The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  Oh my giddy aunt! What was I thinking? I feel my poufy mitten cup my mouth in felicity—sheer, utter joy. Of course… it’s time! After reading these poems, after years of waiting, it really has come. Angus is gone, after all. Biting my nails to protect the snug love he always shared with our son is quite simply foolish now. Even good ol’ Angus will understand from the pearly gates—and if he doesn’t, we can have a delicious row when I come knocking. Waiting any longer would simply be a ruse to keeping my sights on life when it is the dark of death that I must soon face. No, I’m right. It’s time for my granddaughter to soak in the mood of the places I lived as a young woman, then all those stringy bits will somehow weave together more easily. It’s always made perfect sense.

  “Gilly,” I say, feeling the words like satin on my tongue. I was sure when the time came, they would stumble clumsily from my mouth, but now I know that everything in life has its timing, its place.

  “What?” she buzzes.

  “I’m going to ask you to do something, dear, but I don’t want you to answer until you’ve had time to bathe in the possibilities of my request.”

  “You sound so serious,” she adds, trying to temper my mood.

  “Maybe so, but I can assure you, the invitation is as curly as it is fruitful.”

  “Curly?” Gilly’s brow darts up. “You do have a way with words, Grandma. Haven’t a clue what could be curly about an invitation. But I would love one.”

  “I thought you might.” To be doubly sure of the moment, I want to savor it with the last drip of this gorgeous hot chocolate. Gilly’s fidgeting in her chair as though I am making her suffer while I pour.

  “Grandma!”

  “You’re like a squirrel, my dear.”

  “A squirrel?”

  “Yes, darting around me, wagging tail and all, trying to get whatever morsel you can.”

  “Oh, you make me crazy!” she says wavering between a smile and a scowl. “The invitation?”

  “Yes, right.” I scowl back. “Quite simply, when I am dead and buried …”

  “Grandma!”

  “Well, there’s no point in dipping death into lemon curd. It is what it is. When I am gone, if that makes you feel better, darling, I would like you to step into my past. Go to England; visit your Auntie Beaty. She won’t disappoint, I promise. Then I would like you to go to the Isle of Man. Treat it like a pilgrimage if you prefer. I want you to breathe the air there. I want you to feel the cobblestone under your toes, get drunk on the sweet olivy scent of primrose, and grow tipsy with the delicious coconut from gorse blossom. It will make you wild with curiosity. Sadly, I had a neighbor there who lacked severely in nasal faculty. Good Lord, I thought at the time, she’ll be in need of a support group. Just imagine not having a smeller to nose around even the innocent bouquets that sweep across the meadows. A tragedy, I tell you.” A grin weaves into my wrinkled mouth as my granddaughter waits breathless for my next thought. “But nothing will escape you, Gilly. Leave nothing unturned. My little cottage waits for you with answers that lie spent beneath its thatch.”

  A long moment lingers between us. I’m not sure what I had expected. I’ve played this moment out in my mind a hundred different ways since Gilly was born. But here it is.

  “I’m not sure I want to talk about this now,” she mutters. “I don’t want to think about you being gone.”

  “Don’t be a fool child,” I say, putting my granddaughter in her place. “Even when I’m dead and buried, I’ll still be walking beside you every step through your life, so much so we’ll be tripping over each other. I’ll wind up spending half the after-life with bruises on my feathery wings.”

  Gilly giggles. “You must be mad, Grandma.”

  “No, far from it. I’ve never been saner. I have nothing better to do with my money than buy you a ticket. Sebastian can go with you if you like. Everything will be paid for.”

  As cold creeps between my layers, a lovely quiet fills the air. I think Gilly’s lost in my proposal. As a matter of fact, she looks at me with a misty eye, like a long-lost Brigadoon anxious to materialize, yet full of mystery in its own right.

  “It’s settled,” I say. “Speak to Sebastian about it. And Gilly,” I say reaching out to her hand, “don’t wait for me to sweeten the earth; go as soon as you’ve said your good-byes.”

