by Kit Pearson
“Obviously there’s a lot of explaining to do,” he said to Aunt Florence, “but I think it can wait until tomorrow. They’d all better stay home from school. I’ll ring you in the morning and we’ll try to sort out what happened.”
Norah was sent to bed. She didn’t even wash her filthy face and hands but curled up into a tight ball and tried to quiet her breathing. The dangerous, leaping flames and Aunt Florence’s outraged expression filled her dreams.
THE NEXT MORNING, it all came out. The Worsleys arrived after breakfast and the girls had to stumble through the story together in front of the four adults.
Aunt Florence blamed a lot of it on Bernard. “I told you he was unsuitable! And why were you with him at all, Norah, after I forbade you to see him?”
Then she discovered that Norah had been seeing Bernard all along. “We didn’t know she wasn’t allowed to play with him,” said Mrs. Worsley timidly. “We thought his name was Albert. He seems so sensible for his age, it couldn’t have been his idea.”
“It was my idea,” said Paige. “Not Bernard’s.”
“I’m sure it was,” said her father grimly.
But Aunt Florence didn’t seem to believe her. “Now, Paige, you couldn’t have thought of such a dreadful thing by yourself. And it was extremely deceptive of you, Norah, to pretend Bernard was someone else.”
Mr. Worsley gave them a long, serious lecture on how foolish they had been. He told them exactly the same sorts of things Norah’s father would have. It was painful to listen to—Barbara cried and Paige pressed her lips together and pretended not to—but everything he said was so true that Norah felt cleansed at the end.
Then Mrs. Worsley and Aunt Mary had their turn. They wrung their hands and carried on about how they might have been burnt to death. Then Norah and Paige were told they weren’t allowed to see each other all weekend.
Throughout all this, Aunt Florence was suspiciously silent. Norah guessed she was saving the rest of her comments for her alone.
Sure enough, after Paige, Barbara and Daphne had been marched home again, Aunt Florence had her say. She kept Norah in the living room for half an hour and told her over and over how ungrateful and disobedient she was.
She even brought up Norah’s bed-wetting. Before breakfast, as if she had decided to pick a time when Norah was already in everyone’s bad books, Edith had come to Aunt Florence to tell her she refused to wash Norah’s sheets any longer.
“What kind of a girl wets her bed at age ten?” said Aunt Florence, looking disgusted. “I think you must be doing it on purpose.”
The more her icy voice droned on, the less Norah listened. Something inside her had turned to stone.
“Norah! I said, would you like me to have you transferred to another family? I’m not at all sure I want to continue to try to get along, when you make absolutely no effort yourself. I’m not even sure that Gavin should be around you. Perhaps you would be better apart.”
Norah fastened her own grey eyes upon Aunt Florence’s granite ones. “I don’t care. Do whatever you like. May I go to my room now?”
Aunt Florence seemed about to say more. Then she took a deep breath and nodded. “Very well. We’ll discuss this again later, when we’ve both cooled down. You’d better go to school this afternoon. Wash your hands for lunch and I’ll write you a note.”
Norah sat on the window seat of the tower. She struggled through five short minutes of indecision, then she dumped her books out of her schoolbag and began to pack.
19
Gavin
“Are you sure you feel up to going back to school this afternoon, Norah?” Aunt Mary asked anxiously. She adjusted her hat at the hall mirror. “You must still feel shocked from last night—I know I do.”
Her mother bristled. “Of course she can go back. There’s no point in missing a whole day of schoolwork. Why are you wearing that dreadful hat, Mary? Go and put on your new one.” She and her daughter were going to a lunch party.
Before Aunt Mary scuttled upstairs, Norah tried to smile at her. Then she met Aunt Florence’s haughty gaze with one just as cold. There! That was the last time she would ever see either of them.
“I’m glad you didn’t get burned up, Norah,” said Gavin, as they ate alone at one end of the dining room table.
Norah was too distracted to listen. “Aren’t you going to finish your sandwich?” When Gavin shook his head, she stuffed the remains of his lunch and three of the apples from the sideboard into her schoolbag.
