by Kit Pearson
Pam surveyed her with astonishment. “Well! You’re getting awfully bossy.” But Eliza’s excitement was contagious. In a few minutes they’d all struggled into an assortment of sweaters and jeans.
Carrying their boots, they crept past Miss Bixley’s door, but Jean dropped one of hers and a small head stuck all over with curlers peered out. “What are you doing, girls? The rising bell hasn’t even gone!”
“Oh, please, Miss Bixley, it snowed last night! Can’t we go out and play in it until breakfast?”
“You’ll get sopping … but I suppose it’s all right. Be very quiet until you hear the bell, though.”
Eliza was the first one out. She treaded the slippery veranda steps cautiously, paused at the top of the lawn, then propelled herself into the whiteness. The others ran after her and they dashed about silently, smothering their laughter with gloved hands and flinging the snow into the air.
It wasn’t powdery like Edmonton snow, but clung to their jeans like glue. The trees looked as if they had been sprayed with soapsuds, and already the snow was slithering off them.
Everyone lay down and made snow angels. Eliza gazed up at the pewter-coloured sky and the silent old house full of sleeping girls, and suddenly she felt overwhelmingly, joyously alive. But the feeling passed and in a few seconds she was only conscious of how soaked her back was getting. She scrambled to her feet.
Inside the residences the bells commanded everyone to get up. It was exhilarating to be disobeying their orders for once. Eliza ran around in circles, her arms spread wide. A coil of tightness inside her—the pressure of these months with the new life she had chosen—sprung loose. She’d never known the tension was there until it was released. “Get u-u-u-u-up!” she shouted to the windows. “Get up, everyone, it snowed!”
“You’re crazy!” grouched Helen, wiping moisture from her glasses with the end of her scarf. Helen hated getting up. “You’re nuts, Eliza Doolittle. It’s just a little snow.” But she looked almost envious, and there was something vulnerable about her without her glasses on.
Eliza stuffed a handful of snow down Helen’s back, and tossed more over her in a snow shower. “You’re crazy!”
Helen cackled and went at Eliza with a snowball. They chased each other all over the lawn.
Windows opened around them.
“Look at the snow!”
“Look at the snow bunnies!”
“Come out, come out!” invited the Yellow Dorm. In a few minutes they were joined by more tousled boarders—all the juniors, most of the grade sevens and eights and quite a few seniors. Madeline was among them and Eliza pelted a snowball at her too. The snow was perfect for packing, the way it was only in the spring on the prairies.
A disorganized fight began, with volleys of icy missiles in all directions. Eliza was saturated. Her gloves and jeans stuck like a clammy second skin to her fingers and legs.
“Girls, girls!” On the balcony of the Blue Sitting Room stood Miss Tavistock, holding her coat around her like a shawl and trying to make herself heard above the screams of battle.
Even a snowball fight stopped for Miss Tavistock. Arms halted in the act of throwing and voices were stifled in mid-scream.
“I’m glad to see that someone is enjoying this dreadful snow, but you must be quieter. The neighbours will wonder what we’re up to. Now you can play for ten more minutes, then I will ring the bell again and you must come in and get dry.”
“Yes, Miss Tavistock,” they chorused, and the skirmish continued in a more subdued manner.
The juniors were making a snow lady, dressing her in an Ashdown beret and scarf. Eliza joined them, her wild fervour disappearing. She was suddenly embarrassed by her own exuberance. It somehow didn’t fit in with the ordered life she had become used to in the past three months.
BY THE END of the next day the snow had almost vanished, leaving only a few dirty patches on the edge of the driveway. But its coming made the last ten days of the term special. It was already an unusual time: Christmas exams were over and a holiday atmosphere prevailed. There was nothing to do but rehearse for the carol service.
As Eliza thought about flying to Toronto to join her family, she began to miss them more. Choosing presents in Woolworth’s one Saturday she almost wept, she wanted to see them so badly. But it was a bearable kind of homesickness, a yearning that she knew would very soon be satisfied.
