The Sky is Falling

by Kit Pearson

  “We never did,” said Norah with surprise. “I suppose Mum was just careful.” For the first time she realized how difficult it must have been. “Sometimes we were short of sugar and once Dad put one of my acid drops in his tea—because sweets aren’t rationed yet. He said it tasted horrible.”

  “Let’s just hope we don’t get rationing in Canada,” said Hanny, creaming butter and sugar together.

  When she’d finished, Norah picked up the eggbeater and licked it. She tried to think of something to ask so they could stop talking about home. “Why hasn’t Aunt Mary got a husband?”

  Hanny sighed. “Poor Mary. Stifled all her life, then the one chance she had …” She pressed her lips closed.

  “What?” prompted Norah.

  “It’s not for young ears. Let’s just say she has a secret sorrow.” She wouldn’t say any more about it.

  A Secret Sorrow; it sounded like one of Muriel’s romances. Dull Aunt Mary suddenly seemed more interesting.

  The cake was put into the oven and Hanny made a pot of tea. “May I have some?” Norah asked hopefully.

  “Do you like tea? Sure, I don’t see why not.” She handed Norah a cup of half-milk, half-tea.

  Norah curved her fingers around it and sipped. “Thank you!” Hanny smiled at her.

  “What about Mr. Ogilvie?” Norah asked. “What was he like?”

  “Ah, what a sad loss to this house when he went. A real gentleman, he was—I don’t mean uppity, but a gentle man, always kind and thoughtful. He didn’t speak much but when he did he said things you wanted to remember. Mary was his favourite—she was absolutely stricken when he died. And so was she, of course.”

  They both knew who “she” was. Norah couldn’t imagine Aunt Florence married to a gentle, quiet man.

  “She shut herself up for weeks,” continued Hanny. “I felt sorry for her, I must admit. First her son, then her husband—the two people she loved best. But that was fifteen years ago and she’s long since recovered. She’s a strong woman, Mrs. O is—too strong for her own good. She was softer when Mr. O and Hughie were alive. She needs someone to think about besides herself. Maybe having you two here will use up some of her energy.”

  Norah shuddered—she didn’t want Aunt Florence to think about her. “What about you?” she asked, to change the subject. “Did your husband die too?”

  “Not him,” laughed Hanny. “He’s a retired CPR brakeman. Spends his time making model railways now—one day I’ll take you and Gavin home to see them. But goodness me, look at the time and I haven’t even started the vegetables! You better go and join them in the den—they’ll be wondering where you are.”

  Norah put down her cup and slowly walked out of the comfortable, fragrant kitchen.

  HANNY DIDN’T COME IN until eleven on Sundays, so Norah couldn’t escape to her. Instead she had to go to church with the Ogilvies. At least it passed the time. The service was almost the same as at home, with the Smiths sitting in the front pew as usual. Norah found out why Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary turned off the radio whenever she was near: Reverend Milne talked about the terrible bombing London was experiencing. “It’s all right, Norah,” whispered Aunt Mary, exchanging a worried look with her mother. “I’m sure the bombs weren’t anywhere near where your family lives.”

  Norah’s throat felt so constricted that she had a hard time swallowing the huge Sunday lunch. Another dreary afternoon stretched ahead of her and once again she took refuge in the kitchen.

  Aunt Florence came in to get some milk for Gavin. “You’re in here far too much, Norah,” she scolded. “Hanny has work to do—you’re getting in her way. And is that tea you’re drinking? I’m surprised at you, Hanny—she’s much too young for tea.”

  Hanny pretended not to hear the last part of her sentence. “She doesn’t bother me at all, Mrs. Ogilvie,” she said calmly. “In fact, she’s a great help.”

  “Norah isn’t here to be a servant. What would her parents think if we had her doing housework? I want you to stay out of the kitchen, Norah—except for Sunday supper, of course.”

  Norah opened her mouth to protest, but Aunt Florence silenced her. “No arguments, please. Can’t you find anything to do? What about all the puzzles Mary put in your room? Have you done your homework?”

  “We didn’t have any,” said Norah sullenly. “And I’ve done all the puzzles.” If she was only to be allowed to talk to Hanny once a week, what would she do?

