The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  “Alright?” one said through a nearly toothless mouth.

  Christian assumed the man thought he was looking for someone or something? Or maybe it was obvious he was a foreigner. “Actually I’m looking for someone… well a place, really. Maybe you can help me?”

  “You American?”

  “No. Canadian. I was a fighter pilot here during the war.”

  The man’s eyes traveled over him with an air of understanding in them, “Good ol’ Canadians. What can I do for ya?”

  Christian reached into his chest pocket to take out the article. “Do you recognize this place?” he said unfolding the paper and placing it in the man’s blackened, stained fingers. The dockhand studied the photograph then slid his fingers along his jaw.

  “Could be anywhere.”

  “But this lighthouse in the background—I’ve never seen one like it,” Christian said. “Even in my time here with the air force.”

  “Don’t matter none. Lighthouses in the UK come in all shapes and sizes. Too many to count anyhow.” He shook his head, “Sorry mate. ’fraid I don’t know it.” All seven of the workers sitting there tried to help, but none of them recognized the lighthouse. It was just the beginning, so Christian wasn’t bothered. No. He had to focus his attention on getting to the Spooners. Why they would know this place over a bunch of shipyard workers he couldn’t be sure. It was just a hunch. And if they didn’t know, they’d know someone who would.

  A coach to Brockenhurst Station and rides hitched from two kind country folk brought Christian to the Spooners’ garden gate. He noticed a new sign bearing the words,

  Honeysuckle Cottage

  Hope you brought a pint—otherwise off with your head!

  Christian smiled knowing he had the right place. The cottage hadn’t changed a bit, apart from the added wine bottle feature in the front yard. On closer examination, it had to have been Pickles’ handiwork—a wooden post with branches, each carrying its own bottle. Must’ve had over fifty of them. When Christian walked through the gateway he could see each one had a date written on it. He scanned the yard just a little more. The grass was overgrown and the clay roof tiles needed repair, not to mention the cladding chipping off the side of the cottage. A few trees had been cut down to bring in light, he figured. Otherwise the place was still nestled in the woods, hidden from the world. He could hear some crackling coming from the bushes near the house, then sighed when two nightingales broke into flight from their own ruckus.

  Christian worked his way up the path to the front door with a strange sense of familiarity. Of course he had been here before, but it wasn’t that. There was something in the air. Something that made him feel as though he was coming home. He tapped the knocker then waited. No answer. Maybe they were out, but he thought a wander around the back wouldn’t do any harm.

  As he turned the corner, he stood for only a moment when a screech nearly toppled him flat. Before he knew it, Pickles was climbing down from a tree house wearing oven mittens, shouting for Mr. Spooner to get down from there “this instant… it’s Christian!” She wailed. “He’s come home!” She nearly barreled him over, dungarees, feather boa and all, squeezing so hard he could only wheeze. From the slit of his eye, he could see Percy watching his step carefully.

  “Well, blow my elderflowers right off their stems! Let me have a look at you!” Pickles’ eyes twitched as they swept over him. “Good gracious, what have you done to yourself?” she said, her eyes full of tenderness and curiosity. She sowed kisses into his cheek and the other. “Look at you all scruffy. Still as gorgeous as ever I see despite your laziness. We’ll fix that!”

  “Christian!” Percy offered his hand and threw the other around him. “What a surprise! We were just having afternoon tea.”

  “Dinner already?”

  “No, just a cup.”

  “Do you always drink tea in a tree house?”

  “Well, not every day,” Pickles answered for her husband. “Why? Is that strange?”

  Christian grinned, shaking his head. “Not at all,” he said, wanting to be polite.

  “Mr. Spooner will take you inside, won’t you dear, while I snip some parsley for supper. You will stay for supper, won’t you?”

  “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  Percy still towered over him. He looked thinner than Christian remembered. His nose resembled a potato and a man could get lost in those eyebrows. Christian smiled just as he had done when he first met this odd couple. “What are the oven mitts for?” Christian asked Percy as they headed toward the door.

  “God only knows! I think all the bombs loosened her brain a bit.”

