The Sky is Falling

by Kit Pearson

16

  Gairloch

  One Thursday in October, Norah couldn’t go to the library to meet Bernard; she had to come straight home from school to help pack. The Ogilvies were driving north for the weekend, to a place called Muskoka.

  “You’ll like it there Norah,” said Aunt Mary eagerly. Her voice was much more animated than usual. “Hugh and I spent all our childhood summers at Gairloch—that’s the name of our cottage, and it’s on the most beautiful lake in Ontario. Our family has been going there for generations.”

  Aunt Florence had told Norah she could miss school from Friday to Tuesday. “I’ll write you a note—I’m sure your teacher won’t mind,” she said grandly. “We always go to the cottage for Thanksgiving. It’s our last time before next year.”

  Norah was surprised to learn that Dulcie had been invited to come along. “I thought you’d like someone your own age to explore with,” explained Aunt Mary. Dulcie was so busy being popular, Norah hardly spoke to her in school. But when they picked her up early Friday morning, she acted as if nothing had changed.

  “Isn’t it super to be missing school!” she whispered to Norah. “It was so kind of the Ogilvies to ask me. I hope you don’t mind,” she added timidly.

  Norah shrugged. She was reluctant to admit that it would be a nice change to have someone else to talk to, although she wished it could be Bernard.

  Aunt Florence was at the wheel of the long, grey Cadillac. Aunt Mary sat on the other side, with Gavin in the middle; Norah and Dulcie had the whole back seat to themselves—the suitcases and boxes of food were in the trunk. Hanny and Edith were staying behind to look after the house.

  The drive took most of the day. The houses in the city became smaller and sparser, then gave way to farms. There were rolling hills and fields dotted with bright orange pumpkins. Norah was astonished at the leaves. In the open country they formed a sea of scarlet and golden hues, wave upon wave glistening against the blue sky. The trees were so radiant, they didn’t seem real.

  “I do believe the colour this fall is the best we’ve ever had,” said Aunt Florence with satisfaction. She spoke as if she had personally ordered the brilliant display.

  For lunch they stopped at the side of the road and had a picnic: chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches on soft white bread, sticks of celery, poppyseed cake and milk. Everyone, even the two women, took turns going behind a bush. “You probably think we’re being very primitive,” said Aunt Florence, “but it’s cleaner than a gas station.” Norah and Dulcie looked at each other and stifled a giggle at the thought of Aunt Florence squatting in such an undignified position. The farther north they went, the more the two Ogilvies lost their Toronto stiffness.

  After lunch, the fields and hills turned to rock and trees, broken by sheets of water. When they drove over a small bridge, Aunt Mary burst into song:

  Land of the silver birch

  Home of the beaver,

  Where still the mighty moose

  Wanders at will.

  Blue lakes and rocky shore;

  We have returned once more.

  Boom didi ah dah …

  She stopped with embarrassment when she noticed the three children staring at her, their mouths open. “Hugh and I always sang that once we’d crossed the bridge,” she explained sheepishly. “He learned it at camp. That river was the boundary for Muskoka.”

  The car plowed northwards. Gavin and Dulcie fell asleep and Norah’s eyelids drooped. But Aunt Florence didn’t tire. She was talking to her daughter about storm windows and the luck of an Indian summer. What was an Indian summer? Norah wondered drowsily, looking out on the empty landscape.

  Canada was so big! She had never gone so far in a car. Her parents had never owned one, although Grandad had once fixed up an old Morris. Obviously Aunt Florence liked driving; she stretched her long legs to the pedals and leaned back in the seat as if she were in a comfortable armchair. Norah imagined how it would feel to have the control of such a powerful machine in your hands. Perhaps that’s what she would be when she grew up, someone who drove cars.

  Finally they pulled into a tiny town that was really just a store, a gas station and a few scattered, shabby houses.

  “Everybody out,” ordered Aunt Florence. “Now we’re going on a boat, Gavin!”

  The children woke up again. The little store was beside a vast, ripply lake. Norah breathed in the fresh-smelling air as a man came out of the store and led them to a moored motor launch.

  “It’s the only way to get there,” explained Aunt Mary. “Mr. McGuigan always takes us over in his boat. Sometimes we have to make several trips with the food, but it’s worth it to be on the island.”