She liked the songs they were learning for the carol service even better than the daily hymns. There were old favourites, like “O Come All Ye Faithful,” which sounded new and mysterious because they sang it in Latin. There were ones she’d never heard before, with curious words like “mickle” and “sweeting.” The phrases in some of the carols were so perfect they made her spine tingle: “Earth stood hard as iron / Water like a stone.”
Mr. Whitney, the music teacher, was passionately concerned that they enunciate clearly. “Christmass, girls, not Christmuss!” he entreated, his long hair flopping over his eyes. “And let us—it’s not a vegetable.”
In Miss Clark’s English class they spent a lot of time listening to her read aloud, having spelling bees, making Christmas cards and just talking about their plans for the holidays. After the well-regulated days crammed with lessons, this relaxed atmosphere was a novelty. Eliza had more time to talk to the day-girls and decided some of them weren’t as snobby as she’d thought.
Even Miss Tavistock’s class was slacker. The headmistress taught the seniors English, but the grade sevens got her only once a week, for scripture. It was the only time 7A and 7B met together. The larger-than-usual class was always on its best behaviour. Miss Tavistock had a way of quelling noise instantly: she just looked.
This week they didn’t have to memorize another tedious Bible passage. Instead they discussed what Christmas meant.
“It’s a time for loving everyone,” said Pam virtuously. Usually they had to stand up to answer, but today they were allowed to speak without permission from their seats.
“You can’t love everyone,” mumbled Helen, who never opened her mouth in scripture if she could help it, since she hadn’t usually done her homework.
“That’s a very interesting comment, Helen,” encouraged Miss Tavistock. “Do you mean you can’t, or you shouldn’t? I don’t mean you personally,” she added, “just people in general.”
But Helen slouched in her seat and refused to continue. Someone else said you couldn’t love Hitler, and a lively argument followed. This was the kind of discussion Eliza liked. She listened intently, although she was too shy to contribute. Then Miss Tavistock said that Christ loved Hitler, and Eliza squirmed. Scripture was interesting except when God entered into it. That seemed much too private a thing to discuss in a classroom.
While some grades were rehearsing their special carols, others were let loose for long gym periods or recesses. During one of these breaks, Eliza was walking around the driveway enjoying her box of raisins—a treat instead of their usual morning apple. She hummed the tune of “See Amid the Winter’s Snow” to herself. The snow, however had melted completely, and the weather was unusually mild. There was even a rose blooming at the back of the gym. It was hard to believe Christmas was only eleven days away.
“What are you doing, Eliza Doolittle?” Helen was sitting on the wall, her legs dangling over the outside. This was forbidden, but all the teachers were too busy to notice them. Eliza hoisted herself up beside her. The ivy prickled the backs of her bare knees.
“Are you—are you glad you’re going home?” she asked hesitantly. They talked of nothing else in the Yellow Dorm these days. Pam boasted about skiing in Switzerland. Jean was visiting her grandparents in Kelowna and Carrie was going to Disneyland. But Helen never took part in the excited chatter. Eliza knew her question was nosy, but ever since the snowy morning she’d felt easier with Helen, and she decided to risk it.
Helen kicked the wall with her heel and dislodged some ivy. “Glad? I hate it there!”
“Oh—but you’re alw
ays saying you hate it here!”
“I do. But home’s worse.”
Already Eliza wished she’d kept quiet. But after a minute Helen continued, looking away. “They just wanted to get rid of me, that’s all.”
“Who?”
“My mother and him— her new husband. My father died when I was seven, and then she married him and I was in her way. So they shipped me off to boarding school. They said I was a problem, just because I was caught stealing with a bunch of other kids. I didn’t even know they were stealing—I was just tagging along. But my grandmother in Montreal said she’d pay for Ashdown. She said it would be good for me. And now I have a bratty half-sister, and as far as my mother and step-father are concerned I don’t even exist.”
Helen had been talking faster and faster, spitting out the words. She stopped abruptly and continued to stare across the street.
Eliza was horrified. She had never known anyone whose parents didn’t like her. She remembered what the day-girl in her class had said about being “a problem at home.” That’s what Helen was seen as—a problem, like a parcel, to be disposed of.
