Looking at the Moon

by Kit Pearson

  Four yellow-and-black striped masks hung on nails inside the door. Norah closed it quickly. It seemed much longer than a year ago that they had played that silly game.

  Beyond the playhouse was the babies’ beach. Norah rolled up her pant legs and paddled, her feet stirring up silt. The bay was so shallow that it looked brown, every ripple of sand showing through its crystal surface.

  Her next stop was the gazebo perched on a rocky point at the far end of the island. An empty cup and saucer had been abandoned on the bench inside. Norah knew she should take them back to the kitchen, but that would slow her down.

  She passed the windmill which pumped up water for the tank behind the cottage. Then she cut through the woods in the middle of the island, weaving through tree trunks and ferns until she reached a clearing. Here stood two extra cabins for overflowing family and guests. Behind them was Norah’s favourite place on the island, the high rocky promontory that overlooked it all. Her feet reached for the familiar footholds as she scrabbled up the rock to the level platform on top. There she collapsed, panting and sweaty.

  She ran her hands over the streaky pink rock and gazed down at the massed green foliage beneath her. Beyond it stretched the lake. Clumps of land—other islands and long fingers of mainland—broke up its flat expanse.

  Vast as it was, this lake was the smallest of three huge ones that were joined together by narrow ribbons of water. But their lake was the deepest, Norah thought with satisfaction, and the most beautiful. She never tired of watching its colour change from silver to blue to green. Now its surface reflected the pink-tinged sky. The slanting light picked out each rock, tree and wave.

  Norah let out a relieved breath—finally she was alone.

  Her first encounter with the Drummond clan each summer was always overwhelming. Ten adults and eight children were here this month and they were all related. Norah had heard the expression “blood is thicker than water”; Ogilvie and Drummond blood seemed thicker than most. Over the summers she had grown used to the family’s established rituals, jokes and conflicts. She knew as well as all the cousins that Aunt Bea was shrill and giddy because she resented Aunt Florence being the eldest, and that Uncle Reg played practical jokes on his two sisters whenever he had the chance.

  But although the family was always warm towards their two war guests, Norah often felt as though they belonged to an exclusive club she and Gavin could never join. Every once in a while the family shared something that excluded them. This evening, for example, they had all started talking about Andrew, an unknown cousin who was supposed to arrive tomorrow. Andrew’s funny expressions when he was four, the time he ran away and hid under the canoe when he was eight, the plays he made up … all through dinner they had discussed him.

  But Aunt Mar’s rude comment had been much worse than the chatter about Andrew. Norah knew she needed a brassiere; she just couldn’t bring herself to ask Aunt Florence for one. And anyway, shouldn’t Aunt Florence notice for herself and suggest it?

  It was difficult to believe that the two mounds on her chest, that had appeared almost overnight, really belonged to her. This last year she was sure her nose had grown as well. It seemed to fill up her whole face like a beak.

  Dad had a nose like that—but it didn’t matter on a man. Thinking of Mum and Dad produced the usual small ache, like prodding a sore spot. When she and Gavin finally went back to England, would her parents recognize this new person with a beaky nose and breasts like a woman’s?

  One day in the spring, as she was waiting nervously to attend her first mixed party, Norah had asked Aunt Florence if she was pretty. She knew Aunt Florence would tell her the truth; she didn’t believe in false flattery.

  “You are when you smile,” was the brisk reply.

  That meant she wasn’t pretty, for if she always had to smile to enhance her looks, she couldn’t be. It was also an infuriating way for Aunt Florence to get in some advice, instead of just answering the question.

  Now she scraped away lichen from the rock. Why wasn’t the magic of Gairloch making her troubles disappear, the way it usually did?

  Tired of her own thoughts, Norah slithered back down the rock. She would go and check on Gavin. All of the boys except the two youngest ones slept in half of the old servants’ quarters behind the cottage. The Hancocks slept in the other half. Norah poked her head into the large room that the family called the “Boys’ Dorm.” With Bob and Alec away, only three small boys, Peter, Ross and Gavin, occupied cots. All three were fast asleep.

