Carrying the empty basket back to the brick house for another load, she saw the curtains part and a black shadow in the window of the parlour. Margaret waved, but the figure moved back and the curtain fell back into place. Margaret shrugged. She’d be seeing Mrs. Ferguson soon enough anyway. She had to go over there tomorrow afternoon.
“Margaret,” Evie shrieked from the back door, arms waving frantically. “You’ve put my brassiere and corset on the line!”
Margaret carefully laid the triangle templates on the scraps in an effort to get every bit of material from them. She was fast running out of remnants, but if she was frugal, she thought, eyeing the pile, she’d have just enough for the borders to go around the quilt. They would be flying geese, too. Four rows of patches were sewn together now, but three long pieces of uncut fabric were needed to run between each row for sashing. She had no idea where she’d find them and so had decided to piece the borders in the meantime.
Jean was reading to Mrs. Ferguson and her, though she seemed distracted, stumbling often over words. She’d been like that at school today, too, Margaret realized, and Miss Simmonds had become quite impatient with her. Guiltily, she remembered brushing past the girl in the playground. Jean had avoided her most of the day, adding to Margaret’s guilt. Maybe Jean was too upset to read.
“You may as well stop,” Mrs. Ferguson said peevishly, when Jean repeated a sentence twice to get it right. “I don’t know what’s the matter with your tongue today.”
“I’m tired is all,” Jean said.
“Well, have a good sleep before you come here. It’s the least you could do, seeing as how the only thing I ask you to do is read.” The woman got up and crossed to the table where Margaret had her rows spread out. She picked one up and squinted at it. “Your stitches are very neat and even. You’re a good seamstress.”
Jean came over and dropped the book on the table, scattering pieces to the floor. “Sorry,” she said, bending to pick them up. “You could set yourself up as a dressmaker,” she told Margaret. “You could be your own boss and make a living for yourself.”
Margaret shot a quick glance at the girl. Maybe Jean wasn’t mad at her, after all. Relief flooded through her. What had Jean said? Make a living for herself. She felt a small flutter of excitement in her stomach. She’d not thought about making her own living. Evie had always known she wanted to be a teacher, but Margaret had always thought she’d just be married like Mama, live on a farm and have children. But she wouldn’t mind sewing clothes for people and the money might come in handy, married or not. But what would her husband say about her working? Dad hadn’t been too happy about Mama doing knitting. Most men didn’t like their wives working. It seemed to take something away from them.
“Whatever happened to girls wanting to stay home and take care of a family?” Mrs. Ferguson said, her thoughts obviously following the same path as Margaret’s. “In my day, girls didn’t think about flying aeroplanes, being nurses, or being the boss of anybody.”
“In your day they didn’t have aeroplanes,” Jean retorted. “Why shouldn’t girls become pilots or be bosses? We’re just as good as men at doing things, sometimes better. More and more men are going away to war right now, and women are taking over their jobs in factories and on farms. They’re driving ambulances and doing some of those jobs better than the men!”
Margaret heard the door open quietly and someone come in. She glanced up to see Allan standing by the bookcase, listening to his mother and Jean.
“God wants women to stay at home, doing what their husbands ask of them. No matter what Mrs. McClung and her like say.”
“I doubt God wants that,” Jean replied. “Maybe men want that. Besides, everything’s changing these days with men going off to war and being killed. And I’m not sure God wants that, either.”
“Well said, Jean.” Allan laughed and came into the room. “You have a debater here, Mother. She keeps you on your toes.” He flopped down onto a sofa.
“Well, I think she should learn to hold her tongue!” Mrs. Ferguson said heatedly. “God is on our side in this war, the right side. He will help our men to cleanse the world of evil. You can’t be a good Christian if you are only partly loyal to God and your country.”
“Perhaps the Germans think God is on their side, too,” Jean told her. “And what if they’re right?”