  Norah whirled around to face her. “Are we going to an island?”

  “Why yes, Norah, didn’t I tell you? It’s not a very large one, but it’s all ours.”

  Her expression was as excited as Norah’s. An island! Like Swallows and Amazons …

  All the luggage, food and people were loaded into the boat, then it putted across the water. Norah sat at the bow, her hair blowing back and her face showered with cold spray. The water was as clear as green glass; when they slowed down she could see rocks in the depths of it.

  In front of them was a hill; on top perched a large circular house with a verandah all around it. “There’s the cottage!” beamed Aunt Mary. “There’s Gairloch!”

  A cottage? It was as big as the Ogilvies’ house in Toronto. But it looked friendlier, perhaps because it had a name. They got out onto a wharf and helped carry things up steep steps to the house. Its wooden walls were a faded white and its turreted structure was higgledy-piggledy, as if it had been added on to over the years.

  Aunt Florence unlocked the front door. Inside, the cottage was dark because the windows were shuttered. The children helped remove them, and bars of late afternoon sunlight streamed through the space. Unlike the formal Toronto house, the furniture was a colourful conglomeration of mismatched chairs and cushions. An immense stone fireplace filled one wall; the others were patterned in strips of contrasting wood.

  “Let me see …” mused Aunt Florence. “I think Gavin had better sleep on this floor with Mary and me. You girls take your bags upstairs and you can have your pick of any rooms up there. Mary will make up your beds when you’ve decided.”

  There were six enormous bedrooms on the second level. The biggest had two double beds in it. “Would you mind … can we both sleep in here?” asked Dulcie. “I’d be frightened sleeping alone.”

  Norah was worried she’d wet the bed as usual; it would never do for Dulcie to know about that. But it would also be pleasant to have company for a change; she decided to risk it. “All right. You take that bed and I’ll have the one by the window.” She threw her suitcase in a corner, impatient to get outside.

  They clattered downstairs again. The Ogilvies were unpacking food in a large kitchen with a black wood stove. Both women had changed into faded calico dresses; Aunt Florence’s even had a hole in it.

  “We’ll have supper in about an hour,” she told them. “It will take us a while to get the stove going. Why don’t you all go out and explore? Be careful of Gavin near the water, Norah—it drops off very quickly.”

  Norah dashed out the front door, followed by Dulcie and Gavin. She peered through the veil of leaves; all she could see was sky, water and trees. “Come on!” she yelled, catapulting down the hill to the water.

  The Ogilvies’ grey boathouse had a balcony with an ornate white railing skirting its upper storey. It was as big as Little Whitebull. More fancy boathouses and huge “cottages” dotted the shoreline opposite. The children dipped their hands in the icy water and ventured gingerly onto the diving board that jutted off the wharf.

  Then Norah had to run. She led the others up the steps. First they circled the steep shore until they came back to their starting place; it really was an island. Then they scrambled up over the rocks until they collapsed on a promontory. The lake was spread below like a wrinkled blue sea. Along th
e horizon the trees blazed like a fire, here and there broken by dark firs and the white lines of birches.

  “I’m tired, Norah,” complained Gavin. “You went too fast.”

  “You’re just lazy,” laughed Norah. “You’ve been pampered too much.”

  Dulcie panted. “I’m tired too. May we rest here a minute? Isn’t it gorgeous? You are lucky to be able to come here all summer.”

  “All summer?” repeated Norah. In the summer the water might be warm enough for swimming.

  “Aunt Dorothy said the Ogilvies stay here from June to September. Maybe they’ll even let you out of school early! The Milnes go to a cottage too, on Georgian Bay, but only for two weeks.”

  Norah couldn’t imagine next summer—would they still be in Canada?

  “Children! Suppertime!” Aunt Mary’s voice floated up to them.

  The meal had been cooked by Aunt Florence herself. There were sausages and baked potatoes and huge McIntosh apples. They ate around the kitchen table. “A very good supper, if I do say so myself,” said Aunt Florence. “Don’t you think I’m a good cook, Gavin?” Norah looked at her curiously. If Aunt Florence liked her own cooking so much, why did Hanny always do it at home?