  It’s late when we return, and I can hear Kate’s snippety whisper outside my door, likely questioning why the mounds of winter clothing. She’s very protective of me, which is sweet. I think Gilly’s tale has worked as Kate’s voice has now simmered.

  “Grandma,” Gilly says popping her head in. “The coast is clear. We got away with it.”

  “Come, dear.” My granddaughter walks over to the bed. “Look!” I say, pointing to the window as a single fat snowflake falls past the windowpane. Her eyes travel back to me.

  “Thank you for today, Grandma. I’ll never forget it.”

  “My darling,” I say as a rush of emotion hijacks me. “Today was magical. Thank you.”

  “I didn’t expect a trip out of it,” she says.

  “It doesn’t matter what you expected. It’s what the day has brought. Make all the arrangements as soon as possible. I don’t think I can hold on for much longer, but you needn’t worry about money. Just go when I’ve turned to fairy dust and find your answers.”

  Chapter 12 - 1946

  Why am I so fearful?

  Why am I so sad?

  With my life full of promise,

  Now I am beloved.

  What is this feeling

  Which fills me with fear?

  When I have in full measure

  The things I hold dear.

  I blame the truant thought

  Of deserting melodies,

  One will leave the other

  With naught but memories.

  To fill the days with endless pain

  And longing for what has been,

  What, alas, can never

  Never, never be again!

  Chapter 12

  1946

  The tiny drips had swelled into globs, pattering down on the flagstone patio. They plopped on Christian’s shoulder as though they were trying to awaken them both to reality, bringing them back to 1946.

  “I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to last out here?” Christian questioned.

  “Right you are! On the other hand, it’s only water!” Gilly laughed. “Here, let me help you.”

  Christian pulled away, a sliver suddenly embedded in his voice, “It’s fine. I can manage.” He drew in a deep breath realizing at once what he had done and couldn’t tell whether the streams of water running down Gilly’s face were tears or rain, as she stood shell-shocked. Yes, the clouds had opened up in one fell sloppy swoop and already he had to clean up a mess. In all this time, he’d never reacted that way. Why now? Why with Gilly? He softened his voice instantly, feeling guilty for the tone. She’d only wanted to help—he knew that. But why hadn’t she asked about it? Why all this skirting around the issue? Or was it an issue? He felt his brow pinch together at the thought.

  “Won’t you please come indoors?” she said with a trace of a smile, a forgiving one at that. Of course she hadn’t a tear, Gilly was too stout for that. “I can see you manage very well on your own. I didn’t mean…”

  Christian placed his index finger on her lips. He didn’t want to make her feel awkward or force her to say something she didn’t quite mean.

  “I’d like that… thank you.”

  Gillian rummaged through her kitchen cabinet trying to find the tea. It seemed to have grown legs on it the way she kept her cupboard these days. She’d traded her neighbor just last week a loaf of bread for tea coupons. At one shilling three pence, it wasn’t exactly a bargain. But with tea in such short supply even now after the war had ended, Gillian was grateful to have some at all. Still, after all these years, when she’d sniff the severe lack of aroma of Typhoo tea, the one and only brand available from coast to coast here an
d on the mainland, she’d imagine the musky spiciness of the Darjeeling tea she had sipped and savored in the maharani’s kitchen after the children had gone to bed. Sometimes the maharani would join her—two women from vastly different cultures appreciating such a simple luxury.

  Found some. Gillian opened the packet, and as she scooped up some tea leaves, she felt slightly unraveled and could see her hand shaking—nerves, that’s all. It wasn’t every day her first love wandered about her sitting room picking up photographs and glancing at books she’d read just last evening. He looked terribly tall, just shy of the old timber beams that cut across the ceiling. All these cottages had low ceilings. And she was glad, too. Nothing worse than trying to heat a room filled with unnecessary space. She could see him making the rounds as she spied over her shoulder. Yes, he managed perfectly well on his own! She struck a match, lighting the gas cooker, then filled a pot with water. Another breath as she turned—now facing him while she patted her hair dry with a dish towel. She wandered toward Christian whose eyes were fixed on a photograph of her father.