She had never known anyone as miserable as Helen seemed now, and she wanted to comfort her. It was the right time to declare her friendship, but for a moment she wondered what being friends with Helen would involve.
They sat there in silence, watching the cars drive by. Behind them a crow squawked, and faint singing drifted from the gym.
Finally Eliza put her hand on Helen’s shoulder. She felt foolish, like someone in a story. Helen shrugged it off immediately, but she turned her head towards Eliza and blinked.
“You know, Eliza Doolittle, we should be able to really have some fun next term. We haven’t played the Daring Game for ages! And you and I haven’t even done one yet. And I don’t think you’re really a goody-goody,” she added in a rush.
They were interrupted by an amused voice below them. “Now what would Miss Tavistock say if she could see you!” It was somebody’s mother, probably on her way in to collect a junior for lunch. Eliza and Helen exchanged a look of dignity and disdain. Smiling at the woman politely, they jumped off the wall.
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON at three o’clock Eliza waited, trembling, at the back of the cathedral. She wiped her palms on her Sunday skirt and listened to the opening notes of the first carol. Two navy-blue lines of Ashdown students, beginning with the tiny grade ones and ending with the head girl, resplendent in her red blazer, began the slow processional down the aisle.
“Once in royal David’s city” was like “Once upon a time,” the beginning of the story they would tell in readings and carols. Eliza stepped lightly in time. In the first verse, which they sang without accompaniment, their voices sounded thin and frail in the huge space. Then the organ joined in and they added harmony, getting louder as the story progressed. Eliza spotted her aunt and uncle in the congregation, grinned at them and sat down in her place as one of the seniors began the first reading.
The church was a tranquil retreat from the buzz of traffic outside. Every Sunday for fourteen weeks Eliza had daydreamed in one of its front pews, not paying much attention to the service but savouring the precious hour of privacy. She knew every detail of the church, its dark interlacing beams, the stone arch of the chancel, the black-and-gold lanterns and the richly coloured stained glass windows. The eagle was her favourite: he held the Bible on his back while he peered sideways, his claws splayed on a golden ball. As she watched him she would anticipate hungrily Sunday dinner’s deep apple pie with its gooey crust.
Today it felt good to be active, to give something back to the cathedral after months of soaking up its peace. She rose and sat as the service continued, singing out clearly into the depths of the building.
Madeline was one of the shepherds, and Eliza watched her proudly when she and the others stood to speak. “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass,” they intoned. It was perfect; they didn’t even say “lettuce.”
Madeline looked very small, standing between the other two girls. Eliza felt a surge of affection for her. If she hadn’t come to Ashdown she never would have known Madeline—or Carrie, or Helen. She was excited about going home to her family, but it was also good to have friends to come back to. There had been a few difficult times in the first term, but they had all been centred on Helen. Now that she and Helen were going to be friends, the rest of her time here would be fine. She was glad she’d be able to tell her parents that coming to Ashdown had been the right decision.
“Ha-a-a-ail thou ever blesséd morn!” Eliza sang as they stood up again. The service was almost over, which meant it was almost time for the holidays to begin. Miss Tavistock, in a green suit, gazed at them intently from the front row, looking as if she were waiting for something to go wrong. Eliza hoped she was pleased.
Everyone was excited now and exchanged eager glances as the organ played the prelude to the last carol. “Hark the herald angels sing!” Eliza shouted as they marched back down the aisle. She was filled with the magic feeling that came every year. Finding Aunt Susan and Uncle Adrian in the church hall, she hugged them a breathless goodbye.
Then she was whisked into the bus by Miss Bixley and hurried through the dark wet streets back to school. Then out again in a taxi to the airport, and to the plane that would carry her across the country to her family.
PART 2
Winter
9
A Poor Beginning
“Eliza, Eliza, you’re back!” Carrie almost knocked Eliza over as she rushed at her. Eliza put down her suitcase and attempted a smile. She nodded to Jean, unpacking in a corner. But only a tiny part of her was pleased to see them again. The familiar yellow room was not as welcome a sight as she had expected, and she didn’t understand why.
