Mr. Thurlowe nodded and accepted the gloves, then he and Jean disappeared down the street.
Mr. Brown turned to Margaret. “Into the house! Now!”
Margaret scurried indoors to find Evie sitting near the stove, face twisted with worry. She’d obviously woken and, not finding Margaret beside her, had sounded the alarm. “Go to bed,” Mr. Brown told her. Evie scrambled up the stairs.
Margaret slowly unwound her scarf, waiting for the storm. She heard a chair being dragged out from the table and anxiously turned to see her father sitting, staring at her.
“Do you know how dangerous it is for a young girl to be out walking the streets at night?” he asked sternly. “Especially down at the river where those homeless men are? Can you imagine what your mother would say?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. It’s just Jean asked and . . .”
“And you thought it was more important to do what Jean asks than what you know is right.”
“Well,” Margaret began then stopped. She hadn’t really thought at all, she’d just gone. “Her ma wouldn’t let her see her dad before he went away, so she asked me to go with her,” she explained. “She just wanted to see him. That felt right, too, Dad.”
“Maybe her mother had a good reason for not letting Jean see him.”
“She said he’d shamed the family, that’s why. Because he’d been in jail. He didn’t look like a criminal, did he?”
“He looked like a poor and unhappy man,” Dad said, his tone softening. He splayed his fingers out on the table and stared at them. “We all look poor and unhappy.” He sat a long moment. “So you’re Jean’s friend. I don’t expect that girl has many friends.”
“No,” Margaret agreed.
“And you? Do you have many friends?”
“Well, Jean, and Miss Simmonds, my teacher, is nice to me, and Mrs. Ferguson and Allan,” she added.
“Mrs. Ferguson?” Her father sounded surprised.
“I guess.” Margaret shrugged. “She’s sort of a friend. She talks to me anyway. Dad, Jean’s mother hits her.”
“Hits her?”
“She’s got a big bruise across the cheek. She’s had others.”
Mr. Brown looked slowly around the room, shaking his head. “What a mess I’ve landed us in.”
She watched her father’s face become closed and knew he’d shut himself off from her once again.
“Dad,” she said hesitantly. “Can I still be friends with Jean?”
He looked at her blankly, then nodded his head. “I guess so, seeing as she’s the only friend you have, and you’re her only friend. Now get to bed and never let this happen again,” her father ordered.
Margaret began to climb the stairs, when her father’s voice stopped her. “Just a minute.”
He pulled a bundle wrapped in brown paper from his coat pocket. “This is for you.”
Margaret came back down the stairs and untied the string holding the package together. Cloth spilled out, enough to make the sashing between her geese rows.
“A lady was throwing it out and I thought it might be of use to you.”
She stood fingering the cloth. It was good quality, silky smooth to touch. “Thank you, Dad. I’m sorry I was rude about you being the rag-and-bone man. It’s just the others at school made fun of me and George and . . .”
“I know. I know. But I’m doing what I have to do to keep food on the table. Now it’s late. Get along to bed.”
In the bedroom, Margaret’s cold fingers fumbled with the buttons of her nightgown. She felt chilled right into her bones and couldn’t stop shivering, but didn’t think it was all from the frigid air. She slipped into bed beside Evie.
Evie gave a cry. “Your toes are like ice.”
“Sorry,” Margaret mumbled, pulling her feet away.
“Was Dad really mad?” Evie asked.
Margaret thought a moment. “I don’t know.” In fact, she wished he had been mad and yelled at her. Mad she understood, but not this troubling confusion she felt now.
“You can lay your feet next to mine,” Evie offered after a moment. “They’ll warm up faster that way.”
Slowly Margaret’s shivering lessened and she began to feel drowsy. Fragmented images crossed her mind: men crouched before a fire beneath the bridge; Mr. Thurlowe; Edward with a bayonette; Dad bewildered and sad; Jean’s battered cheek; and Grandma Brown leaning over her patchwork. Quilting is about working with bits and pieces. You gather them up and stitch them into an orderly pattern. But what if the pieces were too many, too small, and too scattered to ever put together?
