by Julie Lawson
I told him that we wanted to be there in case something was found, that there was no one else and that we were almost fourteen. (A lie, as Duncan later pointed out, but I feel much older than twelve.) I also told the man that we wanted to say goodbye to the house before every last trace was gone.
He softened up then and said we could stay for a while. Even though we really didn’t have to be there in person, because anything that was found, no matter how small, we could claim later on.
So Duncan and I stood without speaking and watched the men dig through our basement.
They were everywhere, volunteers and soldiers, digging in all the ruined houses, looking for bodies and personal effects. There have been some astonishing finds. Like the unbroken pieces of a little girl’s tea set, and a fragile china cup with the words Remember Me printed on the side. A child was found in a cellar, alive and unhurt, snuggling close to a puppy, a full day after the explosion. And a baby, with scarcely a scratch, was found under a stove. It seems she was protected by the ashpan.
In the ruins of our house, the men found some letters. They were wrapped in oilcloth and bound tightly with string, and must have been well hidden, for Duncan and I had never seen them. And how did they escape the fire?
The man who handed them to me shook his head. “It’s right holy amazing what survives,” he said. “Think of it as a gift.”
Well the minute we got back to the Kesslers’, we started looking through the letters. There were a dozen, postmarked from 1897 to 1908, each addressed in Mum’s handwriting to a Mr. and Mrs. A. D. Wakefield on Young Avenue, Halifax. All were marked Return to Sender and mailed back, unopened.
Wakefield was Mum’s maiden name — we knew that much, at least. And the first letter was mailed in December, 1897.
Duncan said what I was thinking. “Isn’t that when Luke was born?”
It was, all right. We’re not likely to forget, since December 2, eighteen years later, was the very day he joined up for the war. We figured that Mum had written to some relatives to tell them about her baby.
Well, as we were checking the other postmarks, something began to dawn on me. “Duncan,” I said, “what if there never was a Father Young. What if Mum was trying to tell me that her father lived on Young Avenue, and that I should find him, in case Dad …?”
“No,” Duncan said after a moment. “Mum’s parents died before she got married. That’s what she told us.”
“But what if it wasn’t true? What if she meant they were ‘dead’ to her?”
He said it was possible, but even so, he wouldn’t go to the Wakefields. Why would they want to meet us, after returning all Mum’s letters? He finished off by saying, “They can’t be very nice.”
“That’s not the point,” I told him. “It was Mum’s last wish. We have to go.”
So first thing tomorrow, before we change our minds, we’re going to the house on Young Avenue.
Then came the big question. Should we read the letters or not?
I’m curious, but afraid of what I might discover. Duncan feels the same. If Mum’s writing about Dad and our sisters, it might make us miss them even more. And what if her letters show she wasn’t happy? That would make us even sadder.
Haggarty once said that what happened to Mum in the past was her story. I don’t think I’m ready for it yet. Like Dad used to say, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” That’s what we’re going to do.
Monday, December 31
Duncan was in a terrible state last night. What if Mr. Wakefield isn’t Mum’s father? What if he is, and doesn’t like us?
I thought back to the Explosion and said, “What’s the worst that can happen now?”
That didn’t help either, so this morning I got up early and asked Mrs. Kessler for advice.
She said we should go to the Wakefields’, for our mother’s sake as well as for our own. Because if we didn’t go, if we didn’t find out for sure, we’d always be wondering. And we’d be like the other Explosion children who’ve lost their relatives. We’d end up being adopted by strangers or placed in an orphanage. And if we were adopted, there was no guarantee we’d be able to stay together.
She said this in a kind way, but her words came as a shock. I never thought that Duncan and I might be separated, not once we’d found each other.
She explained that the Relief Committee wanted to keep brothers and sisters together, and keep them in Halifax, but it wasn’t always possible. She said that when the war was over, Duncan and I would be able to live with Luke, since he’s an adult, but if something were to happen to him …
Well she offered to visit the Wakefields for us and explain our situation. If all went well, she’d accompany Duncan and me at a later time. That way, we wouldn’t have to meet them on our own.
