“Did you get the strap?” Peter asked.
“No, but I have two notes to take home to Dad,” Margaret told them.
She looked George up and down. “I don’t know whether to be mad at you or not,” she said.
“Oh.” Peter slapped a hand against his forehead. “George, I almost forgot to tell you. Dad said the newspaper is looking for delivery boys, if you want a job.”
“Want a job? I’ll go see them right now.” George whooped and ran off, arms pumping wildly, sore hand forgotten.
“I’m glad you didn’t get the strap,” Peter said, then suddenly grinned. “Who’d think you could fight like that—and on the boys’ side, too.” He fell into step beside Margaret.
“I really didn’t say those things to Pauline,” he told her.
“I know,” Margaret said, glumly. But he still thought her plain.
“Are you going to the church sleighing picnic Sunday afternoon? I have the fastest coaster in London and you can ride on it if you like. Jean too,” he offered. “Some of the girls are afraid of sledding, but it shouldn’t scare you two.”
“What about Pauline?” Margaret asked. “Won’t she be going with you? You went to the movies together.”
“No, we didn’t,” Peter said disgustedly. “We arrived at the theatre at the same time so she said we should sit together. I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no. She’s always doing that.”
“Well, then I’d like to go sledding,” Margaret told him. “But I doubt Dad will let me go after he sees these letters. Peter,” she went on, “why are you nice to Jean? Most of the other kids aren’t, and she broke your dad’s store window and stole from him.”
Peter shrugged. “Jean’s dad did that, not Jean. Besides, you always know where you stand with her. I don’t have to be dodging her all the time or be polite like I do with some of the other girls.”
Margaret studied Peter as he bent and picked up some snow, forming it into a ball. He was very nice. Maybe he’d get taller some day and she wouldn’t seem so big.
“Did you know Pauline invited me to a party for Valentine’s day? A sweetheart party! Have you ever heard of anything so silly? But, Jean,” Peter continued, “Jean is just herself. You can take her or leave her, she doesn’t really care, and I like that. You’re sort of the same way too.”
He made it sound like a compliment, and Margaret found herself smiling and feeling lighter.
“I turn off here,” Peter said.
“I’ll let you know about the sleighing picnic,” Margaret promised. She suddenly remembered the letters in her hand. Chances were slim she’d see Peter on Sunday.
She let herself into the cottage to see Mrs. Ferguson standing in the kitchen talking to her father. She scuttled into the room; she’d never told Dad about Mrs. Ferguson’s offer to buy the cupboard.
“I’ll give you a good price for it,” the woman said. “I imagine the money would come in handy.”
“Yes, it would,” Mr. Brown admitted. “But I’ll have to think about it awhile. I’ll let you know .”
Mrs. Ferguson opened her mouth as if to pursue the matter, then suddenly nodded and pushed past Margaret without a glance at the girl.
“Dad! You can’t sell Mama’s cupboard!” Margaret protested as the door shut behind the woman.
“I might not have any choice if we want to pay next month’s rent.”
Margaret took a deep breath, remembering the notes. “I have a letter from the principal,” she said miserably.
Her father flipped open Mr. Riley’s letter and quickly read it, his face clouding over. “A daughter of mine fighting like she was brought up in the street,” he thundered. “Is that how your dress got ripped?”
Margaret plucked at the waistline of her skirt. She had forgotten it had been torn. “And Miss Simmonds said to give you this,” she said, holding out the second letter. Her father grabbed it from her hand, but didn’t bother to open it.
“More trouble!” he yelled.
“No Dad,” Margaret interrupted. “Miss Simmonds said she explained in her letter about the fight. If you’d just read . . .”
He wasn’t listening. “What’s the matter with you? Sneaking out at all hours of the night, fighting at school. Go up to your room! Now! Get out of my sight!”