Chapter 17
“Terrible situation, this.” Margaret’s father tapped a finger on an article in the newspaper. “Imagine that quartermaster at the barracks stealing meat meant for the soldiers and selling it for profit! Have you heard much about it at the camp, Harold?”
“There’s been some talk, but the army likes to keep it fairly quiet,” Uncle Harold replied. “Don’t want to lower morale. But I do know there are more charges pending. My feeling is there’s more to it than a couple soldiers looking to make an easy dollar. Here we are trying to win a war, and our own people taking advantage of the situation. Takes all kinds.”
Margaret moved closer to the stove for warmth, holding her sewing at an angle to catch the fire’s dim light. War, she was fast discovering, was more complicated than school or church made it out to be. The lines between right and wrong, so clear to her before, were fast becoming blurred.
It was dark as night in the cottage, even though it was just after lunch. The day’s light had been swallowed by wind-driven snow rattling against the window. She could sit at the table where Evie was studying under a coal oil lamp, but an icy draft came in under the door frame, so Margaret huddled near the stove. A sudden shriek of wind reminded her of prairie blizzards—howling storms sweeping from the north unchecked across the flat land, hurling snow into a blinding white wall. As she joined pieced geese blocks to form a border, they rose living from her quilt and took flight against a clear Saskatchewan sky, their cries echoing over the farm and spring green fields. She could see them so clearly her lips parted with joy, then suddenly clamped together again as fancy fled and reality took hold once again. She wasn’t in Saskatchewan. She sat in a small, cold, damp cottage in Ontario, listening to Dad and Uncle Harold talk about the doings at the army camp.
Margaret had been surprised to see her uncle at their door during such a storm but he said he felt a bout of restlessness and needed to get out. Aunt Dorothy and Pauline would give anybody cabin fever, Margaret thought uncharitably.
“What’s that you’re working on, Margaret?” Uncle Harold asked suddenly.
“Her Flying Geese quilt, Uncle Harold,” Evie answered, raising her head from her school books. “She works on that thing day and night.”
Margaret spread out the rows she’d sewn together so Uncle Harold could see.
“That’s lovely,” he exclaimed. “Bit hard on the eyes, though, working in that dim light. Too bad that old woman couldn’t extend the hydro out here.”
“Just as well,” Mr. Brown told him. “I couldn’t afford it right now.”
“Still no sign of a job, then.”
Margaret’s father shook his head. “I keep hearing about all these jobs going begging now that all the men are gone, but I can’t find them. Still, I imagine something will turn up, if we can survive until then. At least the little bit from the cart helps, but Johnny will be back soon since he’s finally on the mend.”
“Well, if the man would wear a coat in winter . . .” Uncle Harold’s voice trailed off. “I’d like to help you out, Martin, I really would. But with my pay cut so much, Dorothy is beside herself trying to make ends meet already. I had no idea it would be so difficult. Perhaps I shouldn’t have signed up . . .”
“We’ll be fine, Harold. Though I do appreciate the offer. Besides, if conscription comes in, you’d be going anyway and volunteering is a better way to become a soldier.”
/> “Dad,” Evie said suddenly. “There’s a job for an upstairs maid at the Tecumseh Hotel—”
“No,” Mr. Brown interrupted. “I don’t want you working at a hotel cleaning up after who knows who.”
“It’d just be Saturday afternoons until you get a job,” Evie went on. “Margaret could watch the boys.”
“No,” their father repeated. “You start working and we’d come to expect the money and then you’re trapped. You’d never go back to school and become a teacher like you want. As I said, we’ll manage.”
An uncomfortable silence was broken by another piercing shriek of wind.
“Listen to that storm!” Uncle Harold exclaimed. “Too bad your quilt wasn’t finished, Margaret. I’d wrap it right around me, it’s so cold out there.”
Finishing the quilt. Now that was a problem Margaret had been trying to avoid. The material Dad had got had been enough for sashing and a bit left over for the borders, but she still needed a lot of material for the backing.
“Where are you going to get the material to finish your quilt?” Evie asked, voicing Margaret’s dilemma.
