The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  Well, on that day I could see something lingering below, like a mysterious shadow. Everything around it was clear, even the speckled trout shimmered like tiny diamonds wriggling through the water. Not the boat. I thought I should cripple with fear; it was electrifying. The ship was too far down, but I could see its shape as it was lying on its side, and I have traced that image in my head for all time. I could see the rusted railing where Captain Ripper St. John himself stood as he went down with his ship. That’s what Mr. Right told me, and the fantasy burning inside me can’t bear to think it any different.

  It’s been a summer of unexpected wonders, Shashi. Every evening when all has settled down, we take Mr. Right’s boat to a small inlet and watch for beavers. Do you know what a beaver is, darling? To me they are like wise, old, furry philosophers with flat tails and great big front teeth. Not teeth that would hurt you, but teeth that would make you stand at attention. A very noble animal. The French call it “castor.” But for you, my sweet, you can think of them as gentle, sturdy animals that love to swim and build big houses with sticks.

  I’ll never forget my first sighting. The boat was lolling on the water. The air stood still. Even the birds stopped calling out to their loved ones, just so I could see, at long last, what I had been waiting for. A minute lasted for hours until I heard a paddling. I scanned the water’s edge with my heart in a tight squeeze. The animal wasn’t anywhere near the shoreline. It was then that Mr. Right had signaled to me to follow the stream of moonlight cutting across the water. My eyes travelled the spotlight and as they drew nearer the boat, something dark glided through the water toward me. I didn’t move a single muscle as a huge, portly beaver grazed the side of our boat. I don’t think he even noticed me. He was as relaxed as when you and I would pick daisies along the wooded path after school. Well, he swayed leisurely to shore. I didn’t quite know what to expect until he clambered over the rocks, padding with great self-confidence. You could see that straight away. I think every one of us could learn a little something from him. I was very touched when he stood erect on his hind legs turning to us and rubbing his nose, as if to wave goodnight. Oh yes! He noticed us in no uncertain terms. It was then that Christian looked at me and smiled. That was the second time that I knew he was Mr. Right.

  I dare say there are many more adventures to tell but I shall spare you from pages and pages of nanny-talk. I look forward to hearing of your next adventure, Shashi. Even the smallest pea-sized adventure is great indeed. Life would be so dull without them.

  My best to your parents and a little cuddle in this envelope for Samir.

  Always,

  Gillian

  Chapter 14 - 1946

  Some folk call it luck,

  Some folk call it fate.

  I call it destiny,

  Because all too late

  I found myself lost,

  On a long, lonely road,

  My love betrayed,

  My happiness flown!

  What have I done

  To have earned such a cross?

  Where did I fail

  And so suffer this loss?

  Can one find an answer

  To such endless pain?

  Can one go on living

  Emptied and maimed?

  Chapter 14

  1946

  The bullet. Gilly was right. It really did look like one. It was the first thing Christian noticed, too, when he’d seen the newspaper photograph for the first time—white, octagonal, cylindrical masonry with a dome lid and red band around its middle as though it could be shot into the sky at any moment. Just the sight of it wrung out memories of Big Tub Lighthouse, different shape of course, but where he and Gilly had bridled their passion under the starry Georgian Bay skies. He swallowed the lump lodged in his throat and shook his memories clean. Different time, different place.

  Christian sat on the wall looking out toward the Inner Pierhead lighthouse, the same wall he’d sat on the night before finding Gilly again. A ribbon of sand curled along the edge of the water in the distance, just past the rocky shores. The inner harbor was bustling with small boats this morning. He liked that; the activity meant something to him, and the salty air was tasty. He reached into his pocket and gently took out the article. Unfolding it, he suddenly became curious if it would be possible to map out exactly where and from which angle the photograph had been taken.

  Christian studied the photo, intermittently letting his eyes travel the harbor’s edge, the town’s edge, the houses that wrapped around the dazzling scenery, then back to the photo. His curiosity grew the more he thought about it, the more he examined the details of the photo. He held it at arm’s length in front of him. From what he could tell, the photo had been taken from the northeast. He scanned further along the rocky shoreline, past the ribbon to the wide saucer-shaped beach at the far edge of town when a sudden jolt hung heavy in his chest. The hotel Gilly had mentioned, the one where she’d worked in the infirmary, the one that was for all intents and purposes, a prison for women born with the wrong nationality, stood like a suit of armor… imposing… just as she had described.