She says there’s a good chance the Wakefields are our grandparents, and she’s sorry that we never knew, especially since they’re right in Halifax.
“Mum told us they’d passed away a long time ago,” I told her. “She never talked about them and neither did Dad. I don’t know why.”
“I expect they had their reasons,” she said. “Quarrels, differences of opinion — it happens sometimes with families. You and Duncan might be the ones to patch things up.”
That was the end of our conversation. I’ve written it down, almost word for word, and as soon as Duncan gets up I’ll let him read it for himself.
Later
Went coasting on Citadel Hill and saw Ruth’s friend Hilda. She said she’d never forgive herself, that if she hadn’t told her teacher on Ruth, the telephone company wouldn’t have found out Ruth’s age and sent her home. She’d still be alive. “Wouldn’t she, Charlotte?”
I told her I didn’t know. How could anyone know?
Too cold to stay outside for long, so we came home and played cards. Then the girls rearranged the furniture in the dollhouse and the boys ran the electric train. Sometimes they let the dollhouse people ride around on the train. Lewis and Kevin wanted to put the dollhouse lady on the tracks so she could be rescued in the nick of time, or run over by the train, but Duncan wouldn’t let them.
After supper we made up stories to go with Duncan’s pictures, and Mr. Kessler showed us some magic tricks. He can pull a quarter out of our ears.
We tried to keep busy all day, to take our minds off this Thursday. That’s when everyone’s leaving except for Sophie and Lewis. They’re staying with the Kesslers until the end of the war, and then relatives in England will come for them. Sarah’s going to an uncle’s farm in New Brunswick, and Matthew and Kevin are staying at a temporary Home for Children until the Protestant Orphanage is rebuilt. Duncan and I might go there, too. But that depends on the Wakefields.
1918
January 1918
Tuesday, January 1, 1918
In a few minutes we’re going to Young Avenue.
I didn’t think I was nervous, but early this morning, when I thought I was alone in the bedroom, I caught myself praying out loud. “Please let it be all right, please let them want to take care of us …”
And then I heard a little voice. “Don’t be scared. You’re Charlotte the Fearless. You can do anything.”
Sophie. She’d slipped in without my noticing and said just the right thing.
Last night Mrs. Kessler told us about the Wakefields. She went with a lady from the children’s committee and said they were lucky to find the Wakefields at home. Mr. Wakefield volunteers at the YMCA and visits wounded soldiers in the hospitals. He’s also on a committee that welcomes returning soldiers. Mrs. Wakefield volunteers in Victoria General Hospital and helped set up the Home for Children where Matthew and Kevin are going.
Without stopping to think, I blurted out what Muriel once told me: that people in the South End of Halifax are so snobby they won’t even speak to a person who lives north of Quinpool Road. Then I had to bite my tongue because the Kesslers themselves are in the South End.
Mrs. Kessler laughed, not the least bit offended. “The
Wakefields are kind-hearted people,” she said, “and my colleague thought the same.”
“But you’re grown-ups,” said Duncan. “What if they don’t like children? What if they don’t like us?”
Mrs. Kessler said the nicest thing. “Charlotte the Fearless, Duncan the Brave, how could they help but love you?”
I fell asleep thinking about her words.
This morning we went to the New Year’s Day service at St. Paul’s. Then we had a special New Year’s dinner. That’s all I can write because it’s time to go.
Later
I’m writing in the living room, after everyone has gone to bed. Except for the Kesslers and Duncan.
It’s been an eventful day. I’m desperate tired, I want to go to sleep, but I can’t leave this till tomorrow because I’m sure tomorrow will be eventful, too.
This afternoon Mrs. K. took us to the house on Young Avenue. A maid answered the door and showed us into the library.
Mrs. K. made herself at home, but we felt out of place and didn’t dare sit down. Instead, we stood by the fireplace and counted the loud tick-tocks of the great-grandfather clock.