  Norah went in and bent over Gavin. As usual he clutched “Creature,” his toy elephant, in his fist. She covered him up more closely. Even though the gentle little boy was everyone’s favourite, the family accepted that Norah was the one who was really responsible for him. She had never forgotten how she had neglected that responsibility when she’d first come to Canada. Now her love for Gavin was the most constant element in her life here.

  She heard laughter coming from the water’s edge; the others must have already gone to bed. Norah wished she could go straight down to the boathouse, where all the girls slept, but one of the family rituals was saying good-night.

  Aunt Anne and Uncle Gerald, who stayed in one of the cabins with their two youngest children, had already retired. The rest of the Elders were playing bridge.

  “I’m going to bed now,” Norah announced.

  “I was just going to call you,” said Aunt Florence. “What were you doing out there all by yourself? Janet was upset you left so abruptly.”

  Norah shrugged. On the first night back at Gairloch you were expected to kiss everyone. Dutifully she made her rounds. “Good-night Aunt Florence … Aunt Mary … Aunt Catherine … Aunt Bea … Aunt Dorothy … Uncle Barclay … Uncle Reg … Aunt Mar.” Whew! Eight kisses, some on papery cheeks or rough skin that needed a shave.

  She fled to the toilet, then down to the dock. The boathouse was built directly over the lake. On this side of the island the water was so deep that the boats could be driven right into their slips, like putting a car in the garage. Before she went up the stairs, Norah paused to admire the family’s fleet. Inside, the Florence bobbed beside the smaller launch—the Putt-Putt—and the heavy old rowboat. The sailboat was moored outside and the canoe was overturned against a wall.

  She looked for her mug and toothbrush on the shelf built under the window. It was in the same place it had been last Thanksgiving. Norah brushed her teeth vigorously and cleaned the brush in the lake. Ignoring the bar of soap beside the mug, she splashed her face and dried herself with the fresh towel waiting for her on her hook.

  She stood for a moment, listening to the haunting wail of a loon. A few stars had already appeared and the fat moon made a silver trail on the water. Norah drank in a gulp of cool night air, then climbed up the stairs to the “Girls’ Dorm.”

  The familiar space seemed to welcome her. Everything was the same: the messy clutter of clothes and bathing suits, the dark wooden walls, the nails to hang their things on and the faded gingham curtains they always left open.

  “Where have you been?” Clare asked her. “Moon-gazing? Maybe our Norah has been having romantic thoughts.”

  Norah pulled off her clothes and got into her pyjamas without answering. Clare was so impossible, no one took her seriously. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, plucking at her ukelele and yowling “You Are My Sunshine” out of tune.

  “Please stop, Clare,” begged Sally. “I’m trying to go to sleep.”

  Clare’s pretty, pouty face looked up. “Then go back to the cabin with your parents and little brothers,” she said rudely. “If you want to be out here with the big girls, you have to put up with us.” She began again, even louder.

  Abashed, Sally sank down into her pillow. She was only seven and in awe of her older cousins. But Flo reached over and snatched away Clare’s ukelele.

  “You’re too noisy,” she said calmly. Ignoring Clare’s protests, she blew out the lamp. “Get into bed, everyone, and keep quiet s
o Sally can go to sleep.”

  The five girls lay in bed for a few silent moments. The loon warbled again and something, a frog or a fish, splashed briefly. Waves lapped soothingly against the sides of the boathouse. Norah snuggled farther into her narrow but cosy bed, feeling as usual as if she were on a boat. She began to think of the treats that waited for her tomorrow … the first of a long string of days when there was nothing she had to do.

  Then, as usual, they all began talking again, as revived and wide-awake as if they had had hours of sleep. Only Sally dozed. The others sat up in bed, their faces white ovals in the moonlight.

  First Flo, Janet and Clare finished telling Norah everything she had missed in July: the Port Clarkson Regatta, the Ahmic steamship accident, and how Uncle Gerald had seen a bear swimming from one island to another.

  “Aunt Bea tried to organize us like Aunt Florence,” giggled Janet.

  “We had to recite poetry every night,” complained Clare. “It was terrible.”