  Christian was pleased to see his friends hadn’t really changed. Their spirit was still alive and thriving. And he couldn’t have felt more welcomed.

  “I’m afraid food rations have become even stricter since the last rumble of war, Christian, so we make do the best we can. Poor old Mr. Spooner here has had a terrible craving for humbugs lately, but they’re about as scarce as a carnivorous billy goat. I’ll never forget almost two years ago to the day, we were visiting Mr. Spooner’s elder sister in London. Weren’t we, dear?” she nodded to Percy. “She wouldn’t listen to us, the buffoon. We had told her umpteen times to come and stay with us where it was, dare I say safer. Well, to make a long story short, her local sweet shop was called Nellie’s. It was in an old carriage house on Buxley Road. Just a day after our arrival, a doodlebug landed too close for comfort and Nellie’s was hit. Scared the life out of us! Although sweets were rationed severely at that time, on that harrowing day there were Liquorice Root Sticks and Catherine Wheels, Nipits, toffees, and Jelly Babies scattered everywhere, but not a humbug in sight! Poor Mr. Spooner,” she said patting his lap. “Children were coming out of the woodwork to nab what they could from the remains,” Pickles sighed, “and there’s Mr. Spooner digging through the rubble to find his precious humbug. I can tell you, humbug or not, we weren’t short of sweets that day! Thought I’d have a hole in my teeth by the time supper rolled around.” She sighed again, “So I hope you can forgive the measly portion of bread on your dinner plate, Christian. Flour, I’m afraid, has found itself in the same predicament as our beloved sweets. Of course, I’ve been very naughty. If you sniff hard, you might just smell the makings of this week’s flour ration in the oven—the remnants of that loaf of bread,” she said glancing at the now empty basket.

  “The meal is perfect just the way it is,” Christian said rolling back his shoulders and feeling more comfortable than he had since he started his journey. If he ever came across a bag of humbugs, if he had to beg, borrow, or steal, nothing would stop him from getting them for Percy. He glanced around. The table was laid in a hodgepodge of items. Not a single dish matched and the chairs were three over-stuffed lounge chairs they had pulled from their tiny living room. Pickles had a taste for the gaudy, but Christian found her style charming. It suited her. Kitsch at its finest.

  “You know, we’re only rationed two ounces of margarine per week, times two of course—a gross substitute for butter. The first time I saw it, I thought I would gag—a glob of yellow swimming in the center of a white slab. Very puzzling indeed. I thank heavens every day for Elspeth.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Elspeth? Why, she’s our cow. We were fortunate to inherit her after the demise of Mr. Warrington, our neighbour. You’ll have to say hello later. I think she’s wandering the woodland at the moment. Mr. Spooner will see to it that she’s safely in her stall before sundown.” She gazed at Percy who was paying little attention. “Won’t you, dear?”

  “I can’t imagine how tough it’s been on people here for so long. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Christian,” Percy slid in. “We’ve managed just fine. We took the war in stride and we’re doing the same in the aftermath.”

  “Yes,” Pickles smiled tenderly at her husband. “This war has made us resourceful and there are those who have far less. We had no children of our own to send o
ff to God knows where in the hope they might survive, never knowing how they were getting on. Can you imagine the nightmare for those children and the unbearable grief all those mothers have gone through? And now, they’re scrambling to find their babies again. It breaks my heart. Such a senseless thing war is—doesn’t solve a bloody thing, does it Mr. Spooner?”

  “You’re right about that,” Christian said while spooning up the last of his mashed potato. Dinner was simple but tasty, and in some ways he didn’t feel as though any time had passed since their last meeting. He thought they would talk about it, how they’d taken him in for a short time while he was on leave, just for a weekend. How Percy had nearly run him over in his Morris Ten when he’d hopped over an old stone wall, escaping a paddock with an angry ram. That’s how they’d met. The wheel had nicked his leg. It was barely a scratch, but Percy and Pickles seemed to feel obliged to help. Pickles nursed him back to health, and truth was, Christian liked the doting. It was something he hadn’t had in eons and it reminded him of his mom. He certainly didn’t get any coddling back at base.

