The Sky is Falling

by Kit Pearson

  Sometimes they went exploring on bicycles, when they could persuade Barbara to lend hers to Norah. It was too small, and her legs became cramped from being bent in the same position. She thought longingly of her own bicycle. Would it be rusted by the time she got back to Ringden?

  “If only you had a proper bike, we could go all the way to the beach,” complained Paige. “Couldn’t you ask for one for Christmas?”

  Ask Aunt Florence for something as expensive and important as a bicycle? It was impossible. Norah was sure that Aunt Florence would never approve of her having one anyway, not if she suspected how free it would make Norah. Once the three of them had even ventured downtown, carefully avoiding cars and the treacherous streetcar tracks.

  “COME RIGHT HOME from school today, Norah,” said Aunt Florence one Thursday. “A social worker is coming to see how you’re getting along.”

  Reluctantly, Norah told Paige by telephone and Bernard at recess that she couldn’t meet them. After school she was made to wash and put on clean white socks. Then she and Gavin were brought into the living room and introduced to Mrs. Moore, a merry, round woman in a tight dress that was popping its buttons. Around her were the remains of tea; she must have already spoken to the Ogilvies. Aunt Florence left Norah and Gavin alone with her.

  “Well!” she began, a bit too cheerfully. “Aren’t you lucky to have come to such a luxurious home! Are you happy living here? Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  If she had been asked this a few weeks ago, Norah might have unloaded the burden of her misery and homesickness. Now she was filled with confusion.

  She only used the Ogilvies’ house for sleeping, eating and reading. She still wet the bed almost every night and, most of all, she still wanted to go home. But if she said these things they might send her to another family—then she would lose Bernard and Paige.

  “I have a smashing room,” she said, trying to be as truthful as possible, “and Hanny is a very good cook. And I’ve made two friends,” she added proudly.

  The woman laughed. “Two friends already! Well done! And how are you getting along at school?”

  “Fine.” She could only lie about that. Even with Bernard as an ally, school was as lonely as ever.

  “That’s good. And I can tell Gavin is thriving here—look at those rosy cheeks! I’m sure that next year he’ll be strong enough for school.” Gavin sat quietly, stroking his elephant.

  He was too quiet, these days, Norah thought uncomfortably. It probably wasn’t good for him to spend so much time following Aunt Florence in and out of stores. He was often left alone, as well—sometimes when she came in he was playing by himself in the hall. She remembered him saying he wanted to go to school. She could tell Mrs. Moore that he should go there now—and that he always had rosy cheeks. But she remembered again that then she’d have to take care of him. It would be a waste of her precious after-school time to have to bring Gavin home every day.

  Mrs. Moore passed them the cake and nibbled on a huge piece herself. “The Ogilvies’ cook is excellent,” she said. “This is delicious! I think we can assume that this home was a good match for you two. You seem to have adjusted very well. Are you looking forward to our Canadian winter? You’ll find our weather much colder than yours. We have snow here—you’ll love it!”

  “But we have snow,” said Norah. “Last winter there was so much that the roads were blocked and all the stores were closed. It was so cold that some birds were frozen to the branches.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Moore looked disappointed. Then she brightened. “Is there anything at all I can do for you? Anything you need?”

  Could Mrs. Moore get her a bicycle? Would she pay for it, so she wouldn’t have to ask Aunt Florence? Norah knew she wouldn’t. She shook her head and said politely, “No thank you, there’s nothing we need.”

  Mrs. Moore spoke privately to the Ogilvies again. After she left, Aunt Florence looked relieved. “I’m glad you didn’t find anything to complain about, Norah,” she said awkwardly.

  “You are happier, aren’t you?” Aunt Mary’s face was so pleading that it was for her that Norah answered. “Yes, thank you. May I go over to Paige’s now?”

  18

  The Witches Are Out

  Towards the end of October, the last of the leaves blew off the trees and the weather became colder; one morning there was even an icing of snow on the ground. Norah’s bare legs tingled when she came in, and she puffed on the tops of her fingers to warm them. Mum had sent the long knitted leggings Norah wore last winter under her skirts, but none of the Canadian girls seemed to wear them, so she left them in her drawer.

