by Kit Pearson
She glanced at Aunt Mary all evening and pressed up against her when Aunt Florence was reading. Aunt Mary smiled and squeezed her shoulder.
Surely she would soon have the courage to tell her mother—and this time she wouldn’t give in. Then she would marry Tom and live happily ever after—just like all the songs and movies.
Norah’s own love was far more insecure, especially since so much of it had to wait until she was older. She gazed at Andrew, who looked lost in a daydream as he stared at the fire. It was wonderful that she could talk to him again, but even that was no longer enough. He thought of her the same way he thought of Janet or Flo.
She knew what she had to do. She had to tell him, to reveal her feelings. Then he would realize that he loved her too and he would wait for her until she was old enough to marry him.
None of the songs or movies said how loving someone required all these difficult tasks.
9
Stormy Weather
N orah and Janet sat together on the dock, listening to Clare’s mother rant at her. Her furious voice drifted out of the open window of the Girls’ Dorm. She had appeared there after breakfast and grimly ordered everyone out so she and Clare could have a “talk.”
“You are completely irresponsible, Clare! How could you possibly forget them?”
“I just did,” said Clare sullenly. “I didn’t want to take them anyway—they talked me into it. They should have noticed when I was leaving.”
Yesterday Clare had taken her brothers with her when she drove the Putt-Putt to visit her friend Louise on Cliff Island. The little boys had gone off to play on the rocks and Clare, forgetting all about them, had returned alone. Louise’s father had had to bring back Peter and Ross, tearful and scared; Ross had scraped his knee badly.
Clare’s mother, who’d been visiting some friends on one of the other lakes for a few days, had arrived back very late herself and only heard about the mishap this morning.
Norah and Janet glanced at each other uneasily as Aunt Mar’s voice grew more shrill. They shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but they couldn’t resist hearing Clare get into trouble.
“Clare Drummond, you are fifteen years old, not a child! If your father was here he’d be very disappointed in you. Why can’t you be more like Norah? She takes such good care of Gavin.”
“Oh, Norah,” said Clare scornfully. “I’m sick of hearing about perfect Norah. Just because she’s a war guest she gets treated differently. Not like me. This family is so mean to me…,” she howled.
Janet rolled her eyes. “What a baby,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, Norah, she didn’t mean it.”
Norah knew she did, but she tried to tell herself she didn’t care.
“You’re grounded for a week,” Aunt Mar was saying. “That means not leaving the island at all—not by yourself or with anyone else.”
“That’s not fair! I didn’t mean to leave them, I just forgot!” But her mother was already gone, not even noticing Norah and Janet as she marched past them up the steps.
“Well, I’m not going to stay out here all morning,” said Janet. “I was in the middle of painting my toenails.”
They ventured into the boathouse again, pretending to ignore Clare, crumpled up on her bed and sobbing into her pillow. “Everyone picks on me,” she wailed. “It’s not fair …”
Janet put on “In the Blue of the Evening” and hummed along.
“Turn that off! I don’t feel like listening to records!” Clare hurled her pillow towards Janet and it landed on the record, sending the needle screeching across it.
“Now look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined it!” Janet snatched up the record, examined the ugly scratch, then threw it down and dashed out the door.
“That was really mean,” said Norah. “It was her favourite.”
“Oh you shut up! It’s none of your business, Norah Stoakes—you’re not part of this family. You should be grateful that we took you in. And another thing, Norah—I’ve noticed how you follow Andrew around. You may as well give up. You’re not nearly good enough for him. Anyway, you’re only thirteen—it looks ridiculous for someone your age to go mooning after a nineteen-year-old.”
Norah was speechless. She almost jumped on Clare and pulled her hair. Last summer she would have. But now she just wanted to get away from her.
“You—you are despicable!” she hissed. She ran out even faster than Janet had and didn’t stop until she collapsed on her rock.
Clare knew about Andrew! Would she tell Janet and Flo? Worse, would she tell Andrew? Did everyone know? Were they all laughing at her?
