“Allan couldn’t hold a candle to Blair,” she said finally. “To think he’s the one left.”
Margaret’s mouth fell open.
“Don’t go gaping like a fish,” Mrs. Ferguson said impatiently. “I’m not telling the Lord who He should or should not take. I’m sure He has his reasons.”
“For which I am glad, Mother.”
Margaret jumped and turned in her chair to see Allan standing inside the door. She hadn’t even heard it open.
“Don’t look so upset, Margaret,” Allan assured Margaret. “I told you Blair was her favorite.”
He sat down and Margaret poured him a cup of tea, noting that despite his calmness, his face was white. His hand trembled slightly and tea spilled into the saucer. Margaret felt a surge of anger at Mrs. Ferguson. She was horrible. Mama had six children, no, seven counting Baby Hope, but she certainly didn’t have any favourites! Even Grandma Brown didn’t have favourites in her quilts. I love them all equally, Grandgirl. Each is different, but that’s what makes each special in its own way. Like asking me to pick one grandchild over the other. It can’t be done. She glanced at Allan’s face again. It must hurt terribly to know your mother preferred your brother to you.
“What are you going to do with that quilt you’re making?” Allan asked, seeing her distress and trying to distract her.
“I’m not sure,” Margaret answered hesitantly. She didn’t really want to discuss the quilt with them. “Give it to Dad perhaps. He likes geese. We used to watch them fly every spring and fall over our farm in Saskatchewan. We’ll see them again when we go back.”
“Go back? I thought you had an auction,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
“We did,” Margaret said. “For the household furniture, the equipment, and a few animals.”
“Well, I expect your farm was auctioned then, too. That’s what usually happens in these cases. Probably the bank auctioned it off right after you left.”
Margaret sat stunned, holding her teacup halfway to her mouth. It had never occurred to her that the farm wouldn’t be theirs for them to go back to when Mama got out of hospital. She had thought it would always be there for them. She put her cup down into the saucer with a rattle and pushed the sandwich away. She didn’t have any appetite left.
“That cupboard your father made,” Mrs. Ferguson continued. “Do you think he’d sell it?”
“What?” Margaret said. She couldn’t seem to think clearly.
“Take the cotton out of your ears, girl. I asked if your father would consider selling that cupboard he made. The workmanship in it is excellent. I’d like that cupboard. I’m sure your father could probably do with the money, what with your mother in hospital running up bills and him out of work.”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said. “Mama loves that cupboard. I don’t think he would sell it.” She desperately blocked the image of her father standing in front of the cupboard. I’ll get the money somewhere.
“Well, you tell him I’ll give him a good price, more than what’s fair for it if he wants to consider it. You can’t hold on to things just for sentimental value when you can barely pay the rent.”
Margaret stared at the woman and got to her feet. “I’ll take the tray out and tidy up,” she said stiffly.
Tears threatened to spill over as she washed up the cups and wiped down the counters. Allan came in and took a cloth and began to dry.
“You don’t have to do that,” Margaret told him.
“I know.”
They worked together in silence, then Allan spoke softly. “I know you won’t believe me, but Mother was not always this way. Not until Blair died. I mean, I always knew Blair was her favourite, but she never came right out and said it before. Strange as it may seem, she does love me, Margaret. I had hoped having Jean and you here might help her get over his death a bit and it seemed to be. She was taking more of an interest in things.”
Margaret didn’t know what to say. She only knew Mrs. Ferguson now, not before, and she’d already made up her mind that she was never coming again. The woman was horrid.
“I’ll be leaving soon . . .” Allan continued.
“Are you going back to Montreal?”
Allan dried the cup, not answering right away. “I hate to think of mother on her own when I’m not here. Promise me you’ll keep visiting her?” he asked.
Margaret remained silent.
“Please?”
She bit her lip, then sighed, giving in. “I’ll keep coming only because you asked. I can’t speak for Jean.”