  “I know,” said Aunt Florence briskly, as she whipped an egg into the glass of milk. “It’s time you wrote home. You can do that every Sunday afternoon,” she added, looking relieved to have thought of a way to occupy Norah.

  She settled her in the room behind the den with a pile of thick white monogrammed paper. Norah knelt on the chair drawn up to the oak desk, chewing the end of her pen. She had already written once from the university, but that was just a short note to tell them they’d arrived safely. Now she didn’t know what to say. Mr. Ogilvie watched sympathetically from his gold frame.

  She longed to pour out the truth, to relieve her misery with a litany of complaints. How she had to ask permission every time she left the house and was allowed to explore only within a four-block area. Being forbidden to go into the ravine—although she went there almost every day on her way home from school. Being scolded for biting her nails, for climbing the tree in the front yard and, yesterday, for trying to slide down the laundry chute that led from the second floor to the basement. And school—her isolation and loneliness and the continued resentment of Miss Liers. Just to be able to tell them all this would be a huge relief.

  But she couldn’t. It would only worry them, when they had the war to worry about. And she knew how disappointed Dad would be if she complained. Grandad would understand, but if she wrote to him separately her parents would wonder why.

  Finally Norah thought of a way to fill up the page. She dipped her pen in the crystal bottle of ink and began.

  Dear Mum, Dad and Grandad,

  Here is what is different about Canada. The cars drive on the wrong side of the street. The robins are huge. There is no rationing of food or petrol. There’s no black-out. Canadians have different money and they speak a different language. Here is a list of the words I know so far.

  Biscuit ___________________________Cookie

  Sweet ____________________________ Candy

  Lollipop __________________________Sucker

  Wireless __________________________Radio

  Shop _____________________________ Store

  Flannel ___________________________Washcloth

  Jersey _____________________________ Sweater

  Lav ______________________________ Washroom

  Headmaster _______________________ Principal

  Dinner is called lunch and tea is dinner. We only have tea on Sundays but we aren’t allowed to drink it. Could you tell Aunt Florence that we can?

  Did the bombs come near Ringden? Are there still dogfights? Did any more planes get shot down? Did Mr. Whitlaw’s mare have her foal? Did the hedgehog come back? Have you heard from Muriel and Tibby? Please answer soon.

  By the end of the letter she was limp with homesickness. Her hand shook as she wrote “Love and kisses from Norah” and added a postscript: “I am cleaning my teeth every night.”

  At least writing the letter had taken a good long time, especially the list. She’d drawn careful straight lines with the edge of a paper-knife and hadn’t made any blots.

  “When do you suppose I’ll get a letter from England?” Norah asked Aunt Florence, going to her in the den for stamps.

  “Not for a while, I’m afraid—the war has made the overseas mail very slow.” Aunt Florence took Norah’s letter and frowned, as if she were displeased it was sealed. “I hope you didn’t mention Gavin’s cold, Norah—we don’t want to worry your parents unnecessarily.”

  “I didn’t.” Guiltily, Norah realized she hadn’t mentioned Gavin at all.

  “I’ve written as well,” sai
d Aunt Florence, holding up an envelope. “I’ve told your parents all about our family and sent them a photograph of the house. I’m sure that will reassure them. I’ll get Gavin to draw a nice picture to enclose.”

  Norah was sure that her letter talked about Gavin. She looked just as curiously at Aunt Florence’s envelope as Aunt Florence had looked at hers, wondering what had been said about herself.

  ON MONDAY, Norah woke before dawn—something was wrong. “Oh, Gavin—not again!” she groaned, half-asleep. Her bed was cold and wet, as it had been on the boat.

  Then she was fully awake and remembered that Gavin wasn’t in her bed or even in the room—he was asleep on the floor below. Who had wet the bed?

  When she realized, Norah hopped out as quickly as if the bed were on fire. She tore off her wet pyjama bottoms, balled them up and hurled them on the floor.

  What was the matter with her? She was ten years old, not a baby! Maybe she was sick. Even so, she didn’t want anyone to know what she’d done.

