by Kit Pearson
To Norah’s surprise, Aunt Mary was really good. Her plump figure became graceful as she turned circles, wove backwards and even performed little jumps. “What fun!” she laughed. “I thought I might have forgotten. Do you know that I once won a cup for skating?” She taught Norah how to keep her balance, and by the end of the afternoon Norah had gone all the way around the rink by herself without falling. The cold air blew by her glowing cheeks as she tried speeding up. It felt like flying.
Then Paige and Bernard appeared and started a game of hockey. When it was over, Norah had fallen so much that her knees, elbows and bottom were sore and wet. But she could hardly wait to skate again the next day.
GAVIN TURNED SIX at the end of November and Aunt Florence held an elaborate party for him. All the children in his class were invited, as well as the Worsleys and the Smiths. Bernard came too—Gavin had asked for him especially. After a hired magician had performed, the older children helped organize Musical Chairs, Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button. Then they all sat around the dining-room table for cake and ice cream.
Gavin’s face was as bright as his six candles. He had received countless toys and books; the biggest was a red tin fire engine he could ride in. But his favourite present was a tiny sweater for Creature that Hanny had knit on toothpicks. Norah was no longer worried about him being too indulged. Gavin, she decided, was so much himself that no one could spoil him.
After most of the guests had gone home, the Ogilvies, Mr. and Mrs. Worsley and Norah and Paige collapsed in the living room. Barbara and Daphne had taken over Gavin’s Meccano set and were teaching him how to use it in his room.
“Let’s have a drink,” moaned Aunt Florence. “I’d forgotten how exhausting birthday parties are.”
The living room was a disaster: paper hats, burst balloons, streamers and candy wrappers littered the rug. “Shall we start to clean up?” Norah asked.
“The cleaning woman will do it tomorrow,” said Aunt Florence with relief.
Norah thought of Gavin’s party last year. He’d had only two friends in, but they’d made almost as much mess as thirty children today. It had taken Mum all evening to get the house tidy again.
Today Mum would probably be thinking about Gavin turning six. So would Dad and Grandad and Muriel and Tibby. They would be missing him a lot. She wondered if Mum would make a cake anyway, but that would be difficult this year, with rationing. Norah suddenly wanted to be home so much that she picked up a magazine to hide her brimming eyes.
Paige scratched herself under her pink organdy front. “I wish I could change out of this prickly dress,” she whispered to Norah. “I’d like to give it to your friend Dulcie. She kept telling me how much she liked it.”
“She can’t help it,” said Norah automatically. She’d blinked away her tears and was now listening intently to the grown-ups, who were sipping their drinks and talking about the blitz.
“First London and Coventry, now Southampton and Bristol,” sighed Mr. Worsley. “When will it end?”
“When will it?” asked Norah desperately, her voice strained and broken.
He answered carefully. “No one knows, Norah. Not for a long time, I’m afraid.” He smiled at her. “It’s tough, I know—but we’re glad you and Gavin will be here for the duration.”
“She’s a very brave girl, to endure what she has so far,” said Aunt Florence. Every time she said something as flattering as this, Norah was surprised.
Paige chuckled. “Be tough, Norah—endure the duration!”
“Very clever,” said her father dryly, “but stop showing off.”
Norah sighed. “Endure” and “duration” and “tough” were all hard words—and hard to do. Perhaps now she could endure. In the past month she’d “adjusted”; she’d even stopped wetting the bed.
Now she was able to write long, uncensored letters home and say honestly that she was all right. But that still didn’t mean she wanted to be here.
21
Tidings of Comfort
Norah packed a snowball and threw it at Dulcie’s feet. Paige, Barbara and Daphne, in matching tweed coats, tried lying in a row and making snow angels until their mother stopped them. All around the front door of St. Peter’s Church, children threw polite snowballs that missed their targets or kicked at the ground with impatient feet, unable to play properly in stiff Sunday clothes while surrounded by adults.