She hung up the dishcloth, then gathered her quilt bag.
“You love that quilt, don’t you?” Allan said.
“It’s going to get us back to Saskatchewan,” Margaret told him.
“Mother was too blunt, but she is probably right. I imagine your farm was auctioned off by the bank when you left. You should ask your father. He’d know. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want you building up false hopes,” Allan told her.
Margaret put her boots and coat on, then picked up a small parcel of sandwiches Hilda had left for her on the table and put it on top of the bag.
“No,” Margaret told him calmly. “As soon as I finish the quilt, we’re going home.”
Chapter 18
Margaret watched silver drops of water meander down fogged classroom windows, leaving jagged streaks in their wake. The end of January had brought a sudden thaw, melting snowbanks into brown puddles, both in and out of the school. The school furnace blasted heat, unaware of the unseasonal warmth, making the rooms stuffy and hot. She shifted slightly in her seat so she could see Jean. The girl had been away all week, only returning to school that Friday morning. She was worried about Jean, as, she realized, was Miss Simmonds, who threw several quick glances at the girl. This was the first Margaret had seen her since their late-night adventure under the bridge and she was anxious to have a talk. She shifted again, making the wooden desk creak loudly. Miss Simmonds frowned. Finally, the dismissal bell rang and everyone leaped from their seats.
Stepping over discarded boots and abandoned mitts, Margaret shrugged her arms into her coat and waited for Jean as the cloakroom emptied. She peered in through the tiny window in the classroom door to see Jean returning a book to Miss Simmonds. The teacher held out another one, but the girl shook her head, then made her way out of the classroom.
“I waited for you,” Margaret told her as Jean pushed open the door.
“Thanks,” Jean mumbled, unsmiling.
She looked different today, her face set.
“Have you been sick?” Margaret asked. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Sort of sick,” Jean replied, not offering anything more.
Bewildered, Margaret led the way out of the corridor’s gloom into the playground. Blinking against the afternoon light, she covertly studied Jean’s face, relieved to see no fresh bruises.
“Feels like spring, though I know it’s not really. It’s like a promise you know isn’t going to be kept,” Jean said. She took a deep breath and pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and Margaret’s heart sank to see a yellow swelling on the girl’s temple.
“Was your Dad really mad? I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Jean apologized.
Margaret shrugged. “He was mad at first, but not now. What about your mother? Did she find out?”
“Yes. She found out,” Jean said shortly.
Shouting on the playground momentarily distracted Margaret.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Margaret asked.
“I said I’m leaving,” Jean repeated. “I’m going to hop on a freight train tonight, and I’m going to find my dad in Halifax. Once I’m with him and he sees I can take care of myself, he’ll let me be a V.A.D. helping the nurses. I understand they give the V.A.D.’s food and a bed.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “You can’t run away. You’re not old enough.”
Jean pulled her hair up on top of her head. “This way I look nearly sixtee
n,” she said.
Margaret looked at her doubtfully. With her dirty hair and the yellow swelling and the tired purple circles under her eyes, she barely looked older than Timothy and Taylor! “Aren’t you scared?” she asked.
“You have to have courage if you’re going to be a nurse, so I can’t be scared,” Jean told her.
“I’d be afraid anyway,” Margaret replied.
“You’re not to tell anyone,” Jean said. “Promise.”
After a moment, Margaret reluctantly agreed. “Promise.”
Suddenly, her cousin Mary appeared in front of them and tugged on Margaret’s arm. “Come quick. George is in a fight. You have to stop it before the principal comes out and gives him the strap.”
“Jean . . .” Margaret threw an agonizing glance back at the girl as Mary towed her away. “Don’t go until tomorrow night,” she called over her shoulder. “Come to Mrs. Ferguson’s tomorrow afternoon.” She cast about desperately for something, anything, to make her friend stay. “Hilda will probably have some sandwiches for you. You’ll need food for the train.” She let Mary pull her away.