  Aunt Florence handed Norah a cup of tea. Mum had written to her and given permission for Norah and Gavin to have it.

  “Are you allowed to drink tea, Dulcie?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Ogilvie. Aunt Dorothy says we can have whatever we’re used to at home.”

  Aunt Florence sniffed disapprovingly and Norah tried not to grin as she slurped the familiar milky liquid.

  “This is a very large cottage, Miss Ogilvie,” said Dulcie to Aunt Mary. “Did you used to have more people in your family?”

  Aunt Florence answered for her daughter. “It doesn’t just belong to us, Dulcie. My father and his brothers built it. Their name was Drummond, which was mine too, of course. All the Drummonds share Gairloch. In the old days they travelled up by train and steamer and brought lots of servants. Hanny and her husband come with us in the summers, but we always rough it in October.”

  “There are so many relatives that some of them stay in cabins down the hill,” said Aunt Mary. “The older children either sleep in the old servants’ quarters in the back or on top of the boathouse. We call them the Boys’ Dorm and the Girls’ Dorm. You’ll be over the boathouse, Norah—there are several girl cousins your age.”

  Norah digested this. “Why aren’t they here now?” she asked, although she was glad they weren’t. It was far better to have Gairloch to herself.

  “Most of our family lives in Montreal,” explained Aunt Mary. “It’s too far for them to come for just the weekend, but you’ll meet some of them at Christmas.”

  “Mary and I stay in the main cottage, of course,” said Aunt Florence. “I am the oldest living Drummond, so I’m the head of the clan, so to speak.” She puffed herself up like a peacock.

  Norah felt herself grow proud too. Even though she was only a war guest, if Aunt Florence was the head of the family her reflected glory would surely give Norah some status among all those cousins next summer. If she were still here next summer, of course.

  “It’s almost time for little boys to be in bed,” said Aunt Florence fondly. “Norah, you help Gavin find his pyjamas and you and Dulcie get ready yourselves. We’ll tackle the dishes.”

  After she was in her pyjamas and dressing gown, Norah wandered onto the verandah and sat down on a seat that swung from chains. The night was as black, and the stars shone as brightly, as at home. She searched the sky for the Great Bear, surprised to find it looking exactly the same. Could they see it while she saw it? she wondered. The air was brisker than in the city: her breath clouded in front of her.

  “Norah, come in—you’ll catch cold!” called Aunt Mary. Norah stayed a few more minutes to chill her skin thoroughly, then ran in to enjoy it tingle in front of the roaring fire.

  “Now I will read aloud,” announced Aunt Florence. “We always do at the cottage.” She picked out a worn, leather-covered book from a low bookcase. “This is called The Jungle Book. You should enjoy it, Gavin, it was Hugh’s favourite.” She opened the book, made sure everyone was attentive, and began. “‘It was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in the tips.’”

  Gavin soon fell asleep, leaning against Aunt Florence, but the story kept Norah awake. Aunt Florence was a wonderful reader. Her resonant voice made the story of the wolves and Mowgli come to life. Sitting here like this was so much nicer than after dinner in the city, being bored while the Ogilvies read the paper, played cards or listened to the radio.

  Aunt Florence closed the book and Norah and Dulcie stumbled upstairs. They both fell asleep instantly.

  TO HER RELIEF, Norah woke up in a dry bed. The morning was gloriously sunny, with a hint of wind. After breakfast Gavin played contentedly with his soldiers in the dirt under the verandah. Norah and Dulcie tried fishing with some old poles they found in the boathouse. Norah dug up some worms, but Dulcie made so much fuss about putting them on the hooks, they had to stop. They climbed as high as they could go onto the rocks, then went down the hill and peeked into the windows of the locked family cabins.

  In the afternoon Aunt Mary took them out in the rowboat. It had velvet cushions and three sets of oarlocks. Each of them tried rowing and Aunt Mary surprised Norah by being very good at it. Her face seemed serene and somehow young. “In the summer we use the motor launch and go on picnics to some of those other islands,” she said, pointing them out. “All the children know how to run the motor—you’ll learn quickly, Norah.” Every time next summer was mentioned, Norah wondered anew about this unexpected future she hadn’t thought about.

