by Jean Little
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Montreal, Quebec, 1902
June 1902
July 1902
August 1902
September 1902
October 1902
November 1902
December 1902
January 1903
February 1903
March 1903
April 1903
May 1903
June 1903
Epilogue
Historical Note
Images and Documents
Credits
Dedication
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Books in the Dear Canada Series
Montreal, Quebec, 1902
June 1902
Friday, June 13, 1902
This morning my father was killed.
Even though I have written this down in black and white, I cannot believe it.
Father was such a strong man. He was a master stonemason and proud of his iron-hard muscles. Whenever he challenged John and his friends to an arm wrestle, they didn’t stand a chance.
But when the scaffolding he was standing on collapsed and sent him plunging headfirst to the ground, his strength could not save him. They say he died instantly.
Later
That is not what I thought I would be writing in the notebook Miss Radcliffe gave me yesterday. She said it was because she knows I love to write, and in it I could tell the story of my summer.
I was looking forward to starting it tonight, but then we heard about Father.
I need to set it down.
It happened this afternoon while Mother and I were sitting in the kitchen peeling potatoes. I must have been singing to Davy when Father fell. Surely I ought to have felt the world stop turning for an instant. But I didn’t. Instead I kept singing “Ring Around a Rosie.” I would peel a potato and, when it came to the line “All fall DOWN!” I would toss it into the pot of cold water. When it splashed, Davy would hoot with laughter and I would start on the next one.
Mother was shaking her head at our nonsense when we heard running feet outside and our front door burst open.
It was Billy Brigson from up the street. He is usually a cheeky little boy with a big grin. But not this morning. He just stood there, staring at us, shaking and speechless.
We learned later that Billy had actually seen Father fall. Picturing him watching Father’s head strike a granite boulder so hard that it split his skull makes me feel sick at my stomach. The horror of it was still there in Billy’s wide eyes. In books, they say people go white as a sheet at such moments. Billy was grey.
“It was no place for a child,” the foreman, Mr. Tyler, told us afterwards. That was why he had sent Billy hotfoot to break the news to Mother. Billy must have run like the wind. When he burst in and saw her smiling at him, though, he was struck dumb.
I can’t go on writing. But I will be back. It keeps me from falling apart.
Still Later
I am ready for bed now, but I am sure I won’t be able to go to sleep yet. The house is so still that I think I am the only one left awake.
When Miss Radcliffe gave me this notebook, she never guessed that I would begin by telling of Father’s death. I’ll pick up where I left off.
When Billy didn’t speak, I said, “What’s up, Billy?”
But he didn’t answer.
“Sit down, child, and catch your breath,” Mother said quietly. “Then you can tell us what’s amiss.”
He sat down. He was still shaking.
Mother told me to get him a drink of water.
But something in the look on his face kept me rooted. Mother glanced at me, but before either of us could stir, words finally began to pour out of him. Davy was staring at him but he did not even notice.
“The men are coming,” he babbled. “Mr. Tyler sent me to tell you. The scaffoldng tilted and Mr. Roberts fell. They’re bringing his body. It happened so fast. He was a good man, missus. I am so sorry …”
A sob choked off his next words. Mother took his hand in hers and held on tight until he began to breathe more normally.
“Thank you, Billy,” she said then. “Delivering bad news is hard, but you did nobly. Now please go back and tell them I will be ready for them.”
Big tears were splashing down his cheeks by then, but he did what she said.
When the door closed, she reached out and took the paring knife from my fingers.
“Do not be afraid, Abby dear,” she said quietly. “We will come through this. We’ll hold onto each other.”
“Yes,” I said. I don’t know exactly what I meant, but she astonished me by laughing and leaning forward to kiss my cheek.
“I always knew I couldn’t do without you, Abby,” she said. Her voice shook, but I heard each word. They puzzled me, though. Why would she ever have to do without me?
When Billy left, I heard Olivia beginning to practise the piece she is going to play at her recital next week. “Humoresque,” it’s called. Plainly, she had not heard Billy come and go. I thought Mother would send me in to get her, but instead she told me she was going up to change her dress so she would be ready when the men arrived. I was to stay with Davy until she came back down. Then she would break the news to Olivia while I went to tell John.
The very idea of having to deliver such a blow to John horrified me. He loved Father.
“Olivia should go,” I blurted.
Mother had started up the stairs, but she turned and said, “No, Abby. It is your strength John will need. And I’ll want Olivia’s help here.”
Before I could object, she was gone. When she came back down, she was wearing her Sunday dress and she started right in to explain what I was to do.
“Find Mr. Dunlop first and tell him why you have come,” she said, “and then break the news to your brother and tell him to come right home.”
The school is not far. I ran down the street, trying to think what I would say. I wished it was over.
When I got there, I was startled to see John and Mr. Dunlop standing at the top of the front steps talking. I didn’t stop to think. I just stared up at him and burst out, “John, Father is dead. The scaffolding collapsed and he fell. Mother said to tell you to come straight home.”
