Uncle Herbert and Auntie Joyce met me at the port in Halifax as planned. I didn’t have to wait a moment for them as I always had to with Daddy. On the long drive to Ontario, they told me that they had been well warned not to arrive late or he’d see to having their heads put on platters for show at family reunions. Uncle Herbert found that to be rather amusing coming from “an old fart like him,” he said, “a man who’s never been on time in his life.”
They live in Toronto, as you well know, but tucked away in a place called Rosedale—not quite as “in town” as I would have liked. I’d sooner be roosting above one of those Witt streetcars here where gossip could slither up the cables and be served with a good hunk of morning bacon. Shame really. I’d love to be in the thick of it. There’s a wonderful ravine, though, at the back of their garden and a gorge nearby for secret strolls and fantasy. That keeps me busy for hours. Uncle Herbert is often sent out on the hunt for me before the night keeps me trapped until dawn. Wouldn’t that be exciting? Their house is large and rather stately, but the people in it are far from snooty. They are just as I remember from our times together before Mommy died—happy to dig out a stubborn potato from the dirt with the rest of us. Too bad I can’t say the same for the neighbors, especially one brazen minx who spoke ill of Uncle Herbert at the grocers.
But my goodness, has Uncle Herbert put on weight! When he laughs, his belly jiggles, and he’s balding now. Tries to hide it by sweeping strings of hair across his head as if it wasn’t obvious to everyone that their days were numbered. By the time summer is over, I plan to have him polishing that head of his, proud that it shimmers in the moonlight. His moustache is a copy of Daddy’s while he seems to have a dislike for fedoras. I think he blames them for his balding. He’s also taken up saying “eh” like the locals after all his statements. It’s only been three weeks and I’m finding I do the same.
Auntie Joyce calls him Pop. Don’t know where she got that from, which by the way is what they call fizzy drinks here. Have you ever heard such a word? Isn’t it delightful? I want to use it in every sentence but have chosen not to for fear of tiring of it like Uncle Herbert’s steak and kidney pie. He’s becoming quite Canadian, you know, wanting to drown everything in maple syrup. Have you ever had steak and kidney pie with syrup? I think, in this case blending the two cultures is a mistake. By the time he’s sixty, he’ll be completely bald with no teeth!
He got the pie and syrup idea from Mr. Thorthborough around the corner, I was told. Must have been having a bit of fun with him, don’t you think? But doesn’t it feel as though you’re lisping when you say his name? Go on, say it, Beaty. I know you want to. Timothy Thorthborough. I can’t help laughing myself. What a delightful name to make you so aware of your tongue like that, eh? You see, Beaty, I can’t help myself. I want to say “eh” all the time.
Auntie Joyce is a character in her own right. You know, she wears an ill-fitting angora jumper every Saturday evening when they go to play bridge at the Davenport’s down the street. Makes her bosom look enormous. Trouble is she’s a bit podgy everywhere so you can’t tell one lump from the other—except in that jumper! Ordered it from one of these catalogues, you know. I quickly understood her reasoning when I caught a glimpse of the Davenport’s domestic help bending over in their strawberry patch by the hedgerow. He looked like something sent down from the heavens—a cousin to Thor, perhaps. I’m sure even you would have been watering at the mouth, Beaty. The lovely thing about it is, Auntie Joyce doesn’t seem to notice her dimensions at all and will wear the most spirited clothes.
And if you’re wondering or worse yet, concerned, I’m not bored for a second. Both keep me wildly entertained with that Mexican piñata they have hanging from their big oak in the garden. They replace it every week. Not the oak, the piñata. Must have a stash somewhere. God knows where they get such a thing! I keep meaning to ask, but I get sidetracked by the fever of this place. You should see Auntie Joyce with a stick. Last weekend, she chased Uncle Herbert all over the garden, threatening to swat him if he ogled Livingstone’s Grocers’ cashier one more time!
