It had made Christmas seem larger, somehow, to see her presents spread under the tree Dad had got. He’d walked out to the farm where he’d picked apples in October and chopped wood for a day in return for a spruce tree, firewood, and a bag of windfall apples that her mother had made into pie. He could barely hobble the next day, face drawn with pain, but he looked satisfied to see the tree in the middle of the kitchen, its tangy scent filling the cottage. Margaret took a deep breath every time she passed that tree, she loved the smell so much. Evie had tied red bows on it from snippets of leftover wool, and they’d wrapped it in a paper chain they’d made from the Eaton’s catalogue and flour glue. A change from using the catalogue’s pages in the outhouse, George had told them. Then her presents had gone underneath, to join Mama’s and Dad’s gifts to each child.
At first Mama had been angry that Margaret had spent her money on gifts. Had even gone so far as to start to say, “That money would have been better spent . . .” when suddenly she stopped, swallowed, and said, “Thank you, Margaret. This scarf will make my old coat quite elegant.”
Dad had tucked his handkerchief in his pocket to go to Uncle Harold’s for Christmas dinner, making sure the embroidered initials faced outwards for all to see. Uncle Harold had admired it greatly and asked her to do one for him, too.
She clattered down the stairs to the landing and stopped. Uncle Harold’s house had a stained glass window of blue and red and yellow overlooking the yard. Placing her face against one pane she peered out to see red snowflakes fall over the vegetable garden. She shifted position and the snow changed to blue. Moved again, and it was yellow. Pretty, she thought, but she liked the proper way snow should be—white. Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if life was like that? You could look through the yellow and if you didn’t like it, move on to the next colour.
As she squinted out the blue glass again, voices from the living room floated up the stairs.
“. . . didn’t want to worry you about it at Christmas.” Uncle Harold’s voice.
“Aren’t you too old for the army?” Mrs. Brown asked.
Margaret crept down the stairs and quietly sat on the lowest step, out of view, but able to hear.
“No. No. Just turned forty, Olivia,” Uncle Harold protested. “In fact, I hear Prime Minister Borden is thinking of enforcing conscription for all men between eighteen and forty-five to sign up. Whether he’ll ever do it, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about joining up for quite some time now. They said I was a bit stout—” he laughed slightly, “—but army life would soon take care of that. We all have to do our part.”
“Your part,” Aunt Dorothy snapped. “What about your wife and daughters? I’ve already had to stop their piano lessons in anticipation of your pay cut. We can’t survive on what the army will pay you!”
“It’s just for a short while, Dot,” Uncle Harold assured her. “And I am thinking of you and the girls. You’ve seen the papers and the posters. Your safety depends on us men getting over there and ending the war. You’ll just have to learn to economize. Women all over Canada are doing just that.”
Margaret wished she could see Aunt Dorothy’s face at those words.
“The store’s promised to keep my job open for me for when I come back,” Uncle Harold said heartily. “Until then, I guess some woman will do it. We’ll have to watch these women, Martin. Working in factories, running the streetcars. They’re taking over our jobs.”
There was an awkward silence as Uncle Harold realized too late that Mr. Brown didn’t have a job to be taken over.
“I have to report in a couple days,” he went on quickly. He lowered his voice. “We didn’t tell the girls. I told them I’m taking a little holiday. Didn’t want to spoil their Christmas. We’ll tell them in a couple days.”
Uncle Harold was going into the army, and Pauline was sprawled on a bed full of Christmas gifts. How would she take to economizing? Margaret tried to picture her portly uncle in a uniform and found she couldn’t. She had thought only young men went into the army and what had Uncle Harold said about conscription? Mr. Riley had told them about conscription, forcing men who wouldn’t volunteer to go to war and how shameful a way it was to go to war. She rapidly did some math and with relief decided her father was too old and, besides, with his bad back they’d never take him. She wouldn’t want to be Pauline and Mary with their dad at the war. It was bad enough Edward was there. She stood a moment longer listening to George and the twins shouting outside, then went back upstairs and into her cousins’ bedroom.