For a moment she was distracted by Jean’s hair. A brown frizzy halo that looked like a matted bird’s nest circled her thin face. “What happened to you?” blurted out Eliza before she had time to be more tactful.
“My mother permed it,” said Jean sadly. “She thought it needed more body.”
“Don’t worry,” said Carrie. “Just wash it a lot, and when it grows you can cut all the curl off. It doesn’t look that bad. I’ll lend you a ribbon to flatten down the top.”
Jean looked grateful, although they all knew there was nothing much she could do about it. Eliza had met Jean’s mother several times on Saturday mornings. She was a brisk, scary woman. It would be hard to resist her if she decided to do something to your hair.
That made her think of her own mother, who had driven her to the airport after they’d dropped off the twins at her grandparents’ and her father at work. Before Eliza had boarded the plane she had held her mother close, snuggling into her soft fur jacket and trying not to cry.
She felt like crying now, not joining into the hilarity as Pam stepped into the dorm bearing a gigantic pink rabbit. What’s wrong with me? Eliza thought irritably. Why aren’t I glad to be back?
Helen arrived last, dumping her bags on the floor with a clatter. “Scotty, what on earth have you done to your hair? We’ll have to iron it for you. P.J., get that disgusting rabbit off my bed. Hi, Eliza Doolittle—glad to be back in this dump?”
Eliza shrugged. But Helen’s banter cheered her up slightly, and she couldn’t help grinning at the other girl’s extraordinary appearance. Under her skimpy coat Helen was wearing a purple turtle-neck T-shirt and an unpressed red tartan skirt. Over these hung an orange garment that looked like the top of a set of long underwear. Woolly green tights, with her navy school socks pulled up over them, and brown rubber boots completed the outfit.
It was amazing that Helen’s mother would allow her daughter to look so awful. Mothers again … Eliza tried to think of something else.
Miss Bixley, who had a bad cold, hurried them about between sniffs. Eliza found herself resenting the fussy orders. “Come along now—all suitcases to be unpacked by four-thirty, then a drawer inspection.”
&
nbsp; It’s like an army, thought Eliza. Ashdown had never seemed like this before.
“Let’s apple-pie Bix’s bed!” suggested Helen when the matron had left them.
“Not when she’s sick,” objected Carrie. “That’s mean.”
“No, it’s not. She’ll just laugh. She always does. Come on, Eliza, before she gets back.”
Eliza agreed with Carrie. Miss Bixley probably just wanted to crawl into her bed early tonight, without having to re-make it. But she felt mean. And Helen was her friend now and she obviously expected Eliza to join her.
“Okay.” Eliza laughed recklessly, ignoring Carrie’s surprised look. Carrie didn’t know yet that Eliza and Helen were friends; the conversation on the wall had happened too near the end of term.
Helen chortled as they tucked in Miss Bixley’s top sheet deftly, folding up the bottom of it, and covered it again with the blankets. “You’re good at this, Eliza Doolittle! Who taught you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Eliza surveyed the neatly made bed glumly. It only made her feel worse.
AS THE DAY went on, she realized that the heaviness she felt was a swelling homesickness that filled her until she wanted to explode. But she held it tightly inside her until Lights Out, until the others had stopped listing their Christmas presents and the dorm was still. Outside the foghorn sounded its two mournful notes: uuuuuuuuh oh. Eliza couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. They streamed down her cheeks and into her ears as she lay on her back and tried not to let the others hear.
Memories of the holidays marched relentlessly through her mind. It had been a perfect Christmas, crammed with treats: visits to grandparents and cousins, skiing at Collingwood, the Nutcracker at the O’Keefe Centre and explorations of downtown Toronto. Best of all was just sitting around the kitchen of the duplex the Chapmans had rented, fondling Jessie and chattering endlessly to her parents. She had soaked up her family as thirstily as a dry sponge. Even the Demons were tolerable, for they’d begun to talk. They were normal people now, two brothers with whom she could have a real conversation.
