Why Canada? Because it needs to be stirred up by the likes of Gillian Rachel McAllister!
Your very proud father
Post Script – May I remind you that you are in no position to demand anything from me. However, if you are in need of even a peanut, don’t hesitate to ask. Do be safe and mind your manners.
Post Script Yet Again – Perhaps your cheekiness has cushioned me after all, otherwise the grief of losing you to adulthood would surely kill me if I didn’t dislike you just a little bit. Now, a word of advice—you are the loveliest girl Canada will ever have seen and you will attract plenty of young men. Because you will draw such attention, you need to remind yourself of the blood that runs through your veins—the meat and potatoes blood of the Irish. Be wise my dear, but above all never think of yourself as anything other than absolutely fantastic.
The note fell to Gillian’s side. All that pacing, and for what? A silly note that told her nothing. She drew a breath, deep and soothing. His words began to settle in nicely until mini gasps of air reached her lips, causing an instant rush of longing for Daddy’s arms—his words far from nothing. At the same time, Gillian felt like a goddess. How did he manage that? She supposed that she’d been wrong. She had all the details for the journey that Daddy had sent two weeks ago, and now he championed her cause, a cause that had been blazing inside her since she learned to walk. Maybe she was a wild boar after all, but clearly Daddy didn’t think she was the least bit piggish. A smile crept into her face. She would save this note for all time.
Chapter 3 - 1946
Why must I remember
The things that are gone
The sunshine, the shadows,
The lilt of a song;
Of flying feet dancing
O’er green velvet sward
Of winds softly whispering
My love to the world!
Why must I remember
And suffer again
The anguish I knew
When my tears fell like rain
And all my joy died
And now all is pain
Since my beloved
Has passed down the Vale!
Chapter 3
1946
Christian Hunter pulled in the oars to his rowboat that rocked gently on Georgian Bay. Nothing could stop him from watching the sun sink into the bed of watercolors sleeping on the horizon. The Bruce Peninsula had just about the blackest skies in all of Ontario. Perhaps this is because it was tucked away, far from the lights of the big city, but Christian thought there was more to it, as though this narrow strip of land wanted to shut itself out from the rest of the world. It took a special breed to live out here where dirt roads trembled through the forest, crawling their way toward the shoreline. Christian was used to the isolation, having lived here most of his life. But the sunsets leading up to the black… those a man could write stories about.
Christian swallowed the air like it was his first taste of something sweet. Today was chilly even for midsummer. He could hear the masts clanging in Little Tub Harbour and relished their familiar sound mixed with the lapping of water. Still, nothing beat his rickety dock nudged into a hidden cove lined with milkweed and sycamore trees. Dozens of Monarch butteries just within reach flirted with him occasionally while laying their eggs on pods that looked like prickly cucumbers. In moments like those his troubles would vanish as though they’d floated away on a fluff of silky milkweed floss.
The house Christian had built was nothing to speak of, but it was comfortable and had a good-sized porch with roll up netting to keep the mosquitos out in the evenings. His parents’ empty place still sat on the property, but it was too far from shore and he wanted the water at his feet. Christian rented his parents’ old house out every so often to earn a little extra money. And the crop-dusting wasn’t half bad either. He’d nearly dusted three hundred acres of farmland on the Peninsula last year alone and fished with the best of them. More than a little loose change, that was.
There was that clanging again in Little Tub. It really did stir him up like an old melody. He often imagined that ghosts from all the shipwrecks sitting at the bottom of Georgian Bay somehow played a hand in that song. Those were the same ghosts that haunted his nights when he was a child after his father would tell tales of their ship’s demise—tales that had been passed around so much they’d gone ahead and knotted themselves good. His dad wasn’t trying to scare him, just turn him into a real man. Because out here on the Peninsula, that’s what real men talked about. As a boy Christian would dive down, hoping to catch a glimpse of a wreck. It wasn’t hard either, not with water that clear. Christian believed the Great Lakes were like a tonic, soothing to the eye and a boost for the soul. He felt it every time the winds drew him in.