“I don’t know. I was hoping I could find an old sheet, but there’s no spares these days,” Margaret replied. “I thought I’d use the blanket from our bed for the middle as it’s pretty threadbare. But the backing’s a problem. I don’t know where I’ll get it. I need a lot of material and I’ve used up pretty much everything in Grandma’s bag, so I can’t even piece one together.” She’d lain awake nights trying to figure this problem out.
“Red’s mine!” A loud cry from the corner of the room brought all their heads around. Timothy tugged on a toy truck in Taylor’s hand. Margaret set aside her border. “I’ll see to them, Evie. You keep on with your studying.”
She caught Evie’s look of gratitude and felt a pang of guilt. She knew deep down it wasn’t all concern for Evie that caused her to jump up to quiet the twins. It was mostly a desire to get back on Dad’s good side. She didn’t want to do anything that would remind him of her escapade last night, not that he was likely to forget.
She plunked the boys in chairs at the table and gave them a cup of warm milk to drink. Once they finished it, they’d probably sleep and she could work some more on her quilt.
Uncle Harold shifted in his chair, cleared his throat, paused, then asked. “Any more tea?”
That hadn’t been what he was going to say, Margaret thought, but she jumped up, pulling the teapot from the stove. She carefully refilled her father’s and uncle’s cups.
“You’ve got a good helper here, Martin,” Uncle Harold said.
“Yes,” Mr. Brown agreed dryly, giving Margaret a knowing glance.
Not fooled one bit, Margaret knew. She looked into the empty teapot and hoped Uncle Harold wouldn’t ask for another cup. That had been the last of the tea, but they’d offered it to Uncle Harold like Evie said Mama would want, even if it meant none left for themselves tomorrow.
“I was up seeing Olivia yesterday,” Uncle Harold went on. “She’s looking better. Any idea when she’ll be let out?”
Margaret felt a rush of anger. If Uncle Harold could go visit Mama in hospital, why couldn’t she? Maybe just children carried germs, not grown-ups. Still, it felt good to hear Uncle Harold say she seemed better. She missed Mama so much.
“I don’t know. They can’t get that fever of hers to stay down two days running. She’s had a rough time of it.”
“And the baby?”
“Hanging on. A fighter for such a tiny mite,” Dad said, pride and wonder softening his voice.
Hope! Margaret thought. She has a name. Hope! But she couldn’t tell Dad she’d named the baby. Her shoulders drooped as if beneath a great weight. She wanted to see Mama. Wanted to see baby Hope with her own two eyes. Only then would she believe they were getting better.
Uncle Harold scraped his feet across the floor and cleared his throat again. “I came over for more than a visit, Martin. I came to say goodbye. I’ve got my orders to be mobilized. That’s why I was up seeing Olivia. I have two days’ leave, then I’m going Tuesday morning.”
They all stared at him. They’d known he’d go sometime, but now that it was here, it didn’t seem real.
“How’s Dorothy taking it?” Dad asked.
“Not saying much, but she sure isn’t happy. I’m telling the girls tonight. I wonder . . .” he stopped, then started again. “With your situation and all . . . I really hate to ask this of you, but I wonder if you’d keep an eye on them for me? Make sure things are fine with the house, if they need help.”
“Certainly,” Margaret’s father readily agreed. “We’ll do everything we can.”
“I really do appreciate it. Don’t like to think of them on their own.”
Margaret glanced at the clock sitting on Mama’s cupboard, startled to see the hands had marched so far ahead; nearly two o’clock! It had seemed like night all day long, making it difficult to keep track of the time.
“I have to go to Mrs. Ferguson’s,” she announced. She looked over at Evie, suddenly troubled. Evie was trying desperately to keep up with her school work from home. “Unless you need me, Evie.”
“Go,” Dad said. “I’ll keep an eye on these two.” He pulled Taylor onto one knee, then Timothy to the other. Taylor struggled to get down. “They look just about due for a nap anyway. Though why you keep seeing that old battle-axe, I’ll never know. By the way, I haven’t seen George all day. Do you know where he is?” Mr. Brown asked.
“He said he had some things to see to,” Margaret told him.
