And Nothing But the Truth

by Kit Pearson

  After Sunday lunch, Mrs. Blake and Polly took the streetcar to the end of the line. Polly stared out the window, waiting to be scolded for yesterday.

  “Polly, love, I’m sorry you and Rhoda clash so much,” said Mrs. Blake. “Have you ever considered why?”

  “Because Rhoda is a spoiled brat,” muttered Polly.

  “That’s not a helpful thing to say,” said Mrs. Blake. “I can think of a better reason, but you won’t like it. Have you ever considered that the two of you are quite a lot alike?”

  “No! We’re not at all alike!” said Polly.

  “Calm down and give me a chance to explain. You are, actually. You’re both very pretty, which gives you each a confidence not many girls have at your age. You’re both talented at art, even though you approach it differently. And perhaps, Polly, you’re a bit spoiled yourself! From what you’ve told us, your grandmother indulges you, does she not?”

  “I’m not at all indulged! Rhoda is the one who is!”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like my reason. You don’t have to agree, but over the summer will you think about what I’ve said? And will you resolve to get along with Rhoda from now on? I’ve asked her the same thing. You don’t have to like each other, but you must start being civil to her. If you don’t, I will have no choice but to tell Miss Guppy. I hope that when you see each other again in the fall, you and Rhoda will each have a new attitude.”

  Polly nodded because she had to. Underneath, however, she seethed at Mrs. Blake’s words. Anyway, she wouldn’t be here in the fall … so there was nothing she had to think about during the summer.

  They reached their stop, then walked a few blocks to the white bungalow where Mrs. Blake boarded with a widow named Mrs. Turner.

  The front door opened and a small boy rushed out. “Mummy—Mummy!” he shouted.

  Mrs. Blake lifted him up and swung him around. Then she plastered his face with kisses and released him. “This is my Johnny!” she said.

  Johnny was chubby, with a halo of brown curls. He hid behind his mother and stuck his thumb in his mouth while he stared at Polly.

  “He’s been waiting by the window,” laughed an older woman who had followed him out. “Who is this, Martha?”

  Polly smiled as she was introduced. Wait until the others found out she knew Mrs. Blake’s first name!

  Mrs. Turner left to go shopping, and Mrs. Blake and Polly had Johnny to themselves. They pushed him in the swing in the backyard and sat on the edge of his sandbox while he moved his truck around, mumbling gibberish to himself. Then Mrs. Blake took him into the kitchen and tenderly washed his hands and face. She made some tea and poured some milk for Johnny. “He’s been drinking out of a cup since he was one,” she said proudly.

  Johnny perched on a tower of cushions, munching a cookie. He was a quiet little boy and didn’t say much except “More, pease,” holding up his cup. After tea, they went into the living room and Mrs. Blake read him a story. Then he fell asleep on her lap.

  Polly couldn’t keep her eyes off him—his high forehead, his dimpled hands, and the long lashes resting on his cheeks. She yearned to draw him. This could be Danny in a few years!

  “You’re so lucky to have a little boy,” she blurted out.

  “Why yes, I am!” said Mrs. Blake. “You seem to like children, love. I’m sure you’ll have some in your life one day, as well.”

  Polly had to bite her lip to keep from telling. She could have a child in her life now—not her own, of course, but her nephew—if only Maud wasn’t so determined to give Danny away. Maud had said it would be hard to bring up a child by herself. It must be hard for Mrs. Blake, too. She had to work to support Johnny, and she couldn’t see him every day. But her peaceful face bent over her child was proof that it was worth it.

  “When did your husband die?” Polly asked her. “Did he ever see Johnny?”

  Mrs. Blake flushed. “No, he died before Johnny was born.”

  “Was Johnny named after him?”

  “No!” Then her voice softened. “My son was named after my father.”

  Why did she sound so angry? wondered Polly.

  Johnny must have heard his name. He woke up, and Mrs. Blake started bouncing him on her knee chanting, “This is the way the farmer rides.”

  “Will you watch him while I wash up the tea things?” she asked. “His toys are in that basket.”

