Flying Geese

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  “Just come on,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Margaret shouted as Jean pulled her through the door.

  Full dark had fallen while they were inside the store. Margaret thought of Evie washing dishes and having to start dinner herself while their mother knitted. She’d need the meat to add to the stew.

  “I have to go,” she told Jean.

  “Can you come out Saturday?” Jean asked.

  “I guess so. After my chores are done.”

  “I’ll call for you after noon,” Jean said.

  Margaret hurried home and burst into the cottage. She handed her mother the meat.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Brown asked, holding up the soup bones.

  “Mr. Jackson seems to think we have a dog,” Margaret explained.

  “A dog?” Margaret’s father said. “Where would he get the notion we had a dog?”

  “Martin, the man knows very well we don’t have a dog,” Mrs. Brown said. “The bones are for us to make broth. I guess he’s just being kind.”

  “Being kind!” Mr. Brown exclaimed. His face clouded over. “Charity.”

  “Where’s the sugar?” Margaret’s mother suddenly asked.

  Margaret felt her heart sink. She’d been thinking so hard about Jean and Edith Cavell and Edward she’d forgotten the sugar.

  “I didn’t get it,” she murmured.

  “Well, you can just turn around and go right back out to that store,” Mr. Brown thundered. His fist hit the table, making the plates jump. “You haven’t got the good sense you were born with.”

  Margaret stared at her father, stunned. Evie turned from the stove, and George stopped in his tracks, his arms full of wood. Timothy stuck a thumb into his mouth and wrapped his arms around Taylor. Dad seldom yelled at them, leaving that for Mama to do.

  Tears smarting her eyes, Margaret shoved her arms into her coat and ran back out into the cold air. As she passed the red brick house, she stuck out her tongue.

  Chapter 9

  Margaret smoothed the seams of the pieced material with immense satisfaction. Finally, she had finished her first row of geese. As she studied the V-shaped patches stretching in a straight line across the kitchen table, she sighed deeply. Here was order, whereas everything else in her life was confusion. Having Dad home all the time, suspenders off his shoulders and dangling from the waist of his pants, left her feeling unsettled. Back in Saskatchewan he’d even work Sundays, arriving home from church and changing into his barn clothes.

  “It’s the Lord’s Day,” Mama would protest.

  “Stock don’t know it’s Sunday, Olivia,” he’d say.

  “Just see to the animals then,” Mama would tell him, knowing he’d also check the wheat and pull a few weeds from the kitchen garden. He couldn’t sit still. Now it seemed he couldn’t move.

  She stole a quick glance at him sitting opposite her, newspaper spread on the table, fingers clenching and unclenching, unused to the idleness. Even in winter he had kept busy, mending harnesses and working with wood. That’s when Margaret liked him best, when he worked with wood. He’d whistle while his fingers judged the smoothness of a board, measured and cut and planed. He felt about wood like she did about material.

  At least it was quiet. Timothy and Taylor slept, and Evie had gone to study with a new school friend, wanting to catch up on her mathematics, since their Saskatchewan school was behind the city one.

  Margaret looked past her father to where her mother sat near the window, needles clicking as a tiny bonnet formed and hung from them.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “I dropped a stitch way back. How on earth did that happen? I didn’t even see it.” Impatiently, she pulled the bonnet from the needles. “I’ll have to redo it.”

  “You’re ruining your eyesight knitting day and night,” Margaret’s father said.

  “It’s a bit of money coming in,” Mrs. Brown said absently, carefully unravelling the wool.

  “A bit of money!” Mr. Brown protested. “It’s slave labour is what it is. That man should be ashamed of himself, taking advantage of people like this.”

  “Well, we do need money coming in,” Margaret’s mother said, irritation creeping into her voice. “The money from the auction won’t last much longer. How on earth we’ll care for the children I don’t know.”

  Margaret’s fingers stilled. Mama and Dad never discussed money in front of them. Another confusing change.

  “When have I ever not taken care of you?” Mr. Brown jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over with a bang. “When have I never taken care of you?” he repeated loudly.

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t take care of us, but the fact is you are not working so there is no money. There’s no getting around that.”

  “We should never have left the farm,” Mr. Brown said flatly.

