Flying Geese

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  “Did you lose something?” Peter came up beside her, skates thrown over his shoulder, wool toque pulled low over his forehead.

  “My brother lost his mitten.” She held up Timothy’s hand.

  “Hey, I saw one like that near Dundas Street,” Peter told her. “I know exactly where it is. I’ll be right back.”

  Margaret waited, shifting from foot to foot to keep them from becoming numb with cold. She hoped it would soon be her turn to skate before she turned to ice herself. She rewound the twins’ scarves about their necks and ears, making sure their noses were covered, then pulled her own scarf up over her head.

  “Here it is!” Peter ran up with the mitten.

  Margaret pulled it over Timothy’s hand and tucked the end securely inside his sleeve. She’d have to remember to pin a string on them and thread them through his coat so they didn’t get lost again. They headed back to the rink.

  “Are you going skating?” Peter asked.

  “I’m waiting for Evie to finish her turn,” Margaret told him. “We only have the one pair of skates.”

  “We could go get a hot chocolate to warm us up while we wait,” Peter suggested.

  Margaret felt her face flush. “I’m not cold. You get some if you want.” She didn’t want Timothy and Taylor to start yelling for a drink when they didn’t have the money.

  Pauline twirled up beside them, hands tucked inside her new fur muff. “Come skate with me, Peter.”

  Peter glanced at Margaret, but she fussed with Taylor’s scarf to show him it was of no concern to her whether he skated with her cousin or not. But why did she feel so bad, she wondered, as he made his way to a bench to tie on his skates. Pauline followed, chatting and dimpling at him. She watched him step onto the ice and take a couple practice strides. She turned away, not wanting to see them skating together.

  She and the twins wandered around the paths by the edge of the rink. George flew along on their father’s skates, the centre of a crowd of noisy boys. He didn’t have to wait for his turn to use skates, Margaret thought, thoroughly disgruntled.

  She saw Allan sitting on a bench, attention divided between the pad of paper on his lap and the skaters he sketched. She hesitated, not wanting to disturb his work, but he suddenly looked up and saw her, smiled and waved her over. She herded the twins in front of her.

  “Aren’t you skating?” he asked.

  “After Evie’s turn,” Margaret said shortly. She didn’t want to tell him about sharing skates. “I’m watching the boys.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry to hear your mother is in hospital,” Allan said. “Will she be home soon?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Allan held out his paper and Margaret saw the skaters weaving an intricate dance on the ice, scarves flying, skirts twirling, heads thrown back. “It’s wonderful! They look so real,” Margaret exclaimed. “Alive!”

  Allan tore off the sheet and smoothed a fresh paper. “Hold still and I’ll do you,” he said. His hand moved swiftly and Margaret could hear the soft swish of the heel of his palm against the paper as it moved. She felt awkward, not knowing whether to smile or not. She’d never been drawn before. They’d had a family picture done once at the photographers in town in Saskatchewan and Mama had told her to stop grinning. Having your likeness taken or drawn must be a serious business.

  “Margaret!”

  She turned around to see Jean waving wildly at her from the other side of the park. The girl ran across the rink in her oversized boots, dodging skaters, her long, black coat flapping around her ankles.

  “She looks like a crow in flight,” Allan commented. He quickly flipped to a fresh page on his pad, his pencil moving swiftly. “Does no one take care of that girl?” he asked under his breath as Jean came up, face streaked with black. “Or give her a bath?”

  Margaret didn’t answer, knowing he wasn’t really speaking to her. “You missed the parade,” she told Jean.

  “We moved house today,” Jean gasped.

  “Where are you living?”

  “Same street, just down three places. Ma couldn’t put off the rent man anymore so we took everything over to our new place this morning. Ma gave our new landlord one week’s rent. She always does that. Gives just one week’s rent in advance. It fools the landlord into thinking we can pay, then we stay for a few more weeks while she promises him the rent money’s coming, until he catches on and wants us out. Then we move on to a new place and start all over again. Ma says that way she’s only out one week’s rent for an entire month or so.”

