The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  Christian sat down in a small coffee shop mulling over his choices. He could try to find a hospital or go straight to Gilly’s house. He wasn’t sure if the surprise, or shock, would be best in public or private. His vision floated past the backwards lettering on the shop’s window. “Poppy’s Coffee Shop,” he could make out. As he studied the hum of the street with its one car and two bicycles wobbling along the cobblestone, a pot-bellied pig rounded the corner pulling a lanky, pasty-white owner with rusty hair. It was Gilbert, the man accused of causing Jony’s bad eyesight. This wasn’t an everyday sight for Christian, but not a soul passing by seemed to give it any notice. They greeted him as if it was perfectly normal to be walking a pig on a leash.

  Gilbert spied Christian in the window then brought Mr. Ballard into the coffee shop. Instead of kicking the pig out, he was greeted with a sloppy kiss from the woman who served Christian his tea. Christian smiled and asked Gilbert to join him. They got on well, somehow sensing the other was trustworthy and spun on the same ropewalk, at least in the important ways. Gilbert insisted that with a little adjustment, Christian could take his “lorry,” which was parked around the corner, to Gilly’s house.

  Gillian had crafted a simple poem and was nearly finished when she heard the telephone ring. She laid her fountain pen between the pages and sighed feeling satisfied with the effort as she pranced up her walkway and into the cottage.

  “Hello, Gillian speaking. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Gillian. It’s Reggie. Do you mind terribly? Mrs. Hemsworth has rung and said she’s gone into early labor. Can you come at once?”

  “Yes, of course, doctor. I’ll be there straight away.”

  “Now stop calling me doctor. We don’t stand on ceremony in private, do we? We’ve tumbled down a ditch together, after all.” Gillian couldn’t help but notice that space of silence where she should have chuckled. “I need you here, Gillian. Hang up now and mind you don’t dawdle.”

  Whorls of dirt road trailed off in the rearview mirror as Christian rounded another bend, finally bringing him to a long stretch of straight road. This one traveled along the coastline through all of those square fields he’d seen from the sky. In the distance, he could see a small patch of houses with the Irish Sea at its back. He slowed down, making way for a smattering of sheep not caring in the least that he could run them into the ditch. Or was that the other way around, he thought. When he stepped from the car to shuffle them aside, it was in glancing up that he saw it—the cottage that the woman had described. It was around the corner and slightly obscured from view, slightly anyway, from where he was standing. He felt his heart race as he turned his back to scoot one particularly stubborn ewe from the dirt road.

  Gillian rolled down her drive, the gravel crunching under her motorbike and sidecar tires, her helmet propped proudly on her head. Zippy little thing it was, but it couldn’t go fast enough today. Though it wasn’t far to the Hemsworth’s farm, she was sure this was the real thing and not just another one of that woman’s ploys. Gillian looked to the right to see that the way was clear then to the left but was glad not to have to go in that direction, for she didn’t have time to fuss with a herd of sheep in the middle of the road. Poor sod over there had to be stuck dealing with it. She swerved onto the main road headed westward.

  Christian looked over his shoulder when he noticed something disappear over the crest of a hill further down the road, leaving a puff of dust behind. He pushed the ornery ewe to the edge of the road then watched her finally trot off with the others. Christian slid behind the wheel, put the truck into gear then pulled ahead, slowly approaching the cottage just around the corner. He drew a deep breath before driving down the laneway where the truck sputtered to a halt.

  He sat in the pick-up for a moment taking it all in. He could imagine Gilly in a place like this. It reminded him of a cottage in one of the old fairytales his mom used to read him, Snow White or maybe Rumpelstiltskin. Only this cottage wasn’t tucked away in a dark forest; an open landscape with just enough trees and hedges marked the edge of the garden. It was cheerful and made him feel good just to see it. The thatch hung over the wooden front door, just enough so he’d probably have to duck, and the cladding was a milky white as though it had been freshened up at the end of the war. The front yard was green, so green he could hardly believe it, with a towering tree he couldn’t recognize. It almost looked like some kind of palm, but he thought that was unusual for this part of the world.