Margaret paused in her sewing. She’d never thought of the Germans as people before, going to church, shopping, school. They were a faceless enemy. Was there another girl, overseas, piecing a quilt and praying her brother would be safe as he fought against the Canadians? Every Sunday in church the minister said God was fighting right alongside their men, but what if God wasn’t involved in the war at all and the men fought alone—on both sides? She felt a deep emptiness. Could Jean be right? Her eyes lingered on her friend’s face as the girl continued arguing with Mrs. Ferguson. She appeared tired, white, and peaked, except for a red mark across one cheek.
“What happened to your face?” Allan asked suddenly, seeing it also. He heaved himself from the sofa and pulled Jean to a window.
“I walked into a—a door,” Jean said hurriedly, turning away.
“A door with fingers,” Allan commented, studying the redness. He exchanged a glance with his mother. She pursed her lips, but merely said, “Go ask Hilda for the tea, Jean.”
“We must do something,” Allan said as soon as the girl had left the room.
“There’s nothing we can do. It’s not our place to interfere,” Mrs. Ferguson told him. She fell silent, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. “How’s that girl do in school?”
“She gets good marks in English and history. Miss Simmonds gives her extra books to read,” Margaret replied. “Lately, though, she’s been too tired to do her homework and Miss Simmonds has been mad.”
“Mother, someone is hitting that girl. We have to do something,” Allan insisted.
Margaret looked up, shocked. Of course. How could she have not known? Jean wasn’t accident prone, she moved too quickly and surely for that. But who was hitting her?
“It’s between her and her family,” Mrs. Ferguson repeated. “Maybe she needs discipline. Heaven knows she’s wild enough.”
The agitated tapping continued until Jean returned with Hilda and a trolley piled high with the tea pot, cups, sandwiches, and small cakes. Jean quickly downed two cups of tea and crammed a handful of ham sandwiches into her mouth.
“Your manners are atrocious,” Mrs. Ferguson scolded.
“Sorry, Missus. I was hungry,” Jean mumbled through a full mouth.
“And do not speak with food in your mouth.”
“Sorry,” Jean repeated, then snapped her mouth shut as she realized she’d spoken with it full again. Her foot banged impatiently against a chair leg and she began to scratch her head.
“Stop that infernal noise and stop fidgeting,” Mrs. Ferguson ordered. “And when was the last time you washed your hair?”
Jean shrugged, moving restlessly.
What, Margaret wondered, was bothering Jean? She couldn’t sit still.
Mrs. Ferguson replaced her cup in the saucer with a rattle, picked up a napkin, and patted her mouth. She rang a tiny bell beside her and Hilda came in. “Clear these things away.” She turned to the girls. “You can both leave now. I don’t hold with ill-mannered people.”
“Mother,” Allan protested, then shook his head helplessly.
Margaret quickly put her scraps back into the bag, folded the strips on top, and pulled on her coat. Jean was halfway out the room by the time she finished. As they passed through the kitchen to the back door, Hilda suddenly appeared and thrust two packages wrapped in brown paper into their arms, ushered them outside, and closed the door behind them.
Margaret pulled a corner of the paper away. “It’s leftover sandwiches,” she told Jean. “I guess she made too many. Evie will be able to put some in Dad’s lunch for tomorrow.”
Jean carelessly pushed her sandwiches int
o one of the deep pockets in her coat. “Never mind that now,” she said. “I have something important to tell you and . . .” She stopped a moment. “And something special to ask of you.” She glanced up at the brick house and plucked Margaret’s sleeve. “Come away from here. I don’t want anyone eavesdropping.”
She pulled Margaret behind a tree out of view of the house and cottage. Margaret huddled close to the trunk. It helped somewhat to break the wind, but she could still feel cold swirling up beneath her coat hem. She hoped Jean would hurry up and tell her what she wanted to say, but Jean suddenly became tongue-tied. Finally, she took a breath. “My dad’s out of jail,” she said all in a rush. Her eyes stared at a spot above Margaret’s right shoulder. “Ma says we’re not to see him. She says he doesn’t deserve to see us, shaming us by going to jail. But I . . . I want to see him. I miss him.”
There was a lot of pride in Jean, Margaret realized. She had trouble asking anyone for help.