“Probably gone sledding with the boys,” Uncle Harold said heartily. “They’re the only ones fool enough to be out in this weather. Must be great to be young, eh, Martin?”
Margaret smiled, but privately doubted it. She’d seen George’s face when he left. He wasn’t out playing with friends. He’d gone to settle some differences again. He stood by himself in the schoolyard these days, ignoring the others. She’d noticed Peter go over a couple times, but George wouldn’t even look at him, so the boy no longer tried. She wished she could do something to make it easier for him, but she wasn’t allowed on the boys’ side. At least she had Jean, though the girl’s attendance at school was patchy these days.
She put on her coat and boots. “Goodbye, Uncle Harold.”
“Goodbye, Margaret. I’ll write and let you folks know how I’m doing, but you have to promise you’ll write back.”
“We will,” Margaret assured him. Her eyes lingered a moment longer on him. “Maybe you’ll meet Edward,” she croaked, barely able to force the words past the huge lump in her throat.
“Maybe I will,” Uncle Harold said. “You be a good girl now.”
Margaret nodded and left the cottage before she burst into tears and made him feel bad. She plowed through knee-deep snow, clutching her bag with her quilt and scraps tightly so the wind wouldn’t snatch it from her. She felt a guilty relief to be leaving the cottage, knowing she’d have an uninterrupted hour to sew at Mrs. Ferguson’s. She’d make it up to Evie, she told herself, by doing supper so her sister would have more time to study. Her mind ran over their remaining food stores, wondering what she could make from a few turnips, potatoes, and a bit of flour. Potato pancakes, she decided as she knocked on the back door of the house. They’d be filling.
Hilda opened the door immediately and held it against the wind, gesturing to Margaret to hurry inside. Margaret said a polite hello, then took off her outer clothes, being careful not to drip melting snow on Hilda’s clean floor before making her way to Mrs. Ferguson’s parlour.
“Where’s that other girl?” Mrs. Ferguson demanded.
“I expect the storm is keeping her home,” Margaret said. She hoped it was the storm anyway. Had Jean’s mother found out about her being out late last night?
Hilda brought in the tea things right away, instead of waiting until the end of their visit as she usually did.
“She wants to get home before the snow gets worse
,” Mrs. Ferguson explained. “We’ll have it in a bit. I guess you’ll want to work on that quilt rather than read to me,” she grumbled.
“I’ll read if you like,” Margaret said.
Mrs. Ferguson waved an arm. “Never mind. I know you really want to work on that sewing you cart with you everywhere.” She leaned wearily back in her chair by the fire, eyes focused on the picture of Blair.
Margaret felt uncomfortable and compelled to speak. “Where’s Allan?”
The woman grimaced, got to her feet, and moved stiffly to the fireplace, poking randomly at the fire. “Around somewhere. Drawing pictures, no doubt. That’s all he seems to do. Weather’s hard on my legs,” she complained. She picked up the photograph from the mantel and studied it. “He was popular at school, Blair was. Handsome. All the girls thought so.” She shoved the picture towards Margaret.
He did have good looks, Margaret agreed, except his chin seemed a bit weak.
“High-spirited, too. He could get into more trouble, but then he’d just smile and make you forget all about it. Couldn’t smile his way out of death, though.” Mrs. Ferguson abruptly placed the picture back on the mantel, then crossed to a table and opened a drawer. She took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Margaret. “That’s all I have left of him. The chaplain who buried him drew me this map to show me his grave in France near Ypres. He’ll never come home and I’ll never go there to see him.”
Margaret took the paper, noting how soft the creases were from being folded and unfolded many times. She studied the rough pencil drawing and with a finger traced a curving line, a road, she guessed, to an X marking the grave site. A small box next to it indicated a church.
“At least he’s in a regular graveyard,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “I heard many of our dead just sank into the mud where they were killed and disappeared. Doesn’t seem right they’re not in a church burial yard, but I suppose God knows where they are.”
Margaret handed back the map. Mrs. Ferguson squinted at it, then refolded it and placed it in the drawer.
Flying Geese Page 15