After a while we heard footsteps and voices in the hallway. I knew what I wanted to say and I cleared my throat, praying that my voice would be strong, and that I’d do Mum and Dad proud.
Instead, I gasped and Duncan cried out in alarm. Because who should walk in but Dragon Man.
Our reaction was a shock to everyone. Duncan wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, Mrs. K. and the Wakefields were speechless with confusion.
I finally managed to tell them about the man I’d seen in the hospital, and how he’d reminded me of Duncan’s drawings. And Duncan explained that when he was little, he’d seen Mr. Wakefield in the Public Gardens. A big man with a white beard who’d made Mum cry. That’s how he got the idea of Dragon Man — but years later, when he was older.
Mr. Wakefield said he’d like to see Duncan’s drawings. He told us that he and Mrs. Wakefield had some explaining of their own to do, but there’d be time enough for that after we got settled. Because it’s true, they’re our grandparents, and they want us to live with them. Mr. Wakefield assured us that we’d be quite safe, as he’d stopped breathing fire some time ago.
I knew that Mrs. K. had told the Wakefields about the letters, and I surprised myself by saying, “Why did you return Mum’s letters? Didn’t you want to read them?”
They exchanged glances, as if waiting for the other to begin. Then Mr. Wakefield explained that they had parted ways with our mother years ago. He looked uncomfortable, saying that both sides had spoken hurtful and angry words and, as time went by, it became more and more difficult to make amends. They were afraid that reading the letters would only reopen old wounds.
They had seen Mum and Dad listed among the dead, but the only Blackburn names they knew were those of our parents. They never knew about us children.
I hated them at that moment, and had to force myself not to shout, You never wanted to know! You never bothered to find out! Instead, I calmed myself and told them what Mum had said at the end.
Mr. Wakefield’s eyes brimmed over. He looked at Duncan and me and said, “If you can forgive us, I swear to God we’ll do right by your mother now.”
After that, the maid served tea and fruitcake. Then we came back with Mrs. Kessler.
I’m still wondering about the letters. Give them to the Wakefields, now that it seems they’ve had a change of heart? Keep them myself? One day, when I’m older, I’m sure I’ll want to read them. Or I can give them to Luke. I hadn’t thought of this before, but now he’s the head of the family. I hope he gets here soon.
Tomorrow we’re leaving the Kesslers’. One last night in this big and comfy house.
Wednesday, January 2
2:00 p.m., bright and sunny. The mercury says it’s the coldest day we’ve had all winter, but it doesn’t feel that cold. For once there’s hardly any wind.
Went to St. Paul’s this morning for a special memorial service to honour the dead. A huge gathering of people, silent and solemn, everyone suffering a loss. I cried during the service and all the way home, but once I got back I had to stop. There was too much to do.
First, lunch. Then helping with the dishes. Then packing my things, which didn’t take long. After that I brushed Kirsty. She has to look presentable because at the last minute, I told the Wakefields we had a dog, and couldn’t leave her behind. It was right bold. I should have asked permission. I hope they won’t be angry.
Yesterday when we got home Duncan drew a new picture of Dragon Man. He still has the white hair and beard, and the silver dragon on his cane. But now his shoulders are stooped, his body looks frail and he’s leaning heavily on the cane. Instead of breathing flames, he’s smoking a pipe.
Lewis looked at the drawing and frowned. “How come Dragon Man looks different?”
“Because he’s changed,” says Duncan.
“He isn’t scary anymore?”
“No, so we don’t have to worry.”
Lewis chewed on his thumb, thinking. Then he says, “I know why he’s changed. He’s afraid of the intredible twins!”
Poor Lewis, he never could say “intrepidous,” but we don’t mind. Especially since it’s a made-up word anyway.
Here comes Mrs. Kessler. Please, not yet —
My throat’s seizing up. It’s time to say good-bye.
Thursday, January 3
9:00 p.m.
