by Kit Pearson
“My dear boy, how wonderful to have you back with us.” Everyone let Aunt Florence greet him next, then they all descended upon him. Andrew didn’t seem to mind. He shook hands with his uncles and kissed his aunts’ cheeks, his deep laugh rising above the babble.
He acts like he’s a prince or someone, Norah thought.
“You’ve never met our war guests, have you?” said Aunt Florence. Norah scanned Andrew’s face warily as she and Gavin were introduced. He had slicked-back, wavy brown hair, a wide mouth and long grey eyes that curled up at the edges and made him look as if he were always smiling. Norah frowned. Anyone this good-looking was bound to be conceited.
Andrew focused his smile on her and said quietly, “How are you, Norah? I’ve heard a lot about you. Do you feel like a Canadian now that you’ve been here for so long?”
How dare he ask something so personal! He’d only just met her! And he acted so condescending, as if he felt sorry for her. Norah didn’t answer. She moved away as Andrew, hemmed in by his relatives, was practically carried up to the cottage.
Norah stayed down at the dock with her book until it was time to pick up Aunt Mary, trying not to hear the whoops of laughter from above. Her first day back had turned sour. And the rest of the summer was going to be terrible if all this fuss over Andrew continued. But maybe he wouldn’t stay long.
“Has he come?” asked Aunt Mary as soon as Norah landed at the Port Schofield dock. Norah nodded curtly.
“Isn’t he nice? Do you like him? I think there’s something really special about Andrew.”
Norah kept her face straight ahead, trying to conceal her scowl.
4
Andrew
A fter the children’s dinner Norah took out the canoe. The steady pull of the paddle soothed her jangled feelings and she pretended she was the only person on the lake. But just as she came back around the corner of Little Island she heard Gavin calling her. Every evening the whole family had to gather in the living room for games and reading aloud.
Gavin waited while Norah lifted up the canoe. “Did you know Andrew once caught a lake trout that was as big as Denny?” he told her.
“That’s impossible,” snapped Norah.
She lingered in the doorway of the living room, looking for Andrew so she could sit as far away from him as possible. He was on one side of the fireplace, Denny on his lap and the rest of the cousins as close to him as they could get. Gavin skipped over to join them.
Aunt Bea leaned towards Andrew, an eager look on her foolish face. “Now tell us about your mother. Is she over that dreadful flu?”
“It wasn’t flu, it was a cold,” said Aunt Florence.
“It was flu!” cried Aunt Bea, her hair falling out of its pins. “She told us in her last letter!”
“It was a cold,” Aunt Florence repeated firmly. “You know you never read letters properly, Bea—you must make up things you think you’ve read.”
“I certainly do not!”
“Now, now, you two,” interrupted Uncle Reg. “Why don’t you ask Andrew? Surely he knows.”
Andrew had been throwing amused glances at Flo. “I think it was … a kind of flu-y cold,” he said carefully. “And she’s fine now.”
“Do you want to come sailing with Gerald and me tomorrow, Andrew?” Flo asked him.
“Sure! I wonder if I remember how. But you two are such experts, you can show me what to do.”
“Can I come?” Clare asked.
“And me?” said Janet and Peter at the same time.
“We’ll let Andrew get used to the boat again, then you can each have a turn,” said Uncle Gerald.
Andrew glanced all the way across the room at Norah, who had been staring at him. She quickly lowered her eyes.
“Do you like sailing, Norah?”
“Not much,” she shrugged.
“But you love sailing!” Gavin gave his sister a puzzled look, then said to Andrew, “I like sailing and I don’t take up very much room.”
Andrew laughed. “Then you can be our first passenger.”
“Tell us about university,” said Uncle Gerald. “You’re taking COTC classes along with your regular engineering course, right? How soon can you be an officer?”
“In a few years,” said Andrew.
“I certainly envy you. If it wasn’t for these darned eyes …”
“It must have been frustrating for you, being turned down,” said Andrew quietly.