George was definitely in a fight, Margaret saw, and he didn’t seem to be winning. Peter Stevens sat on top of him, holding George’s hands down at his sides, but at least he wasn’t pummelling him. George squirmed and shouted, face red with the effort to free himself. Pauline stood near the line separating the boys’ and girls’ sides, cheering Peter and talking loudly to her friends.
“They are family, I’m ashamed to admit. It’s a cross we bear. Mother says poor people are shiftless and always trouble,” Pauline announced.
Long-stifled hurt and anger rose in Margaret. She shook Mary’s arm off and she waded into the circle of boys surrounding the fight, pushing them aside to reach George. She grabbed Peter around the chest and pulled him off, falling backwards into a heap with him on top of her. She heard a loud ripping sound and hoped it was her petticoat and not her skirt giving way.
“What a disgraceful display! Her drawers are showing!” Pauline put her hands over her face. “Her mother was hoping she’d learn some manners from me, but obviously she hasn’t. I’m embarrassed she’s my cousin!”
Margaret struggled to get up, but found herself pinned beneath Peter’s leg. She shoved hard to get him off.
“Enough!” A man’s voice shouted.
The schoolyard fell silent. Peter’s weight shifted and Margaret scrambled to her feet to find the principal, Mr. Riley, glaring at her. Miss Simmonds was behind him.
“Not only are you fighting, Miss Brown,” Mr. Riley bellowed at her, “but you are also on the boys’ side of the playground. You have shown a flagrant disregard for the rules, young lady.”
Margaret stared at her feet, face flushed with shame. She hadn’t even thought about being on the boys’ side; she had only been concentrating on getting Peter off George.
“You, you and you,” Mr. Riley pointed at Margaret, George, and Peter. “Into my office now.”
Margaret followed George’s back, too humiliated to look at her classmates.
“Poor as paupers,” Pauline whispered, as they passed.
Margaret whirled around. “And you will be soon, too,” she hissed. “With your dad gone to the war, you’re going to be poor as paupers, too, until he gets back—if he gets back.”
Pauline’s face went white with shock.
Immediately, Margaret wished she could take the words back. She’d said the first thing she could think of to hurt Pauline. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Mr. Riley stood at the door, face furious. “The rest of you go home,” he ordered.
“She’ll get the strap,” she heard someone say. “Imagine, a girl getting the strap.”
She filed into the school behind George and Peter. She had thought things couldn’t get worse, but they had.
“If I could speak with you a moment, Mr. Riley,” Miss Simmonds said.
The principal nodded. “Sit,” he ordered and Margaret lowered herself onto the bench, George and Peter sitting on either side. She noticed the lace of her flannel petticoat hanging down and one of her stockings laddered.
The wood edge of the bench cut deep into her thighs as she stared at the black lettering on the closed door in front of her. PRINCIPAL. She’d never been in trouble at school. Voices murmured through the office door. What was going to happen to them now? She’d only been in the principal’s office once before when she had delivered a note to him from Miss Simmonds. She’d seen the narrow strip of black leather hanging in full view beside Mr. Riley’s desk. It was okay if you were a boy to get the strap—almost a badge of honour—but a girl! A girl getting the strap was disgraceful. She’d never be able to show her face at school again. She jutted her chin out. Well, she’d just stay home and take care of the twins and Evie could go to school, or—or she could run away with Jean. Her heart sank thinking of her friend leaving and a tear trickled down her cheek.
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Peter whispered beside her. “Don’t cry.”
“Why were you fighting George?” Margaret asked.
“I wasn’t. Not really. He just came at me all at once.”
She turned to George, sitting on her other side. “Why were you fighting Peter?”
“Pauline said Peter would never look at you twice because you were poor and plain looking and big as a house,” George told her. “I couldn’t get at her because she was on the girls’ side and, besides, Dad says you shouldn’t hit a girl, so I got Peter instead.”
“I never said that,” Peter protested loudly.