  Polly emptied the basket on the floor, and Johnny began piling blocks. He wasn’t as shy with her now, and let her help him when they fell over.

  Mrs. Turner returned and soon it was time to go. Mrs. Blake had tears in her eyes as she hugged her son fiercely. “I’ll see you in a few days, Johnny-cake,” she murmured into his neck. She scarcely said a word all the way back.

  That night, the others wanted to know every detail.

  “ ‘Martha’!” said Rhoda. “It suits her.”

  Polly wanted to ignore her as usual, but she remembered Mrs. Blake’s admonition. “It does suit her,” she made herself answer. This was the first time she and Rhoda had spoken since yesterday. Polly noticed Daisy and Eleanor exchanging relieved glances.

  “The poor thing,” said Daisy. “Losing her husband before he even met Johnny!”

  “I wonder why she left England?” said Eleanor. “Doesn’t she have family there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Polly.

  “Hmm … I wonder if she had a husband,” said Rhoda slowly.

  “What?”

  She hushed their protests. “Just listen a moment. She never talks about her husband, and she told us she came to Canada right after Johnny was born. My mother had a girl working for her who was having a baby, and she wasn’t married. Maybe Mrs. Blake is the same. Maybe she just pretends she was married and that her husband died.”

  “She wears a ring,” Eleanor pointed out.

  “That could be so people won’t talk about her. My mother’s maid wore a ring, too.”

  Daisy looked puzzled. “Can you have a baby when you’re not married?”

  Polly winced, remembering asking Maud the same question.

  “Of course you can,” said Eleanor. “You’re not supposed to, but sometimes people do.”

  “Oh.”

  They were all silent. Then Daisy said firmly, “Well, I don’t care whether Mrs. Blake is married, and I don’t think it’s any of our business. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  Polly, however, couldn’t help pondering Rhoda’s words. It all made sense. She would never find out, of course, and she could never ask. But perhaps Mrs. Blake was like Maud. Perhaps she had also “got into trouble” and left England because her family was ashamed of her.

  It wouldn’t be like that for Maud, thought Polly. She wouldn’t be isolated the way Mrs. Blake was. Daddy and Esther would support her entirely—maybe they’d even take care of the baby for Maud. They could pretend it was theirs.

  But what about Noni? She and Aunt Jean and Uncle Rand were much more proper.

  Oh, poor Maud, and poor Danny! What was going to happen?

  As the term drew to a close, Polly wondered when Miss Guppy was going to ask what Polly had decided. Would Miss Guppy bring up their bargain, or was that up to Polly? Perhaps she wouldn’t even let Polly come back to school Polly had been such a disappointment.

  But did she want to come back? Every day Polly noticed the things she hated: wearing a uniform, walking in line, the terrible food, all the stupid rules, never having time to herself, being inside too much …

  And yet … every Saturday her heart broke at the prospect of never coming to special art again. Never watching and listening while Miss Falconer talked about what each girl had done, never learning so many new techniques, never laughing with the others over tea and cookies, never hearing Miss Falconer say “Fine work, little one!”

  Polly had been trying to put into practice what she had learned from Miss Carr. Noni had taught Polly to paint exactly what she saw. But you didn’t have to do that. You could paint the meaning
of what you saw: the truth behind the object or tree or landscape in front of you, the truth that reflected the truth inside you. When Polly thought about this, she felt the way she sometimes did in church on the island or gazing at the stars: that there was something mysterious and wonderful in the universe that was just out of her grasp.

  “Come and see me again in the fall,” Miss Carr had said. If Polly didn’t return to school, she would never meet Miss Carr again.

  And she’d have to leave Eleanor and Daisy. She would miss them so much. Eleanor had told her that she’d invite Polly to stay with her in Nanaimo next Christmas, but they might feel like strangers by then. Next year her friends would have more escapades together, but Polly wouldn’t be part of them. “The Fearless Three” didn’t have the same ring as “the Fearless Four.”

  Polly thought of what else she would miss. She had really enjoyed literature and botany and piano this term. And it was a treat to be taken to movies and plays and concerts; she could never attend those on the island.

