by Kit Pearson
Praise for Kit Pearson
“Kit Pearson is a great talent in Canadian children’s literature.”
—The Guardian (Charlottetown)
“One of Canada’s best junior fiction writers.”
—The StarPhoenix (Saskatoon)
“Pearson is a strong writer whose work puts to shame most of the books that kids spend so much time reading these days.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“Kit Pearson gives young readers a strong testament of the interlocking nature and power of reading, writing and living.”
—The Vancouver Sun
“Another magical tale from the master.”
—Toronto Star
“Dazzle. It’s not the right word for what Kit Pearson manages to do … but it’s close. Closer would be a word that catches the irregular glint of light reflected on water, street lights suspended in fog, an opalescent fracturing of time and genre to create something with its own unique glow.”
—Edmonton Journal
“Through the vivid observation of two summers, Pearson weaves a summer out of time and weaves as well a spell over her readers.”
—The Globe and Mail
“The very best in fiction for young adults. Kit Pearson does herself proud.”
—The Windsor Star
“Kit Pearson’s careful and exact research brings the period vividly before us.”
—The London Free Press
“The woman is a brilliant writer.”
—Kingston This Week
“Pearson superbly and gently captures the welter of emotions that beset a young teen who is experiencing the onset of adolescence and having to cope with its physical and emotional demands.”
—CM
“This is a writer at the top of her craft.”
—Quill & Quire
“Pearson’s real strength … lies in her ability to convey the texture of a specific time and place…. So vividly and lovingly evoked that it is almost possible to smell the pine trees.”
—Publishers Weekly
PUFFIN CANADA
LOOKING AT THE MOON
KIT PEARSON was born in Edmonton and grew up there and in Vancouver. Her previous seven novels (six of which have been published by Penguin) have been published in Canada, in English and French, and in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, the Netherlands, Germany, Great Britain, China, and Korea. She has received fourteen awards for her writing, including the Vicky Metcalf Award for her body of work. She presently lives in Victoria.
Visit her website: www.kitpearson.com.
Also by Kit Pearson
The Daring Game
A Handful of Time
The Sky Is Falling
The Lights Go On Again
Awake and Dreaming
This Land: An Anthology of Canadian Stories for Young Readers
(as editor)
Whispers of War:
The War of 1812 Diary of Susanna Merritt
A Perfect Gentle Knight
Looking at the Moon
GUESTS OF WAR BOOK TWO
KIT PEARSON
PUFFIN CANADA
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1991
Published in Puffin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1993
Published in this edition, 2007
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)
Copyright © Kathleen Pearson, 1991
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305635-5
ISBN-10: 0-14-305635-2
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca
Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 477 or 474
For Betty Anne and Ron
Sorting Out the Drummonds
I whispered, “I am too young,”
And then, “I am old enough”;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
W.B. YEATS
1
Return to Gairloch
I look so ugly!
Norah peered over her brother’s head at the photograph, while Aunt Mary held open the Toronto newspaper and read aloud from the “Personal Notes” for August 2, 1943:
Mrs. Wm. Ogilvie, her daughter Miss Mary Ogilvie, and their young war guests, Norah and Gavin Stoakes, have just returned from a trip to Vancouver. They will be spending the month of August at “Gairloch,” their summer home in Muskoka.
In the picture above the caption Aunt Florence sat stiffly on the chesterfield, looking as majestic as usual. Gavin was perched on its right arm and Aunt Mary smiled timidly on the far left. Between the two women scowled Norah, her face all nose, and her arms and legs as skinny as toothpicks.
“What does ‘Wim’ mean?” asked Gavin.
Aunt Florence laughed. “William, pet. It’s an abbreviation.” She took the paper from her daughter to examine it more closely. “Must you always frown, Norah? At least your new dress looks presentable. We’ll buy two copies so we can send one to your parents. Won’t that be nice?”
Norah shrugged. She ran out of Ford’s Bay Store, where they had picked up the newspaper while they waited for the launch. Standing
on the dock, she hooded her eyes with both hands and gazed hungrily out at the lake.
At last they’d arrived! The hot, hundred-mile drive from Toronto had seemed endless. Norah had smouldered with frustration while they wasted a whole hour in Orillia, having lunch with friends of the family. During the meal she’d made so many hints about the time that Aunt Florence had marched her out to the car and made her wait there without dessert.