“Well I’m certainly kept busy. It was difficult to take this month off.”
“Did you know Gerald left his law firm to be an aircraft assembly inspector, Andrew?” said Aunt Bea proudly.
“But it’s not the real thing,” said Uncle Gerald. He fingered the small button he always wore on his lapel. “And even if they gave me this, people don’t realize that I was turned down. You should hear some of the comments I get, from complete strangers!”
Norah had never seen his placid face look so agitated. Aunt Anne took his arm. “Never mind about them. We know you would be fighting if you could.”
“If I was young, I wouldn’t go on any officer training scheme,” said Uncle Barclay gruffly. “I’d join up now! After all, with the Russian victory and the Americans finally in on it, the tide’s beginning to turn. You may not even get over there, Andrew.”
Aunt Dorothy gave her husband a horrified look. “Oh no, Barclay! Andrew’s only nineteen—he’s too young to go now.” She shuddered. “It will be a blessing if he doesn’t have to at all—and I’m glad you couldn’t, Gerald.”
“I was nineteen,” Uncle Barclay reminded her.
The colour had left Andrew’s cheeks, and a muscle twitched in one of them. “Perhaps you’re right, Uncle Barclay,” he said slowly. “But Mother is determined that I become an officer.”
“She’s perfectly right,” said Aunt Florence briskly. “There’s no reason you should join up as a common soldier. But let’s have no more depressing talk about the war. Tell us what your family has been up to, Andrew.”
Norah had joined Janet in a game of cribbage. She tried to shut her ears to Andrew, but he was such a good storyteller she couldn’t help listening. He was describing his mother’s new volunteer work driving an ambulance. Every time Norah stole a glance at him she noticed how his long hands gesticulated every word: pointing, turning and slicing through the air as if he were conducting music.
“You’re not paying attention, Norah!” complained Janet. “I said go!”
Before the younger children were sent to bed, Aunt Florence took out her book. This week it was The Wind in the Willows. Norah had to admit that Aunt Florence was the best reader she’d ever heard. She sank into the story with relief. Andrew was also listening intently, a delighted smile on his face.
“Bravo for Toad!” he cried at the end of the chapter. “I remember you reading that when I was about six, Aunt Florence.”
Andrew got down on the floor, held up his arms as if clutching a steering wheel, and stuck his legs straight out in front of him. “Poop-poop!” he muttered faintly. “Poop-poop!” The younger cousins collapsed with giggles.
“My dear boy,” said Aunt Florence. “I’d forgotten what a good actor you are.”
“Are you doing many plays?” Aunt Catherine asked.
“As many as I can!” said Andrew. “I was Prince Henry in our college production of Henry IV this year.”
He stood up and looked at them silently for a second, his graceful body suddenly regal. His cheek twitched again and, when he spoke, his words were both disdainful and wistful:
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at …
He stopped abruptly, his face flushed. All the family applauded at how easily he had changed from being a conceited toad to a courtly prince.
All except Norah.
Show-off, she muttered under her breath.
“HAVEN’T THEY COME back from sailing yet?” Janet asked the next morning. She and Clare and Norah were doing their laundry together at the back of the cottage.
Norah didn’t answer. She concentrated on scrubbing her blouse against the ripply metal of the scrub-board. This was the only part of being at Gairloch that she disliked. Each of the older girls had to do her own laundry, which meant heating up water, rubbing until your hands ached, and wringing out each piece of clothing to hang up in the sun.
“It’s my turn to go in the boat next,” said Clare. She shaded her eyes as she gazed out over the lake, then turned to Janet. “Wasn’t it awful when your dad said Andrew should be a soldier right now?”
“He couldn’t help it,” retorted Janet. “That’s just the way Dad is. All he ever talks about is the First World War and this one.”
“I think Uncle Barclay was right,” said Norah. The other two stopped washing and looked at her with astonishment.
“What do you mean?” said Clare coldly.