“What’s that for?” asked Gavin.
“Just a … picnic. We’re having one after school. But don’t tell, or I’ll get into trouble.”
“I won’t. Can I come? Will you have it in your fort? When did you build the fort? Can I help you fix it?”
“No you can’t! Leave me alone, Gavin! Why do you always have to bother me? Can’t you see I’m trying to think? Go and find Hanny—I’m going to school now.”
Gavin’s big eyes filled with tears. Slowly he got down from his chair and trudged into the kitchen.
Norah almost cried herself, with frustration. Why did Gavin always have to make her feel so mean? And shouldn’t she say goodbye to him? She wouldn’t see him again until the war was over and he was sent back to England. It would just upset him, though, if she told him she was running away. He might even tell the Ogilvies.
The front hall was as soundless as an empty church. Norah pulled down her new snowsuit from the closet and struggled into the leggings and jacket. The weather wasn’t cold today, but she didn’t know where she would be spending the night. She checked her schoolbag one more time: toothbrush, pyjamas, an extra sweater and her shrapnel; the five pounds she’d held onto all this time and, for some reason, the old doll Aunt Mary had given her. She’d also squeezed in her latest library book. That felt like stealing, but she could mail it back from England.
She breathed in one last whiff of furniture polish and roses and said a silent goodbye to the sombre house that always felt too hot. Then she shut the door softly behind her.
It was difficult to walk fast in the bulky snowsuit. Norah decided to inspect the fort and rest there until she calmed down. This was much scarier than skipping school; scarier, in fact, than anything she’d ever done before.
In the sunlight the charred wood of the fort looked sinister. But the damage wasn’t as bad as it had appeared to be last night. Norah sat down beside the damp, sooty circle where they’d made the fire. It seemed years ago that they had all danced around the flames.
She tried to think clearly. Where was she going to go? All she knew was that she wanted to go home, to find her way back to England and her parents. The only way she could do that was to return the way she had come: by train to Montreal and from there by ship. First she had to find the train station; that shouldn’t be too difficult. She remembered it was a short distance from the university. She could go downtown and ask someone.
But adults might question her and wonder why she wasn’t in school. Could she get away with travelling alone on a train? And how was she going to find out what ship to go on? Would she have to stow away on it, like someone in a story?
The load of all the problems that lay ahead over-whelmed her. She had not slept well the night before and the horror of the fire had left her drained. It was unusually warm for November; her snowsuit was a cosy cocoon. Curling up on a heap of dry leaves, Norah slept.
She dreamed about journeys, about walking and walking and walking with no place to reach. As she walked she held a small warm hand that gave her strength. She was in England; she was walking with Gavin. The sense of endless journeying left when they approached their own village. As they hurried up the main street to their house, a huge relief flowed through Norah. She began to run, pulling Gavin along and laughing in anticipation of feelng her parents’ arms around her.
But Little Whitebull was demolished. In its place was a pile of burnt and flattened rubble—like the fort, like Grandad’s house in Camber.
“Where are you?” Norah cried desperately. “Mum! Dad! Grandad! Where are you?”
“They’re gone …” cackled an ugly voice. It was a goblin voice, a bogeyman, a Guy … coming from a leering face with a brush of a moustache and a swastika on its hat. It leaned over her and laughed raucously. “They’re gone, they’re dead … I killed them!”
“No!” screamed Norah and woke herself up. She sat up with a jolt and sobbed. It was only a dream, but she couldn’t stop crying for a long time.
Now she wanted to reach England all the more, to make sure her family was safe. Why was she wasting time down here? She stood up, brushed off the leaves, picked up her schoolbag and reached out for Gavin’s hand.
Her hand closed on air. She thrust it into her pocket angrily. Gavin was still at the Ogilvies’, being cosseted and spoilt. She didn’t want or need him.