  There was a bench against the cottage just under a window with white grilles and flowers hanging in a basket next to it. A path of small stones led to the front door. Christian emerged from the truck then closed the door behind him. The place was quiet. He suspected she might not be home, otherwise she’d have been outside by now having heard the truck roll up.

  Christian rapped the knocker twice then waited. When no one answered he peeked in the window, but she definitely wasn’t there. He rolled his shoulders back then sighed, turning to face the yard. Even the arbor with purple clematis next to the cottage shared Gilly’s smile. She’d made it welcoming even in her absence. He noticed a small table in the sunlight then wandered over to it. “She was just here,” he muttered. She must have been. The cup was half full and she’d left a book. Christian picked it up, reading just a few words.

  A strange confusion swept over him as though time and place were baffled, as though he shouldn’t be playing with fate, as though he shouldn’t be there at all. It was Gilly’s handwriting. He recognized it immediately from the one and only letter she’d ever written him. The one she’d left behind when he came to her aunt and uncle’s cottage to find her, never thinking for a minute that he’d never see her again. Christian lowered himself to the seat. This notebook. It wasn’t his to read. His eyes glanced down, but he knew it was wrong. He turned it over then placed it face down on the table. Christian felt like an intruder; he had no right to show up like this unannounced. He was glad she wasn’t here. What was he doing? She loved him once, a lifetime ago. What right did he have to flirt with the idea of being loved by her again? Who was he kidding? Just wanted to see that she’d survived the war? And he couldn’t use Griffin as an excuse… could he? Every time he imagined the possibility, it was like the world was pulled out beneath him.

  Even so, Christian lowered his head thinking this was just about the craziest thing he’d ever done. An ocean between them all this time. Had she wanted it to be different, she would have been knocking on his door. He sat for a long while, too long, when he convinced himself that it didn’t matter if she still had feelings for him or not. They’d shared something once, something time could never take away. Maybe that was enough. He’d gone on with his life after all and he was happy—maybe not the kind of happy that people dream about, but the kind that brings a simple peace to life. Maybe that was enough after all.

  Christian stood, no longer brooding. He put the notebook back the way he’d found it then walked to the truck. He opened the door, turning to gaze one last time at the place that suited Gilly, a pretty place filled with color and life by a town that oozed personality—just like her. As he slid behind the wheel, he heard some tires roll over the stone drive behind him. Stones crunched under foot toward him and Christian knew what that meant. He knew it was her.

  “Good morning. Can I help you with something?” A candied voice signaled her approach just as he was about to turn the key in the ignition.

  Before Christian could answer, a hand cupped the door where the window was opened fully. He turned to her, her green eyes dancing only for a flash. She stood there with measured concentration as though she was studying who it was, perplexed as everything silenced at once. The birds stopped chirping, the crashing surf against the cliffs froze, and a haze filled the garden framing her face. It was an instant fairy tale. He sighed feeling a smile creep into his mouth. As though she’d snapped out of a daydream, a pale, disbelieving gaze rose in her expression; Gilly’s eyes fixed on his as she stepped back.<
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  Chapter 9 - 1932

  They met one sunny morning

  They both played a game

  Pretending they cared,

  Then one day it rained!

  They sheltered together

  And stood hand in hand,

  Her cheek on his shoulder,

  Well, you’ll understand!

  When he whispered, my darling,

  The game’s at an end,

  This love is for always,

  No need to pretend!

  And whatever life holds,

  We will face without fear,

  Secure in this love,

  Through the passing of years!

  Chapter 9

  1932

  They had arrived on the breeze of Dominion Day hoopla. A chilly breeze for July, according to Uncle Herbert, that swept through a maze of wooden shanties lining a small harbor in a place called Tobermory. Never would she have imagined being in such a place just a year after tapping on Beaty’s door in London. Canada of all places. On its birthday.