  “I hate to admit it, but it’s a relief to have Aunt Florence back,” said Flo. “Now it’s your turn, Norah. Tell us all about your trip!”

  Norah began with the only good part—the train. They had slept in narrow bunks with straps to hold them in; the train rocked them to sleep every night like a noisy cradle. “The meals were wonderful, and really fancy, just like in a restaurant. There were white tablecloths and finger bowls and we had roast beef and trout and things like that.”

  She couldn’t find words to describe her astonishment at how huge Canada was; the train seemed to go on forever, unfolding mile after mile of empty country. She remembered her first awestruck glimpse of the Rockies, their sharp peaks outlined against a hard blue sky.

  Nor could she explain how being on the train had made her realize that, in a way that hadn’t been true when she had first come to this country, the war seemed to have finally touched Canada. Every day she and Gavin walked the length of the whole train, through crowded cars full of soldiers and solitary, worried-looking women who soothed crying children.

  She went on to describe Vancouver with its rounded mountains rising straight up from the sea; and the Ogilvie cousins whom the Drummonds had never met.

  “Vancouver was sort of like England,” said Norah. “But there was nothing to do there except visit a lot of boring relatives. Do you know they even had black-outs? After Pearl Harbor, because they’re so close to Japan.”

  Clare interrupted her. “Did you know that I have a boy friend, Norah? Now that I’m fifteen, I’m finally allowed to date. His name’s John and he’s planning to join the RCAF. He’s—”

  “Spare us the details,” Flo broke in. “We’re already so tired of hearing about him.”

  “But Norah hasn’t heard,” persisted Clare. She continued to go on about how dreamy her new boy friend was until Flo interrupted her again.

  “You don’t even know what loving someone is,” she said quietly. “Wait until he does join up. Like Ned …”

  “Who’s Ned?” Norah asked, because she knew Flo wanted her to.

  “He’s my boy friend, and he’s in the army and stationed overseas. I write to him three times a week.”

  “She also writes to two other boys,” said Janet. “She uses so much paper that Mother makes her buy her own.”

  “Well, it’s important,” said Flo. “They need to be cheered up.”

  Norah turned over impatiently. Flo seemed much more grown-up this summer, as if she had already entered the strange adult world that was still closed to the rest of them. And she wished all of them would stop going on about boys. They were just like her friend Dulcie. This past year Dulcie had “discovered” boys. She was always moaning about being too young to go to dances, and she didn’t understand when Norah said she wasn’t interested. At least Janet wasn’t like that yet.

  But then Janet disappointed her too.

  “What do you think of Frankie, Norah?” she asked. “I think he’s the greatest thing since canned peas.”

  Flo roared with laughter. “Sorry, Janet,” she choked, seeing her sister’s hurt face. “But when you try to use expressions like that you sound so—”

  “I don’t want to hear how I sound,” interrupted Janet huffily. “I was asking Norah a question. What do you think of Frankie?”

  Norah knew she meant Frank Sinatra. “He’s okay, I guess,” she sighed. She didn’t mind the mellow voice which seemed to be on the radio every time it was turned on. But she was tired of him. Her other city friend, Paige, had every one of his records and played them until Norah wanted to scream. At least they didn’t have a phonograph in the boathouse.

  The conversation turned to a comparison of their school years in Montreal and Toronto. They had a lot to catch up on since last summer.

  “Stop talking,” moaned Sally, turning over and going back to sleep. Norah herself was drifting through whole patches of conversation. Then Janet asked her a question. “Have you ever met Andrew, Norah? I can’t remember if you were here the last time he came.”

  “No, I haven’t. Who is this Andrew, anyway?” she added irritably.

  “He’s the only son of Uncle Ralph and Aunt Constance,” explained Flo. “Uncle Ralph was my mother’s and Clare’s father’s brother—he died about five years ago. They used to come to Gairloch every summer but then Aunt Constance married again and Andrew had to move to Winnipeg. He’s been back a few times for a visit. And tomorrow he’ll be here again! He’s transferring to the University of Toronto this fall.”

  “He’s dreamy,” said Clare. “He visited us in Montreal last year and all my friends were envious. If he wasn’t my cousin I’d have a huge crush on him.”