After Orillia Gavin had slept, but Norah had squirmed in the back seat, while Aunt Florence nattered to her daughter about their friends’ connections. “Let’s see now … Alma Bartlett married Harry Stone … wasn’t he the brother of William Stone?” For all of July, during their trip to British Columbia, Norah had been subjected to the same boring gossip. Who cares? she wanted to scream.
But now she watched the dancing waves and sniffed in the balsamy smell that was always her first sensation of being back in Muskoka. A breeze lifted her sticky hair. She knelt on the dock and dipped her hands in the clear water. She splashed it into her face, then took a drink. All summer she had been waiting to feel and taste the lake again.
And in a very short while she would be at Gairloch itself! She hadn’t been there since last October; now that there was gas rationing, and you couldn’t buy new tires, they no longer came up in May. Norah still hadn’t forgiven Aunt Florence for cheating her out of a whole month on the island. And a month spent almost entirely in Aunt Florence’s company had been too much to bear.
Norah was used to her guardian after living with her for almost three years. After a rough beginning they had reached a sort of truce. But lately Aunt Florence’s fussiness had driven her wild. Kind Aunt Mary understood that Norah was growing up, but Aunt Florence still treated her like a child.
“I’m thirteen!” she had protested, when Aunt Florence had brought home the “presentable” dress before their journey—impossibly babyish, with puffed sleeves and a sash. “I’m a teen-ager now—why can’t I pick my own clothes?”
“A teen-ager!” Aunt Florence had sniffed. “I don’t hold with these newfangled notions. There’s no such thing as a teen-ager. In our family you are a child until you leave home and then you’re an adult. I don’t want to hear that word again.”
And all Norah could respond was “Yes, Aunt Florence,” as sulkily as she dared. Whenever she tried to explain her side of things, Aunt Florence just said “Sauce!” and closed the conversation. Norah remembered having loud, satisfying arguments with her mother. But her mother was in England and Norah hadn’t seen her since she and Gavin had been sent to Canada to be safe from the war. With Aunt Florence she was supposed to behave like a polite guest and keep her mouth shut.
At last the launch curved around the headland, and Norah saw her “cousins” Janet and Flo in it, waving. She shouted and waved back and jumped away her car stiffness. Now she had five whole weeks of freedom ahead of her, when she could have as little as possible to do with bossy adults. She glanced down at the comfortable shorts she was only allowed to wear up north. Maybe she didn’t really want to be a teen-ager, not yet …
“Norah, Norah!” Janet was leaning over the bow screaming her name. The spray flew into her mouth, making her choke. Flo pulled her back and waved.
All summer Aunt Florence had nagged at Norah to smile more often. Now she grinned so hugely her cheeks felt as if they were cracking. There had been “cousins” in Vancouver, but they were all boys and not very friendly. Flo and Janet were like real cousins. Sometimes Flo seemed distant—she was seventeen—but Janet was only a year older than Norah.
As soon as the launch putted up beside the dock, Janet leaped out and grabbed Norah, whirling her around. “Oh, Norah, you’ve finally come! It’s been so boring without you!”
“Hi, kiddo,” smiled Flo, tying up the boat efficiently. “Thank goodness you’re here—now I can get this pesky sister out of my way.”
“Your hair’s longer!” cried Janet. “I like it. Do you like mine? I put it in pincurls now.” Janet’s hair was a blonde fuzz that emphasized her fat cheeks. She hugged Norah again, then controlled her excitement as the aunts and Gavin, loaded down with bags of groceries, came out of the store.
“Hello Janet, hello Florence.” The cousins were kissed and exclaimed over. Gavin beamed up at everyone, his eyes the same bright blue as the water.
“You might have helped us carry these, Norah,” said Aunt Florence. Norah ignored her as they all found places in the long boat. She ran her hands over its mahogany sides and leather seats. The launch was called Florence—not after Aunt Florence but after her mother. But Norah thought it suited her guardian to have the same name as the luxurious boat, whose luminous wood, thick glass windscreen and shiny brass all glittered with importance.
She watched carefully as Flo turned the key to start the ignition. Only the older teen-agers were allowed to drive the Florence, but you could run the smaller launch by yourself when you turned thirteen. She hoped the grown-ups would remember that before she had to remind them.
“Isn’t it great to be back?” whispered Gavin. He leaned against Norah and the two of them threw their faces back to drink in the spray, keeping watch for their first glimpse of the island.
