The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  Fortunately, Uncle Herbert had quite a sense of humor and had no desire to keep up with the Jones’ despite where they lived. It was a fact. Just yesterday, Gillian had overheard two of their neighbors saying the most degrading things about her uncle behind the root vegetables at the corner market. Telling Beaty was best, although she hoped her sister wouldn’t press for more details if she replied. Imagine criticizing him for wanting to celebrate Canada’s birthday with his niece in an apparently beautiful part of the country, whether it was a suitable place to visit or not. Hussy! Gillian thought at the time. The one with the ugly hands. Gillian saw her fingering the parsnips then putting them back. Every time she’d think of her, Gillian would have nightmares about those hideous paws.

  Gillian rustled her bottom in the settee trying to shake away the thought—feet up, cushion snug in her lap. Frankly, the people of Toronto weren’t the least bit stuffy, but in Rosedale, sometimes the nostrils here were flaring wider than in Wentworth Estate. Pretty place—Rosedale—though life grew juicier the further you got away from it. That was why Gillian was anxious for Dominion Day. What a splendid name for a country’s birthday. Though Uncle Herbert called it low-key, she hoped he didn’t mean dull. The last thing she wanted was to become a hermit tucked away in the woods. How would that look? She’d end up growing warts in all the wrong places, and over time her hair would matt and bunions would confine her to a rocking chair—back and forth, forth and back on a pine-planked porch while playing a ukulele and spitting tobacco into a bucket! Still, it did sound exciting. Gillian couldn’t wait to see what was lurking in this Tobermory place. A whole summer by the Great Lakes, not just one day. The mere thought of it wrung out every sour notion Gillian ever had, even that of becoming a hermit. A lake so big you couldn’t see the other side and so fresh you could drink from it. Georgian Bay and Lake Huron, named after the Indians Uncle Herbert said, side by side. She wondered if she’d meet one—an Indian that is. Gillian bit her lower lip in anticipation.

  Eighteen days had passed since Roderick left and again returned—still no wink. He hardly said a word to her upon his arrival yesterday and was conveniently absent from the morning breakfast table. Well, two could act like that if he wanted. She’d help Auntie Joyce prepare a picnic lunch and see to putting a jar of gumption inside labeled, Roderick—three tablespoons a day unless you want the gray haze stuck to your eyes permanently. Four tablespoons and you’ll actually see a buttercup again.

  When Gillian looked at the top of the staircase, Roderick stood on the landing as though he was royalty—two-toned brogues and all! Perhaps he had expected rose petals to be peppered in front of him as he entered the kitchen? Cheeky thing considering he hardly noticed the feast she and her auntie had prepared.

  Auntie Joyce had lined the picnic basket with a blue gingham cloth. The basket alone looked good enough to eat, but when she darted up her finely plucked eyebrows at her sourpuss son, Gillian knew for the second time that she liked her aunt for good reason.

  “Well, get a move on Roderick,” Auntie Joyce spat. “I’m not growing any younger, you know.”

  The sun was a stunner today. The car was finally packed and a newly arrived letter from Beaty was clamped in Gillian’s fingers. Roderick had spent the morning pouting like the little boy who waved to her from the boat in Dublin. She knew he was still moaning over the other weekend, but once he simmered down, he’d see that she was right. Shame he’d have to return for summer studies at the university. A few short days in Tobermory probably wouldn’t do much to loosen the stick from his backside. He’d make a fine solicitor, solving everyone else’s problems but his own!

  Gillian glanced his way feeling no mercy whatsoever as he climbed into the backseat. Not even a flutter her way. Served him right, spineless jellyfish. Instead Uncle Herbert deserved her attention. He loved his DeSoto. And Gillian loved the way her uncle admired his own reflection in the black finish, giving a little polish with his elbow. She didn’t know a soul in London who had his own private car, apart from the maharaja, of course. Her uncle winked at her as he slid behind the huge steering wheel.

  “All set?” he called out.