Most of the fishing boats had worked themselves back to the docks. Christian kneaded his callused fingers still sore from the day’s work. He’d had to finish up his neighbor Griffin’s woodshed before heading across the Atlantic. One blister on Christian’s palm just wouldn’t seem to heal, and it bloodied up every time he’d swung a hammer in the past week. Rowing this boat didn’t help much. Christian picked at the skin wishing he had something to lean back on.
Christian’s eyes traveled the waters edge. Griffin. What a character! he thought, shaking his head as bits and pieces of their past skipped like stones across the water with a final plop, settling into his mind. Griffin was one of those seasoned fishermen who’d outgrown his waders—too old and a belly so big it was nearly tearing at the seams. He mumbled badly, but for some reason Christian never had trouble understanding him, probably because he didn’t say much.
Griffin wasn’t one to give advice either, but he had a way about him, something Christian noticed years earlier when he was only nine or ten. With all those ghost stories chilling up the tide, Christian had imagined washed up pirate bones and skulls and would search endlessly along the rocky shoreline. Every time a treasure would masquerade as part of a seagull’s carcass, he’d clean it, sort it, and add it to his collection. He liked giving them pirate names like Captain Ripper St. John and his first mate Snarky Cutter. They were his favorites. He stashed them in a box he’d carved from some driftwood.
Christian didn’t have the bones any longer. When his parents had run out of food one nasty winter, Griffin said he knew of a pirate who could use those bones and would pay a hefty penny for them. So Christian sold them to Griffin who sold them to the pirate. That night, Christian’s family sat down to a real roast beef dinner with not a cabbage in sight!
Nearly a year later, he’d gone into Griffin’s run-down woodshed to get some kindling when he saw his old driftwood box poorly hidden behind a scrappy beaver trap. Christian opened the box and smiled; not a bone was missing. But there was a note inside, something he hadn’t added to his collection. It read, “This treasure belongs to Christian Hunter. And I’ll knock the block off anyone who says otherwise!” He never looked at Griffin the same way again.
Christian rolled back his shoulders, trying to loosen them, and let his eyes fall back on the sky. They couldn’t stay away for long. Truth was, the bay could be hotheaded when it wanted to be. That’s why so many ships had gone down in these parts. But not tonight, and not his creaky boat.
Christian could see a string of lights along the harbor beginning to rouse, reminding him that nightfall was quickly approaching. Tobermory was peaceful at night. In fact, it was pretty much peaceful day in and day out. Most outsiders would think it was dull as sin, but they couldn’t be more wrong. This was a place filled with life untarnished by shops and city bustle. The best place to see that was down by the water. And the best age to enjoy it was when one was still small enough that buttercups and ladybugs didn’t go unnoticed.
Lazy days were welcome here, but in the same breath hard work never seemed to be far away. Truth was, Christian was the laziest, most ambitious person he knew. If he had nothing to do, he’d go out and dig a hole in the ground. It was impossible to know what a feel
ing of satisfaction that was until one had done it.
City dwellers were like scraps popping by their abandoned cottages, left behind to collect winter dust until the dandelions came out again in droves. Commercial fishermen would come in on the tides and drift out with the next wind. All in all, if a man didn’t mind his own company and was neighborly when it wasn’t the slightest bit convenient to be so, then he’d get on just fine here. But nothing was like digging that hole to set things straight.
Trouble was, Christian couldn’t bury his memories in there for good. Somehow, they kept digging their own way out. That one summer never went away. The summer of 1932 had marked him forever.
She was eighteen years old and he had just turned twenty. Christian’s rowboat now idled on the water as though it was helping time stand still. Christian drew a deep breath; his thoughts would clear on the exhale and then grow cloudy again. At thirty-four, he’d found her image was beginning to fade. The exception being her broad smile and the luster in her green eyes—they were as clear today as they were fourteen years ago. Of course, nothing compared to that cheeky mouth of hers.
Christian glanced down, his breath deserting him. He’d never met anyone so high and mighty before while perfectly at home with the down trodden. A chameleon. That’s what she was. Every color was tailor-made for her—usually worn to make others feel at ease. And they did. He’d never seen anything like it.