Margaret nodded for Jean to go on, still uncertain what she wanted her to do.
“My brother Richard says Dad’s staying under the bridge by the river for a couple nights, hoping Ma will change her mind about him. But he’s only staying two nights. Says he’s jumping a train and going to Halifax to join the navy. I have to see him, Margaret. If I don’t see him now, I’m afraid I’ll never see him again. I wonder . . .” She stopped, bit her lip, and looked directly at Margaret. “Will you come with me Friday night to the bridge?”
Chapter 16
A whirlwind of snow blew into Margaret’s face as she slid down the icy slope into black beneath the railway bridge. She couldn’t believe she was actually there with Jean, out so late at night. Mama would have a fit if she knew, but hopefully she would never find out. Or Dad, for that matter. If he discovered she’d crept out of the house after all the family was asleep, well, it didn’t bear imagining what he’d do.
The world, she discovered, took on a different guise after sunset. Towering pines, friendly by day, became darkly ominous by night. Far off a dog barked, its howl immediately picked up and echoed by a second dog, then a third. The scent of wood smoke mingled with the damp smell of the nearby half-frozen river.
Her feet suddenly slipped from beneath her and she slid on her back the rest of the way down the incline. Picking herself up, Margaret wiped snow from the back of her coat, then looked around for Jean. Her mouth dropped open at the number of men sheltering beneath the bridge. Most were huddled around two huge fires, but here and there on the ground a dark shape slept alone, bundled up against the cold. Never had she imagined that this other sad world existed so close to her own.
Jean edged her way to the first fire to search for her father, and Margaret hurried to catch up, not wanting to be left alone in this increasingly frightening place. Unease gave way to panic as she squeezed past the men. Faces, at first glance all seeming old, were, in fact, young, prematurely aged by cold and weariness and hunger. What had brought them to this place? She wanted to run home to huddle beneath Grandma Brown’s quilt, but knew Jean needed her.
“Dad!” Jean suddenly cried and threw herself into a man’s arms.
Margaret stood back, watching them, then wormed her way closer to the fire as her fingers began to go numb from cold.
“What are you doing here, girl?” Mr. Thurlowe asked.
His voice carried a slight musical lilt. Irish or Scottish, Margaret decided. She’d have to ask Jean some time.
“Richard said you were here. He said you were going away and I had to see you before you went,” Jean replied.
“I don’t imagine your ma knows you’re out this late,” Jean’s father scolded.
Jean hung her head. “She said we weren’t to see you.”
“Well, then, you shouldn’t be going against your ma’s wishes.”
“I know, Dad, but . . .”
Mr. Thurlowe suddenly swept Jean up in a hug that left Margaret’s eyes stinging with an unexpected fierce longing. When had Dad last hugged her? Putting Jean back down, Mr. Thurlowe turned his daughter’s face towards the fire. “What’s this on your cheek? This bruise? Has your ma hit you?”
“Don’t mind, Dad,” Jean said dismissively. “The baby was fussy one day and Ma was beside herself. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
Margaret felt shock jolt through her, yet she wondered why. She knew someone was hitting Jean, but she never thought it had been the girl’s mother! Mama would cuff them occasionally, and then only for a good reason, but never hit so hard as to leave a bruise.
“She shouldn’t be taking it out on you,” Mr. Thurlowe said angrily. “I should be there to keep things from happening. I’m so sorry, girl. I’ve let you down.”
And he wasn’t the only one, Margaret thought. She still had not apologized to Jean.
“As I said, don’t mind, Dad. I’m fine. I need to talk to you.” Jean looked around at the listening men, then pulled her father to one side. Margaret stumbled along behind on icy feet.
“Oh, Dad,” Jean said. “This is my friend, Margaret Brown. She came with me tonight to keep me company.”
Mr. Thurlowe stuck out his bare hand and Margaret pushed a mitten into his.
“You are lucky, Jean, to have such a friend as would come with you here. I don’t expect your family knows you’re out, either.” He frowned at Margaret, then his lips twitched upwards. “But I’m glad to meet you.”