  “He looks stern, don’t you think?” Gillian tilted her head toward the posed headshot showing off that long, curled mustache of her father’s.

  Christian threw her a glance. “Yeah. Sure does.”

  “It’s all a facade really. He’s the gentlest man I know.”

  “Is this your father?”

  Gillian sighed, “Yes.” The room grew silent as she collected her thoughts. She sat down on the hearth of her stone fireplace and looked up at Christian. “He’s gone now. As Beaty would say, he’s in our Lord’s arms.”

  “Do you believe that?” Christian asked.

  “I believe that in some way Daddy is still watching over me.”

  Christian nodded but left it at that.

  “You have an amazing place here,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Thank you.” Gillian furrowed her brow, still wondering why he hadn’t asked more about her father or expressed his sympathies. “I’ve been here for some time now. When I’d first arrived in Port St. Mary, I stayed in a pint-sized loft above a cow house of all places, just outside town. I can’t tell you how the smell nearly toppled me over each evening I came home. In the beginning, I was quite worried I’d never wake up from a night’s sleep. Surely all those dung fumes affect the brain, don’t you think? Thought they’d render me witless in some way. But I survived it and truth was, the cows were rarely brought indoors, and there were only two in fact. Darling creatures. Elspeth and Bernie they were called. Bernie was a female. Don’t know why they called her that. But she was quite well behaved compared to Elspeth. That one was a right so and so, always nudging up to people, no doubt trying to pass along the flies that irritated her so. Couldn’t blame her, really. Every time I’d sit down under my favorite tree with a good book, she’d wander up to me and whack me incessantly with that tail of hers as though she was green with envy over my book getting all the attention.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Christian said grinning.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I like your stories, that’s all.”

  “Well, I have plenty of those if I do say so myself.” Gillian could hear the water boiling on the cooker and invited Christian to join her at the kitchen table. “I’m afraid all I have is tea to offer,” knowing full well he never cared for tea, at least not in those days.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  Gillian turned to the table, motioning to the chair opposite her.

  “Do sit down,”

  “Thank you. But you know, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” he added. “We go back a long way.”

  “We do. But I don’t know any other way to be. Am I really being formal?”

  They both sat down. Christian reached across the small, square table sitting next to the window and placed his hand on hers.

  “Relax. It’s only me.”

  She studied him—he thought she was likely wondering about his intentions. Then she poured him a cup of tea. It was strange this feeling, as though he had just met someone for the first time, yet she was just the same as he remembered, only a blink older. He pulled his hand away and smiled.

  “So tell me, what’s with the motorcycle and sidekick?” he said motioning out the window toward the driveway.

  “Oh, do you like it?”

  “It suits you.”

  “Well, I got it for a steal. It was also how I came to find this cottage. Nearly three years ago come November there was a terrible crash near town. A Halifax bomber came down on one of the farms of a well-known family here.” Gilly gazed out the window, a serious tone reaching her breath. “I remember it was a Saturday because I worked at the infirmary at the Ballaqueeney Hotel those mornings and I had just finished seeing the last internee that day. She had a terrible ear infection, that one. I remember because she was crying so. I tried to comfort her the best I could, but her English was rather broken. Most internees spoke fluent English, but not this one. Apparently, she hadn’t been in the UK very long before they collected everyone and billeted her here. She was Austrian—that I do remember. Nonetheless, I was on my way out through the protected gate.” Christian gazed at her curiously wondering what she meant. “The noise from the airplane rendered me useless—crippled I’d say—but only for a moment. Honestly, I thought we were under attack. I dashed to the top of the lane where I could see over the bay. A trail of smoke looking more like swirling spun sugar gone rabid disappeared behind the cloud, and a moment later there was a bang I’ll never forget. Pieces of airplane fell from the sky, some fluttering in the air, and the fuselage came straight down like a torpedo into the ground, leaving nothing except a veil of smoke.