  “Yes, of course we are Herbert,” Auntie Joyce snapped, wearing a huge brimmed straw hat. She had changed it twice since breakfast. “Now stop stalling. We don’t want to be late for the festivities. We have a long drive ahead.”

  As the tires rolled over the stone drive, Gillian glanced over her shoulder at the house vanishing through the trees. That feeling had returned, suddenly and piercing. The same feeling washed over her that night at the maharaja’s. Someone was out there—for her. His breath was closer now. She knew it. She could feel it drawing her toward him and feared she wore the same glazed expression as the woman behind the neighbor’s curtain at Beaty’s. But as Uncle Herbert turned the corner, a brush of wind made her gasp, washing away all evidence of sheen. She took a peek in his rearview mirror just to be sure.

  Looking down at Beaty’s letter whispering her name, she paid no mind whatsoever to the wheezing coming from that creature sitting next to her. He was eyeing her but she refused to give in and stuck her nose up just a little. The envelope. She tore along the edge, wondering if Beaty could have possibly received her letter already.

  21st of June 1932

  Dearest Gillian,

  This is your sister, Beatrice writing—the one with the very impatient glare searing my finest stationary. Can you see it? It’s staring right up at you this very moment. In my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t have expected for it to take you three whole weeks to write to your sister. Let me top that with a glop of double cream. Three whole weeks. I can only say that the blow has been cushioned by our dear father, who has informed me—twice now—of your inherent safety, and dare I say imminent vagary, knowing you! Yes darling, that means whim. You can add that to your list of words and please don’t go deforming that one, too. Being a writer doesn’t give you a license to invent your own words, does it? I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if you had already secured a summer job at one of those papers they call magazines.

  I’d be wary of these catalogs you were telling me about if I were you. You can’t imagine what the world is coming to. Just the other day, Winifred Beastly nearly had a coronary on the spot. We all thought it was the Spotted Dick she’d had for elevenses. When she came to, her nose was buried in Harvey Nichols’ spring catalog. There was no further explanation needed. We saw it with our own eyes—women’s undergarments advertised on the page next to men’s leatherback diaries! Can you just imagine the things they’d write? Someone should have these magazine editors arrested on the charge of indecency. To add insult to injury, the woman stood up, breaking wind right in front of Mr. Tyler. Vulgar creature.

  Now, to answer your question. No, I do not like Auntie Joyce’s stationary. I find it preposterous to put a rodent on the same page as a Celtic cross, insulting in fact. You can see straight away the ill-effects such a wild place as Canada has on the brain. Now we have evidence. I beg of you Gillian, please do not go nutty yourself. I’d be quite embarrassed to admit I had a mad sister. But I promise that if it happens, I shall come to visit you at the sanitarium every Sunday after mass. You may find me sporting a headscarf and a fine pair of sunglasses. I’ve seen them at Marks & Spencer you know—cost a fortune, the silly things!

  Speaking of Marks & Spencer, I was feeling adventurous and wandered over to the “unmentionables”. They’ve come a long way in hosiery, you know. I gave a lacey corset a try. I don’t like the new term “girdle.” Makes me feel like a cow. When I envisioned it with stockings, I immediately saw a trollop staring back at me in the mirror. In the bright light of day, I might say it was not for me, but since Horatio wasn’t expecting me until half six, I bought it. Not the one at Marks & Spencer, far too dear, but nearly a copy at Prudence’s Pinafores on the corner, just down the way. She carries a nice variety for these times and for a pittance in comparison.

  Now, you implied in your very delaye
d letter to me that Auntie Joyce has seen better days in her style. I think you should take that angora jumper and bury it deep in that gorge you told me about. Don’t go wearing it yourself, otherwise you’ll wind up in the throes of passion with Thor down the street. Oh that would be something, wouldn’t it?

  By the way, wherever did you get the notion that I didn’t like your nonsense, Gillian? I get quite a kick out of it, for your information. You can never write too much for me. I shall be the first in the queue to buy your debut novel. Of course, I’d expect a small dedication, for I know that I’ve been quite an influence in your life. Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I shall wish you the most marvelous time this summer by the Great Lakes. I envy your spirit, going so far from home. I’m afraid England is as adventurous as I can manage. You really are a marvel, my dear! Mommy would be so proud.