  “He’s the best person in the family,” said Flo. “We were really close when we were kids.”

  “The last time he came he taught me how to dive,” said Janet. “Wait till you see how handsome he is, Norah!”

  Norah pretended she was already asleep. What a bore this Andrew sounded! And what a bore the cousins were going to be, if all they wanted to talk about were boys and singers.

  And yet, since she was now a teen-ager too, shouldn’t she be more interested in those things? She didn’t want to be as childish as Sally or as grown-up as Flo. But it wasn’t much fun to flounder in between.

  3

  A Strange Story

  T he jubilant clamour of birds, much louder than in the city, woke Norah early. She peeked out of the window at the fresh morning and decided to go for her first swim of the summer.

  A few minutes later she was balancing on the edge of the diving board, fastening the strap of her bathing cap and admiring how the ripples broke up the sunlight into a sparkling web. Then she bounced up and down, pointed her arms straight up and plummeted into the lake.

  She struggled up through the icy depths and spat out air and water. For a few minutes she thrust vigorously away from land. Once she was used to the temperature, she swam back slowly, staring at the way her limbs looked green below the surface of the water. She ducked her head under and twisted and somersaulted like an otter. Swimming at an indoor pool in the winter could never match this.

  Seizing her towel, Norah scrubbed warmth back into her tingling skin. This afternoon the water would be warmer; she wondered if she could still make it to Little Island and back. When she’d first come to Canada, she’d barely been able to swim. The sea at Grandad’s, where she’d spent almost every summer in England, had been too rough to do much but paddle. But now she was as good as Bob and Alec. She sighed, missing them. She wouldn’t be able to have races with Janet and Clare, who were both good swimmers but lazy.

  “I bet it was cold,” yawned Flo, as Norah rushed back into the Girls’ Dorm to change.

  Norah grinned as she tugged off her bathing suit and flung on her clothes. “Not for me! Maybe for sissy Canadians …” Everyone leapt out of bed and began a pillow fight. This was more like old times: larking around, not mooning about boys.

  When the breakfast gong sounded, Nora
h left the others to get dressed. She sped up the hill to the cottage and was the first one to sit down at the children’s table.

  “Hungry, are you?” Hanny came out from the kitchen, set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Norah and sat down beside her with her cup of tea. “I’ve missed my good eater. The other girls are always on diets, except for Janet. And she should be!”

  Norah began to tell Hanny about the trip to Vancouver. Their peaceful conversation was interrupted by Aunt Dorothy hurrying in. Meals at Gairloch were usually in shifts. The children ate first and the adults wandered in as they were finishing; all except Aunt Florence and old Aunt Catherine, who had breakfast in bed. Each of the other aunts took turns coming down early to help Hanny.

  In a few minutes the long table was crowded with eight children. Sunlight streamed through the windows that spanned three walls of the dining room. Norah helped herself to a fourth piece of toast and spread it thickly with Hanny’s “Muskoka Jam”—a delicious combination of wild blueberries and raspberries. Since food was rationed in Canada now, they had bacon once a week instead of every morning and were only allowed to put butter on one piece of toast. Norah preferred jam anyway; the butter tasted weird because Hanny stretched it with gelatin and evaporated milk.

  She knew it was much worse in England. Her parents wrote that they ate tasteless grey government bread, only got a meagre amount of meat and butter each week, and never saw oranges or bananas. Even though the Ogilvies regularly sent food and clothing parcels to her family, Norah often felt guilty, knowing she was so much better fed and dressed.

  Lately she’d been feeling guilty for another reason. It wasn’t just the war that made her real family different. Her Canadian family was wealthy. Norah had never known, before she came here, anyone who had an enormous house in the city, one just as big for the holidays, and a boathouse that would hold her own house in England. Or a private telephone and a refrigerator and a car, and new, store-bought clothes as soon as you outgrew your old ones. Gavin had so many toys he regularly gave them away to “Bundles for Britain.” Norah had a fancy bicycle, skates and a toboggan, a closet full of expensive dresses and a whole bookcase full of her own books.