“Shh . . .” The school secretary frowned at them over the top of her glasses.
Margaret felt her face getting hotter and hotter. She shifted slightly away from Peter. If only the floor would open and swallow her. Poor and plain and big as a house, all because of Grandma Brown’s people. But they’d also given her quick hands to make tidy stitches, except right now she’d give up her quilting to be small and pretty!
“I really didn’t say that,” Peter whispered out of the side of his mouth, leaning over her to speak to George. “Margaret might be plain, but she’s certainly more fun than that fussy Pauline. I never saw your cousin holding on the back of a streetcar sliding or sneaking into the theatre like your sister did. And I don’t care a whit if you’re poor.”
They were talking through her like she wasn’t sitting there, Margaret thought, shame turning to anger.
“I didn’t know that. I’ll tell Mr. Riley it was all my fault,” George said softly. “That way only I’ll get the strap.”
“Naw. We’ll share the blame. Then we can show off our red hands to the others.” Peter and George grinned at each other, irritating Margaret further. They might be able to show off their red hands, but she’d never live down hers. And Peter thought her plain, though, she allowed, better than Pauline.
Miss Simmonds opened the principal’s door and gestured for them to come in. Margaret’s heart thumped against her chest as they lined up in front of the principal’s desk.
“One of the rules of this school, as every student knows, is no fighting. I won’t have students acting like hooligans. You have broken the rules and will take the consequences,” Mr. Riley said sternly. He stood and took the strap from its hook. “Hold out your right hands, palms upward.”
Margaret slowly extended her arm. Never had she thought she’d be standing in the principal’s office getting the strap.
Miss Simmonds cleared her throat noisily.
Mr. Riley looked at Margaret. “Put your hand down, Miss Brown. I’ll deal with you later.”
Margaret’s arm fell like a dead weight. She stared at the knots in the principal’s wood floor, wincing at the sound of leather hitting flesh, three times for each boy, but felt better when she saw Peter wink at George as they left the office. Suddenly she found herself alone with her teacher and the principal.
“Miss Simmonds says you are a good student, Miss Brown,” Mr. Riley said. “Respectful and
helpful, though you are having some difficulty adjusting to our school. She thinks this incident is only a one-time occurrence and will not happen again. I also understand your mother has been in hospital some time now.”
Margaret nodded.
“Times get hard, but we can’t let that affect our good behaviour.”
Margaret nodded again.
“I’m not going to give you the strap, but I am going to send a letter home to your father, telling him what happened here today. He can punish you as he sees fit.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper. “I don’t want to ever see you in here again.”
“No, sir,” Margaret said.
Miss Simmonds put her arm around Margaret’s shoulders and led her from the principal’s office. “I’d like to send a note to your father, also,” she said. “Please wait here a moment, Margaret.”
She soon returned, holding out a small envelope. “Please give this to him. I explained what happened and that the fault was not entirely yours. I probably shouldn’t have, but, well, just give it to him.”
“I will,” Margaret assured her, taking it. Two letters. She didn’t know what Dad would say. Never before had she brought letters home from school.
“It will get better, Margaret,” Miss Simmonds told her. “We all just have to hang on for a while and have a little faith.”
Faith!
“Miss Simmonds . . .” Margaret stopped.
“Yes?”
“I just thought you should know that Jean’s mother hits her,” she finished in a rush.
“I know,” Miss Simmonds said quietly. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do, Margaret. I give Jean books and help her keep up with her studies. Jean is very bright and I’m hoping in the end she can find the good life she deserves. I am glad, though, that Jean has you for a friend.”
Margaret debated telling Miss Simmonds Jean was leaving, but she had promised the girl she’d tell no one. She walked into the deserted playground and found herself immediately pounced on by George and Peter.
“So what happened?” George demanded, then stuck out his hand. “It didn’t barely hurt,” he bragged, but immediately plunged his hand into snow.
Flying Geese Page 16