Margaret flew up the narrow staircase. She flung herself down on the bed, then sat up and wrapped her grandmother’s quilt around her. Usually feeling Grandma Brown near quieted her mind, but not today. After my baby died, I couldn’t do anything but quilt. Not the tidying, not the baking or the other chores, but I could quilt. I nearly quilted my fingers to the bones. I quilted that horrible pain into an ache. Suddenly she threw the quilt off. She’d work on her sewing. The sooner it was done, the sooner they could leave this awful place. She pulled out the bag from the corner beside her bed, then knelt down beside it, puzzled to see her scissors lying on the floor nearby. She always put them away carefully, mindful of the twins getting hurt.
She unfurled a long border strip, then froze. Tiny pieces of material fell to the floor. Frantically she pawed through the bag and found one long border of geese cut. Timothy and Taylor must have got upstairs when Evie wasn’t looking, found her scissors, and cut her quilt top! She let the coloured scraps trickle through her fingers. They were too small to be pieced together, and she didn’t have any more material to make a new border. Her shoulders heaved in huge sobs. She’d never finish the quilt now. They’d never get home.
Chapter 19
Margaret’s feet dragged across the yard to the brick house, leaving black trails through a new-fallen layer of snow. January thaw over, they’d once again plunged into winter, the sky above swollen with grey clouds. She didn’t feel like seeing anyone, let alone Mrs. Ferguson, but she’d promised Allan, and, besides, it might give her one more chance to talk Jean out of leaving. She didn’t know what she’d do there, since she didn’t have her quilt to work on anymore. After seeing the border all cut to pieces, she’d bundled up the top and thrown it into the farthest corner under the bed, then flung herself down and cried until she fell asleep. Evie must have taken off her stockings and tucked her in, because when next she woke, it was morning. Dad had already left to drive the rag-and-bone cart. She wished she had seen him as she still didn’t know what punishment he was giving to her for fighting.
“Margaret!” Jean beckoned from behind a clump of shrubbery at the side of the house.
Margaret hurried over to her, relieved to see her friend hadn’t left yet. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “Are you coming to Mrs. Ferguson’s?” she asked.
“In a minute,” Jean said. “I have to hide this.”
Margaret looked at the small bundle Jean was thrusting into the centre of the bushes and felt her heart sink. Obviously, Jean was still set on going.
“Remember. You promised not to tell anyone,” Jean reminded Margaret. “Especially her.” She nodded towards the house.
“Please don’t go, Jean,” Margaret pleaded. “Maybe your father will come back and things will get better.”
“Things never get better, only worse,” Jean said bitterly.
Margaret had no answer for that. Jean was right.
“I’ll only stay at Mrs. Ferguson’s a bit,” Jean continued. “Long enough to get some sandwiches for the train.”
They left the bush, arriving at the back door in time for Hilda to pull it open. The woman scrutinized Jean’s and Margaret’s faces carefully. Like she knew, Margaret thought guiltily, feeling her cheeks become hot. She hated secrets. Jean seemed unconcerned as she pushed past the woman, kicked off her boots, and led the way to Mrs. Ferguson’s parlour.
“I was beginning to think you two weren’t coming,” Mrs. Ferguson complained. “Well-brought-up girls are not tardy.”
“We’re not well brought up,” Jean replied flippantly. “Do you want me to read?” She went over to the bookcase, stood a moment looking longingly at the books, then took down Jane Eyre. “We might be able to
finish this today,” she said.
“Where’s your sewing, girl?” Mrs. Ferguson asked Margaret. “Is that quilt done? You’ll have to start something else. Idle hands are the devil’s work.”
“I—I,” Margaret began, feeling tears prick. “Timothy and Taylor got into my quilt and cut part of the border. I can’t repair it and there’s no more material left to make more. Every spare scrap we have goes into patches for our clothes these days.”
“Oh, well. No doubt you’ll collect more as time goes by,” Mrs. Ferguson said. She motioned to Jean to start reading.
“You don’t understand,” Margaret interrupted. “I have to get my quilt finished. It’s a Flying Geese quilt. Geese migrate in the spring back to Saskatchewan. If I get that quilt finished, Mama would get out of hospital and we could go back to Saskatchewan, too.”
“You place that much faith in a heap of material?” Mrs. Ferguson snorted.
“Yes,” Margaret said shortly.
