The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  When I squeeze out the tears, I notice the river begins to spread, the grassy bank opposite us folding backward. Gilly’s words are happening already! She’s caught me off guard. I’m not sure I’m ready for it… but it’s thrilling. The grand oaks crank themselves to attention, opening up the sun to the water, while their leaves tremble with striking energy. Fallen acorns by the hundreds begin dancing upward, making way for a slew of delivery boys scooting past on vintage bicycles, three hauling carts filled with newspapers, one milkman with bottles making a terrible racket, and a fifth lagging behind with a basket of live chickens. Odd.

  I squeeze my eyes again—sure I’m seeing things—then follow the current to the trestle bridge that now grows into something more substantial, lined with stone guard rails on either side. The pavement just over Gilly’s shoulder rolls away, and in its place sprouts a cobblestone path leading to a street filled with merchants and huge front-grilled cars put-putting along, all resembling each other in one shade of black. What’s more though, a clock tower, perhaps Big Ben, it’s hard to know, clangs its third quarter as hurried passers-by ignore its patrol over London. High Street is something to be relished with its myriad of shops as the widespread grass of Springbank Park in Canada’s pint-sized London stipples into something extraordinary, a time where men tipped their hats to bid “good day.” The London I knew as a young woman.

  I feel a renewed energy pulsing through me, and when I glance around, my granddaughter is nowhere to be seen, vanished from my arms. I clutch my hands now rich with moisture, veins barely visible. The sagging I once felt in my eyelids has disappeared, and my sharp eyesight is restored. Even my nose seems to have shrunk a size or two. I’m wearing a coral knit dress, cinched at the waist, draping softly to just below the knee with a fine twirl to it if I turn quickly. I remember this dress. I always felt lovely in it. But this hat tilted to the side. I never liked the damned thing. I much prefer letting my hair ripple effortlessly like Greta Garbo’s. Yes, I dare say I’m quite like Greta Garbo in ways… sultry when I want to be—or better yet, a vibrant intensity. Although no one knows me that way yet, something tells me someone is about to.

  I am seventeen years old, far from my home in Ireland. I must be visiting my sister Beaty. She always insisted that I wear a hat and wash my hands upon arrival. When I look up, the knocker beckons me. It is 1931, and I am in London, England at last.

  Chapter 2 - 1931

  The trees are in full leaf,

  The gardens full of flowers,

  We swing into the hammock

  To dream through sunny hours.

  But soon the birds no longer sing

  The only sound is pattering rain,

  The English summer once again,

  Runs true to form, and we the same

  In soaking garb, look on dismayed

  Through a misty veil this summer’s day

  To the sheltering porch so far away!

  And so it goes from year to year

  Hope unfulfilled!

  And then one day, from morn to night

  The sun shines on without a break,

  Our greetings fly along the way –

  “Oh isn’t this a lovely day!”

  And being rare, none can deny

  The joy we get on this wet Isle,

  When skies are blue, instead of gray,

  And rain-filled clouds have rolled away!

  Chapter 2

  1931

  “Ahh, look what the mouse dragged in!” Beatrice said sprightly while kissing Gillian’s cheek. “Do come in dear.” Gillian felt an instant tingling inside to meet with her sister again. “Don’t you look scrumptious in that hat! It’s from Harrods if you recall.”

  “How could I forget? You remind me every time I wear it.”

  “Yes, well…” Beatrice said, brows darting straight up. Gillian could swear she’d flattened her hair somehow. Made her ears stick out. “Oh, stop fidgeting with your dress. It’s lovely just the way it is. No doubt you must be terribly exhausted after your long journey. A nap will do you good. First, go have a wash up.” Gillian rolled her eyes hoping she had noticed—the tingling inside falling away quickly. “You remember where the loo is?”

  “Yes, Beaty. Why would I forget?”

  “That’s a girl.”