Norah sat up and hugged her knees against her sweaty blouse. If only it were last summer, when her life at Gairloch was so simple. She almost wished she could cast off her feelings for Andrew. But she couldn’t—it was as if she had an incurable disease.
And she hardly even saw Andrew these days, which made her long for him all the more. He’d been spending all his time with a family on the mainland. Janet told her they were the brothers and sister of a boy he’d been very close to who was now in the air force. Jamie and Lois and Dick Mitchell, his friends were called. Norah smouldered with jealousy every time she heard their names.
TWO HOURS LATER Norah sat listlessly on the dock with her fishing rod. She’d had a long swim but she was already hot again. Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm was holding its breath but couldn’t let it out.
“Any luck, Norah?” Aunt Catherine stood behind her, holding her knitting and fanning her face with her hand. “I thought I’d come down and sit by the water to see if I could catch a breeze. I certainly wish the weather would break. Just listen to those cicadas buzz! They’re always especially loud before a storm.”
Norah didn’t tell her that her hook wasn’t even baited. She tried to smile at Aunt Catherine but could only manage a shrug.
Aunt Catherine pulled one of the heavy wooden chairs up beside her. “You look rather seedy, Norah. I hope you’re not coming down with anything. Do you feel all right?”
“Mmmm,” said Norah, trying to control her irritation. It wasn’t like Aunt Catherine to be this nosy.
“Everyone seems to be under the weather today,” continued the old lady. “‘Under the weather’—that’s a very appropriate phrase when you think of it, as if the weather held us all squirming under its thumb. Mar is upset with Clare—and I must say, that child gets more impossible all the time. Dorothy told Mar that she shouldn’t have been away so long—now Mar isn’t speaking to her. Florence and Bea are having the most absurd argument over how to pronounce ‘forsythia.’ And Mary seems to be off on a cloud. She forgot it was her turn to help with the children’s breakfast, which is quite uncharacteristic. What a family … Sometimes I’m glad I’m not really part of it. Aren’t you?”
Norah nodded. At least Aunt Catherine was once again confiding in her like an equal.
“I don’t think Andrew’s been very happy lately either,” mused Aunt Catherine. “Poor lad. I’m so very fond of him and I can’t abide the idea of him going off to this monstrous war.”
Norah’s skin prickled with alertness. “But that won’t be for a few years, not until he finishes university,” she said. “Maybe the war will be over by then.”
“Let’s hope so. If it isn’t, he’s going to be doing something that’s against his nature—I feel sorry for boys like him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s not cut out to be a soldier. They all want him to be like the other men in the family—like Hugh. Now Hugh was a dear, but he was a completely different sort from Andrew.”
Norah was puzzled. “But he must want to be a soldier. He should join the war.” She shuddered. “Not until he has to, of course.”
“Should he?” Aunt Catherine’s lined face looked tired. “I lost a father, a brother and a nephew—Hugh—in wars, Norah. It’s a wicked waste.”
“But we have to beat Hitler!”
“I don’t know how to answer that, Nor
ah. Yes, we have to beat him. But what a price we’re paying! Not just our side—think of what the German people are enduring. We’re bombing them just as heavily as they’ve been bombing Britain.” She broke off a piece of wool angrily. “It’s all so senseless! Do you know what we called the last war? ‘The war to end all wars.’ Huh!”
Then she sighed. “Poor Andrew. He was born at the wrong time. Let’s just hope your little brother will be luckier.”
Norah couldn’t bear to think of Gavin fighting in a war. But if he did, he’d be doing it because he had no choice. Like Andrew. Surely Aunt Catherine was wrong. Andrew must want to fight Hitler. If he didn’t, he’d be a coward—wouldn’t he?
“I shouldn’t burden you with all these sombre thoughts, Norah. Are you sure there’s nothing troubling you?” Aunt Catherine peered at her and Norah looked away. “Lately you haven’t seemed yourself.”
“I’m all right,” mumbled Norah. It was tempting to tell Aunt Catherine about her feelings for Andrew, but after all she was an Elder. And she wouldn’t understand, anyway. She’d never married and she’d probably never even been in love.