Then her legs trembled so much she had to sit down again, as everyone’s words came to her; “Take care of Gavin, take care of Gavin …”
She had never taken care of him. From the very beginning of their journey to Canada, she had only wanted to be rid of him. She remembered all the times when he’d given her that hurt, perplexed look; all the times she could have comforted him, but didn’t. And the last time, a few hours ago, when she’d made him cry by pushing him away. He was only five, a small, lost boy with no family but her. He was her brother; Aunt Mary and Bernard and Paige didn’t have brothers. She thought of Aunt Mary’s anguished voice when she had talked about Hugh. She had lost her brother; Norah still had hers.
She remembered the day, years ago, when they’d set Gavin on one side of the kitchen at Little Whitebull and, chortling with proud glee, he’d taken his first wobbly steps straight to Norah. How he used to call “Ora, Ora,” when Mum scolded him. But she had only thought of him as a nuisance; someone who claimed her mother’s and sisters’ attention so completely that she had turned to her father instead.
But he was her brother. He needed Norah and Norah needed him. And she was planning to leave him behind in a strange country with a foolish woman to ruin him.
Norah ran up the hill almost as fast as she had the night before. She tried to catch her breath as she pushed open the front door a crack and peeked in.
Good: the hall clock said just past two. She hadn’t slept as long as she thought. And Gavin, as usual, was playing in the hall with the canes and umbrellas that had once belonged to Mr. Ogilvie—patting and grooming and talking to them quietly, pretending they were horses.
Norah watched him for a moment. She saw his dreamy, withdrawn expression, his aloneness. What had it been like for him these past two months, shut up in this dull house by himself when Aunt Florence was busy? She wanted to rush up and greet him noisily; she felt as if she hadn’t seen him for years.
But she had to be cautious. “Gavin,” she whispered.
Gavin dropped a cane, startled.
“Shhh! It’s only me. Come on, we’re going out.” Norah crept into the hall and got his snowsuit.
“Going out? With you?” His face was so eager that Norah hugged him.
“Yes. We’re running away. But they might try to stop us, so we have to be quiet. What’s Hanny doing?”
“Making a pie. She’s going to call when it’s done so I can have a piece.”
Norah could smell it cooking. “Then hurry!” She helped him into his leggings. “I wish we could get more food and your toothbrush, but there isn’t time. Do you have Creature?”
Gavin held up his elephant, his eyes shining. “We’re having an adventure, aren’t we?”
“Right. Come on, now.” With her brother’s warm hand firmly in hers, Norah led him out the door.
FIVE HOURS LATER, they sat huddled on a hard bench hidden behind a bush in a park close to the train station. A nearby streetlight radiated a faint circle of light.
Norah sat in the light, reading aloud from Five Children and It: “‘I daresay you have often thought about what you would do if you had three wishes given you.’” When she reached the part where the children couldn’t decide what to wish for, she turned the book over impatiently. Her wish was so simple, but bringing it about seemed increasingly complicated.
The temperature had dropped and now she was glad of their snowsuits. Gavin’s cheeks and nose were cherry-red with cold. “Keep reading, Norah,” he begged. “I like that funny Psammead.”
“In a minute—I have to think. You go and swing for a while, it will warm you up.”
Gavin obeyed easily. He was so contented to be doing something with Norah that he didn’t seem to mind the hours they had already spent walking and waiting.
First they’d gone downtown and ventured into the bank to change the five pounds.
“Where did you get this?” the teller asked suspiciously. “It’s a large amount for a little girl.”
“Our m-mum sent us with it—she’s ill,” stuttered Norah, feeling a bit ill herself with the huge lie.
The teller still looked suspicious but she finally handed Norah a wad of Canadian dollars.
After that they had asked a boy the way to Union Station and gone there on a streetcar. Norah was afraid to call more attention to themselves by asking about the train to Montreal. She finally found a schedule on a notice-board; to her dismay, the next train didn’t leave until eight-thirty that evening.