  Honestly, unless Gillian’s mind was playing tricks on her, she’d swear her sister had just scooted her along. When would she realize she was a grown-up now? Seventeen years old! Beaty had already left Ireland by the time she was sixteen. No. Beatrice hadn’t changed a bit—still ruly and in charge. It’s no wonder Daddy let her venture abroad; clearly he wanted to get rid of her! Gillian had to wait an extra year—too impulsive he’d always say. But secretly she knew he only wanted to keep her around.

  Anyhow, Gillian felt frustration pinching at her brow, knowing full well it would soon layer itself like a sickly sweet baklava and she’d barely stepped in the door! Even worse, Beaty never seemed to notice these things. The way she treated her like a meek, inexperienced fledgling—ten years the younger! How she managed to get this far in life must have been a mystery to her sister. But she was the only Beaty that Gillian had, and she’d have to do. It was kind to take her in after all. Still, she wasn’t her mother, and she’d do well to remember it!

  Gillian opened her eyes. A stream of sunlight gushed through the partially opened shutters while shadows painted curious images on Beaty’s guest room walls. Their evening catching up was lovely, like old times, at least for as long as Gillian could hold her eyes open. She felt as though she’d slept for a week. Too long really. She was aching from head to foot. Her toes scurried from the bedding for a peek and some fresh air. Yes, they were still attached to her, and that window was begging for a little attention.

  She couldn’t see much with the guest room being at the back of the townhouse. Why couldn’t she have had the front room? From there she could spy Westminster’s cricket boys in Vincent Square, or better yet, watch the groundsman’s comings and goings for signs of a frothy mystery in the making. Then again, you could see the real goings-on from the back room. Her gaze travelled the white cladding adjacent, pausing briefly at the reflection of some trees in a neighboring window before finally landing on one smallish window beneath a fire escape. If she cocked an eye and then the other, she was quite sure something steamy was at play through that curtain and that her wishes alone could summon it right off the rod. Whatever they were up to made her feel like a Peeping Tom, embarrassed but curious, as she slid discreetly to the side.

  Gillian could hardly peel her eyes away until a cat rummaging through some bins in the garden stole her attention—just for a moment. She wondered what it would be like to have someone touch her that way. Squinting for details while the silhouettes were melting into one, the moment felt daring. Indeed, the cat down there should run for cover, otherwise her curiosity might just do him in—for good. She glanced back at the curtain, certain her first interlude would be a mix of fear and great discovery. Sometimes when she was alone, she would close her eyes and imagine what it was like. Her body felt sensations now that could be toxic for all she knew. No one talked about such things. But it didn’t stop her from feeling them.

  A light knock at the door snatched her attention. “Gillian, are you awake?” her sister whispered while opening the door.

  “Yes, I’m over here.”

  “I’m glad you’re awake. I trust you slept well. You were out for nearly twelve hours.”

  “Really? Was I?”

  “Traveling will do that, you know. I bet Hollyhead was a nightmare, then all those travelers packed on the boat like sardines no doubt.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say, Beaty?” she mumbled, once again dazed by the rapture behind those curtains.

  “Never mind,” she said while throwing open the shutters on both windows. “What a spectacular day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I can’t wait to see London again.”

  “In time my dear,” she
said while busily fluffing up Gillian’s pillows then tucking the bedspread under the mattress. “I think you should get dressed then join me for breakfast. We have plenty to discuss.”

  That’s exactly what worried her. If Gillian knew her sister, she had something up her sleeve along with that hanky of hers. And what kind of twenty-six year old stuffed something like that up her sleeve? She wasn’t going to snag many boys that way. Anyhow, Gillian knew her father wanted her to find work, but surely a few days to soak in the people and sparkle of this place wouldn’t give him indigestion, would it? Might cripple Beaty, though, straying from her plans like that!