  The harbor was rather wide open in the center, like a large car park, but it was its name “Little Tub” that stole Gillian’s heart. Whose brilliant idea was that? It was just how it looked, like a big fat washtub with oodles of toy boats bobbing gaily in the bath.

  A smattering of barns sat on the edge of the water. Gillian imagined they housed great big boats for repair, or maybe some enormous treasure discovered from one of those sunken ships Uncle Herbert was telling her about. How could anyone not like such a place? The name alone brought back such lovely memories of a Scotland she once met. How she missed her mother sometimes.

  As Gillian stepped from the car, dust kicked up her skirt, reminding her at once that she could be free here, free to do as she pleased all summer long.

  Oh, the sun. The water. She could breathe here. If ever there was a place that drew you in at once, this was it. Smiles, laughter, and silly pranks from little boys whisked past her eyes. The mood was electric like a fool’s tonic for the Depression. None of them could help being taken in by it as she, her auntie and uncle and Roderick stood by the car soaking it all in. Streamers made from fishing net with something sparkly dangling from them draped from porch columns to the masts of fishing boats. They made her feel light on her toes. Gillian brushed more dust off her skirt, feeling as though she could drop to the ground and roll in the dirt anyway. She didn’t care. She was just so happy to be here.

  As a gust of wind flew past her nose, wind chimes tinkled a summer song. Gillian tried not to notice Roderick sticking his nose up at them, the scowl no doubt meant for her. Still in a huff over their little pact! Never mind. The waft of sugared puff pastry and cinnamon, something Auntie Joyce called elephant ears, teased her mercilessly. It was well worth having to put up with her annoying cousin to be in its wake. Palmiers were always her favorite after all.

  Oh yes, Uncle Herbert was perfectly right to fall in love with such a place. Gillian couldn’t help but laugh out loud at absolutely nothing. Even her sundress was laughing in a pretty periwinkle, showing just a hint of cleavage, and her sandals already scuffed. Her hair was fluttering in the breeze, spurring a little action. Time to investigate!

  As she wandered closer to the water, a ruckus coming from shore further down the way caught her attention. Children were jumping from the rocks, splashing and squealing while their mothers laid blankets by the shore, setting baskets on the corners so they wouldn’t blow away. Coming from the woodland a sprinkling of men walked toward the wide, open space nearer the docks. She wondered what they were going to do with all that wood, piling it higher than the princess and the pea’s eiderdown bed.

  This wasn’t exactly a crowd, but it certainly felt festive with fisherman displaying their catches in crates with some kind of lottery table set up next to them. Every now and again the air filled with the aroma of crackling from the roasting pig by that boathouse. In the balmy air, she could taste it on her lips already. By far what made this place sink into her bones was the fiddler standing beside the open doors of that same boathouse, playing a jig that reminded her of Ireland. Gillian closed her eyes for a moment, imagining that it was Daddy playing. Then she opened them and realized it wasn’t. But there you go, she shrugged, still feeling light on her toes.

  “Hi. You looking for someone?” a girl about her age said spritely.

  “Why? Does it look like I am?”

  “Well, you look a bit lost. I watched you wander to the hog roasting.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Well, yeah, only the guys are ever interested in that. The set-up’s kind of gruesome.”

  “Hmm,” Gillian nodded.

  “I’m Kit,” she said smiling. Gillian couldn’t help but notice her teeth. She’d never seen such perfect ones before. She glanced down at a sweet thing next to her wearing a flowery dress and bow in her hair. Couldn’t have been more than four or five.

  “Hey Kit, who’s your friend?” one boy said as he crept up, grabbing her around the waist. Kit giggled while playfully hitting him in the shoulder. Suddenly feeling as though she was intruding, Gillian turned to walk away.