“That’s almost as foolish as this girl wanting to fly in an aeroplane.”
The door suddenly swung open and Hilda wheeled in a trolley piled with sandwiches, small cakes, a teapot, and cups. Behind her, Margaret could see the figure of a man. A man in uniform. Allan!
“Isn’t this a bit early?” Mrs. Ferguson pointed out to Hilda.
Hilda ignored her, placing the platter of sandwiches on the table.
Mrs. Ferguson glanced over at Margaret. “I don’t know what you’re looking at, but keep that mouth open and you’ll catch flies in it . . .” Her voice trailed off as Allan came into the room. One hand flew to her chest as she half rose from her chair.
“Allan! What are you doing?”
“I’ve joined up, Mother. Last week. Doing my bit, you know.” He stood awkwardly a moment, then sat in the nearest chair.
Jean, Margaret saw, had taken the opportunity of confusion to slip a couple sandwiches into the folds of her skirt.
“I thought while I was there I’d do some sketching, record the glories of the war for all eternity,” he told them, voice deceptively cheerful. He gestured towards the teapot. “Margaret, could you pour me a cup please, and one for Mother?”
Margaret leaped to her feet and filled two cups.
“What about your studies?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.
“They’ll be waiting for me when I get back,” Allan replied. “Or I might even stay on in Paris after the war and study there.”
Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes turned to the picture of Blair.
“I intend to come home, Mother,” Allan said gently. “And until then, Margaret and Jean will keep you company. I’ve already extracted a promise from Margaret and . . .” He set down his cup, looking around the room. “Where is Jean?”
Margaret started from her chair. She’d been so caught up with Allan, she hadn’t noticed Jean slip out of the room. “She’s running away,” Margaret blurted out.
“Running away?” Allan repeated.
Hilda stopped gathering the tea things and stood still.
“She’s tired of her mother hitting her. Her father is out of jail and he left last week for Halifax to join the navy. Jean’s going to take a train, too, and try to find him and then get work as a V.A.D.”
“As a V.A.D.? Foolish girl! She’s far too young,” Mrs. Ferguson exclaimed. “They’ll turn her away.”
“Then she’ll be left on her own in a strange city,” Margaret cried. “Isn’t there anything you can do to stop her?”
Mrs. Ferguson got up and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain aside. “Those brothers of yours are trampling up the yard,” she complained. “They should know better than to walk on frozen grass!”
“Mrs. Ferguson!”
The woman turned from the window. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop her mother hitting her. People don’t interfere in other people’s business. Especially poor people’s business.”
“I’m poor, too,” Margaret shouted. “But that doesn’t mean we’re no good and don’t count. It just means we fell on hard times.” She jumped to her feet. “Jean’s smart. She wants to be a nurse and I want to finish my quilt so my family can go home. We have hope so we’re not all that poor. You are the poorest of us all. Sitting around moaning over your lost son, when you have Allan right here. You made him sign up! You! Now he’s going away. You’re poorer than any of us because you’ll be left all alone.” She dashed tears from her eyes. “I’m going and I’m never coming back! You can even tell my dad about me sneaking into the theatre. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m sorry, Allan, but I have to break my promise.” She pushed open the door to leave.
“That girl is speaking the truth.”
Margaret stopped. Hilda! She did talk.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Mrs. Ferguson snapped.
“I’ve a right to my opinion,” Hilda told her.
Margaret didn’t wait to hear any more, but rushed through the kitchen, grabbing her coat and boots.
She ignored the carefully wrapped parcel of sandwiches sitting on the table and rushed back to the cottage. She began to turn the doorknob to go in, then stopped. There was something she had to do. Don’t put off until tomorrow what can be done today. It doesn’t make it easier. She may as well get it over with because as Jean said, nothing ever got better, it only got worse, and this was the worse things had ever been.
She slowly walked down the street, thinking frantically about what to say, but still had thought of nothing when her feet stopped outside Uncle Harold’s house. She stared at the door a long moment, then forced herself up the sidewalk and knocked. Pauline pulled the door open.
“What do you want?” she asked sullenly. She stood blocking the way, not inviting Margaret in.