  Beaty’s townhouse was lovely with its high ceilings and plenty of room for a growing family. Too bad she didn’t have one. Might have had something to do with acting like a prude well beyond her years. That would scare off even the Colin Tuckers of this world. He might have been shy all right through that spotty face of his but underneath Gillian just knew there was a suave blue blood aching to come out. But even he was no match for Beaty. Gillian supposed with her sister taking on the role of their mother—or at least trying to—to all their siblings would spoil anyone’s heyday. Pity really. Gillian was too young at the time to understand why her sister had up and left—London was a world away after all. Now, Gillian had a sneaking suspicion that it was all in pursuit of boys. She wasn’t sure if she’d entirely forgiven Beaty for leaving her. It was a bit selfish really when she was needed at home in Longford. Even if she had found a husband, she could never admit to their father that she’d fallen for an Englishman. Bet she was hiding one under the staircase though. Gillian would have a peek later to be sure.

  Poor Daddy, Gillian thought. Two of his daughters abandoning Ireland as though it would become a faint memory. Oh, how wrong he could be at times. He needn’t worry; she had no intention of finding a man here—of course, if one should happen to find her, perhaps he’d be worth a tiddle. Oh, she could hear her sister now, that’s not a word! Well it was to her! On second thought, she wouldn’t want to face Daddy either. He’d either disown her or throttle her at once. Gillian was certain it was one of his greatest fears that any of his seven daughters should marry an Englishman or worse yet a foreigner. Trouble was, she found them absolutely charming.

  Wasn’t that just like Beaty, laying the table to match the weather? She’d even brought out Mommy’s Belleek teacups and matching pot.

  “The daisies are lovely, Beaty,” she said grinning while eyeing one for her hair.

  “They do make you feel springy, don’t they?”

  “Mmm… yes they do,” Gillian said tucking a daisy behind her ear, despite Beaty’s nose twitching in disapproval.

  “It’s getting more and more difficult to stretch funds these days. Fortunately, I have a dear friend who has a tiny greenhouse at the back of his garden,” she said patting the napkin on her lap as though it were creased.

  “His?” Gillian’s eyebrows sprang right up.

  “Yes. Horatio happens to be a man, but don’t go getting yourself into a tizzy; we’re merely friends.”

  “You mean the way you and Father Clare’s alter boy were just friends? Don’t forget I’m the one who saw the two of you kissing behind the rectory.”

  “You were six years old!”

  “And you should have known better.”

  “That’s neither here nor there, I can assure you.” Quiet filled the air for just a moment.

  Caught red-handed, Gillian thought, that was why her lips were suddenly pursed. Didn’t like it then. Didn’t like it now. Truth was, Gillian felt horrible when they’d been caught and could feel a tear running down her cheek at the time. Beaty couldn’t sit down for a whole week after that. It was no wonder their father let her go to England—as far away from that boy as possible. Fortunately, Beaty couldn’t hold a grudge for long and Gillian liked when she traded in her apron for a scandalous cardigan, surprising her with a frisky kind of truth. “But if there are any developments, I’ll keep you posted.” Yes, a glint in those eyes proved she wasn’t as innocent as she wanted everyone to believe. Perhaps Daddy would need to overcome his prejudices after all.

  It was times like these that Gillian wished they had their mother. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault. She thought sometimes their father blamed him. But loads of women didn’t make it through childbirth and even though he was irritating, she thought she’d keep him. Anyhow, he had the life of Riley with seven older sisters mothering him as though he were helpless. And he knew how to milk it. Was a miracle he learned to tie his own shoelaces!

  Though Gillian missed her mother, she hardly remembered their times together. She missed most of all the feeling of having a mother, of having someone to look up to, someone who would champion her cause when no one else cared to listen. She glanced up at Beaty. She was busy putting two sausages and a grilled tomato on Gillian’s plate alongside a rather soppy-looking egg. She looked so happy to have a bit of company. Gillian supposed in a way, she’d filled Mommy’s shoes after all.

  “How’s that?” Beaty said setting the plate in front of her. Gillian smiled back, grateful to have such a sister, even though her ears had grown since yesterday. “Now listen, Gillian, I understand you’d like to have a looksee around town. We have all weekend for that, but come Monday morning, no sooner than the magpies start rummaging through the bins in the back, you have an appointment.”