  They wanted to help him find Gilly. They really did. They showed her photo to everyone they knew, but it was hopeless. She’d left London and so had her sister Beaty. A shop clerk down the road told him that they weren’t going back to Ireland, at least Gilly wasn’t. That’s all she knew and that’s all Christian knew. He had thought about contacting her family in Ireland but knew how her father felt about the Canadian. A Canadian he’d never met. If Gilly’s story were true, Christian figured he didn’t want his daughter staying in a country so far from the family—so far from him. He couldn’t blame her father. She was a treasure that no father in his right mind would want to lose. Yet after talking to Griffin, he now knew that in the end Gilly’s father had nothing to do with it.

  “Love,” Pickles said taking Christian’s hand, “why have you come? You haven’t said.”

  “I guess I haven’t.” He glanced at Percy across the small, round table then into Pickles’ endearing eyes. “There’s something I want to show you.” He asked Pickles if she wouldn’t mind bringing over his jacket from the hook beside the front door. “Thank you.” He reached into the chest pocket and took out the article.

  “What’s this?”

  “Will you have a look, see if you recognize this place?”

  Pickles studied the photograph but Christian saw nothing in her eyes that revealed she knew of this place. “Oh Good Lord, Christian, I know what this is about.” Her eyes pinpointed his longing for a girl he once knew. “This is her, isn’t it? This is the young woman you were searching for four years ago… Gilly.”

  “You remember her name,” he said surprised.

  “How could I forget? I see it now. You’re still in love with her.” Pickles stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, my dear, you’re in for heartache. A whole war has passed between you two.”

  “Let me see that,” Percy insisted. The room was silent and now filled with the unmistakable odor of bread pudding that Pickles had in the oven. An egg timer broke the silence, and she was in the kitchen a moment later. Still not a word from Percy.

  “Do you know that lighthouse?” Christian asked. “It looks like a bullet.”

  “Mmm. It does, but I’m afraid I don’t recognize it. It could be anywhere.” Percy grew silent again, cupping his jaw with his hand. Christian studied him as much as Percy studied the photograph. When he suddenly pinched his brow together, Christian became curious. Percy reached to the windowsill where a large, round magnifying glass was sitting. He brought it to his eye then the silence grew again.

  Pickles returned, scooping a pile of bread pudding into Christian’s bowl.

  “Smells delish, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, thank you,” he said pointing his chin up but leaving his eyes on her husband.

  “Well,” Percy finally said moving to Pickles’ chair, “if you look here above this doorway, there’s a symbol. Can you see it?” He turned to Christian. “It’s hard to tell, but if you look closely, I think it has three legs on it.” Christian had a look through the lens then nodded. “Do you know what this three-legged symbol means?” he said, his bushy brow arched.

  “No.”

  “It’s the Isle of Man. No doubt about it. They’re proud of their red flag and fly their three-armored legs wherever they see fit, even above doorways. Port St. Mary is the only village I know that has this.” He pointed to a jetty that crawled into the sea, barely visible in the corner of the photograph. “It’s the longest, straightest one on the island next to Douglas, and from what I can see, this is a small place, far from the bustle of the capital.”

  Christian lay in a foldaway bed that had been set up for him in the sunroom at the back of the house. Pickles wouldn’t hear of him lodging anywhere else. Bunking up with them was perfect, and he was grateful. He liked the sunroom. It was where he stayed four years earlier and like then, the sounds of the night were soothing. The woodland wrapped around him echoing each one; the goldfinch that wouldn’t sleep, twigs snapping under foot from a red squirrel or hedgehog, and the whirling of wind around the trees and past his nose through the screened-in walls.

  As his eyes traveled the room in the darkness, signs of hard times remained. The silhouette of a mesh bag filled with onions and shallots hung from the ceiling against the dark backdrop. On a table in the corner, a jug of milk covered with muslin soaked in a basin of cold water trying to catch the draught. He would never look at his refrigerator the same way again.