Norah edged up to the group that included the two Ogilvies. Maybe if she looked hungry enough, they would get the hint and start for home. Every Sunday Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary talked to the other churchgoers before the service, whispered about them during it and stood around in chattering groups afterwards. It had been the same in Ringden. Grownups seemed to go to church to observe and gossip—and to waste valuable time. Last night it had snowed again. It was almost noon, and Norah still hadn’t been set free in it.
“Since this is their first Christmas away from home, we’re going to make it as special as possible,” Aunt Mary was saying.
“Oh, so are we!” said Mrs. Milne eagerly. “We’re so worried that Derek and Dulcie and Lucy will be homesick, though they’ve managed splendidly so far. It’s changed our lives, you know, to have children with us.”
Aunt Mary said softly, “Yes … it’s changed ours, too.”
Finally the last handshakes were given, the last goodbyes were said and the children were released from waiting. Norah and Gavin ran ahead, kicking up sparkling sprays of snow.
Norah thought about Christmas. No matter how special the Ogilvies tried to make it, she knew Christmas couldn’t be the same in Canada. She slowed down, trailing a branch along the sidewalk. While the Ogilvies’ household was busy with elaborate Christmas preparations, all she could think of was what her family would be doing at home.
“Will you help me build a snowman after lunch, Norah?” asked Gavin.
Norah nodded. The busier she was, the less time she had to be homesick.
Buying presents was one thing that kept her from brooding. She had helped Hanny pack an enormous food hamper for her family, filled with Christmas pudding, cakes, tins of fruit and fish, and a whole ham. Norah wriggled with excitement as she thought how glad they would be to get it.
“Before you came, the war seemed so far away,” said Hanny. “Now it’s our war, too.”
Aunt Mary had taken them to Woolworth’s to buy the rest of their presents. “Hugh and I always did our shopping here when we were your age,” she explained. She gave Norah and Gavin a dollar each and left them alone. They spent an hour wandering separately up and down the crowded aisles.
Norah chose a handkerchief for Aunt Mary, “Evening in Paris” perfume for Aunt Florence and a packet of bobby pins for Hanny. Even though Edith was still acting unfriendly, she picked out a purple comb for her. In the toy section she found water pistols for Paige and Bernard and pretend lipstick for Dulcie. Then she remembered Miss Gleeson and got her a bookmark with “This is where I fell asleep” printed on it. Her basket began to be crowded with presents. What a lot of people she knew in Canada!
She couldn’t make up her mind about Gavin. He had plenty of cars and planes and soldiers. She turned down the aisle towards the sound of birds, where brightly hued budgies cheeruped importantly. Gavin would love one, but they were too expensive. Then she saw a tank of glittering orange goldfish. Five Cents, said the sign. That was perfect.
She found a clerk, who dipped a small net into the tank and scooped out the fish she chose, the brightest and plumpest. He put it with some water into a waxed cardboard carton with a wire handle. She had just enough money left for some food. Norah peeked into the carton and watched the goldfish dart around its temporary home. She would ask Hanny for a jar to use as a bowl and hide it in her wardrobe until Christmas.
When she met Gavin, after paying for her presents first so she could conceal the goldfish in her bag, she discovered he had chosen mothballs for everyone. “It says ‘useful’ on the package
,” he explained, sounding out the word carefully. “I like the smell, too.”
The next sign of Christmas was a huge party that a wealthy store owner was holding for all the Toronto area war guests. Norah remembered Miss Carmichael telling them about it. She didn’t want to feel like an evacuee all over again. “Do I have to go?” she asked.
But Aunt Florence insisted. “And please, Norah, let me buy you a new dress. You’ll need one for Christmas dinner anyway, and you simply cannot wear that old Viyella any longer.”
“Mum said in her last letter she was cutting down a dress for me out of one of her old ones.”
“But it won’t get here in time for the party. I want you to look nice—after all, it’s a special occasion. And they’ll think I’m not taking good care of you if you look shabby.”