  But Polly would be home. She’d be with Noni and Aunt Jean and Uncle Rand; and with dear Tarka, whom she ached for just as much as on her first day here. She’d be able to wander on the beach for hours, with no bell ordering her to be somewhere. She could renew her friendship with poor lonely Biddy, who was so eager to have her back. She could once again revel in the sea and the forest and the vast starry sky.

  Maud and Daddy would be disappointed in her. Noni would be even more so, since she believed so much in Polly getting a good education.

  I don’t care! Polly tried to tell herself. I hate this place, and I don’t choose to go back! I’ll just have to do art on my own.

  What to decide, what to decide? The question throbbed in her brain like a drum, as if she had a gigantic headache.

  Then one morning she was sick. Her head pounded, her nose streamed, her throat ached, and she was hot all over.

  “It could be a grippe,” said Mrs. Blake. “To the infirmary with you.”

  For the rest of the week, Polly lay tucked up in the infirmary, a room at the top of the house. She was the only patient there and received all the attention from Mrs. Kent, the school nurse. Every few hours she put cool towels on Polly’s forehead and brought her glasses of water and fresh handkerchiefs. The rest of the time she left Polly alone.

  Polly tried to read, but mostly she escaped into sleep: a deep, soothing sleep in which she forgot all the turmoil of this year—of all the years since she’d left Winnipeg. She would wake up refreshed for a while, then plunge back into sleep’s healing embrace.

  On the fourth day, she sat up in bed feeling much better. Her temperature had gone down, her nose wasn’t as stuffy, and her throat was fine. Best of all, she was starving.

  “Good for you,” said Mrs. Kent, after Polly had gobbled up three pieces of toast and jam. “I think you’re on the mend. I want you to stay in here for the day, then you can go back to your dormitory.”

  The morning seemed very long. Mrs. Kent said Polly could get up, so she sat in her dressing gown by the window and watched the other girls go back and forth. This was fun for a while because they didn’t know she was observing them. She gasped as she saw two upper sixth girls, Lucy Tarrant and Julia O’Callaghan, sneak behind the school building and light cigarettes. They were prefects!

  Then Polly tried to read, but her book didn’t interest her; nor did any of the magazines in the infirmary. She longed to draw, but she didn’t have her sketchbook with her.

  The question of whether she would stay at St. Winifred’s rose in her mind again, as if it had been waiting for her to get better. Polly couldn’t focus on it; she wished someone would simply decide for her. She couldn’t worry about Maud, either; she was too sleepy. After lunch she went back to bed.

  She woke up when she heard a familiar voice coming from the stairs: “Mrs. Kent? Are you there?”

  Alice! Polly hadn’t seen as much of her at school as she thought she would. Each was so involved with her own age group that their paths didn’t often cross.

  Alice came into the room. “Polly! What are you doing here? Are you sick?”

  “I was,” said Polly, sitting up in bed, “but now I’m better.”

  “Have you seen the nurse? I was running down the path and I fell and scraped my knee.” Beneath her dress, Alice’s knee was raw and bloody.

  “Poor you!” said Polly. “I don’t know where Mrs. Kent has gone. Why don’t you wash it and I’ll look for a bandage.”

  Alice grimaced as she picked out tiny pebbles from her wound, then soaped it. Polly found some gauze and tape, and together they managed to wrap it around Alice’s knee.

  “It really stings!” said Alice. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Kent to come back—maybe she can put something on it so it won’t get infected.”

  She hobbled over to a chair and sat down. Polly went back to her bed.

  “Only a week left of school,” sighed Alice. “Did you know I’m singing a solo at the graduation ceremony?”

  “Good for you!” said Polly.

  “Will you spend the summer with your father?” Alice asked her.

  “Not the whole summer. I’m visiting him for a week straight from school. Then I’ll be home until the end of August, then I’m going back to Kelowna. My father’s getting married then.” Imagine if Alice knew what was really happening this summer!

  “He’s getting married? That’s swell! Do you like his fiancée?”

  Polly realized she’d been so busy worrying about Maud that she’d hardly thought about Esther all term. “Yes, I do,” she said. “They suit each other.”

  “Now that they’re getting married, will you live with them?”