  Gillian nearly choked on her sausage. “An appointment?”

  “Yes, with a Mr. Nigel Hardy. He oversees an estate owned by a maharaja of India. Can you believe it? A real maharaja!”

  “Why on earth would I have an appointment with such a man?”

  “It’s well-known that the maharaja has come to England on business for years. He’s like a prevailing wind through these parts. Admittedly, now that England—and much of the world for that matter—is seeing the likes of the Great Slump, he has made the wise decision to move his family here in order to clean up the awful mess that has come of his fortune.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, it’s only a guess, but I would bet my last shilling on it. He’d need to protect his money, and I dare say it would be difficult from the other side of the world.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Simply put, he needs a nanny.”

  “A nanny? Isn’t he a bit old for that?”

  “Gillian, I can promise you it wasn’t easy finding work. Employment is scarce. Everyone’s scraping by these days. It took a little trickery on my part but happy to do it, my dear.”

  Good God, she just winked at me, Gillian thought. But Gillian knew her sister meant well, whatever was up her sleeve with that hanky.

  “It was a Wednesday morning and the bank was slow,” Beaty continued. “I knew something was stirring during elevenses. I thought I would do some investigating on your behalf. The only place to start was Winifred Beastly. You know the one. She brings tea to Barclays’ patrons whilst waiting for their appointments. Always with her ears pointed straight up. You know,” Beaty said with a devilish grin, “working in a bank has its advantages. The things I learn about perfectly respectable people would horrify you. Do you know that gossipmonger knew well ahead of Mr. Tyler himself that his wife was playing Parcheesi, that God awful American version, with Harry Thicket every Tuesday evening? The little snippet! Well, apparently the bank’s postman had a slip of the tongue when he let on within earshot of Winnie that one of his colleagues had delivered directly to the maharaja’s residence in Kensington of all places.”

  “So, how did he find out about the position?”

  “Well, it turns out that he’d had a little fling with one of the maharaja’s landscapers.”

  “Janey! A woman landscaper?” Gillian gasped. “How thoroughly modern!”

  “That’s the juicy bit—every landscaper employed by the maharaja is of the male persuasion. In the end, of course, the bit about hiring for a nanny position was an absolute bore. Not a soul was interested in t
hat—except me. So they agreed to see you straight away. You would be well taken care of—room and board and a little pocket money on the side. Daddy has already wired me saying that he approves, provided you have Sundays free and are treated like the respectable Irish girl you are.”

  “But I don’t want to be a nanny.” Gillian felt a nervous uncertainty crinkle into her expression, knowing she had said or done something wrong—quite like the time she’d peered at her classmate’s test paper with that foul beast sitting at the head of the class, glaring from her desk. Suddenly Beaty quite resembled that teacher!

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Beaty said with a frown. “Listen, it’s just something to tide you over until the times settle down and something more profitable can come along. You’ve always fancied writing. Maybe once you get a little experience under your belt, you can look for work at a newspaper or something equally as exciting. For now, beggars can’t be choosers. You’d do well to take my advice on that.”

  Gillian couldn’t quite decide whether she should be grateful to her sister or hit her! Before she realized it, the words were slipping off her tongue, “Have you done something with your hair, Beaty?”

  “Yes. I have it ironed. Do you like it?”

  The weeks rolled by so quickly Gillian hardly noticed. She loved her new job. Beaty was right to nose around. It had been a wonderful way to introduce her yet again to London. She was always out and about with the children. They were well behaved and not as whiny as she’d expected. Shashi, the little one, was as sweet as your favorite wish. It was like looking in a mirror, really. On second thought, she was always looking up her skirt—not her own but Gillian’s. The child fancied her stockings. Gillian had a faint memory of doing the same to Auntie Rosalind. Her dresses always looked good enough to eat, like big meringue cakes with all those layers and layers of petticoats! Samir, on the other hand, was always pulling his sister’s hair when his parents’ heads were turned. Of course, if that was the worst they got up to, then she could count herself lucky.