“Ah, well,” said Aunt Catherine, pulling out her knitting. “It’s just being thirteen. I’d never want to be thirteen again—a miserable, muddled age.”
Surprisingly, this cheered Norah. She wouldn’t always be thirteen, she thought suddenly—there was a light at the end of the tunnel. One day she’d be eighty-three and looking back on herself as calmly as Aunt Catherine was doing. But the thought of being as old as Aunt Catherine was too slippery to hang on to.
THAT EVENING the air outside still crackled with impending fury. Inside, the atmosphere was the same: a cloud of discord hung over the family.
During the children’s dinner, Norah sat as far away from Clare as she could and tried not to look at her. Janet, on the other hand, glared at her cousin all through the meal. Clare made spiteful comments to her brothers for getting her into trouble. After both meals were over, the family sat woodenly in the living room, someone occasionally making a stiff remark about the weather.
Aunt Mar and Aunt Dorothy were glaring at each other as much as their daughters. “Why aren’t you girls doing your knitting?” complained Aunt Dorothy, holding up a long grey sock to measure it. “I thought you were each going to make a scarf for a soldier this summer. Don’t forget, not everyone leads the comfortable life you do. There’s a war on, you know.”
“There’s a war on, moron,” whispered Clare.
“Don’t you be rude to my mother!” Janet hissed back.
Aunt Catherine suggested a game of rummy and four of the Elders gathered around a table. For a while the only sound was the ripple and snap of cards being shuffled.
“A run of five!” gloated Uncle Reg. “Your turn, Florence.”
“Forsighthia,” said Aunt Florence quietly.
“Forsithia!” retorted her sister.
“It was named after a Mr. Forsythe—therefore it is pronounced the same way as his name,” sniffed Aunt Florence.
Aunt Bea didn’t even look up from her cards as she muttered, “Madge Allwood, who was the best gardener in Montreal, always said ‘Forsithia.’”
“Really, Bea.” Aunt Florence threw down her cards in disgust. “If you won’t see reason I refuse to go on playing.”
“Now what on earth does how a flower’s name is pronounced have to do with a game of cards?” Uncle Reg asked.
Aunt Florence bridled. “It’s not a flower, it’s a shrub. And what do you know about gardening, Reg? It’s not your quarrel—kindly stay out of it.”
“I don’t see why there has to be a quarrel at all,” said Andrew quietly, looking up from his book.
Norah, hiding behind her book, was surprised to see the aunts look ashamed.
“You’re perfectly right, Andrew,” said Aunt Florence briskly. “Let’s talk about you.” She gazed at him fondly. “It’s going to be such a treat to have you in Toronto this year. I do wish you’d live with us, but I know you boys need your freedom. What are you taking in first term?”
As Andrew recited the names of his engineering courses Norah wriggled with excitement. She had forgotten that Andrew would be living in the same city. Surely he’d come over for meals.
“Hugh would have liked to take engineering,” sighed Aunt Florence. “You are so much like him, my dear. My poor Hugh …”
Aunt Bea cut in abruptly. “How’s your friend Jack doing, Andrew? What mischief you two boys both got up to! You used to spend the whole summer pretending you were savages and smearing yourselves with paint—without any clothes on, if I remember!” She giggled. “Do you hear from him much?”
“I’ve had a few letters,” said Andrew guardedly. “And of course the Mitchells hear from him. He’s all right—he hasn’t seen much action yet.”
“It must make you want to be in on it, when your best friend is,” said Uncle Barclay. “Too bad he’s older than you—you could have joined up together.”
“But Andrew is going to join the army, not the air force,” said Aunt Florence proudly. “All the Drummonds and Ogilvies have been army men. You’re going to try to get into Hugh’s old regiment, aren’t you, dear? He would have been so proud of you.”
“Florence!” Everyone froze at the hysterical edge in Aunt Bea’s voice. “I’ve always wanted to say this and now I’m going to. You dwell too much on that sainted son of yours. He’s gone—why can’t you accept it? No one ever talks about my son, and he’s alive and prospering. I am tired of always hearing about perfect Hugh, and I’m sure Andrew is as well.”