“I—I had to step out a moment,” she said.
“I noticed your skirt, Margaret,” Pauline said.
Margaret proudly smoothed out the flannel plaid material over her knees. Since she was taller than both Evie and her mother now, she’d outgrown her last dress. Mama had lowered the hem of one of her own skirts, cleverly concealing the turn mark with red braid and given it to her for Christmas. It was the longest skirt she’d ever worn, right to the middle of her calves, and Margaret felt quite grown-up in it.
“Using trim to cover the hem line barely makes it noticeable,” Pauline continued. She held a yellow blouse up to her chest. “Mother and Father gave me this waist. Isn’t it lovely?”
Instantly hurt, Margaret opened her mouth to tell her cousin she probably wouldn’t be getting any more dresses with her father in the army, when a crash from downstairs brought them all to their feet.
“Martin! Harold! Come quick! It’s Olivia!” Aunt Dorothy cried.
Margaret and Evie flew down the stairs and crowded into the kitchen. Mrs. Brown sat hunched over in a chair, splinters of china at her feet. Margaret’s father knelt down beside her.
“What is it, Olivia?” he asked.
“The baby,” she gasped. She moaned and gripped her stomach.
Uncle Harold turned around and saw the gaping mouths. “Right, you children clear out now.”
“But, Mama . . .” Margaret began.
Uncle Harold gently pushed them out of the kitchen. “Your mother will be fine,” he assured her. He turned back to the kitchen. “I’ll get the neighbour’s car, Martin. We’ll take her to the hospital.”
“No, it’s too expensive to go to the hospital,” Mrs. Brown protested feebly. “I just need to lie down.”
“You need a doctor,” Margaret’s father said.
He helped her walk slowly through the hall. Margaret’s heart lurched at the sight of the white, pain-twisted face that barely resembled her mother’s.
“The children can stay with Dot,” Uncle Harold said, and then they were gone.
“Oh, dear.” Aunt Dorothy looked over at the twins and George dripping water on the floor as snow melted from their pant legs. “Oh, dear,” she repeated.
Margaret glanced at Evie. She did not want to stay in this house another minute.
Evie squared her shoulders. “I think it would be best if the boys went home to bed,” she said. “It’s been a long day. Margaret, get our coats please.”
“I don’t know . . .” Aunt Dorothy began. “Maybe you should stay . . .” she continued weakly. Her eyes went to the door. “Well, if you’re sure . . .”
“They sleep better in their own beds,” Evie said firmly. “Margaret, George, and I can care for them fine.”
Margaret wanted to hug her sister right then, but she ran for their coats instead. She knew she would just burst out screaming if she heard Pauline’s odious voice once more.
“Thank you very much for Christmas dinner, Aunt Dorothy,” Margaret said politely. That was exactly what Mama would say, she knew.
“You’re welcome.” The woman fluttered her hands about distractedly. “I’ll be by tomorrow to see how you are doing. Or your Uncle Harold will.”
They stepped out into the cold air. A full moon glowed white from behind racing clouds, casting dark-blue shadows across the snow-blanketed lawns. Yellow light, warm and friendly, spilled from house windows as they passed, and they huddled closer together. Arriving at t
he cottage, they pushed opened the door, then stood a moment, reluctant to go into the dark and cold. Finally, Margaret moved inside and lit a lamp.
“George,” Evie said, “get the stove going . . . no. Wait.” Margaret could see her sister blinking rapidly to hide tears as she glanced at Mama’s chair.
“We’ll all go to bed instead,” Evie decided. “There’s no point lighting the stove then. We may as well save wood.”
Margaret wrestled the twins into flannel nightgowns and laid them down in their small bed in the corner of her parents’ bedroom. Timothy immediately began to cry.
“Maybe we should sleep in here with them,” Margaret suggested. “Just until Dad gets home.”
Evie nodded.