My goodness, Bea, you’ve never seen so many trees! Canada’s full of them. If I only had a penny for every single one. Uncle Herbert tells me that I will have plenty of time to count all the trees this summer as they intend to take me to the Great Lakes. I wonder what’s so great about them. Can’t possibly be true that you can’t see the other side, but I’m just aching to find out. Of course, Lake Ontario is only steps away from here, but it’s the smallest of the lakes, Uncle Herbert says, and we’re going somewhere much grander. They have a small summerhouse, apparently in a place called Tobermory, so I’ll be sure to let you know if the rumors are true. Do you remember our stay in Tobermory, Scotland all those years ago? Such a happy memory when Mommy was alive. Although I was very young, it’s one I remember. As you can see, Canadians seem to have an appetite for borrowing British names. There’s even a London here with a Thames River, if you can believe it.
I realize I’ve been writing far too much. “Willywigs!” I can hear you say like our head mistress at school. Do you remember her, the one with the moustache? “When will she be done with it?” she’d say. For some reason you, too, seem to think I am garrulous by nature, but if I were you, I’d have a good stare in the mirror, especially when it comes to Winifred Beastly tales, although I admit, they do have their appeal. At least I got to the important bits. If you’re interested in learning all about my journey, I’m afraid that will have to wait. Auntie Joyce is calling me for supper, I think. There’s an irritating buzz from the first floor and she does this funny thing with her eyes when you’re late.
I’ll be sure to write again soon. A squeezy hug as always,
Love,
Gillian
Post Script – I think it’s time you put some freesia on the table before they’re finished for the season. I’m quite sure the scent would lure in Horatio.
As Gillian laid the table for supper, a waft of shepherd’s pie floated from the kitchen—worlds apart from the ever-present curry in the maharaja’s home. She hoped the children were happy to be back in India, but the truth was there was nothing like a plate of shepherd’s pie to make you feel at home.
“Do add one more place setting, won’t you, dear?” Auntie Joyce said.
“Yes, of course. Who’s coming to dinner?”
“Well, it’s a surprise really. If I told you, it would spoil the whole thing.” The wheels in Gillian’s head started turning instantly. It couldn’t possibly be a neighbor or even one of Uncle Herbert’s colleagues with shepherd’s pie on the menu and nothing formal on the dining table. At least she wouldn’t have thought so. It must be family, but it couldn’t be Roderick; he was at Queen’s University at Kingston, all the way on the opposite end of the lake—too far to drive for supper. But he was their only child and Gillian hadn’t seen him in donkey’s years. They used to play together all the time when they were little. Daddy wasn’t too pleased that Uncle Herbert had gone ahead and accepted a position in Canada, breaking up the family like that. But it must be Roderick. She felt giddy at the thought. How would he look as a grown-up? Bet he was so Canadian now; maybe he even picked up their accent.
Gillian was right all along—it was Roderick. He’d come down from the university to visit, all because of her. And what a feast for the eyes he turned into. His hair had gone dark and his eyes even darker, but in a mysterious way. She was sure he’d have the pick of the lot when he earned his degree. It was fun to see him again, only now he seemed a little embarrassed by Auntie Joyce’s doting. He remained his quiet self, but the two cousins had never needed to say much to one another. He always said she did enough talking for the both of them.
“Would you like to take a stroll?” Roderick asked Gillian. “The evening air is fresh and you look as though you could use a stir.”
“Do I?” she questioned, wondering how she must look.
“Yes, you two go off now. Your father and I will clean up
,” Auntie Joyce darted in.
“Will we now?” Uncle Herbert said turning down the corner of the newspaper stuffed in his face.
“Are you sure? I’d be happy to help,” Gillian offered.
“I know you would, dear, but you and Roderick haven’t met since you were children and now look, you’re both all grown up. Take some time, just the two of you. I’m sure you have piles of catching up to do.”
Roderick kissed his mom on the cheek then snatched Gillian’s cardigan from the back of the chair. Thinking he’d changed and would drape it over her shoulders, he instead tossed it into her arms with a smirk to go with it.
He was right, the evening air was lovely—not quite as humid as it was earlier. They strolled the gardens nearby for ages it seemed, nodding to passers-by as they, too, chatted endlessly. No doubt they looked like an item to strangers, Roderick tall and devilishly handsome with her arm coiled in his. But it was that swagger of his that drew eyes from all directions. There were so many questions. She wanted to know all about his Canadian adventure and she suspected he wanted to know the same about her. The moments of quiet between them felt like whispers of curiosity.