  Then Aunt Florence took her and Gavin to Simpson’s to buy them winter clothes. They picked out two-piece snowsuits, close-fitting hats called toques, wool scarves and mitts, and buckled rubber galoshes lined with fleece. There were knee-length britches for Gavin and, for Norah, itchy wool stockings that were held up by complicated garters.

  Aunt Florence wanted to buy Norah a new party dress as well. “You can have your choice of any of these,” she said grandly.

  Norah looked curiously at the bright dresses hanging in the girls’ department. She’d never had a store-bought dress; she usually wore hand-me-downs from her sisters. She thought of how the Viyella dress chafed her armpits. But she’d already accepted enough of Aunt Florence’s charity; she could ask her mother to make her a new dress.

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’re being very stubborn, you know. I like buying you things.”

  Did she? Or did she just want Norah to look respectable … Norah couldn’t decide. And she had more important things to think about than clothes: in two days it would be Hallowe’en.

  “What’s Hallowe’en?” she had asked when Paige and Bernard had gone on about it.

  “Don’t you know?” They interrupted each other in their eagerness to tell Norah about dressing up and going out at night to collect treats from the neighbourhood.

  “Isn’t there Hallowe’en in England?” asked Bernard.

  “I’m not sure—not where I live, anyway. But in November we have Bonfire Night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s for Guy Fawkes Day. We make a Guy—like a big rag doll—out of old clothes, and we put him in a wagon and take him through the village for a few days, calling ‘a penny for the guy.’ Then we use the money to buy fireworks. We stuff the Guy with the fireworks and burn him in a huge bonfire on the green—everyone dances around it. Except last year we weren’t allowed to have one because of the black-out.”

  They wouldn’t be able to this year, either, she thought sadly. But Hallowe’en sounded just as thrilling. She joined in the excited plans about costumes.

  “We could be Guys!” suggested Paige. “Aren’t they sort of like tramps? All we’d have to do would be to wear old clothes—you could ask the Ogilvies for some, Norah.”

  Norah wondered if she would be allowed to participate in such lawless-sounding activities. Aunt Florence, however, seemed to approve of Hallowe’en. She had bought Gavin a fancy clown suit trimmed with yards of orange and green ruffles. A bright orange wig went with it. After dinner on Hallowe’en night, she painted Gavin’s face with rouge and white make-up.

  “Doesn’t he look precious, Mary?” Aunt Florence held Gavin out at arm’s length, then kissed him. “Now I’ll take your picture and send it to your parents. Come along, Norah, you get in it too.”

  Aunt Mary had helped Norah find some old clothes. She wore a pair of Hugh’s tattered fishing pants, a shapeless shirt and Mr. Ogilvie’s felt hat. With glee at being allowed to be so messy, she’d daubed her face and hands with a burnt cork.

  “Don’t stand too close to Gavin,” warned Aunt Florence. “You might get him dirty.” She focused the camera on them. “There!”

  Norah blinked from the flash as the front door knocker sounded. Into the hall walked another tramp, a witch and a black cat with a bedraggled tail: Paige, Barbara and Daphne.

&n
bsp; “I want you back by nine o’clock, Norah,” said Aunt Florence. “I’ll lend you my watch. Do you have rules about where you’re allowed to go, Paige?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ogilvie,” said Paige politely. “We aren’t allowed to cross Yonge Street.” She winked at Norah when Aunt Florence’s back was turned.

  “Let’s go, then, Gavin.” Aunt Florence was planning to drive him around to all her friends’ houses. His cheerful wig and make-up were a sharp contrast to his doleful expression. He turned to Norah and said plaintively, “Can’t I come with you, instead?”

  “You’re too young,” muttered Norah.

  “Of course not, sweetness,” agreed Aunt Florence. “You’d have trouble trying to keep up.”

  “Why can’t he?” asked Paige. “We’ll take care of him.”

  “Thank you, Paige, but I don’t think he’d enjoy it.” Gavin looked back longingly as Aunt Florence led him away.