They passed the time by buying tea and cheese sandwiches in the station restaurant. The cashier looked at them curiously but she didn’t say anything. Then they settled themselves on a long, slippery bench in the echoing station hall. They took off their snowsuits and leaned comfortably against them. The station milled with weekend travellers, but they were all preoccupied with where they were going or whom they were meeting. No one paid any attention to Norah and Gavin until a policeman approached them.
“Are you kids alone?” he asked kindly, with an English accent.
Norah thought fast. “No, our mum’s gone to get us some sandwiches. We have to wait a long time for the train.”
“Where are you off to, then?”
“Montreal. We’re going to visit some friends of Mum’s for the weekend.”
“War guests, are you?”
Norah nodded.
“You’re lucky your mother could come over with you. I have a sister and three nephews back home I wanted to bring to Canada, but it’s too late now. Since that ship was torpedoed, they’ve suspended all evacuation indefinitely. Where are you from? I grew up in Newcastle.”
Norah told him. He was so friendly she wanted to pour out everything, but that was impossible. And the longer he chatted, the sooner he would wonder where their mother was. At least Gavin knew enough not to contradict her story.
She became more and more agitated. Then, to her relief, a drunken man shouting on the other side of the station caught the policeman’s attention.
“I’ll have to check this out. Now don’t move from that bench. I’m sure your mother will be back soon.”
As soon as he’d left Norah grabbed their things and pulled Gavin outside. “Where are we going?” he asked, as they hid behind a pillar and struggled into their snowsuits.
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to keep walking until it’s time to buy our tickets. If we sit down we look too conspicuous.”
So they walked and walked again until their legs ached, peering into store windows and warming up in the lobby of an enormous hotel. When it got dark they were less visible, but the lights of the passing cars glared in their faces and made them jumpy. Finally they found the park and settled on the half-hidden bench.
Now Norah watched Gavin pumping hard, his body a darting shadow in the darkness. It was too cold to stay here much longer; they should probably start back to the station.
She dreaded trying to buy a ticket. What would she say? She was certain they wouldn’t sell her one, and perhaps the policeman would be waiting for them.
Something firm and resolute collapsed inside Norah. She had rescued Gavin from the Ogilvies; t
o carry on from there seemed impossible. She was only ten years old—the grown-ups would thwart her all the way. However much she wanted to, she had known all along they couldn’t really go back to England.
They were stuck here; stuck in Canada with no place to go. Just as at the beginning of her dream, they were on a journey with no end in sight.
Gavin jumped off the swing and ran back to Norah. “I’m much warmer now, but I’m hungry again. Can I have my sandwich from lunch? Norah? Why are you crying?”
Norah’s body heaved with sobs and hot tears stung her cold cheeks. “I’m so tired,” she wailed. “I’m tired of—of fighting. Why does there have to be a war? I hate the war! I just want to go home.”
Gavin thumped her back. “Let’s go then,” he said calmly. “Aunt Florence will wonder where we are. I don’t think she’d like it if we ran away without telling her. And there’s apple pie for dessert.”
Norah was so surprised she stopped crying. “I don’t mean the Ogilvies. I mean home! In Ringden, with Mum and Dad and Grandad. In England. Don’t you remember?”
“’Course I remember. But I thought Canada was our home now.”
Norah stared at him. “Gavin, do you like living at the Ogilvies’?”
“I like Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary and Hanny and all my new toys. But I don’t like shopping and going out for tea all the time. I wish I could go to school like you.”
“But you came with me when I said we were running away!”
“You said we were going to have an adventure. But we didn’t even go on a train and I thought we’d be finished the adventure by dinnertime. I’m tired of it now. Can’t we go home? Please?”
Norah gave up. There was nowhere else to go but the Ogilvies’. “All right,” she said wearily, drying her wet cheeks with her mitt. “We’ll get into a lot of trouble, though. I will, anyway. Probably they’ll send me to a different family.” She stood up. “But I won’t go without you! Would you mind that, if we had to live with someone else?”
“I wouldn’t like it,” said Gavin gravely, “but I’d go with you. Dad said we had to stick to each other like glue!”
