until now. My fingers looked like pink sausages. Even today, it feels stiff and itchy.
Billy Grant actually had to do ALL the weeding. He was hardly doing any before. When I told Father, he just laughed and said Billy was too old for weeding. Tom is no good at it but I have decided he just needs educating. I will stand over him and say, “Weed … Weed … Flower … Weed …” It might work.
Marianna goes to the post office every day and there are always envelopes, but none for Cousin Anna.
I took Aunt Lib up a cup of tea tonight. She couldn’t hold it steady. I had to. She looks smaller somehow and not nearly so fierce. When you feed somebody by hand, it changes how you feel about them. It is as though you turn into their mother.
Friday, July 9
Cousin Anna got her letter at last and it was TERRIBLE. After all our waiting, Mrs. Pansy Jordan wrote back and said Cousin Anna must not come. She had tried speaking to her brother about it, but he told her she is needed to work on the place during the summer and can’t take time to be visiting friends.
He says I am useless but he won’t let me leave for even a few hours, she wrote. Then she actually said, We have a boy to help, but Carl thinks he’s worse than useless. He’s only eight years old and not big for his age. Before he came, he had never seen a cow up close, or split wood or taken an egg out from under a hen. He was terrified of all of them. Carl is too rough with him but when I try to interfere, things get worse. We are both afraid of my brother. I should never have come to live with him. I knew what he was like, after all, and people don’t change. Not for the better at any rate. Thank goodness he never married. His wife would have been wretched.
Then she stopped writing about Jasper, if it is Jasper, and asked if Cousin Anna ever went to the market, because they might snatch ten minutes time together there. She brings in fresh eggs, homemade bread and vegetables on most Saturday mornings.
The boy almost always drives me there in the wagon, she ended up. It gives us both a break. I try not to let Carl guess how much we look forward to it. I won’t be there this week, but I think next Saturday we will be coming in. If you come that Saturday, I will do my best to meet you. I can’t promise because Carl sometimes changes his plans at the last moment. But we might have a few minutes together.
I know the letter by heart because she left it on the table and Marianna stole it. We read it over and over and then sneaked it into Cousin Anna’s knitting basket. She’ll think she left it there. It is crammed with odds and ends of things she stores away. She wants to go next weekend.
Sunday, July 11
David came home again to do some errands for my grandparents and to go to church with us. He heard Cousin Anna worrying about going to the market in Fergus next Saturday. He actua
lly offered to drive her over there in the buggy if Father would give his permission. There’s no room for Marianna or me to go too, but we will at least find out if the boy is Jasper.
David is hoping to do it so smoothly that he will win Father’s permission to borrow the buggy to take his sweetheart for a ride that evening. We all know this. He’ll persuade Cousin Anna to tell Father how dependable he is.
We are trying to think of some way to send a note without telling why. If this does not work, we’ll have to think again. But it must work. We talked over asking David to tell Mrs. Jordan to deliver the note but, without saying it right out loud, neither Sparrow nor I trust David that far. He is still so unkind to Marianna, sniping at her, making nasty remarks about Home Children. I thought he’d change his tune by now but he hasn’t. One of his friends keeps needling him about “people who give house room to Barnardo brats,” and instead of being angry at him, David is ashamed of us.
I am ashamed of HIM. Imagine, Diary, having a brother who cares what that lisping noodle Nathan Cray thinks!
Anyway, we clearly can’t ask him to help us get a message to Jasper. We’ll have to think of something.
Can’t write more now. Snortle is sound asleep and his snoring is making me sleepy too.
Monday night, July 12
Too tired to write much but I was reading over what I wrote yesterday. I remember myself thinking once that Home Children must feel things differently. I was wrong. Why can’t David see?
Wednesday, July 14