  Norah was surprised he wanted to come; she thought he was afraid of the Worsleys. But she forgot his hurt face when they went out into the street. Shadowy figures hurried past them in the darkness: ghosts, cowboys, pilots, soldiers and pirates. A spooky breeze swirled dead leaves around their feet. They met Bernard, as planned, at the corner. He made an odd-looking tramp in his glasses.

  “Shell out! Shell out! The witches are out!” The thin cry echoed around them as gangs of purposeful children tramped up the steps of houses lit with leering pumpkin faces.

  In school they had been asked to collect pennies instead of candy for the war effort, but they carried pillowcases along with their milk bottles. At almost every door they received a treat as well as a donation.

  Paige refused to ask for money. “It’s not fair. I’ve already collected the most bottle caps in my class for the Red Cross. Tonight’s supposed to be our night! If they don’t give us any candy, we’ll play tricks on them.”

  “Like what?” asked Norah.

  “Like soaping their windows or taking off their gates or filling their mailboxes with horse buns,” said Paige. “At least, that’s what the older kids do. I’ve never actually done a trick—but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.”

  They crossed Yonge Street to cover Bernard’s neighbourhood as well. On one corner Charlie and his friends were noisily overturning garbage cans. They watched from a distance, careful to stay far enough away to run. Then they dared one another to ring the bell of an unlit old house. Daphne was the only one brave enough, but no one answered.

  “Hello, Norah!” Norah jumped as a white gloved hand tapped her shoulder. It was Dulcie, in a lacy dress and jewels. Her face was thick with make-up.

  “Isn’t Hallowe’en super? We’re all film stars—I’m Betty Grable.” Behind her lurked Babs and Ernestine, their galoshes peeking out from under their long gowns.

  Babs frowned at Norah and Bernard. “Come on Dulcie, we have to go home now.”

  “We refused to accept candy,” said Ernestine righteously, at the sight of Norah’s bulging pillowcase. “You’re supposed to be collecting money.”

  “I did!” Norah shook her bottle of coins angrily.

  “Dulcie …” Babs was moving away. “Don’t you remember the party at my house? Mum’s made scads of fudge, and we’re going to bob for apples—you’ll like that.”

  Dulcie hesitated. “I don’t feel like going in yet. You go ahead. I’ll see you there.”

  Her friends looked surprised but left quickly. Dulcie seemed surprised herself at her daring. “Can I come with you for a while?” she asked timidly.

  Norah grinned. “Sure!” She introduced Dulcie to the Worsleys. Paige inspected her warily, but soon forgot Dulcie as they collected more candy.

  When their bags were almost too heavy to carry, they rested under a streetlight and compared their booty. Best were homemade popcorn balls; worst were ordinary apples you could get anytime.

  “We still have an hour before we have to go home,” said Paige, pulling out a long string of toffee from her teeth. “I know something you’d like, Norah. Why don’t we have a bonfire? Then we could celebrate Guy Fawkes too.”

  “But we don’t have a Guy!” said Norah.

  “And we don’t have matches,” said Bernard, looking worried. “Anyway there’s nowhere safe to make a fire.”

  But Paige, as usual, was unstoppable when she had an idea. “I took some matches from the living room before we left. And I have a Guy.” Out of her pocket she pulled a small, wilted rag doll. “It isn’t very big, but it’ll do.”

  “That’s mine!” protested Daphne.

  “You haven’t played with it for years—you never did. It doesn’t even have a name. Wouldn’t you like to see it burn up?”

  Daphne thought for a second and then nodded, a wicked gleam in her eye.

  Up to now, Dulcie had seemed to be enjoying herself. Now she looked scared. “I think I’ll go to the party, now—Babs’s house is just around the corner.” She hurried away.

  “She’s a chicken,” remarked Paige, digging in her pockets again.

  Norah thought of how Dulcie had done what she wanted in spite of her friends’ disapproval. “No, she’s not. She likes doing different things than us, but she’s all right really.”

  “If you say so. Now watch.” She had found a pencil and marked a moustache under the doll’s nose. “There, we’ll turn him into Hitler—then it will be even more fun to burn him. We’ll make the fire by the fort. If we pile dirt around it, it’ll be safe. Come on, while we still have time!”