  At least no one was up here to see. She took her sheet and pyjama bottoms into the bathroom and rinsed them. She hung them in the wardrobe and closed the door. Then she scrubbed the mattress and made the bed without a bottom sheet. With luck, it would all be dry by evening.

  Everything was still damp that night, but Norah put the sheet back on the bed and curled around the wet patch in her other pyjamas. “Please don’t let it happen again,” she prayed. But it did. And the next day after school, Aunt Mary called her into her room.

  Norah looked around for evidence of the Secret Sorrow, trying to distract herself from what she guessed Aunt Mary was about to discuss. As in the rest of the house, the room was muffled with dark furniture and curtains. A large Bible lay on the table beside the bed. On the chest of drawers was a photograph of a little girl in a white dress and black stockings, gazing up with adoring eyes to a stalwart-looking boy in a sailor suit. He had one arm circled protectively around her. The boy was handsome, with a thick crop of hair, while the girl was plain and plump. It must be Aunt Mary and her older brother Hugh.

  “Sit down, Norah,” began the soft voice. “When Edith was doing your room this morning she found a wet sheet and pyjamas hanging in the wardrobe. Did you—did you have an accident?”

  Norah nodded unable to speak.

  “Do you do this often?”

  “Never! I never have before now. Perhaps I’m ill.”

  “I suppose you’re just adjusting. They told us to expect this, but I thought it might happen with Gavin, not a child your age. You’ll probably stop eventually.” Aunt Mary sighed. “Edith will put a rubber sheet on your mattress. If it keeps on happening, please don’t hang your sheets upstairs—put them down the laundry chute. If you leave your bed stripped, Edith will make it up again. And Norah … perhaps we won’t say anything about this to Mother.”

  Both their faces were red when Norah left the room. At least Aunt Florence didn’t know. It would be a point on her side if she did.

  Norah almost became used to scuttling down the stairs with her wet bundle before breakfast each morning. She was relieved Aunt Florence was never up at that time. Edith began to give her resentful looks and mumbled about extra work. Aunt Mary seemed resigned that bed-wetting was part of having war guests, and Norah felt more and more lost and ashamed.

  SCHOOL, TOO, GREW WORSE instead of better. Miss Liers never praised Norah again; in fact, she seemed to take pleasure in criticizing both her and Dulcie. “Surely it isn’t necessary to crowd your words like this,” she said coldly, handing back their first compositions. They weren’t brave enough to explain that, in England, they’d been encouraged to fill every corner of the page to save paper.

  Norah spent recesses standing alone in the corner that was neutral territory between the girls’ and boys’ play-grounds. She was tired of acting like a princess. She wouldn’t mind having a friend, but making friends had always just happened; she didn’t know how to be deliberate about it. And by now, everyone had her labelled as stuck-up anyhow.

  There was another loner in the schoolyard: a pale boy with glasses and mousy hair that stuck out all over his head like a mop. As Norah watched how the other boys plagued him, she was thankful that at least the girls didn’t do things to her; they just ignored her. She wondered why they picked on that particular boy so much.

  On Thursday she was just leaving after school when she heard a rhythmic banging come from the middle of a crowd of grade five and six boys. “Sauerkraut, sauerkraut,” the group chanted. Norah moved closer; she’d heard them call the boy that before.

  The boy with glasses was sitting in the dirt in the middle of the group, a bucket inverted on his head. Two boys held him down, while Charlie beat on the iron bucket with a stick in time to the chant.

  Norah pushed through the crowd before she had time to think. “Stop that! You’re hurting him!”

  The group turned with surprise at the sight of a girl interfering. Their victim saw his chance; he pushed off the bucket and fled.

  “Why did you do that?” Norah asked angrily. She clenched her fists, but her chest constricted at the unfriendly glares of the others.

  “Because he’s an enemy alien, stupid,” said Charlie.

  Norah was confused. What did he mean? She didn’t have time to ponder, as the group began to close in on her.

  Charlie was obviously the ringleader. He was bigger than any of them, and his bright red hair commanded attention like a flag. “You think you’re really something, don’t you, Limey?” he jeered. “Do you know what we think? We think you’re a coward. You couldn’t take the war, so you ran away to Canada. We wouldn’t have let them send us away. We’d like to be in the war, wouldn’t we?” The other boys nodded and waited.