  Do write again soon. I don’t want you to become a stranger. And please tell me all about Roderick when you meet him.

  My love to you all,

  Beatrice

  Post Script – Mr. Thorthborough kept me in stitches for ages. I spent the whole next morning at Barclays asking everyone to say his name.

  Post Script for the anything but fainthearted – Never mind that hussy in the grocers. She can go ahead and spread her peacock’s tail somewhere else!

  Chapter 7 - 2003

  As I sit alone in the old armchair,

  My thoughts wander back through the years.

  And see again in the heart of the fire,

  The pictures I made of the things I desired.

  Of my youth and my hopes and the promise of love,

  To be mine in the future with life at the flood.

  The fire’s shadows recall things long past,

  How we walked hand in hand down a flowering path.

  When each sunrise brought beauty that went through the day,

  And each sunset brought peace as light slipped away.

  And while the fire dies, it still leaves a glow,

  Of comfort and warmth though the flame has burned low.

  Chapter 7

  2003

  My granddaughter’s car is already pulling up the long drive leading to my son’s horse farm. Such a curly road he built as though trying to dodge any number of oak trees that swindle sunlight from the farm’s entrance. He always was a tree-hugger, my son, but in a good way of course. True, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of breaking free from that checkerboard of trees to sprawling paddocks with white board fences that roll with the hills. From a distance, the farm looks like waves of white sheet music pasted on unbound green parchment. Only the score would depend on the season, and today it’s playing the coo of a mourning dove on the eaves trough next to me. I notice the gutter is fat with autumn leaves. I would have loved growing up in such a place. My son has more land than he can manage, but it keeps him as happy as Larry and that’s all that matters.

  London, Ontario may well be known as corn country, but there are plenty of horse farms surrounding it, and Arva is just a stone’s throw away from the north end. Before my license was snatched from my purse, it took me only three minutes from the Eloise Teas tea room to Masonville. I positively loathed all the traffic. I much preferred taking the country road past Sunningdale Golf and Country Club and over to the west end to get to my square of concrete jungle.

  Though it wasn’t an attractive pile of flats, we’d made it our home when maintaining a garden became too much for even an enthusiast like me. I can’t count the number of times my son barked about Angus and me moving into the “guesthouse,” as he likes to call it. But I wouldn’t hear of it. No matter how I considered it—twitchy left eye, index finger hanging from the edge of my lip, or in a drunken stupor after eating a slice of Angus’ Christmas pudding—all I could see was my daughter-in-law’s fictional smile through gritted teeth. One should never live that close to their in-laws. Case in point and thank God for that, Kate replaced her.

  I’m here now staying in the main floor office-turned-guest room for “easy walkabouts” my son says. What he really means to say is “easy access” for paramedics. They know it’s only a matter of time, and it’s true that I can’t manage on my own now. Soon enough I’ll be led to the hospital. So I want to enjoy every moment here, including watching my granddaughter as she now closes the door to her car and scampers over to her Shetland pony, Ballerina. Always looks as though she’ll get her big head stuck—not my granddaughter but the pony, of course—the way she pokes it through the white boards of the fence with a wagging tail in excitement to see Gilly—like a dog greeting her master.

  Gilly adores that old pony, and nothing gave me more pleasure than to give it to her on her fifth birthday. Angus and I saved every penny for two years just to see how high she could leap with joy. She didn’t disappoint. Springs on her feet, I’d say.

  Every so often I wonder what’s happening over there in the guesthouse where Gilly’s been living since she started at the university. Now she’s finished, her name followed by a slew of well-earned letters, and slaving away at my story. Somehow though, I suspect there’s more going on in that head of hers. But I can’t put my finger on it. From my bedroom window, I can see her fingers, dancing on her keyboard every evening and then again before the worms get pulled from the earth for breakfast. I would have thought she’d move the desk far away from my prying eyes. I have this feeling she wants an invisible connection between us, like telepathy.