ALL OF THE DRUMMOND CLAN were on the dock to greet them. Aunt Florence stepped out regally and accepted the homage of her sisters, brother, in-laws, nieces and nephews as if she were their ruling monarch—which, being the eldest, she was. Norah barely noticed which of the crowd of grown-ups was kissing her. She was too busy taking in the white dock, the grey boathouse with its fancy railing and, best of all, the circular cottage waiting above.
“Bosley! Look, Norah, he remembers me! Wave, Boz!” Uncle Reg’s black-and-white springer spaniel had bounded onto the dock and leapt at Gavin. Then he lifted one of his paws in greeting while everyone laughed.
Norah kicked off her shoes, wriggled through the excited group and ran up to the cottage. The stone steps were cool and rough under her tender feet. She dashed into the kitchen.
“Hanny! We’re back!”
Hanny, Aunt Florence’s cook in the city, turned around from the stove and opened her arms. Norah ran into them and their noses collided. They both laughed.
“Norah, what a treat to see you again! Did you have a grand trip? I got all your postcards, and Gavin’s too—where is he?”
“Down at the dock, still being kissed,” grinned Norah. She circled the spacious kitchen, grabbed a cookie off a plate and plopped herself on top of the old pine table, munching noisily.
“Not before dinner and no sitting on my clean table,” said Hanny automatically, but her lined face still smiled. “Oh my, I’ve missed you all this month—even Mrs. O! The family seems rudderless without her here.”
“How is Mr. Hancock?” asked Norah politely. Hanny’s husband was retired, but he always came up with her in the summers to help out.
“Having a nice, lazy time as usual. He gads about fetching mail or taking your uncles fishing, while I slave away in a hot kitchen. Though I must say your aunts are very helpful.” Hanny pushed her untidy hair under its net and turned back to the stove. “Now, Norah, it’s lovely to see you but we’ll have to talk later. You’re all eating together this evening—all twenty of you!—and I’m not nearly ready. You’d better skedaddle—unless you’d like to peel some carrots.”
Norah left quickly in case Hanny meant it. Before the family came in she made a swift inspection of the rest of the cottage: up the stairs and down the slippery hall, peeking into each of the huge bedrooms, then through the sunny dining room into the living room.
Nothing had changed; nothing ever did. Old photographs dotted the panelled walls. Cups from regattas, faded rugs and comfortable wicker furniture filled the dim space. A faint smell of wood smoke came from the massive stone fireplace. In an alcove beside it was the same wooden puzzle that had been there for years, its pieces scattered on a small table. Above it was Aunt Florence’s mother’s collection of china cats, and the knot board where all t
he children, including Norah, had learned to tie knots.
Norah ended her tour on the verandah, her favourite part of the cottage. She ran all around its wide circumference, then leaned against one of its thick cedar posts and watched the clan parade up the steps—as if she, not Aunt Florence, were the ruler of Gairloch.
Surely, the black cloud of angry misery that had hung over her almost constantly since she had turned thirteen would now dissolve.
2
The Cousins
T he long evening meal was over, the younger children had gone to bed, and the two generations of aunts and uncles, whom Flo had long ago christened “the Elders,” were relaxing in the living room.
Norah sat on the rug opposite Janet, her calm mood already vanished. She was trying to concentrate on a game of slapjack, but inside she seethed at what Aunt Mar, her least favourite Elder, had just said to her in the kitchen.
“Look how you’ve grown, Norah! You’d better ask Aunt Florence to buy you a brassiere before school starts.”
How dare she make personal remarks like that! At least the two of them had been alone, bringing out the dessert plates.
Norah tugged angrily at the skirt Aunt Florence had made her change into. The Elders changed for dinner every night, but the children only had to when they had what the younger cousins called a Big Dinner together.
It wasn’t dark yet and Norah hadn’t even had time to explore. She kept glancing out at the beckoning evening. Finally she couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer.
“I’m going for a walk,” she whispered to Janet. She slipped out of the room and ran down to the boathouse to change. Comfortable again in slacks, an old shirt and bare feet, Norah strode along the shoreline path that circled the island. A chipmunk skittered out of her way and soft pine needles crunched under her feet.
Soon she reached the tiny log cabin that was the children’s playhouse. No one seemed to have used it since she and Janet, with Bob and Alec—cousins on the Ogilvie side—had called themselves the Hornets and pretended the playhouse was a gangsters’ hideaway. But this summer Bob and Alec hadn’t come.