He stared down at me and his face froze. It was like watching somebody get turned to stone. Then he pushed past Mr. Dunlop and ran for home.
Mr. Dunlop came down and patted my shoulder and said how sorry he was. I thanked him and followed John. Some inner voice told me what to do next and I obeyed. I was like one of those wind-up toys you get for Christmas. You turn the key and set it down and off it rattles. It doesn’t stop until it runs into something. Davy loves those things.
It is late. Maybe I am tired enough to go to sleep now.
I just realized, for the first time, that this is Friday the thirteenth! How strange that I wrote the date down and did not even notice. I hope I never have another day like it.
This notebook is comforting. Nobody will pry into it, because it just looks like an ordinary school book. To me, it feels like a safe hiding place though. It is exactly the right size for keeping a record of my changed life.
Saturday, June 14, 1902
Putting things down this way steadies me. When Mother saw me writing in here, she said, “I’ve noticed that writing things down always helps you to get through bad times.”
It’s true, but I did not guess anyone knew but me.
I think I remember every single minute since Billy burst in yesterday. Yet none of it seems real. I wonder if acting in a play is like this. You would recite the words but not feel them. The outside of me did e
verything it was supposed to, but inside I just felt a stranger to myself.
When I reached home from fetching John, Mother told me Davy was napping. She said that when he woke up, she thought I should take him over to Miss Radcliffe’s so he wouldn’t be disturbed by all the coming and going. It’s a good idea. He loves Miss Radcliffe and crowds do upset him.
Olivia was in the doorway, covering her face with her hands and sobbing. She has always been Father’s pet. People kept patting her shoulder and doing their best to comfort her.
“Poor child,” one of them said. “She did love her father so.”
She did love him. It was true. But I knew my sister better than they did. I could tell she was enjoying showing everyone her broken heart.
“That’s quite enough, Olivia,” Mother said firmly. “Crying won’t help. Please go and put the kettle on and make a big pot of tea.”
Olivia gave her a look that said Mother had no heart, but she went. I stayed in the corner where it was shadowy and waited to see if Mother needed me. But there was such a crowd around her that I felt I should just keep out of the way.
I stood there until my legs began to shake. Then I decided to come up here and sit with Davy. Climbing the stairs, I felt I might cry after all, but I did not. Davy would be upset if he saw me in tears. He’s a happy little boy and seeing sadness in others worries him.
When he woke up, I changed him and gave him his bottle. Then I took him to my teacher’s house. Miss Radcliffe played her parlour organ for him and sang silly songs. Davy loves music. He doesn’t sing words, of course, but he hums. He sounds like a happy bumblebee.
When we went home, I learned that Father’s body was in the spare bedroom upstairs. Mr. Stilson, the cabinet maker, and his helper will bring the coffin tomorrow and, after that, Father will lie in the front parlour until the funeral on Monday afternoon.
It was past suppertime but the house was still filled with people. It was a mystery to me how word had spread so fast, but later Mother said nothing travels as speedily as bad news.
John was mostly outside with the men. Olivia kept crying in spite of Mother’s telling her tears would not solve anything.
I did not have tears to hold back. Mother and I have always been close, but it was different with me and my father. He was proud of John and fond of Olivia, but Davy’s slowness drove him mad. Sometimes Father would call him a lackwit or a simpleton and then wink at John and Olivia until they laughed. Mother and I pretended we had not heard. But when he said such cruel things, I hated him. I have never understood this, but I believe Father enjoyed being hurtful. When Mother grew angry at him, he laughed it off by saying, “The boy does not understand a word I say, so what is the harm?”
The harm was not in what his cruel words did to Davy but in the coldness in his voice when he spoke them.
I must try to forget this. It is not something I ought to remember.
After supper
Ever since we learned of Father’s death, Mother has gone steadily on being brave. She told Mr. Stilson she wanted the casket closed.
People brought us more food than we could get through in a month of Sundays. The minister prayed over us. He used his preaching voice. It sounds syrupy and it always makes me squirm.
That is enough about this dreadful day. Nothing has felt right since Billy Brigson burst through our front door. I feel numb inside. I could hardly wait to go to bed, but going would mean deserting Mother.
The funeral will be on Monday. If only it were over.
Saturday evening, June 14, 1902
Father’s death has changed everything in our world. Right now I feel a need to keep track of how we will manage.
You hear people call their husband or father the Head of the House sometimes, and that is what Father was to us. He was not a comfortable sort of person, but he always knew what each of us should do and he checked up on us to be sure we had done it. Now he is gone, where will we turn? Perhaps writing things down will hold me steady, like an anchor keeps a ship from drifting out to sea.
I just read that over. It sounds highfalutin. But true.
Miss Radcliffe dropped by again this evening. She had found a storybook she thought I would like. It is called What Katy Did. She slipped it into my hand and said, “A good book can be a true friend at a time like this, Abby dear.” Then she left as quickly as she’d come. She is so kind. I’ve stolen glances at the book already. Katy’s mother is dead and her aunt cares for the children. I cannot bear to think of ever having to face life without Mother.