  When she thinks I’m not looking, I know she is studying me—like now. She probably thinks I’ve fallen asleep, wrapped like a cocoon in this lounge chair between the guesthouse and the main house. On autumn days like this, whether my son agrees or not, I march in my crumbling way straight to the patio. And if in my skeletal state they don’t take me outdoors when I’ve been admitted, I will thump the chief of staff until he begs me to leave.

  My eyeglasses are thick like hardened fat and leave my nose sore and red—one of the inherent disadvantages of old age that teeters on abuse, in my opinion. So I take the ruddy things off every chance I get. Trouble is, I can’t see the details of life so easily without them. Yet, I don’t want to hear from a soul that it’s too late anyhow. I won’t go when the doctors say. I know that. How do I know? Because I just do.

  As the cooing of the dove segues into a greedy ruffling of two blue jays, both in a tug-of-war over that single peanut I deliberately placed in the center of the picnic table, I realize they are in agreement with me. No old lady would be that conniving if she didn’t have a little spunk left in her. But as I lie here swaddled in this blanket, I remind myself that too much self-reflection can make even a toadstool fall into a deep slumber.

  Gilly is giving Ballerina a kiss and a rub behind the ears and that never gets old. Two other horses grazing in the paddock, and I’m afraid without my glasses perched on my nose, I can’t see any further. Yet I know my granddaughter will come to check on me in a moment. Perhaps I should wriggle in my chair, otherwise she might think I’ve joined the heavens without saying good-bye.

  “Grandma, what are you doing out here again?” Gilly says, approaching. “You know you could freeze.”

  “I have my trusty bell, so you needn’t worry,” I coo like that dove over there.

  “An owl wouldn’t hear that, and you know it. What if Kate’s got the door closed?”

  “Well, she has. But she’s been spying out that window every time she walks past the sink, and since she’s preparing lunch, I feel as though I’m on an egg timer. Every time I don’t budge, I hear a tap at the window that widens to a rap. When I turn to look, I swear I can see a puff of air cloud her mouth as she sighs in relief.”

  Gilly smirks. “You really are stubborn, aren’t you, Grandma?”

  “And proud of it!” I say, flashing my dentures like a horse. I’m in the mood for using similes today. Since I have those oversized beasts on my mind, I can’t imagine a better comparison. Whenever they roll that lip up, I’m quite sure they’re mocking me.r />
  “Would you like to come in with me?” she says. “To my place? It’s not far, I promise,” she giggles winking. Oh yes, I could bundle her up with me and never let go.

  “What about lunch?” I mumble.

  “I’ll go get a tray. We’ll have some lunch in front of a fire. Would you like that? I’m sure Kate wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, I’d love that, dear.”

  “You come with me,” she says supporting my arm and back while I fight my way to rise. “Are you in pain, Grandma?”

  “Nothing that a hardy bowl of soup won’t cure,” I say wishing that were true.

  I glance at the wooden sign Gilly has dangling above the door, like a pub in the old country might have. She’s named the guesthouse something cottagey, a name that if I close my eyes for one soothing breath, it takes me back to Ireland when I was a small child. Daddy had carved one for our playhouse, and in magnificent curly writing, it read, Daisy something. I don’t remember what the something was but I know it wasn’t just Daisy. Gilly’s sign is just as pretty: Willow Den, dedicated to the ancient tree that shades Ballerina on those horribly humid southwestern Ontario summer days.

  As my eyes soak in the heavy trusses of the lounge, I think Willow Den is a perfect name for it. It feels cozy as though you’re standing underneath the umbrella of the old weeping tree outside. There’s a cramped kitchenette, and the bedroom isn’t really a bedroom at all, just a corner stolen from the room with a pretty curtain of white magnolias for privacy. The bathroom you couldn’t squeeze a buttery sponge cake into it’s so small, but I’m pleased to see how tidy Gilly keeps it all. It was the old house that came with the property when my son bought it an infinite number of years ago. My daughter-in-law wanted to tear it down, but like his father, my son appreciates the humble things in life and insisted it stay put. I’m very proud of him.