  Allan stared at Jean a long moment, shook his head, then bent back to his sketch.

  “Look at that dumb Pauline skating with Peter,” Jean said. “So stuck on herself with that fur thing over her hands.”

  Margaret inched her nose into the air. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “He’s not holding her hand,” Jean told her softly.

  Evie skated up to them and sat on the bench next to Allan. “Your turn, Margaret,” she said, bending to remove the skate blades from her boots.

  “You can pull me around behind you,” Jean told her. “I don’t have skates but we can do crack the whip.”

  Margaret took the icy blades, flinching at the cold metal touching her hand, and clamped them to her boots.

  “Peter’s coming over,” Jean warned her. “He’s not with Pauline anymore. He’s with George.”

  Margaret didn’t answer, continuing to calmly check her boot laces, though her heart hammered against her chest and her fingers fumbled with knots. Numb from cold, she told herself.

  “Come on, Margaret. We’re going to play tag,” George shouted. “Peter is It.”

  Margaret pulled on her mittens and stepped onto the ice.

  “Daddy!” Timothy suddenly crowed. Taylor began to jump up and down on the bench.

  Margaret looked around but could only see the rag-and-bone man’s horse and cart on the road passing the park, though today the horse only wore a hat, no stockings.

  “Daddy!” Timothy shouted again.

  “Oh!” Evie breathed in a short gasp.

  Puzzled, Margaret followed her sister’s gaze to the driver’s seat of the cart. There perched on top was her father!

  “That’s your dad? Your dad’s the rag-and-bone man?” a voice shrieked. Children crowded around them.

  “Of course not,” Margaret said desperately.

  George’s mouth dropped open.

  A snowball sailed through the air and hit the side of the cart.

  “You boys stop that!” Margaret’s father yelled, pulling on the reins and stopping the horse.

  Margaret felt her entire body go numb, but not from cold this time. She flopped down on the ice and savagely pulled off the skates with trembling fingers.

  “Are you the new Johnny?” someone shouted.

  “What happened to the old one? They finally take him to the lunatic asylum?”

  Margaret stalked across the rink, not noticing when a skater rammed hard into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. She had to get away.

  “Wait,” Allan called. He held out his pad of paper. “Don’t you want your picture?”

  She began to run.

  “Margaret,” Mr. Brown shouted.

  She ran past the cart, refusing to look at him. How could he do this to them? Her father, the rag-and-bone man. Only a crazy person was the rag-and-bone man. She’d never live this down. Never.

  Chapter 15

  “I’ll take this letter up to the hospital to show to your mother.” Margaret’s father slid the white envelope into his pocket. “Not that it will bring much comfort to her.”

  A letter from Edward had arrived, containing the news that he was at a camp in southern England for further training before heading to the frontline. From our camp we can see the coast of France on a clear day. Imagine, we are only a few hours away from the firing. Where I am is some of the prettiest scenery in England, making it hard to imagine a war is on. I went to Dover the other day with
some of the fellows and saw a number of torpedo boat destroyers. A ship fresh from France was unloading some of the wounded. The boys were shot up pretty bad. I can’t wait to get over to the front and see the war for myself. Last night a German Zeppa dropped bombs on the camp, and a couple of our boys were killed. We covered all the windows with blankets for tonight in case we get visited again. I hope they lose their way.

  The week before had seen the arrival of another letter, from Catherine, telling her friend that she’d been by the Brown farm and that dirt had drifted high against the side of the house and tumbleweeds had overrun the yard. It’d made Margaret feel sad, but at least she knew the buildings and house still stood. There would be somewhere to go back to come spring.

  “Say hello to Mama, and the baby,” Evie said to her father.

  Mr. Brown waited a moment. “Do you have a message for your mother, Margaret?”

  Margaret shook her head, keeping her eyes on the piecing in her hand.