Margaret stared at her feet. “She’s not that lucky, Mr. Thurlowe. I was mean to Jean the other day and I’m sorry.” Her teeth chattered with cold as she forced the words through frozen lips.
Jean stared at her. “Oh, that on the playground? I’d forgotten all about it. You were mad at the world, and I just happened to be in your way that day.”
Margaret looked back at her friend in surprise. How could Jean forgive so easily? A mother who hit her, a father just out of jail, no decent clothes, yet she didn’t hold a grudge against anyone, and certainly not against life. Margaret mulled this over, all the while shooting furtive glances at Mr. Thurlowe. This was the closest she’d ever been to a criminal. He was not what she had expected—a criminal should be someone large, with perhaps a bushy beard and a mean glint in his eyes, not this slight, exhausted-looking man with the soft, singing voice.
“Dad,” Jean said. “You can’t go away.”
“Your ma won’t have me back. She’s made that plain. I’m going out east to join the navy. They’ll take just about anyone with the war on, and I’m hoping that far away they won’t ask too many questions about me. I’ll get regular pay then and I’ll send it back to your ma. Maybe that will make her think kinder of me—and you,” he added.
“Then take me with you,” Jean demanded. “I can get work in a factory, or go overseas with the Voluntary Aid Detachments. The women volunteer to help the nurses, or drive ambulances.”
Her father shook his head. “No, girl. You’re too young.”
“I could lie about my age and if you back me up, they’d believe me.”
“No. You have to stay here. Go to school. Keep out of your mother’s way as much as you can.” His voice became grim.
“But, Dad . . .”
“I can’t take you, Jean. I don’t know where I’ll be. You’ve a good head on you, girl. Of everyone in the family, you are the one who could make something out of yourself. Don’t lose that opportunity.”
Tears streamed down Jean’s face. “I’m going to be a nurse, Dad.”
“Good. You hold on to that, then. I’ll be back,” he promised. “Once I get into the navy and send some money back to your ma and the war is over, maybe things will be different.”
“You’ll write and tell me where you are?” Jean held on to his hand.
“As soon as I get settled I’ll send a letter . . . but in the meantime . . .” He clapped his hands together to warm them. “It’s very late so I’ll walk you two ladies home. You first, Margaret, if you’d show me the way.”
As they passed through the deserted
city streets, Mr. Thurlowe asked Margaret questions about her family, and she found herself telling him all about Mama in the hospital and the new baby she’d named Hope and Dad out of a job. He’d nodded his head knowingly at that. Turning down the street leading to the brick house, Margaret stopped abruptly and gave a tiny shriek as a figure loomed out of the darkness in front of them.
“Dad,” Margaret breathed. Her heart began pounding.
“Where have you been?” her father yelled.
“I . . . I went with Jean to see her father under the bridge by the river,” Margaret stammered.
“It was my fault, Mr. Brown,” Jean cried.
“I’m Frank Thurlowe.” Jean’s father stepped forward and held out a hand.
Margaret’s father hesitated a moment, then briefly shook it.
“I expect you know all about me. Most people do.” Mr. Thurlowe held his head higher. “I got out of jail a couple days ago, and I’ve been living rough, trying to straighten a few things out before I go away. I don’t approve of what these girls did tonight,” he went on. “Jean knows better, and she shouldn’t have dragged your daughter into it, but I will tell you that Margaret here is a very loyal friend.”
Mr. Brown said nothing, his eyes roaming up and down the man.
“I feel easier knowing Jean has a friend like her, as I’m leaving tomorrow. Heading to Halifax by boxcar and joining the navy.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Margaret whispered. She stepped to her father’s side. She felt his body rigid with anger.
Jean and her father turned to leave.
“Mr. Thurlowe,” Margaret’s father said suddenly. He pulled thick gloves from his hands. “Take these. It’s a miserable night, and if you’re travelling tomorrow, you’ll have more need of them than I do.”
Mr. Thurlowe hesitated.
“My oldest son, Edward, is in England waiting to go overseas. Perhaps you will run across him some time and do him a kindness.”
Flying Geese Page 14