Norah gave in. “All right,” she sighed. Going shopping was a waste of good tobogganing time.
Aunt Florence took her to a fancy store downtown with thick carpets and lots of mirrors. All the salesladies seemed to know who she was. “This way, Mrs. Ogilvie,” said the lady in charge. “Would you like to sit down?” She took Norah into a changing room and brought dresses in to her.
Norah grew interested in spite of herself. Most of the dresses were too frilly, like the ones Dulcie wore. But there was one she took to immediately. It was red velvet with a simple white collar and cuffs. When she tried it on, the rich weight of it made her feel cosy and secure.
“I like this one,” she said, coming out to be inspected. She ran her hands up and down her sides, relishing the thick pile.
“But don’t you want to try on the others?”
“No, thank you.”
Aunt Florence examined every inch of the dress with the eyes of an experienced shopper. “It certainly looks nice on you—it suits your dark hair.” She turned to the woman. “Do you have a hairband that would go with it?”
“Of course, Mrs. Ogilvie.” The manager bustled away and arrived back breathless with a narrow red band. It matched exactly and made Norah’s hair feel neat and out of the way, much more comfortable than awkward bows or scratchy hair-slides.
“Very well, we’ll take it. You have good taste, my dear. Now shoes.”
Aunt Florence bought Norah black patent strapped shoes and new white socks. Norah peeked at the bill when it was all rung up and gulped. Even in pounds, it was an enormous sum.
“This is awfully expensive, Aunt Florence.”
“Nonsense. It’s nice to have someone to spend money on.”
Norah swallowed her pride and said thank you.
“Oh, Norah, just look at these!” cried Aunt Florence. She held up a pair of red velvet shorts. “Aren’t they wonderful? Gavin would look adorable in them and then you’d match. I’ll take a pair in size six.”
When they got home Gavin took one look at the shorts and shook his head. “I don’t like them. Thank you, anyway,” he added, politely but firmly.
Aunt Florence was surprised; it was the first time Gavin had rebelled. “Well, maybe they are too young for you,” she conceded. “I’ll return them and you can wear your sailor suit to the party.”
Gavin smiled. He liked his sailor suit because it had a whistle.
Aunt Mary dropped them off at the Royal York Hotel, where the party was being held. It was the same towering building where Norah and Gavin had sheltered on the day they ran away; Aunt Mary told them it was the largest hotel in the Empire. A woman conducted them into a huge ballroom milling with dressed-up children. Norah held Gavin’s hand as they stood amidst the shrill voices.
“Why, it’s Norah and Gavin!” Miss Carmichael rushed up and kissed them. “Don’t you both look well! You’ve put on weight—our Canadian food must be agreeing with you. What a lovely dress, Norah! Are you all settled in now? Do you like your school?”
“Yes, thank you.” Norah answered all her questions politely and Gavin began to tell her about grade one. Miss Carmichael was kind, Norah realized. She had been kind at the residence too, but Norah had been too miserable to notice. That confusing week seemed a long time ago.
“You’re losing some of your accent, Gavin,” said Miss Carmichael. “By the time you go back to England you’ll sound like a Canadian! Yours is changing too, Norah.”
Surely it wasn’t. Norah didn’t want to lose her accent. It wasn’t fair that it could happen without her consent.
Dulcie and Lucy found them and they all made their way to the food. “Derek wouldn’t come,” said Dulcie. “He says he’s too old for a children’s party and that he’s a Canadian now, not a war guest. I love your dress, Norah.”
Norah was confused. She didn’t want to be a Canadian or a war guest; she just wanted to be herself. But the long tables of food distracted her. They were piled with Christmas cake, punch, cookies and dishes of candy. Norah had to stop Gavin from stuffing his pockets. She recognized some children from the SS Zandwort and they stood in a circle and compared their new families.
“We have a dog!” boasted Johnnie.
“I live with my aunt and uncle in a small town outside Toronto,” said Margery. “I have my own chickens and I sell the eggs.”