  There was a long silence. “There’s no shame in an honest day’s work that is putting food in your mouth!” he said, voice tight with anger.

  Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes, blurring the patches in front of her until they swam blue and brown, but still she didn’t speak. The door slammed behind her father.

  “How can you do that to Dad?” Evie scolded. “It’s just for a few weeks until Johnny’s up and about on his feet again from his pneumonia, and it’s money coming in. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  That was the trouble—she was drowning in shame: shame that she had only one skirt to wear to school day after day, shame that they lived in a house with an outdoor pump, shame that Dad was the rag-and-bone man, and, worst of all, shame that she hurt her father so much. If only Grandma Brown was here to talk to. She’d know how to put the shame to rest.

  “Come on. We better get going if we’re to use Mrs. Ferguson’s washer,” Evie said.

  Thank goodness, they had to do the washing and she didn’t have to go to school today. As soon as she set foot on the playground yesterday, she’d felt the difference. The girls ignored her most of the time, but yesterday they’d giggled and whispered behind their hands. She’d glanced over to the boys’ side to see George standing alone, bewildered and lost.

  “Her father’s crazy,” a voice had said as she’d passed through the yard. She cringed now, remembering her shame.

  Jean had come over to join Margaret, but she’d swept right by the girl saying, “I might be the daughter of the rag-and-bone man, but at least I’m not a criminal’s daughter.” Thinking about that now, remembering Jean’s devastated face, she felt the shame come back in waves. She hadn’t meant it. Just had lashed out, feeling so hurt.

  She piled clothes into a large basket and heaved it onto one hip and went to follow Evie out of the door. “Straighten your hair. It’s sticking up everywhere,” Evie ordered. She dipped her hand in the water pail and flattened Margaret’s hair.

  Margaret pulled back. “I can do my hair myself,” she protested.

  “Well, then do it! And your petticoat is showing beneath your skirt.”

  Margaret hitched it up as best she could with the basket in her arms.

  “Do you know where George is?” Evie asked.

  “I saw him outside in the yard. I’ll go look.” He’d be glad he wasn’t going to school today, either. She rounded the side of the cottage to see George sitting with his back against the shed, head hanging down.

  “Your pants will get all wet sitting in the snow like that,” Margaret exclaimed.

  “I don’t care,” George mumbled.

  “Well, you’ll care if you catch cold and Evie starts dosing you,” she threatened. “We’re going to do the washing, and you need to watch Timothy and Taylor.”

  George climbed slowly to his feet. As he did, Margaret caught sight of an ugly purple bruise swelling on his cheek.

  “What happened?” she cried.

  “Nothing. Just a fight.”

  “What were you fighting about?”

  “If you need to know, Miss Nosy . . .” George grabbed the hat from his head and pointed to his hair. “About this! Everyone knows Evie cut it. And Pauline’s been going around telling everyone Dad’s the rag-and-bone man. The boys say Dad’s a lunatic like Johnny.”

  “Even Peter?” Margaret asked, holding her breath and wondering why she cared so much about George’s answer.

  “Peter didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease me, but didn’t stick up for me, either. I went over to the school and settled things up at recess. Mr. Riley saw me fighting. He’ll probably tell Dad,” he added glumly. “Why are they acting like this?”

  Margaret had never seen him so upset. She remembered him saying he ignored what went on around him and pretended things were fine. Obviously he couldn’t do that anymore and it was hitting him hard.

  “I don’t know why they’re acting so dumb. We’re no different this week than last. I’m sorry, George.” Margaret couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Maybe we’ll go back to Saskatchewan in the spring. You and I are getting bigger. We should be able to help out a lot on the farm. Despite what you say, girls can work on a farm. I don’t need to go to school after next year.”

  George looked hopeful for a moment, then the corners of his mouth turned down. “We’ll never go back. We’re stuck here forever. I wish I was like Edward and could go to war.” He wandered towards the cottage.