  I can’t tell you the urgency I felt. As I ran in that direction, I noticed Port St. Mary’s fire tender was well on its way. I was foolish to think I could help in any way, not being a qualified nurse, but so be it. I went anyway. To my surprise Dr. Pilkington, the hopeful town doctor at that time whom I had never actually met before, pulled up next to me on his motorbike. No cajoling was necessary. I jumped into the sidecar and off we went. He was so impressed with my determination that he promised me his motorbike if the day ever came that he could afford a proper car befitting a town doctor.” Christian noticed her chest swell with pride. “It was on that ride out to the farm that I saw my little cottage for the first time. You wouldn’t think I’d notice something so lovely being in such a tizzy as I was, but I did. I noticed enough for my heart to skip. It was mine nearly two years later. But that’s a whole other story,” she said grinning.

  “So what happened to the plane?” Christian asked drawing the teacup to his lips.

  “Well, the whole brigade was there, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” he added with a slight mock in his expression. Gilly kneaded her brow just a little, enough to warn him, he figured.

  “As I was saying, the whole brigade was there. It was a good thing, too, as several haystacks went up in flames upon impact. There was a silly man, known as Gilbert Brody, with a pot-bellied pig on a leash standing in the way of everyone. The pig was making a terrible din, squealing, nearly ripping everyone’s ears right off their heads! Dr. Pilkington had to step in and give that pig a sedative.”

  “Did they find the pilots?”

  “As far as I remember, only the rear gunner was found,” Gilly lowered her chin. “Such a horrid thing… war. Even now I avoid the hotel. It looks so austere to me, standing on its own at the end of the promenade, like a big… cold… square institution.”

  “Then why did you work there?”

  “I came for them.”

  He gazed quizzically, “What do you mean? I know there were internment camps on the island, but here in Port St. Mary?”

  “Well yes, just until the size of the Rushen Camp was reduced. Remaining internees were moved to Port Erin. Hundreds of women were housed between here and there. They are the reason I moved to the Isle of Man. I came for them,
to help in any way I could. Beaty was dead-set against it. Worried for me. But I never agreed with such an atrocity. Many of them had been living in the UK for years, some of them were even born on this very island. Just because they had German or Austrian blood, or spoke Italian or were Jewish, non-allied blood, they were made to feel like the enemy. But what surprised me most was that the women themselves created a divide and made each other feel like the enemy. There was a vicious war within the confines of the boarding house, I can tell you that! The government simply provided the playing field.” Gilly dropped her shoulders clearly in exasperation, “Thank the good Lord, shortly after I’d been working there—I think it was in the spring a year later—Ballaqueeney became a married camp. One hundred and seventy families! You can imagine the workload. The camp ran all the way down the promenade really, but that hotel was like the mother ship!”

  Gilly took a moment, sipping her tea, ghostly swirls of steam still rising from the cup. “Though the memories of that camp sadden me to this day, I was proud to walk away from it all knowing that I had done my best to treat each woman with respect. Of course, in my heart I didn’t always succeed. Things improved greatly when the husbands were brought to Port St. Mary, a chirp I hadn’t heard in their wives’ voices until then. Before the husbands arrived, it was difficult not to judge the women’s venomous tongues. How could they treat each other with such insolence and cruelty? The women were far worse than the men, you know. Though I couldn’t possibly imagine what they had been feeling, caged in the way they were. They may have had schools, a club room, and even a cinema, but they were caged in nonetheless.” She drew a deep, unsavory breath, “I can tell you, the number of times I felt like socking one right smack across the head. Some of them were horrible. The things they’d say. I heard with my very own ears one woman who was a proclaimed Nazi degrade a Jewish teenage girl who’d been forced to share a bed with that evil creature. Telling everyone that she smelled bad, Jewish bad, and that that was the very reason the tyrant refused to attend service at the local Methodist Church on Sundays. Wasn’t hard to put the puzzle pieces together, even with her broken English. The reverend was a sweet, old man and invited anyone of any faith to join in his service.