  That evening a few neighbours, also here to close up their cottages, arrived in their boats. They all asked Norah and Dulcie how they liked Canada.

  “Isn’t it tiring how they always do?” whispered Dulcie at supper. “I always just say ‘fine.’” Norah nodded, pleased that Dulcie felt the same way. Dulcie really wasn’t a bad sort—if only she were braver.

  After the guests had left, they went to bed late; but Norah and Dulcie weren’t tired. They lay awake and talked about school.

  “I wish Miss Liers liked us better,” sighed Dulcie. “I can’t do anything right for her.”

  “She hates Charlie even more than us,” said Norah. “I thought she was going to hit him with the pointer when he was so rude last week.”

  “I wish she had! I’m scared of Charlie. He pulls Ernestine’s hair and he calls me ‘Limey.’”

  “He does?” Norah thought she was the only one in their class he taunted.

  “Even so, I like this school better than the one in Ringden,” continued Dulcie. “The work’s far easier and nobody calls me Goosey here. Babs and Ernestine are ever so nice. I go over to their houses almost every day and we dress up and pretend we’re movie stars.”

  If that was what they did, Norah was glad they didn’t like her.

  “I know this isn’t my business, Norah,” said Dulcie slowly, “but everyone notices that you’re friends with Bernard Gunter. Girls don’t play with boys here. They would like you better if you didn’t. And you shouldn’t associate with someone who’s German. What if he’s a spy?”

  “He’s not! He’s a Canadian, not a German. And I can be friends with whoever I choose!”

  “Of course,” said Dulcie quickly. She prattled on, changing the subject. “Mrs. Ogilvie really isn’t that bad. And Miss Ogilvie is kind.”

  “She’s all right, I suppose. But Aunt Florence is a bossy snob. She may seem nice here, but in the city she’s horrid! I’ll never like her.”

  “Oh.” There was a long, awkward silence.

  “Have you had many letters from Ringden?” asked Norah. And suddenly their words tumbled over each other’s as they told what they’d heard f
rom home. Norah had almost forgotten that Dulcie came from the same place.

  Finally they finished talking about everybody in the village. “Do you know what, Norah?” Dulcie asked, sounding drowsy.

  “What?” Norah lay on her back and stared at the moon through the trees.

  “Sometimes I forget what Mummy and Daddy look like. I try and try, but I can’t imagine their faces. And it hasn’t even been two months since I’ve seen them. What if we stay in Canada for a year? I might not know them at all!” Dulcie’s voice was small and scared. “Do you remember what your parents look like? And your sisters and grandfather?”

  Norah said loudly, “Of course I do! Anyway, I have a picture of them. Don’t you?”

  “No, but that’s a good idea. I’ll ask Mummy to send one.” Dulcie sounded more cheerful. Her voice stopped and her breathing became regular.

  Norah sat up in bed to lighten the weight on her chest. She tried to picture her mother’s face. Thin blonde hair and blue eyes—or were they grey? Panicking, she tried her father. The different parts of his face came clear—his dark hair streaked with grey and his long, beakish nose—but she couldn’t make them fit together.

  She did have the photograph, but it was a few years old. Norah fell asleep trying to conjure up the images of her sisters.

  THE WEATHER WAS CLEAR for the next two days, too sunny to dwell on thoughts of home. They spent the time in blissful, wandering freedom. Aunt Florence said that, as long as they wore life jackets, the three of them could take out the rowboat alone. They went for long, slow rides around the island; the boat was so heavy, it was a struggle to move it at all. There was a near disaster when Creature fell overboard, but Norah scooped him out before he sank.

  At noon on Monday they all gathered around an ancient radio to listen to a message from Princess Elizabeth to the evacuated British children. “My sister Margaret Rose and I feel so much for you, as we know from experience what it means to be away from those we love most of all …” said the clipped voice.

  Norah listened intently as Margaret Rose obeyed her sister’s instructions to say good-night. It was the first time she’d ever heard her voice. She wondered where they were spending the war. A month ago, Buckingham Palace had been bombed. Would Princess Margaret Rose feel glad to have been safely away from it, or would she wish she’d been there for the excitement?