  Margaret stared after him. So Peter hadn’t helped George. A stab of disappointment took her by surprise with its intensity. She followed Evie to the brick house and waited while her sister knocked at the door. Hilda opened it and waved them into the kitchen. She pointed towards the washer set in the middle of the room, then left.

  “Doesn’t she speak?” Evie asked.

  “I’ve never heard her say anything. Maybe her tongue was cut out as punishment for lying.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Evie scolded. “You’re not a child anymore. You should act your age. Start sorting these clothes while I fill the tub with water.”

  Margaret grimaced at her sister’s back as she took George’s pants and added them to a pile of her father’s work shirts. Evie was born old!

  The sorting done, she watched as Evie dumped carefully hoarded soap shavings into the washing machine, followed by water from the warming tank on the back of Mrs. Ferguson’s stove, and stirred it a moment with a long stick, before adding the boys’ pants. She turned the handle on the side of the tub, churning the clothes together.

  “This is a lovely machine. It moves so easily,” Evie admired the shining tub. “And the clothes wringer is right on top instead of separate. That makes less work.”

  Hilda came back and put a kettle on the stove.

  “It’s a beautiful kitchen,” Evie told the woman shyly. “It must be a pleasure to cook in and you keep it so nice.”

  Hilda smiled briefly. She leaned over the washer, took the stick, and prodded the wet clothes a moment, nodded her approval, and stepped back. The kettle whistled shrilly and the woman quickly measured tea into a pot and filled it with water. She set it back on the stove to steep while she sliced bread, buttered it, and placed it on a tray with a small pot of jam and a china teacup. She filled cups with tea and placed them on the table, setting a slice of bread beside each, then motioned to the girls to sit down before placing the teapot on the tray and leaving.

  “Is that for us?” Evie said.

  “I guess so.”

  They sat down at the table, Evie glancing around the orderly kitchen. “It’s nice here,” she said, sighing. “Imagine someone fixing your tea and serving it to you. I’d love a maid.”

  Margaret decided not to tell her sister about her teas with Mrs. Ferguson.

  Hilda returned a few moments later, put on her hat and coat, and let herself out the door.

  “Thank you,” Evie called to the woman’s back.

  “It might look nice, but it’s a strange household,” Margaret told her.r />
  “We better get the washing finished.” Evie stood up from the table. “You clean these cups up—and do a good job that even Mama would like.”

  “Evie,” Margaret said as she dried the cups. “Do you think Mama is getting better?”

  “Dad says she is. It’s just taking a while to get her strength back. He says the baby’s getting stronger, too.”

  “Have you been to see her?”

  “Mama? No. Dad said they wouldn’t let us children see her in case we brought in germs.”

  Margaret carefully put the cups away. Dad wouldn’t say Mama was getting better if she wasn’t, would he?

  “Evie,” she said suddenly. “It’s been almost four weeks since the baby was born and she doesn’t have a name yet.”

  “Maybe Mama and Dad didn’t name her in case she didn’t live,” Evie said, her voice matter-of-fact. She pushed clothes through the wringer. “Keep turning that handle, Margaret, so all the water gets out!” she exclaimed. “It’s harder to lose a baby once it’s named. That first load is ready for the line now.”

  “The machine sure is a lot faster than using that old scrub board,” Margaret said. “If for nothing else I’ll thank Mrs. Ferguson for that.”

  “Margaret!” Evie looked scandalized. She cast a quick glance at the closed door leading into the rest of the house. “Can you not hold your tongue? What if she hears you? And whatever you do, don’t put Dad’s combinations on the line. We’ll hang them and our corsets and drawers inside by the fire. Mama would die of embarrassment if we hung our underwear outside.”

  Margaret hauled the basket of wet clothes outside and began to peg them to the line. She hoped Mama would be home soon and she hoped the baby would live. Hope. She stood still, one of the twin’s rompers dripping in her hand. Hope! Everybody should have a name. She’d call the baby Hope. Just to herself, of course.