Then of course there was that accent of hers. What could he say about that? She’d get furious when he’d call her “leprechaun.” It was true, she really was his lucky charm, his own walking four-leaf clover. He knew it the first time his eyes fell on hers. Christian swallowed, trying to focus on the bay, trying to focus on the present. He’d tried to drown her out with other women, and for a moment he thought it might be working. Then they’d get too close and he’d push them away so fast it made him dizzy.
Christian reached into his pocket and pulled out the newspaper clipping he’d cut out a month ago. Carefully unfolding it, he pinched the edges so the breeze wouldn’t take it away. The fading light made it difficult to see, but it didn’t matter. Christian had burned the image into his head long before. He couldn’t be sure it was her, but the resemblance made him tremble. It was a short article about healing a town after the war. No mention of her name, just a throng of people standing posed in front of what looked like a hospital in an English seaside town. The setting looked just how he remembered from his brief stint in the RCAF in ’42. He’d flown over a myriad of towns just like it, each one blurring into the next. Yet there was a landmark here, in the corner, one that Christian thought would guide the way.
He drew a breath then leaned over the oars. Maybe Griffin was right. Maybe she hadn’t left because of him or because of her father. When Christian showed him the clipping, Griffin’s hand shook so badly, he could hardly hold it. Everything shook on him these days, and he couldn’t read a thing without a magnifying glass. But it was the look of fear in Griffin’s eyes and the trembling on his lips, a trembling that had nothing to do with age that was driving Christian to move ahead. He’d never seen his friend that way in all these years. One look at Gilly and the lines in Griffin’s face told a horror Christian wasn’t sure he wanted confirmed. He didn’t want to believe what Griffin had suggested. Most days now, Griffin didn’t even know himself. He was an old man, confused for such a long time. One minute he’d see his late wife frying up bacon in the kitchen, the next he wouldn’t even remember he’d been married. No. He was a mixed up old man, and as close as they still were Christian couldn’t trust Griffin’s memory. But the possibility alone was enough to make him book a ticket across the Atlantic.
Christian tried during the war to find her, but things were different now. Only he wasn’t sure if he was traveling to prove Griffin wrong or to prove him right. Either way, Christian had to go, and this time there wasn’t a village he’d leave unturned. There was no war to get in his way, no air force to cut his leave short. He’d find that landmark. He’d find Gilly McAllister… his beautiful, stubborn, lucky charm.
The lazy water suddenly grew restless beneath the small boat. Christian brushed the bristle on his chin with his fingertips. His hair fluttered in the breeze. It was cool, so he rolled down his shirtsleeves from the elbow then his twilled cotton trousers that had been folded once up.
This place was toying with him now as an evocative sound punctuated the fall of night. The long, mournful wail of a loon called out to his partner, crying, “I’m here, where are you?” Christian felt pity for the bird; he, too, knew the loneliness of the night.
Christian rowed to his dock then took up the oars, tucking them securely under a tarp next to his boathouse. After pulling the boat along the dock, he dragged it to shore through tall reeds and lily pads, finally rolling it on its belly to rest on tufts of grass until the bay came calling again.
Sleep came easily. Christian’s last waking thoughts were of the S.S. Empire Brent leaving Halifax in just three days—a ship he’d be on. He imagined Gilly greeting him at the docks in Southampton but knew it wouldn’t be that way at all. He’d have to ransack England first.
Chapter 4 - 1946
Give me your love for this is true,
I am as rich in love as you,
And any love that I may owe
I can pay back to you and more.
Give me your love knowing this is true
That I can repay all that’s due,
So give me your love
Oh, give me your love.
And with this love we stand secure
Against the “ups and downs” we all endure,
Together we face the darkest night
Together we smile when skies are bright.
When at last the days of youth are gone
Love will bless our Evensong.
So give me your love
Oh, give me your love.