  Christian yawned, stretching his arms wide over the edge of the bed with quiet thoughts of the past resting on his mind. He thought about Pickles’ bottle tree in the front yard and the meaning behind it. She had explained during coffee that each bottle represented an air raid that she and “Mr. Spooner” had survived. They hadn’t enough bottles in all reality with over fifteen hundred alarms in their neighboring Southampton, fraying their nerves each time. They had kept wine or bottles of water in their shelter hidden under the forest canopy. The next morning, suffering from a bit of Divine Punishment (Pickles’ term for a well-deserved hangover), they’d date the bottle then add it to the tree. But those sirens, Christian could see her hand quiver just at the thought. He remembered them from his time here and felt a genuine empathy for the people in the south. The Luftwaffe terrified them.

  Something Pickles said still lingered on his mind when she had talked about Gilly and how he wanted to find her. “You can’t go back. Nothing good ever comes from it.” A part of him knew she was right. They may have loved each other once, but… No! He couldn’t think one way or the other about it. He wasn’t going there to charm her or expect anything apart from peace and closure knowing she had survived it all. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find out what really happened, if Griffin’s suspicions were right. If he found her with a husband and children, he knew that she’d have made that life incredible and he’d be happy for her.

  Christian pulled the blanket over his shoulders then gazed through the darkness. He never knew what Gilly saw in him, why she was attracted to him. She often said he was different from all the boys she’d ever met. He imagined she was right. But he knew it wasn’t about conquering a Canadian in the wild. They were drawn together—plain and simple.

  Gilly understood him. He knew that but struggled to understand why she’d left. He would’ve moved anywhere for her, but she didn’t give him the chance. She didn’t want to take him away from his home, the place he was most comfortable. At least that’s what she said in her good-bye letter. Christian sighed, unsure of his decision to go to Port St. Mary in the morning. But he knew not even his own nerves could stop him.

  Even though he couldn’t heed the Spooners’ warning about long-lost love, somehow he knew they were rooting for him. Christian’s eyes fell shut with a sobering feeling that tomorrow he could be standing in front of the woman he had never stopped loving.

  Chapter 6 - Canada—1932

  For I was born with wande
ring feet

  They wouldn’t stay in place,

  The urgent need to travel on

  Was my only saving grace.

  And so I sailed thro’ winter storms,

  Where icebergs loomed above gray seas,

  And when at last I reached the shore,

  Found earth frost-bound as if in sleep.

  And so I sailed towards the sun,

  Where skies are blue and soft winds blow,

  And thought at last I’ve found the place

  Where I will stay—but no

  The urge to travel on remained

  And so I said farewell again.

  So I, my wandering days now done,

  Tread English soil from whence I sprung,

  My youth is spent, my questing feet

  Content to rest, and no more seek!

  Chapter 6

  Canada—1932

  Mr. and Mrs. Herbert McAllister

  Undisclosed Address, Pretty Place Only

  Toronto, zone (numbers aren’t important) Ontario

  Canada

  10th of June 1932

  Dearest Beaty,

  Don’t you just love Auntie Joyce’s stationary? I knew I liked her for some reason. Who would think to put a beaver and Celtic cross on a letterhead? Only someone daring—that’s who. It makes me smile.

  In any case, I hope this letter finds you well and in love… perhaps? Horatio isn’t nearly as stuffy as his name implies. I’m glad I had the chance to meet him. He grows the loveliest flowers; you were right about that.

  I have been anxious to sit down and write to you every detail of my adventure up to now. Oh, I dare say, you’d be proud of me lapping up every morsel—odd as some things may be. But not the boys! They’re gorgeous, hardy looking, like a new recipe, really. Everything’s new, not old and grim like your first edition print of Anna Karenina. Even the kind, old gardener next door confessed he was nearly fifty years old! You should hear him talk. His dialect sings in your ears. When was the last time you could make out what an old person said? Oh Beaty, Canada isn’t at all what you’d think. Not a soul runs about wearing a Mohican headdress, you know. Whatever gave you such an idea?