As easy as their reunion felt, Gillian couldn’t help this feeling that Roderick was holding back. Surely such an adventure as moving across the Atlantic at the ripe age of eleven would stir up all sorts of stories. But no, there was something… something behind those mysterious eyes. She decided to press him just a little. Gardens filled with roses and manicured paths and perfectly polished stars couldn’t possibly unearth deep dark secrets. No, Roderick needed to be taken to the wild. The gorge perhaps with the moon spying through the treetops would do nicely.
“This is more like you, taking me to a place like this. Roses are pleasing but they aren’t really you, Gillian. This gorge suits you much more,” Roderick said when they arrived.
“Do you like it? I come here all the time.”
“Not at night, I hope.”
“Why? Because you think I’d lose my way?”
“No. I’m quite sure you’re like a cat.”
“A cat?” She felt her brow arch at the insinuation.
“Yes, with night vision and on the prowl. It’s only others I wouldn’t trust if you really want to know,” he said while taking her hand as they climbed down to the path below.
She took her hand back, thank you very much. “You can’t live your whole life not trusting others, Roderick.”
“You’re still as stubborn as you ever were, aren’t you?”
“That has nothing to do with this conversation and for God’s sake,” she shouted back, “I am not stubborn!” She started to laugh then ran as fast as she could to her favorite spot, an enormous tree fallen across a dry riverbed carpeted in rocks and small rounded stones.
After teetering across the trunk as though they were on a tightrope, they found a comfortable spot to sit and dangle their feet—hers peeking out of her new wide-legged trousers. Oh, she loved how easy they felt, high on her waist and long on her leg. It was very dark now, but the moon did its job nicely, casting just enough light so she could see Roderick’s expression and a hazy shimmer on the low ferns lining the path.
“I’m glad you brought me here. It’s been ages, but when we first came to Canada I frequented this place nearly every day after lessons. I’m glad you like it, too.” He turned to her, “And I’m glad you’re here,” he said with a sudden serious expression, his brow pinched together. She was right. She knew there was something.
“What is it, Roderick? What is it you’re not telling me?”
He sighed deeply, his chest swelling up. He held his breath for just a moment long enough to worry her.
“Well, since you ask.” He looked away, but his eyes worked themselves back to hers. “I think I’m one of those.”
“One of what?” she asked curiously.
“You know, those… a homosexual.”
“Good Lord! Really? Oh how thrilling! I’ve never met one before.” Gillian could feel herself gasp.
“Thrilling?” he laughed. “My, you are a character Gillian McAllister. I’ve been mulling it over for years.”
“Well, what are you doing about it? No good being all talk you know.”
He suddenly looked a bit pale. “The truth is I haven’t quite decided about it.”
Gillian felt a snittering coming on and no one could tell her that wasn’t a word. It perfectly described how she was feeling! “Well, you either are or you’re not. Which is it?”
Roderick took a moment to ponder. There was that chest swell again. “I did get rather cushy with that gem father brought home from the office last Christmas. I saw the way he gazed at me from behind the platter of sweet potatoes. Then before I knew it, my forearm was nearly grazing his as I passed the turnip. Mom was livid I passed across the table like that, but I could see his appreciation.”
“Well, there you go. It’s settled.”
“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.”
Now Gillian was really getting agitated. “Hogwash! If you’re concerned about what others might think, you’ll never know the joy of a buttercup again. Everything will slowly begin to look gray and your mood will match—every waking hour. You will become a sourpuss and no one, not even me, will want to spend another moment with you.”
“Is everything always so black and white with you?” Roderick dribbled.
“My dear cousin, far from it. I see every shade, every hue known to mankind. I see sparkle where you see matt. I see possibilities where you see obstacles. What a bore it would be if you were anything but what you are, Roderick. But I still will not want to spend another moment with you until you get your story straight. Everyone else can go roll in stinging nettle!” She leaned over to kiss his dishy but witless cheek then darted straight up, trying to keep her balance on the log. “When you’ve come to your senses and admitted it to yourself, our code shall be a wink across the room… two winks if you’re adamant.” How dare he glare up at her with those eyes turning all puppy on her! “Only then will I be able to say that I know one personally.”