For a second Norah envied her; it would have been nice to have been sent somewhere that was more like home. But then she wouldn’t be with the Ogilvies. That would seem strange, she was so used to them now.
Seeing some of the children from the ship made her wonder how Jamie was; she’d forgotten all about him.
“Aren’t you excited about Christmas, Norah?” Dulcie asked her. “We’re going to a pantomime at the Royal Alexandra Theatre. Aunt Dorothy is going to ask you, too.” Norah didn’t want to disillusion Dulcie by telling her that Canadian Christmas wasn’t going to be the same.
A man called for silence and introduced their host. Everyone cheered and clapped and one of the older British girls gave a short speech of thanks. “We are all touched and grateful at how the Canadians have welcomed us into their homes,” she said. “Let’s show our appreciation, everyone.”
There was more clapping and one of the adults began to sing “There’ll always be an England.” Norah groaned, but halfway through the song she joined in. Everything at this party was as it had been at the beginning: all of them crowded into a room with speeches and singing. But it didn’t bother her any more; somehow it didn’t seem important enough to worry about.
“It wasn’t too bad,” she admitted to Aunt Florence on the way home. But she was glad it was over.
“It was super!” said Gavin through a mouthful of fudge. “I’m glad we’re war guests.”
“I’m not!” blurted out Norah, forgetting to be grateful. Aunt Florence glanced at her. “Sending you away must have been a terrible decision for your parents to make. But since they did, I’m happy it was our home you came to.”
AT SCHOOL everyone was getting so excited about the holidays that for the first time Miss Liers had trouble keeping order. She tried to get them to sing a carol every morning, but they kept changing the words to “While shepherds washed their socks by night” and “Good King Wenceslas looked out / In his pink pyjamas.”
“That’s enough! We won’t have any singing, if you’re going to act so silly!” She slammed down the piano lid. Norah shared in the suppressed giggles of the class. Poor Miss Liers—she never seemed to want to have any fun.
One afternoon, when Norah went as usual to pick up Gavin at his classroom, some other British children were standing around the grade one and two cloakroom, looking doleful. Lucy was crying and Dulcie was trying to comfort her. “We didn’t get the presents …” she wailed.
“What happened?” Norah asked. Gavin and Lucy tried to explain.
After lunch a film crew had arrived at Prince Edward School to make a movie of all the kindergarten to grade two war guests. They were going to send it to England so their parents could see their children having a happy Christmas in Canada.
“He took us into the gym and there was a huge Christmas tree,” sniffed Lucy. �
�There were all sorts of presents underneath.”
“The man said they were just empty boxes,” said Gavin solemnly. “He said we had to open them and pretend they were presents, because it was just a game for the movie.”
“But they weren’t empty at all!” said Lucy. “There were dolls and games and I got a music box that played ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’.” She began to cry again. “But at the end of the movie we had to give them back. He said all the toys belonged to his children!”
“Never mind,” said Dulcie. “Soon it will really be Christmas and you’ll have presents you can keep.”
Norah wondered if her parents would see the movie. She had never known that being evacuees would involve so much attention—applauding crowds, newspaper photographs, broadcasts from the princesses and now a movie.
The next week there was another radio message, one far more personal than the one from Princess Elizabeth. “I have a wonderful surprise for you, Norah and Gavin,” bubbled Aunt Mary. “The CBC is sending messages to Canada from your parents. They can’t give us an exact time, but after school today you might hear their voices!”
Norah couldn’t believe it, not until they all crowded around the radio that afternoon. Out of the shiny wooden case came faint British voices, full of longing: “Keep your chin up, Tim … We miss you, Kathleen and David … Happy Christmas, Margaret …” Before each message, the announcer said the family’s name.
As the broadcast went on, Norah’s throat constricted with fear. She thought of her terrible dream. Ever since she’d had it, she had waited even more avidly than before for letters from her family to make sure that they were all right. But she hadn’t had one for two weeks. If she didn’t hear her parents’ voices now, the worst might have happened.