  “No!” Why did Alice keep bringing this up? “I’ll keep living on the island with my grandmother, of course.”

  “But your dad and your stepmother might want you to be with them! Who’s your legal guardian?”

  “My grandmother,” said Polly. “At least, she was, and I suppose she still is, even though—”

  “Even though your father’s alive after all! I think that means he’d be your legal guardian. Maybe he’ll insist you live with them.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about it. And he and Esther haven’t got much money—they probably couldn’t afford to feed another person. Anyway, I want to stay on the island. Daddy would want what I want.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” said Alice. “How can you not want to live with your own father? I’d give anything to be with mine.” She looked dreamy. “One day, Polly, I’m going to find him. I’m going to be the star in an opera, and he’ll see my name on the marquee and come in. After the performance, he’ll knock on my dressing-room door, and we’ll be together again. Then I’ll live with him, and take care of him when he’s old.”

  Alice had told this to Polly before. It was such an unlikely fantasy that Polly ached for her.

  Alice gazed out the window. Polly knew it was because she was wiping her eyes. Then she turned back to Polly and said, “So, Goldilocks …”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that,” said Polly. “I have a bob now.”

  “I’ll call you whatever I choose,” said Alice. “So, how did you end up liking St. Winnie’s?”

  “I hate it,” said Polly.

  “But don’t you like art?”

  “I love art.”

  “Then that makes it all worthwhile, right?”

  All of Polly’s indecision rushed back. “Oh, Alice … I don’t know what to do!” She blurted out the whole story—how Miss Guppy had promised her that if she didn’t like boarding school, she would help her persuade Noni not to make her come back. She repeated to Alice all the pros and cons she had gone over so many times.

  Alice listened in silence. Then she leaned forward and gripped Polly’s arm as tightly as in the days when she had bullied her. “You listen to me, Polly Brown. You would be absolutely nuts not to come back! You’d be sacrificing your whole career. You have to get your priorities stra
ight. Not liking school and missing the island aren’t important!”

  “Could you let go of my arm?” gasped Polly. “You’re hurting me!”

  Alice let go, but her voice was just as forceful as her grip. “Do you want to be an artist? More than anything in the world?”

  Polly nodded.

  “I don’t believe you,” Alice said coldly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If that was true, you wouldn’t even consider leaving. You’d know that you have to put up with things you don’t like about the present because of what you hope for in the future. But you don’t seem to know that, so I guess you don’t want to be an artist.” She shrugged. “Too bad. You would have been a good one. All that wasted talent for nothing.”

  “Shut up, Alice! I will be an artist!” snapped Polly.

  “Well, then?”

  Polly was stunned. Then she almost felt sick again as relief flooded over her. Her wish had come true. Someone had told her what to do. It was what Polly, deep down, wanted to do, as well.

  She grinned. “Oh, Alice, you’re right! It’s so simple. I want to be an artist, so my only choice is to come back. Thanks so much for helping me decide.”

  “Whew! I was beginning to think I’d have to pinch you.” Alice laughed. “Wait and see, Goldilocks—one day, you and I are going to be famous!”

  As soon as Polly was released from the infirmary, she went straight to Miss Guppy’s study. She hated to give the Guppy the satisfaction of knowing that she had decided to stay, but she might as well get it over with.

  “Yes?” barked the familiar voice when Polly knocked. “Oh, it’s you, Polly. What do you want? I can only spare you a few moments.”

  “I’ve come to talk about our bargain,” said Polly.

  “What bargain?”

  Polly’s voice shook. “The bargain we made last summer, before I came here. I promised to try St. Winifred’s for a year, and you promised that if I didn’t like it, you would help me persuade my grandmother to let me stay home. Don’t you remember?”

  Miss Guppy swung around from her desk. “Sit down, you silly child, and kindly do not speak to me in that tone of voice. Yes, I remember us discussing something like that. Did you actually think I meant it? I only said it to get you to St. Winifred’s. Now that you’re here, I’m certainly not going to let you leave. You’ve been a real disappointment this year, young lady, but perhaps next year you will improve. As for persuading your grandmother to let you stay home, I would never do such a thing.”