I wish I could just sit down and lose myself in the story, but of course, I can’t. There’s no place in the house where I could count on being alone, except in my room with Davy. If anyone saw me, they would think I was heartless. Am I?
After midnight
I can’t sleep. Well, I did at first, but now I am awake and everyone else in the house is dead to the world.
How strange it is to write down that everyone is dead tonight, when Father is really dead downstairs.
I have been looking at Davy asleep and remembering when he was born. The doctor told them to put him in a Home and forget him. He said Davy would never be normal and probably not live long. He said that Mongoloid children rarely survive for more than a few months and that it was better for Mother not to let herself grow attached to him.
“You have healthy children. Concentrate on John and Olivia.”
“And Abby,” Mother said.
I was in the corner rocking Davy and I remember the doctor catching sight of me then. He looked flustered. “Of course,” he muttered.
Father would have done what the doctor said, but Mother would have none of it. Lying there in bed, she looked weak and ill, but her voice snapped like a whiplash when she gave her answers.
“It is too late. I am already attached,” she said. “Abby and I will care for him as long as he is with us.”
Father said she was not strong enough, but she stuck to her guns and the two of us have tended him ever since. He was too much for her to handle alone, so even though I was supposed to go to school, Mother arranged to have her old teacher, Miss Radcliffe, who was retired and lived nearby, give me lessons at home.
Miss Radcliffe says I have writing talent. She is one of my favourite people.
Now I think I might sleep. I wonder what brought those memories to my mind tonight. I know really. It was thinking about Father’s being gone and realizing that he’ll never call Davy a lackwit again. I hated that so, and now it is over.
Sunday afternoon, June 15, 1902
We are waiting again. That is what we do most of the time these days. We wait and eat and thank people, and then wait and eat and get kissed and then wait and eat and listen to people tell us how sorry they are. It never ends. Worst of all is being patted and stroked and hugged and kissed by old ladies who are strangers to me. Their kisses are whiskery and sometimes their breath smells mildewed. I long to push them away, but Mother says I must be polite. I don’t see why.
I hate them watching me when I’m tending Davy too. I love him dearly, but I don’t enjoy taking care of him every minute of the day. And I hate being watched and cooed over while I do it, as though the two of us are not real but some sort of performance.
Abby, I cannot believe you just wrote those words! What is wrong with you?
I think I know. It makes me ashamed but I can write it down in my private notebook. I believe that, when the people are kissing me and staring into my face, they’re trying to see if I have cried as much as Olivia. She has cried enough tears to fill a lake. Her eyes are all puffy and red. Does this really show how deep her grief is? My eyes are dry. Am I abnormal? I long to ask Mother about this, but she has enough to bear at the moment.
Snatching time to write in my notebook or read a page of Katy helps me to stop brooding about such idiotic thoughts.
After the funeral, I hope things will be ordinary again. I couldn’t bear to go on feeling so lost.
Monday evening,
June 16, 1902
We all went to the church for Father’s funeral, all but Davy. He stayed next door with Mrs. Scott.
People kept telling us what a fine man our father was. I never knew what to answer. He took care of us, of course, but I don’t think he enjoyed us. This sounds crazy, but he didn’t know how to play. I wonder if Olivia remembers sitting on his lap when she was little, or being hugged by him. She was their first child. When she was born, he was still young and maybe happy to be the father of such a beautiful baby girl. I still cannot imagine him playing with her. I know I don’t have any such memories.
Oh, Abby, forget it.
Tuesday, June 17, 1902
Billy Brigson was at the funeral. His hair was slicked down flat and he was wearing a suit and tie. He did not look like his usual self. I winked at him and he looked shocked. Father did like Billy. And Billy liked him too. I was thinking about this when some woman behind us said, “It’s strange how little the younger girl resembles the rest of the family. Is she adopted?”
Somebody told her to lower her voice and Mother gave my hand a comforting squeeze. But she did not need to. I know I look different, but I like my face. Mother would have told me if I were adopted.
The others all have straight fair hair. John’s is darker, Olivia’s pale gold. I have to admit it is beautiful. And Davy’s is almost as yellow as a baby chick. Their eyes are brown, but not the same shade. John’s are nearly black and Davy’s are tan. Olivia’s are golden brown, of course.
My eyes are very bright blue. And my hair is an ordinary brown. It is curly on damp days. I have lots of freckles in summer. Long ago, when I was small, Grandpa told me he enjoyed looking at me because my funny face made him smile. It sounds insulting, but it wasn’t. I felt as though he had given me a present.
Tonight, after supper, I was so sick of being sad that I took my skipping rope down the lane. I skipped to one hundred and fifteen without missing a step. I chanted a skipping rhyme and felt much better when I came home. And I felt wonderfully wicked.
I whistled too, very softly. Father forbade Olivia and me to whistle. “Whistling girls and crowing hens, Always come to bad ends,” he would bark at me if he heard me. Olivia stopped doing it, but I like it. Also, I do it much better than either she or John. So I can’t resist.