  “You never even tried to get a job in a store . . .” Mrs. Brown began angrily.

  “I’m a farmer, not a salesman! Don’t try making me something I’m not.”

  Margaret bent her head and stitched fiercely. The angrier her parents’ words, the faster her fingers flew. Mama and Dad had been at odds before, but never for this long. Lately, harsh words filled the kitchen every single day. The harder times got, the more I quilted. At times it was only my sewing that kept me going. Grandma Brown was right. The only thing holding her together was her Flying Geese quilt.

  A knock on the door silenced them.

  “If it’s that old busybody . . .” Margaret’s father yanked open the door.

  “Is Margaret in?”

  Mr. Brown stood a moment, then pulled the door wider. “She’s here,” he said.

  Jean shuffled into the kitchen and crossed to the table. She had on a man’s black overcoat, shiny with wear, the hem ragged. Loose, brown boots emphasized her stick-thin legs, heels slipping in and out of them as she walked, making a resounding clunk on the floor. Her dad’s clothes, Margaret guessed. Jean threw a quick glance at Margaret’s mother, who stared meaningfully at the newly swept floor, then Jean’s boots. Red flooded the girl’s cheeks as she retreated backwards, kicking the boots off on a sheet of newspaper laid at the door.

  In bare feet she crossed to the table and sat, watching Margaret stitch. One hand went out and gently stroked the finished row.

  “I see them,” she said softly. “I can see the geese flying. I wondered when you told me you were making a quilt how you could get geese out of material, but I see it now.”

  A tear-shaped drop of blood fell from her hand onto the table. “Sorry,” she said and immediately wiped it up with her coat sleeve.

  “Are you hurt?” Margaret asked. She grabbed Jean’s hand and gasped at the raw, oozing cracks running across her knuckles.

  “The cold bothers them,” Jean told her, snatching her hands back. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  Margaret doubted that.

  “Can you come out a bit?” Jean asked.

  Margaret looked at her mother, who grimaced, then wearily nodded permission. She quickly tidied her sewing and put on her coat, winding a scarf over her head and tucking the ends around her neck.

  “Wait a minute.” Mrs. Brown suddenly got up and went into her bedroom. She came out and handed a pair of blue mittens to Jean. “Put these on.”

  “I don’t need them, Missus,” Jean held her hands behind her back. “I just forgot mine today.”

  Jean’s hands hadn’t got in that bad shape in one day, Margaret knew, and so did her mother.

  “Well, use them for today and maybe one of your brothers or sisters need a pair,” Margaret’s mother told her. “We have extras so I’m glad someone can make use of them.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. Extras? With Timothy and Taylor wearing their socks on their hands to keep them warm! Obviously, Mama had knitted those mittens after they were all in bed as a gift for Margaret or Evie for Christmas.

  “As long as you’re sure, Missus,” Jean said. She slowly pulled the mittens on, wincing as the wool
caught on the chapped skin.

  Margaret looked down at her own wool-covered hands. She better make sure she took good care of these ones, because it didn’t look like she’d get another pair this winter.

  Cold swirled around their legs and up Margaret’s coat, making her shiver, but it was better than being in that tense kitchen, no matter how warm the stove was. At least she had on flannel drawers, and a cotton corset with hose supports holding up thick wool black stockings. Jean’s legs were bare. How the girl stood it, Margaret didn’t know. They plowed through early December snow, which came up to their knees; two days of squalls had turned the city white. They wandered downtown, crossing Dundas Street back and forth to look at the window displays: electric lamps, women’s dresses, men’s shirts, children’s shoes. Margaret saw an electric iron for three dollars and wished she had the money to buy it for her mother. Now that they weren’t at Aunt Dorothy’s, the wash was done on a ribbed scrubbing board and wrung by hand and dried on the line outside if it was fine and inside if it were not. Wrinkles were smoothed with the heavy iron heated on the stove—a long, tedious job hated by everyone. But they didn’t have electricity so the store iron would be of no use anyway, she told herself.

  “That’s her,” Jean suddenly said. She pointed to an army recruiting poster attached to a telephone pole.