Chapter 4
1946
Gillian was still upset over what had happened at the farm last night. She was sure Mrs. Hemsworth would lose the baby and found herself walking on eggshells all morning for fear the telephone would ring with panic again. The phone didn’t ring, and the surgery was quiet this morning. Dr. Pilkington had arranged his instruments for the third time and was interrupted only by Gilbert Brody who had pinworms. As long as he walked around with that pig next to his side, those parasites were bound to keep reappearing. Like roaches, they’ve been around since the dawn of flesh and could easily wrangle their way into Gilbert’s backside again. Quirky critter! she thought. Not the pinworms—Gilbert. Albeit he was scruffy and always looked as though he’d just crawled out of bed, Gilbert was an easy soul—not a rumpled temper in him except when his bottom was on fire. He should be well thankful for a little castor oil instead of moaning about how it slid down like a land slug.
By now, Gilbert had long gone and Dr. Pilkington looked exhausted. It wasn’t easy dealing with Mrs. Hemsworth. She never stopped buzzing about the sordid affairs around town, affairs of which she had no proof. All the while she was wailing with pain. “The worst of all,” she cried, “is those two fisherwomen,” she called them, “who spend as much time rolling in the hay as they do rolling in on the tides.” She grew a belligerent glare in those crooked eyes of hers, “Lesbians! I’m sure of it!” When Gillian had wound a bed sheet into a muzzle and offered it behind her back, Dr. Pilkington smiled and nodded. They were very close to following through with it until Mrs. Hemsworth whipped her head ‘round and caught them in the act, throwing a beady glare Gillian’s way. She was sure the doctor would have preferred her to faint for a few minutes just so he could concentrate. In the end, Mrs. Hemsworth fell asleep and the baby would be all right, provided she stayed on her back for the next week.
Dr. Pilkington had dropped Gillian at home just before 3:30 in the morning. She would have driven herself, of course, except that her motorcycle had its own ailment—a flat tire. Neither of them could have had more than four hours sleep b
efore they were expected at the surgery again. Gillian was grateful for the slow pace today and was hoping she and the doctor could make it an early evening.
“Gillian,” the doctor said. “How would you feel about lunch down by the pier today?” He shrugged. “I think we could both use some fresh air.”
“Well, I’m not going to turn that down,” she said with no need to consider. “Shall we go straight away?”
“Why not? That is, unless Gilbert comes back itching again.”
Gillian smiled as she finished labeling some blood tubes.
It may not have been rugby union season on the Isle of Man, but Gillian noticed a group of men scrimmaging on some grass opposite the pier. The sound of men banging up against each other had a rather satisfying ring to it, she thought. Yet her gaze travelled to a curly string of nautical flags flapping from the one and only sailing boat moored in the bay. There were plenty of distractions down by the harbor and an unshakable belief that Port St. Mary would crawl out of any postwar dribble taller than when it had been sucked in.
Gillian refused to see what cleanup needed to be done. It was just to do it and get on with it. Never for a moment would she deny herself the pure pleasure of taking that tiny space in time to see the beauty shining through a field of ugly. She wondered if Dr. Pilkington felt the same and if any of the ruckus surrounding them stirred him. When she saw he was more interested in the potted dahlias along the roadway, she smiled knowing that his tiny space in time was filled with the scent of sweet clematis, dog violets scrambling into trees, honeysuckle sneaking through the hedgerows between cottages, and shrubs of yellow gorse that he’d pass on his drive out to her. All of it brought echoes of life to a village that was otherwise raw with wartime residue.
“Shall we sit here?” he asked motioning to a narrow wooden bench, more like a non-upholstered kneeler in front of the pews at church than anything else. Though it sat at the edge of the pier, Gillian still looked down considering the spot. Apart from seagull droppings and perhaps one or two puffins marking their territory and an infinite number of possible slivers to be had, it was perfect. And it was always lovely to see the doctor without his white coat. Some drapey gabardine slacks held up by braces and his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to see a hint of chest hair. Not that she noticed! But before she could answer and test her resilience, the grocer’s wife blundered down the concrete, squealing like that pig of Gilbert’s the day he was born.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 4