She ran upstairs, quickly pulled on her nightgown, grabbed her Flower Basket quilt and clattered down the stairs to her parents’ bedroom. Scooping up Timothy and Taylor, she jumped into the big bed with them. Evie crawled in the other side and they crowded together to warm the sheets, the quilt pulled up to their chins.
“George,” Margaret suddenly called.
Her brother stuck his head around the door.
“Do you want to sleep in the twins’ bed?” she asked.
“I’m not a baby,” George said disgustedly. “I can sleep upstairs by myself.”
“I just thought you’d be warmer down here if we were all in one room,” Margaret explained, though part of her felt she’d uttered a lie. She didn’t know if she wanted him to sleep in their room for her or for him, but it certainly was not for warmth.
“I suppose,” George agreed slowly. “That way I could get the stove going when Dad and Mama come in.”
Margaret stared into the darkness, hearing the even breathing of the twins. They were the only ones sleeping, she knew. Was there another Brown being born right now?
“Mama shouldn’t have had the baby yet, should she?” Margaret whispered into the bedroom’s cold, still air.
She waited with dread to hear what Evie would say. Living on a farm, she was used to births: kittens, pigs, calves. They all knew about births—and deaths.
“I think Mama said the baby would come in late January or early February,” Evie said after a moment. “She didn’t talk about it much.”
Wind rattled the window, blowing past the eaves. Margaret remembered the prairie wind bringing with it the sudden storm and hail which had ruined their crop and forced them to move to Ontario. God had done that, singled out their farm, but He wouldn’t let anything happen to Mama and the baby on Christmas night—would He?
The click of the outside door opening brought Margaret instantly awake and sitting up in bed. She looked around, bemused a few minutes, then remembered they were all sleeping in Mama and Dad’s bed. Mama! She threw back the quilt and blankets and ran into the kitchen to see her father softly close the outside door.
“Dad!” Margaret cried. “How is Mama?”
“Hush . . .” her father whispered. “Keep your voice down. It’s early and I don’t want the twins up yet.”
He sank wearily into a chair. Margaret shivered, suddenly aware of how cold the room was. She quickly went to the stove, pulled open the iron door at the front, pushed in a few bits of kindling, and lit it. Blowing gently until the flames caught, she then placed a couple sticks of wood on top. Satisfied it was burning well, she sat across from her father at the table.
“How is Mama?” she repeated.
“She’s had the baby—a girl it was . . .”
Was! Dread filled Margaret’s heart.
Her father must have seen the alarm in her face, for he immediately shook his head. “No. No. The baby’s still hanging on to life. For now. But she was born too early, the hospital says. A little bit of a thing . . .” His voice trailed off.
Margaret nodded. She knew what he meant. She’d seen runts before. The smallest of the litter, they sometimes lived—and they sometimes didn’t.
Evie came out of the bedroom, George following, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“We’ve got a sister,” Margaret told them. “But she’s a runt.”
Her father frowned at her words, then sighed. He knew the baby was a runt, too. “Mama is very ill. She’ll be in hospital for a while.”
Taylor and Timothy tumbled into the room and began to clamour for breakfast. Timothy went too close to the stove, his arm touching the hot metal. He began to scream. George grabbed a pail and went outside for water, while Evie comforted Timothy.
“I don’t know how we’re going to manage . . .” Her father looked around the room as if for inspiration. “I don’t even know how I’m going to meet the hospital bills, the medicine, and the doctor . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handful of coins. “I have fifty-three cents between ourselves and starvation.”
His eyes settled on the chair where Mrs. Brown’s unfinished knitting sat. “Margaret, take that wool back to your Uncle Harold’s first thing this morning. I don’t want to see it in this house ever again.”
Chapter 13
“George! Would you hold still? You’re going to make me cut it all crooked!” Evie’s voice rose with frustration.
George twisted away from her and grabbed the hand mirror, squinting into it. “It looks awful,” he cried. “It looks like you chewed my hair!”
“It’s not my fault. You won’t hold still,” Evie argued.