A ferocious blizzard is howling at the window and here I am, safe and warm, inside my mother’s castle. It’s like a dream … except that she isn’t here.
I miss her and Dad so much.
Friday, January 4
7:00 a.m.
I woke up in the “castle” so it wasn’t a dream. I slept in Mum’s room, the room she had when she was my age. I slept in her bed.
First time I’ve slept in a room by myself, and I was awake half the night from the strangeness. No sounds of breathing but my own.
Duncan’s in the room next door. I heard him cry out in the night. He must have been having another nightmare.
Kirsty has to sleep in the mud room off the kitchen. Ellie the maid found her an old blanket to curl up on, and Mary, the cook, gave her some water and a meaty bone, but Kirsty gave me a woeful look all the same. She started to howl when we shut the door, and kept it up for some time. Poor dog.
The house isn’t really a castle, although it feels that way. It’s grand and beautiful, with so many rooms a person could be here a week and never see another soul. Will I ever get used to it?
Mrs. Kessler brought us here on Wednesday and oh, the tears when we said goodbye.
After she left, our grandparents took us upstairs to our bedrooms and gave us a tour of the house. They told us we’re free to wander at will, but they don’t want us getting lost.
Duncan and I were too overwhelmed to speak.
Maid. Library. Grandparents. I never imagined writing those words, not in any way connected to me, or where I live.
And what words do I use to describe this place? Everything shines and sparkles. There’s crystal and brass and wide curving stairs with marble railings, soft carpets in rich colours and intricate designs, burgundy velvet drapes with braided gold tassels, oil paintings in gilded frames, high, high ceilings and in the living room there’s a piano — and a Victrola! With the little dog, just like in the ads, listening to “his master’s voice.”
Here in Mum’s old room there’s an area like a tower with windows overlooking the garden and Point Pleasant Park. Before the explosion, the tower windows were stained glass but now the glass is plain. All the broken windows in the house have been replaced.
I’m writing at the desk that sits in the tower. It’s called a rolltop desk because the front rolls up into the top and disappears. It has spaces for putting things in, called pigeonholes. There’s also a secret hiding place. I looked inside, hoping to find something that Mum might have hidden, but it was empty.
> Ellie has just rapped on the door and told me it’s time for breakfast. Mary has cooked something special.
Still Friday
7:10 p.m.
Duncan and I are sitting at the desk in the tower. We’ve been talking quietly and now he’s drawing. The clock in this room has chimed the hour, and in five minutes it will chime the quarter-hour. I must have slept more than I thought last night, because I didn’t notice the chiming. Tonight I may not be able to sleep for counting out the strokes every hour. Midnight will last forever.
We can also hear the bongs of the great-grandfather clock in the library, and the chimes of another clock in the living room. Every clock strikes the hour a few seconds apart.
Today was long and mostly silent, except for the clocks and my piano playing, and a bit of conversation at breakfast.
“What should we call you?” I asked.
Our grandparents looked surprised, as if they hadn’t thought about that. Now that we’re actually here, they probably feel as awkward as we do.
Our grandmother finally said we could call them whatever we liked.
“But not late for dinner?”
Haggarty’s joke, and everyone laughed. Then it went quiet again.
The rest of the day was the same. Gran and Grandpa (that’s what we decided), asked us a lot of questions. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Is there anything special you’d like to eat? Would you like to meet some children in the area?
They never ask about the Explosion, and I’m glad about that. But why don’t they ask about Mum?
Duncan says he feels her presence. I do, too. This afternoon, at the piano, I felt that she was looking over my shoulder. She’s everywhere. But there’s not so much as a photograph.
I finally saw my face in a mirror. There’s a crescent-shaped scar on my cheek. It’s purplish-blue, because of the oily rain. No matter how much I wash, the blue doesn’t go away. Same with the scar on Duncan’s forehead.
Almost forgot. The special breakfast this morning was griddle cakes with maple syrup, and some of Mary’s scones. She’s a good cook.