  Bernard still looked reluctant and Norah felt a twinge of fear. But the Worsley girls were at their wildest. They whooped and pranced as they ran along the streets and into the ravine. It was difficult to find their way to the fort in the darkness and they held onto one another as they slithered down the bank. Gradually their eyes adjusted and they could see by the dim glow of the streetlights on the bridge above them.

  “I’m freezing!” complained Barbara. “Hurry and make the fire, Paige.”

  First Paige ordered them to gather up twigs and branches while she and Bernard dug a circular trench with a board from the fort. When they had a large pile of fuel she struck a match on a rock and held it to the smallest twigs.

  The flame flickered and went out. Norah breathed easily again, but Paige looked around impatiently. “Paper … that’s what we need. Can we use some old comics? We’ve read them all.”

  Before they could answer she had grabbed an armful of comics from the fort. She tore out the pages, wadded them up, fit them under the kindling and tried again.

  The wind rose and the paper caught at once and whooshed into a blaze. Soon the twigs ignited, then the larger branches. The sparks flew up into the darkness and the dancing yellow flames illuminated their grimy faces.

  “Yaaay!” Paige threw the doll into the fire and seized Norah’s hand. Hollering like banshees, they all circled the flames as they grew stronger.

  The crackling fire made Norah feel reckless and powerful. She stopped being afraid. She almost forgot she was in Canada and for a few seconds was at home in Ringden before the war, dancing around the Guy.

  Guy, Guy, Guy

  Poke him in the eye.

  Put him in the fire

  And there let him die.

  Burn his body from his head,

  Then you’ll say Guy Fawkes is dead.

  Hip, Hip, Hooray!

  The others joined in with her chant. “Then you’ll say that Hitler’s dead!” added Paige. The flames leapt defiantly and they hurled wood on the fire to feed its mounting rage. Even Bernard had lost his usual calm. “This is Charlie!” he shouted, throwing on a large branch.

  Norah added more comics. “And this is Aunt Florence!” she screamed. Even Paige looked a little shocked at that. Then she grinned and shouted, “School! Dresses! GROWN-UPS!” They circled and jumped and shrieked, the fire roaring with them.

  Suddenly Bernard gave a different kind of scream. “LOOK!” He pointed and they froze. Part of the fire had leapt across t
he trench and caught on one of the cardboard boxes they used as a table. The dry box flared instantly and then the flames travelled to the fort itself.

  “Stop it!” cried Paige. “Put dirt on it!”

  They threw on handfuls of dirt and tried to beat down the flames with branches. But the fire continued to snarl like an angry beast at the wood of the fort.

  Daphne sobbed hysterically and Barbara clung to her, her face white with terror. “Do something!” she entreated the older children.

  Bernard turned to Norah. “Run up to the Ogilvies’ and call the fire department. Hurry! Paige and I will keep throwing dirt on it.”

  Norah didn’t know how she made her legs work. She tripped and stumbled up the steep bank. When she reached the front door, she felt as if she were suffocating and struggled for air.

  “Norah! What’s wrong?” Aunt Mary sprang up as Norah appeared in the den.

  “Fire. In the ravine,” Norah gasped. “The others—are—down there.” Then her arms and legs turned boneless and she collapsed in a chair.

  The rest of the evening had the foggy, unreal quality of a dream. The fire engines came quickly, their whining wail as insistent as an air-raid siren. In a daze, Norah stood in the backyard and watched as long hoses sprayed onto the flames from the bridge. The firemen led or carried Paige, Bernard, Barbara and Daphne up the hill as the fire was extinguished.

  None of them could speak. When Aunt Florence and Gavin got home, all five children were sitting in the kitchen, with Aunt Mary and Hanny trying to get them to have some cocoa. The firemen were standing in a corner drinking theirs, looking sternly at the children.

  “What is going on?” the majestic voice asked. Aunt Florence directed her question to Norah, after glaring first at Bernard.

  Fortunately Mr. Worsley arrived before Norah had to answer. “Are you all right?” he cried, inspecting each daughter as if she might be broken. Then he looked grave. He said he would drive Bernard home and hustled him and his daughters out the door.