In the shocked silence the thunder rolled more ominously. Gerald ducked his head at his mother’s words. Aunt Florence drew herself upright, took a deep breath and began to explode just as the storm did.
“How dare you …” she began.
CRA-AAA-CK! Sally screamed and ran to her mother as the thunder crashed and the clouds emptied onto the roof with a deafening rattle.
Aunt Anne hustled out all the younger children. The older cousins exchanged looks and fled as well. They huddled on the verandah and watched the teeming rain, listening to Aunt Florence’s rage compete with the storm. Aunt Bea, Uncle Reg and Aunt Mar’s voices soon joined the fray.
“What’s wrong with this family?” Flo’s face was angry and pale. “They’re so petty! Don’t they realize there are more important things to worry about?”
“I wish they’d stop,” said Janet, close to tears. “I hate it when they go on like this.”
Flo put her arm around her sister. “Let’s just forget about them. We’ll never be like that. Come on—we’ll run to the boathouse and I’ll teach you all how to play bridge. Do you want to come, Andrew?”
Andrew had been staring into the storm silently, the flashes of lightning illuminating his twitching face. “Thanks, Flo, but I think I’ll have an early night.” He ran off into the rain.
“Coming, Norah?” The prospect of getting soaked made Janet giggle.
“I think I’ll just stay on the verandah for a while.” She watched the others dash shrieking down the steps.
Norah went along the verandah to the side door. She slipped into the hall off the kitchen and found what she was looking for—a long rubber raincoat. While she was slithering into it she spied Hanny washing the dishes with a grim look on her face. Her husband sat at the table, pulling on his pipe. They must be able to hear everything that was being shouted in the living room.
The coat came down to her feet and its sleeves flopped below her hands, but at least it would keep her dry. Pulling the hood over her head, she ventured into the storm.
The rain streamed off her as she groped her way down the hill to Andrew’s cabin. The clammy coat made her perspire, but her bare feet were cold against the wet rocks.
Norah circled the cabin restlessly, longing to knock on Andrew’s door and have another talk. Then she could tell him. But she didn’t have the nerve. The hood of the coat blocked her vision; she flung it back and l
et the driving rain sluice over her head. Leaning against the wall underneath Andrew’s window, she tipped back her head and caught the heavy drops in her mouth.
Finally the rain settled into a steady shower and the thunder and lightening grew fainter. Then Norah heard another sound. The sound of someone crying—crying with such desperate gulps that Norah trembled.
It was Andrew—who else could it be? Through his open window she listened to his wrenching sobs, his deep voice gasping for air.
The only time Norah had seen a man cry was when her father had said goodbye to her and Gavin in England. That had been a few controlled tears. This was as violent as the storm had been.
She took a chance and heaved herself up by the windowsill to look into the room. Her aching arms would just let her up for a second. It was long enough to glimpse Andrew sprawled on the couch, his head in his arms and his shoulders shuddering.
Norah slid out of the heavy coat, rolled it up into a ball under her arm and sped away into the night. When she reached the dock she peeled off the rest of her wet clothes and jumped into the lake. The water tingled against her bare skin and her body felt as liquid as the lake and the rain.
Janet poked out her head. “Norah’s skinny-dipping!”
In an instant she and Flo and Clare had joined her in the black lake. They whooped and splashed and Norah tried to drown the shock of Andrew’s misery.
10
A Visitor
A ll the next day the cleansing rain fell on the island. When Norah went up to breakfast, Aunt Dorothy and Aunt Mar were setting the children’s table together, singing “Pack Up Your Troubles” and tittering like girls. The rest of the Elders, looking as shamefaced as children who had misbehaved, pussyfooted around each other with careful politeness.
“Aunt Florence told me never to mention that shrub word again,” said Gavin solemnly, as he joined Norah on the verandah. “She says when we get back to the city she’ll check with the university and then she’ll know she’s right—but she wants the arguing to stop.”