Gillian’s room was cozier than the one at the maharaja’s. There was a pretty bedstead with a canopy that reminded her of her parents’ and a small sitting area with a fireplace. Although the room was a good size, Auntie Joyce had managed to fill it with so many family knickknacks, which proved to be less strangling than they were haunting. Gillian was sure her great Auntie Essie’s dog, Miss Marple the Boston terrier stuffed with a sly expression pressed into her face, had yelped mysteriously during the last full moon. The knickknacks reminded her of Daddy’s prize fowl he had perched under the crown molding of his study. Those glassy eyes gave her nightmares, the way they followed her.
She plopped into the small, velvet settee at the foot of the bed, Miss Marple tucked behind the drapes and out of view. As Gillian ran her fingers along the curves of the paisley pattern, she wondered if she was too hard on Roderick. She didn’t think so. No one should be concerned about what others think. If he was a homosexual, so be it. She’d love him just the same. She didn’t particularly care what went on in anyone’s bedroom except her own anyhow, and if he wanted to prance around showing off a new flame, she’d jolly-well hope so! She’d do the same. On second thought, being a peeping Tom at Beaty’s was a bit thrilling. The act reminded her of sneaking a sip of Daddy’s sherry when his back was turned. She knew it was risky, but she couldn’t help herself. Twice, Beaty had to peel Gillians eyes from the window. Perhaps she did care about other people’s love lives after all. Regardless, she hoped to get a wink from Roderick one day soon. He was only staying for the weekend, so she daren’t say it would happen now, but she’d hold out for Dominion Day. At least he was coming for that. She knew Beaty would disapprove of his “recent confusion,” but she’d come around. Beaty loved him just as much as Gillian did.
Gillian was glad that she found some time to write to her sister. It must have been hard for Beaty. She didn’t real
ly want Gillian to go. Beaty’s wit had turned to porridge in the days before she left. Her constant advice was suffocating.
“Now be careful not to pick up their dialect! You know how the colonies have butchered the English language over the years. Separation has its downfalls!”
“As far as I know, Canada’s no longer a colony,” Gillian said, her tongue like a sharp blade of grass.
“Perhaps not, but it remains part of the British Empire and that is likely the only reason Daddy considered sending you there. Of course, India is, too, but that’s a whole other matter. Foolish I think. He always was soft when it came to your whims. And yes, yes, I know Canada was his fanciful idea; that’s neither here nor there. I do worry about you, Gillian, even though I am well aware that you would happily wrestle a grizzly if you got half a chance! Oh, you can be too impulsive, and one of these days… Good Lord, I shudder to think!”
Gillian tucked into the settee, oddly missing her sister. There was something comforting knowing that Beaty was watching over her. And now she was a world away. Gillian didn’t like when they quarreled, although they left on good terms. They always did. It was only that Beaty worried about her travelling to a new country, which Gillian quite understood. She didn’t know what to expect either. As embarrassing as it was to admit, somehow Gillian had expected fashion from the turn of the century; she expected to stick out like early morning mist—always pleasing to the eye. Sadly, Gillian fit in like a pearly glove in the city.
The one thing that appeared to distinguish her from Torontonians was her expression. The clerk at Eaton’s in town gazed queerly at her when she said she needed her fishing hooks within a fortnight. She wasn’t sure whether he was more befuddled by the timeframe or her wanting to go fishing. Later, Auntie Joyce unveiled her Eaton’s catalog, which unleashed a beast in the aging woman—an honest to goodness beast. Gillian was sure she might be spoiled with a little something, but her Auntie was bedazzled and there wasn’t a thing Gillian could do to get her attention. Apparently she used their mail order service regularly but never got it right with the sizing. Bless her! She confided in Gillian that when the postman rang, her eyes would shift in all directions, worried that one of the neighbors would spy her purchase. “Rosedale is like that you know,” she said with one arched eyebrow, like a sleuth.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 8