  Norah spluttered with fury. “Why—you—you’re just a bunch of—of colonials!” she finally spat. “I’m not a coward! I didn’t have any choice about coming here. And I saw a lot of things you’ll never see. I saw a crashed Nazi plane!”

  A few of the boys looked interested, but Charlie jeered again. “Naaah, you couldn’t have. Enemy planes wouldn’t come down that close.” He sounded so authoritative that the others looked threatening again.

  “They did too!” cried Norah. “They were all around us! And I helped watch for them. What do you do? You’re the cowards, safe from the war. You wouldn’t even know there was a war here!”

  But they were already moving away. Norah couldn’t stop shaking. How was she going to survive this school? The girls ignored her and now the boys despised her. She stopped in the ravine on the way home, first letting herself cry, then thinking for a long time.

  SHE GOT HOME LATE, but no one noticed her sneak upstairs. All of Gavin’s belongings, including the rocking horse, had disappeared. Suddenly Norah felt concern. Was Gavin seriously ill? He’d been out of school for almost two weeks, too long for a cold. With shame, she thought of how she’d hardly seen him all that time. Had they taken him to a hospital? She dashed downstairs and into the room where he’d been sleeping.

  Gavin was stretched out on the rug, surrounded by a troop of toy soldiers. He was dressed in a navy-blue sailor suit and shiny new shoes.

  “Are you still sick?” Norah demanded.

  Gavin shook his head. “No, but I’m going to stay in this room all the time now, because I’m delicate. See my new soldiers, Norah? Aunt Florence took me to an enormous shop today called a department store. There was a lift—’cept it’s called an elevator—and six floors. She bought me all sorts of clothes and things and these wizard soldiers. Tomorrow we’re going to the museum to see the dinosaurs!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Gavin. If you’re better, you’ll go to school tomorrow. And you’re not delicate—you hardly ever get sick.”

  “He most certainly is.” Aunt Florence stood in the doorway, beaming at Gavin. “Don’t lie on the floor, sweetness, you’ll catch cold again. Norah, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.” She hesitated strangely. “I have decided no
t to send Gavin to school this term. He’s been through a great ordeal, coming all the way over here. That large school would be too much for him. I’ll build up his strength until Christmas and then we’ll see. Perhaps your parents would let me pay for a private school. We’ll go on educational outings and I’ll read to him every day. He won’t be missing anything—they can’t do much in school at his age. If he’s not going to be six until November, nobody is going to object if he waits until January to start. I’ve told your parents that it’s not customary in Canada to send five-year-olds to school. I know we sent that cable, but my letter will reach them soon.” She spoke as if all her arguments had been prepared beforehand; her imperious grey eyes dared Norah to contradict her.

  Norah sat down and picked up a lead soldier while she digested this news. It was wrong, of course. It was bad for Gavin to be so pampered, and he would forget everything he had learned last year. Her parents would be upset if they knew that Gavin really could go to school at five. Aunt Florence had lied to them!

  She could threaten to write to her parents; Aunt Florence knew she could. The longer she waited for Norah to speak, the more uneasy she looked.

  But it would be much handier for Norah if Gavin was kept out of school and out of her care. Because now she had a plan.

  Finally she shrugged wearily. “Lucky you, Gavin—school’s awful.”

  Aunt Florence didn’t seem to have heard the second part of her sentence. “That’s settled, then,” she said cheerfully. “And you’re lucky, Norah, to have that big room all to yourself.”

  Norah couldn’t disagree about that. She trudged back up to the tower that was now her own little kingdom and stared out the window at the darkening sky.

  14

  Bernard

  Norah woke up early and peeled off her wet sheet before she had time to think about it. Then she got back on top of the bed and reviewed her plan, listening to the slow clomp of the milkman’s horse in the street.

  She had decided to play truant. Never before had she done something so risky. In Ringden, where everyone was aware of everyone else’s affairs, she would be spotted immediately if she were out of school. But Toronto was a large city; no one would know or care.