“I mean, I think Andrew should join up now. He’s probably just trying to avoid it by going to university. I think he’s a coward.”
“He’s not!” Clare flicked some of her soapy water at Norah. “You have no right to say that about one of our relatives!”
Resisting the urge to dump her whole pail of dirty water over Clare, Norah bent her head down and resumed scrubbing. “I can say what I want,” she muttered. “He’s not my relative. You all treat Andrew as if he was royalty or something.”
“Why—you—” But then Clare spotted the sail and ran down the steps.
“You haven’t finished your laundry!” Janet called after her. “Now I’ll have to do it for her,” she grumbled.
Norah could have cried with frustration at being forced into a stupid confrontation with Clare. But she prided herself on never crying; she had done too much of it in her first few months in Canada.
Why had she said that about Andrew? The words had rushed out before she’d known if she meant them.
“You’re wrong about Andrew,” mumbled Janet through a mouthful of clothes-pins. “Why did you say such a mean thing? He hasn’t done anything to you. And he’s so nice!”
“I don’t know,” said Norah miserably. “I just—don’t—like him!” Then she ran away too, leaving Janet to hang up all the clothes by herself.
NORAH HEADED TOWARDS HER ROCK, but on the way she almost collided with Flo.
“I was just looking for you, Norah,” said the older girl. “Andrew and I picked up the mail. Here’s a letter from England for you!”
Norah clutched the letter as she ran up to her lookout. As always, she took a steadying breath before daring to open it. Bad news usually comes in a telegram, not in a letter, she reminded herself. The envelope was a mess; it had been ripped open and resealed by the censor, and the layers of labels showed how many times it had been used. She squinted in the glaring sun and read.
Dear Norah and Gavin,
Congratulations to both of you on your excellent marks in school! Dad and I are so proud of you. We can’t believe you are old enough to be going into “grade four” and “grade eight” this fall. When you are back in England you’ll find it strange to say “form” instead of grade.
I must tell you all about Muriel’s wedding. Of course we couldn’t do anything fancy, but we had a very good time all the same. Muriel and Barry were only able to get a few days’ leave, but Barry’s mother came all the way from Devon and Tibby managed to get down from Reading for the day to be bridesmaid. After the church ceremony we had a small celebration at the house for just the family. I saved my sugar rations for weeks and the hens have been laying well, so I was able to make a small cake. You never would have guessed I used marge instead of butter. Of course I couldn’t ice it, but Tibby put a bunch of sweet peas on top and they looked lovely. Grandad somehow managed to get a bottle of wine and we all drank a toast to the two of you as well as to the bride and groom. Muriel looked beautiful in her pink suit. She cut it out of that old coat of mine. Barry was very handsome in his uniform. He’s such a nice boy, I’m sure you’ll like him. Muriel promises to send you a snap of him soon.
After our little party we all went off to the dance in the village hall. A lot of American GIs were there and they had everyone doing the jitterbug! Even Dad and I tried it but it wore us out. Grandad wanted to try but I wouldn’t let him. As usual he forgets his age.
Yesterday, while I was waiting in the fish queue, I stood next to Mrs. Brown. She said she’s having a hard time keeping Joey away from the Americans when they come into the village. He and all the other children run up to them asking “Any gum, chum?” Usually they get some! The village is divided in its feelings about the Americans. Some people, including Grandad, think they’re too boastful, but Dad and I find them pleasant and friendly. And after all, look what they’re doing for us!
Our pig club has a new pig! So I’m saving scraps for it and Grandad takes them to the pig every evening. He stays and talks to it as if it’s a person! It’s getting nice and plump and I’m sure it will be as delicious as the last one.
I wrote to Mrs. Ogilvie to thank her for her last parcel, but I’d like to thank both of you as well. I’m sure you helped to pick out the things. You’ve no idea how grateful we are. The soap was especially appreciated—it’s so hard to find. What kind people they are.
Norah, I also wrote to Mrs. Ogilvie and asked her to tell you about a very important matter. I hope she does so soon. It’s too personal for a letter.