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  Was the voice addressing her? Gillian swiftly turned. But when she looked up, a sudden breath clenched her throat. She’d never seen anything like him. Two arms and two legs, of course, but he was beautiful. Not the kind of cinema beautiful. No, it wasn’t that at all. It was something subtle, in his expression perhaps. Those eyes. They were droopy and the color of the bay just over his shoulder, a dark, mysterious blue like one of the pirates lost in the water’s depth… eyes that felt as though they were looking straight through her. While all the other boys her age had stiff hair, his was a crumb shaggy, just enough to let soft whorls dance around his face. Either way, he was truly and utterly sublime. She nearly choked on him.

  “Good God,” she thought she muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  She shook herself out of it. “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?” she said, trying to put the onus on him. How was it that this person standing in front of her had unearthed her so briskly? He’d hardly uttered a word.

  “Yes.” And his lips moved, too. But he came out of nowhere it seemed. Scurried out from behind Kit’s friend, either bashful or sneaky. She wasn’t yet sure which.

  “I’m Christian,” he said, his hands tucked in his pockets.

  “Gillian McAllister.” She gave a pithy nod. “How do you do?” She offered her hand but suddenly felt flustered as though she’d made a near universal blunder. She felt her face instantly flush.

  “Well,” his smile was warm, “I do fine, thank you.” Her brow kneaded together wondering whether or not he was teasing her.

  Kit was busy now chatting with the other boy. Gillian had no idea who he was. Moreover, she wasn’t sure whether to give this Christian the benefit of the doubt; Gillian certainly didn’t want him to think she was keen. No. Paying attention to this peppermint next to Kit would throw him off, and she was too sweet to ignore, anyhow!

  “And who is this little biscuit?” she added bending down. Mind you, she couldn’t scrape her eyes off the background. He really was delicious, fair and tall with the most gorgeous forearms. Oh, how she loved a nice forearm. Hadn’t known she liked them until now.

  “I’m Romy,” she whispered bashfully. Her eyes fell back on her easily now. How couldn’t they? She was adorable.

  “How lucky you are, Romy, to have such an unusual name.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Oh, I know so.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because when your name is in sparkling lights at the cinema when you’re all grown up, the world will remember a name like Romy and they will know exactly who it is. If your name was Sally or Margaret, you’d be forgotten… poof… straight away.” She flicked her fingers as though blowing away a fluffy dandelion clock.

  Romy threw her arms around Gillian’s neck, which too
k her by surprise. Just a little squeeze before she dashed off. Gillian glanced up at Christian who had listened to every word, smiling in an oddly grateful way. Perhaps he knew Romy.

  “Can I help you find something or someone?” he offered.

  “Well, I was rather investigating the place.”

  “Were you rather now?”

  Okay, now she knew he was teasing her. “You know, there’s a lovely village called Snickerfield near where I’m from. I suggest you get on a train and go there,” she said, marching away at once. “And by the way, there’s an ocean in between. Careful the train doesn’t derail!”

  “Hey!” He shouted skittering after her. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. It’s that accent of yours.”

  “If my accent bothers you so, then it’s best you don’t hear it.”

  “Why do you think it bothers me?”

  “Well, why else would you take the mickey out of me?”

  “The what?” he smiled. “It’s just that you’re so formal.”

  “Am I?”

  “I like it. I like you.”

  “You don’t know me,” she said soberly.

  “Maybe not. But what I know so far, I like.”

  “Hmm. You are a curious one aren’t you, Christian…?”

  “Hunter.”

  “Good day, Mr. Hunter,” she said nodding as she walked away.

  “See you tonight at the bonfire, Gilly… I hope.”

  She swung around, feeling the skirt of her dress whirl around her as she gazed, stunned at what he just called her. For some unknown reason, she felt a smile work its way into her cheeks, their eyes meeting one last time. She turned and walked toward Auntie Joyce, who was busy digging out the picnic basket from the boot of the car. She felt his eyes still on her, but she daren’t turn again. Then he’d surely know she was keen. Her chest swelled as she breathed in deeply. “Gilly,” she muttered lightly, not able to wash the smile from her face. She liked it. No… she adored it.