  Margaret crowded next to Jean to see an unsmiling, stern woman staring back at her. Above the woman’s head in thick black letters was written, “MURDERED by the Huns,” and beneath it said, “Miss Edith Cavell. ENLIST AND HELP STOP SUCH ATROCITIES.”

  “She’s the nurse I was telling you about.” Jean stared at the poster a moment longer, then tugged at Margaret’s arm. “Let’s go in here,” she said, pulling on the heavy department store door. “They have a toyland set up downstairs and we can warm up a bit.”

  Margaret followed Jean into the store and downstairs to Toyland. Sleds, tricycles, and giant trucks filled one section. She stopped in front of a doll with gleaming gold ringlets framing a beautifully painted china face. She stretched a hand out to stroke the doll’s hair.

  “Don’t touch the toys,” a severe voice warned.

  She jerked back her hand and looked up to see a stout woman hovering beside her. A pin on her lapel said, “Miss Wallace.”

  “Are you here with your parents?” she asked sternly.

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Then you girls better leave. We don’t allow children in here.”

  Not allow children in Toyland? Suddenly Margaret saw a familiar figure standing behind a counter of men’s shirts on the far side of the store.

  “That’s my uncle,” she told the woman.

  The woman glanced at him and back at Margaret and pursed her lips. “I doubt very much . . .” she began.

  Margaret grabbed Jean and walked over to the counter. “Hello, Uncle Harold,” she said in a loud voice.

  “Well, Margaret. What brings you here? Doing some shopping?”

  Margaret looked at him, dumbfounded. Where would she get money to shop? “We’re just looking, Uncle Harold.”

  Her uncle caught Miss Wallace’s eye. He reached beneath the counter and brought out two candies, handing one to each girl. “Have a sweet, then you better run along,” he said. “We’re quite busy today. Tell your mother and father I’ll be over to see them tomorrow after church.”

  Sucking on their peppermints, they wandered through the farmers’ market, ogling the stacks of vegetables, then climbed the stairs to the upper floor where huge haunches of beef, turkeys, and chickens hung from the ceiling on large hooks. They crowded around a potbelly stove for a moment, holding their hands to its heat, then ran outside again, dodging the street cleaner’s wagon as he stopped to scoop up horse droppings.

  “Hey, Margaret!” Jean pointed to a streetcar coming towards them. “Grab on to the back and it’ll slide you through the snow.”

  The streetcar drew near, then past them. Jean whooped, ran, and grabbed a shiny pole at the back of the car. A second later, Margaret followed, slipping momentarily on the iron track, then managing to grip a pole opposite Jean. She spread her feet wide and let the streetcar pull her along through the snow. She turned her head briefly and saw Peter standing with a shovel in front of his father’s store, mouth open, watching them. The streetcar turned down Richmond Street and Margaret heard a shout. A policeman directing traffic at the corner began to chase them.

  “Let go!” Jean shrieked. “Run!”

  Margaret let the pole slide from her woollen fingers, staggered at the sudden release, then followed Jean down the street. The girl suddenly stopped, whirled about, and pulled Margaret into an opening between two buildings. Breathing hard, she peered out. “He’s not following anymore. Didn’t he look funny slipping and sliding all over the road!”

  Margaret grinned back, then remembered Peter’s startled face. Obviously shocked at her behaviour. Evie would never do anything that unladylike. Margaret hoped it wouldn’t get back to Mama. She felt a moment’s anxiety, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t have grabbed the streetcar, then tossed her head defiantly. It had been fun. Jean made her feel daring and made her feel like she did when running across the prairie. Free. Margaret looked at the colour in Jean’s cheeks, her green eyes snapping with delight—Jean understood.

  They continued walking, stopping in front of the Grand Theatre to examine the posters advertising the picture show playing that afternoon, Birth of a Nation.

  “It looks wonderful,” Jean breathed. “Have you ever seen a moving picture?”

  “Catherine’s father took us to one once,” Margaret replied. It had been a wondrous experience. Real people moving around on a screen in front of her. How they got them up there, she didn’t know.

  “Margaret!”

  She turned, but couldn’t see Jean anywhere.

  “Over here!” Jean called again, and Margaret followed her voice around the corner of the theater.