By the time you get this you will be back from your trip across Canada and enjoying Gairloch again. What lucky children you are! Dad says he hopes you each kept a journal. We are looking forward to hearing about it and so is everyone else in the village. Even after three years, someone asks about you every day.
I must stop this now and dig up some potatoes for dinner. Muriel has introduced me to slacks! They’re so comfortable around the house and do save on stockings.
We all send our very best wishes and hope as usual that it won’t be too long before you come back to us.
Love from us all,
Mum
Norah thumped the letter so hard against the ground that she grazed her fist.
Their school marks were such old news; why did the mail have to take so long each way? What did Mum ask Aunt Florence to tell her? Surely not the crazy story she had told her. Why hadn’t she thought of keeping a journal?
Why did Muriel have to change? Norah had completely forgotten that her oldest sister was getting married.
Poor Mum, scrimping so much just to make a cake. Norah could always sense the weariness behind her cheerful words.
What if something had happened to them that they weren’t telling her about? Why should she and Gavin be safe in Canada when her family was always in danger?
If only she could be there, playing cricket with Dad and helping Mum with the chickens. If only she could tell them how much she loved them, but somehow she never could say that in her own letters.
Gradually Norah got control of her racing emotions. After all, she should be used to these letters by now.
She would read the letter to Gavin and answer it tonight; she always liked to get that done before Aunt Florence reminded her, so that she could say smugly, “I’ve already written it.” But it was going to be especially hard to be cheerful in this one. She couldn’t say, “Dear Mum, Dad and Grandad … At first it was wonderful to get back to Gairloch but a boy has come who has spoiled everything.”
Late that afternoon Andrew came up the verandah steps as Norah and Gavin were sitting on them and talking about the letter. “Is your family well?” he asked.
“Uh huh,” said Gavin. “My big sister got married!”
“You must miss them very much,” said Andrew quietly.
Mr. Hancock came out to the verandah and sounded the dinner gong. “Come on, Gavin,” Norah said, taking his hand. “Let�
�s go in.”
But Gavin called back, “Hey, Andrew—any gum, chum?”
5
On the Lake
N orah sat reading her Agatha Christie mystery on the verandah, curled up in an ancient chair with a canopy over it—the family called it a “glider.” Besides her rock, the glider was her next favourite retreat at Gairloch. The verandah was like another room, a neutral zone between the cottage and outdoors. Swinging gently on the creaking chains, she could keep an ear open to whatever was going on inside, and watch all the comings and goings without being too suffocated by the clan. The lacy screen of trees beyond the verandah always made her feel secure, as if she were in an airy cave.
But this afternoon she couldn’t concentrate on The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. The verandah was dotted with other members of the family. From around one corner drifted the usual flow of gossip.
“But what was her name?” Aunt Dorothy was asking.
“Wasn’t she a Ferguson? The Manitoba Fergusons, not the Ontario ones. Her mother would have been a Baxter,” pronounced Aunt Florence. The aunts seemed to know the last names of everyone in all of Canada.
The strains of one of Uncle Reg’s Gilbert and Sullivan records floated from around the other corner: “… and his sisters and his cousins and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts!” Uncle Reg would be stretched out as usual on a chaise longue, close enough to his phonograph to reach over and wind it up.
Aunt Catherine was sitting in a rocking chair not far from Norah, her tiny foot bobbing to the music and her nose in a book. She’d given Norah a friendly wave when she first sat down, but she understood that people didn’t want to be disturbed when they were reading.
Norah had watched Aunt Bea and Aunt Mar set out for the gazebo, carrying a basket, a kettle and a spirit-lamp. She knew Aunt Anne was at the babies’ beach with George and Denny. Now she saw Aunt Mary, again dressed up, descend the steps to the dock. Flo came out of the Girls’ Dorm and they both got into the Putt-Putt and drove away. Once again Aunt Mary had no shopping bag.