Margaret bent her head closer to her sewing. Thank goodness, she wasn’t a boy and could wear her hair long. George was right; Evie had done a terrible job cutting his hair—the front was ragged and the back far too short.
“Mama never had any trouble,” George told her.
“Well, I’m not Mama. I’m doing the best I can,” Evie said, her voice catching.
Margaret cut a thread and smoothed the row she had finished on the table, pressing the seams to one side with her fingernail. Six rows done now, and one to go, then all that was left was the sashing between the rows and the borders.
Timothy came over to her and pulled at her skirt. “Pick me up, Margaret,” he whined. Taylor threw his truck across the room. Margaret sighed deeply. Three weeks Mama had been gone and they were all missing her. Mama was like their glue and now that she was away, they were all becoming unstuck. She studied the newly finished row of geese, her thoughts turning to Saskatchewan. Maybe if they’d stayed there, Mama wouldn’t be sick. Maybe by the time she got her quilt finished, Mama would be out of hospital and they could go back home. Like the geese returning every year to their farm, they would, too—once she finished the quilt. George shouted at Evie as Timothy’s demands to be picked up grew more frantic. Ignoring everyone, Margaret threaded a needle. She’d better work on it fast. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Taylor’s searching hands reach for the scissors. “No. You mustn’t touch. They’ll hurt you,” she scolded.
He began to cry.
“What is all the noise out here?” Mr. Brown stomped into the kitchen from the bedroom.
“Evie cut my hair crooked,” George yelled.
“He won’t stay still, so of course it’s uneven.”
“Enough,” Margaret’s father shouted. “Why are the boys crying?”
“Timothy’s ear is aching again and I haven’t had time to get the medicine the doctor said he needed,” Evie explained.
The medicine. Margaret scrunched down farther in her seat. Maybe Dad wouldn’t notice her, because if he did . . . well . . . she knew what was going to happen and she didn’t think she could face that again.
“Margaret.”
She bent almost in half, hiding her face.
“Margaret,” Dad repeated. “You could be more help around here. Put that sewing away and run down to the drugstore and get the medicine for Timothy.”
“I’ll start supper if Evie goes,” Margaret pleaded. “Or George, he could go.” He didn’t care what people thought. He could just go on pretending everything was fine.
“I said you were to go.” Mr. Brown cut off her protests with a slig
ht cuff across her ear.
Tears sprung to Margaret’s eyes, but not from physical pain. He’d barely touched her, but the fact he had done it at all—that hurt. Dad never touched them. True, once he’d taken George out behind the barn for a whipping for lying, and the twins got an occasional whack on their backsides if they went too near the stove, but that was all.
She carefully tucked her needle away so the boys wouldn’t get at it, then put on her coat and boots. Dread knotted her stomach. She wanted to tell Dad how she’d asked the baker for credit for a loaf of bread yesterday and the man’s face had twisted, looking at her like she was something awful he’d found on the bottom of his boots. She’d confided in Jean, who said that happened to her all the time. Her family took credit from stores all over town, moving from one to the next as their credit ran out. She said you soon got used to the looks, but Margaret didn’t believe her. You could never get used to people looking at you like that. She wanted to tell Dad, but decided he already knew. She had seen his face when he’d returned from his latest job hunt a week ago. He’d not been out looking for work since.
There was a knock at the door and Margaret pulled it open to see a man in uniform standing outside. After a moment she realized it was Uncle Harold. He stepped into the room, looking sheepish.
“Feel a bit foolish decked out in this thing,” he told Margaret’s father. “I’m with the 35th Battalion. A private for now, but they told me I’d soon be an officer with my organizational skills and age and all, though I doubt I’ll ever see action. Probably work in stores.” He seemed almost regretful. “Dorothy will be pleased.”
He slapped a newspaper down on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat. “Thought I’d deliver the paper to you in person so you could check the help wanted ads. I don’t know if Dot will remember to send it over after I’m gone or not. I’ll speak to Mary, or one of the children here could run over and get it at the end of the day.”
Flying Geese Page 11