“I came to say—to say I was sorry,” Margaret stammered.
“Who is it?” Aunt Dorothy came to the door and peered around Pauline. “Oh, Margaret.” She paused. “Come in.”
Margaret crowded into the small, dimly lit hall. “Aunt Dorothy, I came to . . . to apologize to you and Pauline and Mary. I should never have said what I said to Pauline. Uncle Harold is going to be fine, really he is.”
“Well, I would rather you had not told the entire school about our financial position . . . and you scared your cousins badly.”
Margaret bowed her head.
“But I understand from Mary that there was some provocation. Your uncle and I should have had a talk with them sooner. It’s wartime. Everyone has to make sacrifices. Your Edward and the girls’ father . . .” Her voice faltered, but gathered strength. “And I understand soon there will be food rationing so we will all be in the same boat. We’re not used to being on our own, the girls and I, but we’ll learn. We have to so that everything is still the same when Harold gets back. I accept your apology as I am sure Pauline does.”
Margaret couldn’t believe her ears. Aunt Dorothy accepting her apology so calmly. Pauline, however, merely glared at her.
“Now, you better run home,” Aunt Dorothy went on. “It’s beginning to get dark and I would have thought today of all days you’d want to be home.”
Feeling lighter, Margaret walked quickly through the darkening streets. Aunt Dorothy wasn’t so bad after all. Today of all days . . . what had her aunt meant? A shrill train whistle brought her to a standstill. Jean! She couldn’t let Jean go. She headed at a full run for the train yard, arriving in time to see a freight train slowly pull from the station. Two men with packs sprinted alongside, then jumped, grabbing the iron ladders that ran up the sides of the boxcars.
“Jean! Jean!” she shrieked.
The train whistled piercingly, then picked up speed until the cars clacked by too fast for Margaret to see inside. A caboose swept past and the train was gone. Black soot from the engine settled about Margaret’s shoulders in the sudden quiet. Jean was gone. Everyone was gone. Grandma, Edward, Mama . . . their farm.
Through a blur of tears, Margaret made out a girl stepping over red iron rails. “Jean!” she yelled.
&n
bsp; She ran to meet her friend, sweeping the girl up into a hug. “You didn’t leave.”
“Couldn’t run fast enough to get on the train,” Jean mumbled.
Margaret frowned, puzzled. Jean was a fast runner. She remembered her flying down the street when the policeman was chasing them.
“Are you going to try again?”
Jean shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“So here’s where you got to.” Allan came up to them. “Your dad’s looking for you, Margaret.”
“Oh, no.” Margaret put a hand over her mouth. “I’d better get home. He’s so mad at me right now.”
“I told him you’d gone for a walk with Jean. He’s talking to Mother. It seems he’s offering to make her a cupboard similar to yours. They’re going over the terms now, so he’ll be occupied for a while.” Allan assured her. He looked over at the other girl. “So you decided not to go,” he said gently.
“Not right now anyway.” Jean’s face suddenly crumpled, tears running down her cheeks. “I was too scared to go all by myself. To jump on the train and go to Halifax.”
Allan patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Being scared is fine. I’m terrified to go off to the war.”
“You are?”
“Yes.” He paused. “I know things haven’t been good for you, Jean, but I have to believe they will get better and you do, too.”
“You can’t go back, so go forward with faith, love, hope, and courage,” Margaret suddenly said. Then she gave an embarrassed laugh. “That’s what my Grandma Brown always said.” She’d almost forgotten that, fighting to go back so much, she’d stopped herself from going forward.
“Your Grandma Brown sounds like a wise woman,” Allan told her. “We better get off these train tracks.” He put an arm under Jean’s elbow.
Jean wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and Margaret hid a grin at Allan’s wince.
“I’m holding you to your promise, Margaret.” Allan said. “I need you girls to watch my mother. Keep her company and write and tell me all the horrid things she says and does.”
Margaret grinned at Jean, then remembered the awful words she’d flung at Mrs. Ferguson. “She might not want me visiting her anymore.”
Flying Geese Page 17