  A narrow alley separated the theatre from the building next door. Jean frantically beckoned her.

  “They’ve left the door open,” Jean hissed. She pushed Margaret in front of her. “We could sneak in and see the picture.”

  Margaret backed up into Jean. “We can’t do that.”

  “Don’t you want to see Birth of a Nation? The poster says it’s a mighty spectacle.”

  “Well, yes . . .”

  “So, we’ll never have the five cents to see it, and it’ll never be back here again.”

  Margaret looked at the open door. She’d love to see a moving picture, but there was barely money at home for food, let alone a picture show. Somehow Margaret found herself stepping inside the door and through a red curtain into the dimly lit interior. People milled about and she and Jean quickly joined them. Jean plopped down in a seat and pulled Margaret down beside her.

  “We did it,” Jean whispered.

  Margaret felt the velvet plushness of the seat beneath her, the warmth of the theatre, and slowly began to relax. Suddenly a hand came down hard on her shoulder.

  “You girls didn’t pay,” a man said. He grabbed her arm and hauled her out of her seat. “I watched you sneak in that back door.” He reached over and pulled Jean up, too. As he pushed them up the aisle, Margaret saw her cousin, Pauline, come in and walk toward her, looking for a seat. Right behind her was Peter. They both stopped to watch as Margaret passed.

  “I am going to call the police,” the usher said. “Teach you a lesson.”

  Margaret saw the terror on Jean’s face at the word police and knew she was thinking of her father in jail.

  “We didn’t mean to,” Margaret stammered. “It’s just we wanted to see the show and we hadn’t any money . . .”

  The man began to drag them up the aisle as the lights dimmed.

  “Wait.” A woman stood up in her seat. “These girls are with me. I was looking for them everywhere.”

  She turned to Jean and Margaret. “You silly girls, getting the wrong door.”


  Margaret heard a snap as the clasp of a purse opened and then the clink of coins. “Here is their admission.”

  The hand on Margaret’s arm dropped away.

  “As long as you’re sure,” the man said uncertainly. “Of course I’m sure.

  Don’t you think I know who I came to the theatre with?”

  Mrs. Ferguson! Stunned, Margaret felt herself shoved into a seat. Jean dropped down beside her.

  “Mrs. Ferguson,” Margaret began.

  “Be quiet. I came to see the show, not you,” the woman said. “I don’t hold with girls who talk all the time.”

  Margaret held her tongue and watched as the purple curtains swished open and the title, BIRTH OF A NATION by D. W. Griffith, flashed across the screen. Soon she was caught up in the saga of the Camerons and Stonemans and the horror of slavery and the American civil war. Tears streamed down her face as Elsie’s world fell apart, shattered by war, and her brother lay dead on the battlefield. Would Edward be lying dead on a battlefield somewhere?

  As they came out of the dim theatre, Margaret blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the late afternoon light. She tugged on the coat of the woman in front of her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said shyly. “It was the best show I ever saw.”

  “Thank you, Missus,” Jean echoed.

  “What do you think your parents will say about this little escapade? About your sneaking in without paying the admission? That is just like stealing,” Mrs. Ferguson scolded. Not waiting for their answer, she began to stride down the street, black skirts clearing a path through the snow. Margaret and Jean hurried to keep up.

  Mrs. Ferguson stopped suddenly and pointed at Jean. “You, girl! Go home.”

  Margaret watched as Jean scurried away, then followed in Mrs. Ferguson’s wake.

  Mama and Dad were going to be very angry. Mrs. Ferguson was right. It was as bad as stealing, sneaking into the pictures without paying. And they would find out. If not from Mrs. Ferguson, then from Pauline. Her cousin would make sure of that. She remembered Peter’s surprised face beside Pauline’s. Had they gone to the show together? He must think her horrible—hanging on to the back of a streetcar and sneaking into the picture. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did. She tucked that worry away and turned to the more important one. Mama! She would blame Jean and never let her see her friend again. Margaret stopped walking. Jean was her friend, her only friend in London, and she’d miss her terribly if Mama didn’t allow them to be friends anymore. Catherine was still her best friend, she thought loyally, but she’d never do anything like sneak into the picture show or take coal from the railway tracks. Jean was—fun.