  Christian considered walking toward the hotel, but it was a trek that could too easily be foiled in his… he glanced down, condition. What would have been a simple hike now took twice as long and three times the effort. Although that didn’t usually deter him, he knew he’d be seeing Gilly soon and nothing would tear him away from that. Christian was glad she had phoned the inn and left a message with the owner when he was out returning Gilbert’s truck. Same place he borrowed it, around the corner from Poppy’s Coffee Shop. Mr. Ballard was there on his leash, too. That pig looked off-color this morning, though. Christian could imagine Gilly thinking Mr. Ballard was a pig of spirit anyway. A grin slipped into Christian’s cheek, just the right side, when he realized he thought the same.

  Christian sighed thinking of her. A part of him had felt dubious all night whether Gilly would contact him at all. Maybe by dawn reality would have kicked in and she’d shy away from trudging up memories she’d sooner forget. He glanced at his wristwatch. Eleven o’clock. She’d soon be here.

  Christian folded the article and slid it back into his trouser pocket. He had intended on showing her the article yesterday but never got the chance. That Dr. Pilkington. Professional, my ass he thought. Just look at Gilly! If she took his breath away, he knew darn well that doctor would take plenty of notice. But he knew he had no right to be leery of a man he’d never met. And truth was, Christian should be grateful to this doctor. He’d obviously given Gilly the opportunity to do what she’d always been amazing at: making others feel good about themselves and helping in any way she could.

  He glanced up noticing a pair of white terns coasting on a gust of wind above the sea. They looked playful, reminding him not to take the day so seriously. He brushed crumbs off his shirt from a scone he’d picked up at Poppy’s then headed toward the lighthouse with his walking stick in hand.

  Gillian could see the bullet at the end of the pier as she rounded the corner. As she drove her motorbike onto the quay, sudden nerves engulfed her. All night, she hadn’t a chance to think about yesterday and what had taken place. Mrs. Hemsworth saw to that. Had Christian Hunter really shown up after all these years? Gillian trickled her motorbike to a halt not halfway down the quay. The sudden flutter in her chest was dizzying and she feared a terrible sweat would follow. Had she really rung the inn this very morning to arrange a time? Gillian McAllister, the woman disguising herself as temperate and cool. Hardly. Yes, she did ring and she did say half past eleven at the agreed upon location. Had he received her message… she wondered. Gillian took a moment to gain some composure. She glanced down at her dress, a pretty blue one with small flowers. A light breeze from the sea swept up its skirt making it balloon out. The wind tickled her legs, hatching a smile on her face that felt familiar until the dress dropped flat against her thighs again. “Christian Hunter,” she murmured to herself, “have you come all this way for me?”


  Christian caught a glimpse of Gilly’s motorcycle and sidecar. Nobody could miss that sidecar. He grinned, still thinking it suited her. Christian stood next to the lighthouse as it towered high above him gracing the end of the pier. Gilly waved when she pulled to a stop at the side of the quay. She took her helmet off, shaking her hair free, giving in to the breeze that played with it. Christian could see it was routine for her; she felt comfortable and sweetly pleased with her mode of transportation. His eyes followed her as she walked the rest of the way. This time he couldn’t help but notice her dress and how she carried herself in it, the confidence in her gait. She was even prettier than yesterday.

  “Hello,” he chimed.

  “Good morning,” she said with a layer of reservation in her tone. “I’m pleased to see you received my message. I wasn’t sure whether I had dreamed any of this.”

  “You dream about me?” he said, sliding a grin into his expression.

  “I’m sure you’d be delighted if that were true.”

  “Are you saying it’s not?”

  “I’m saying good morning… and only good morning.” A silence fell into the conversation making Christian feel awkward. He gazed at the lazy swells off shore, too lazy even to make waves.

  Drawing a deep breath, he asked, “So why did you choose this place to meet?”

  “Because I like it here. I like to watch the boats coming and going. It’s a lively place, don’t you think?” She gazed up at him, squinting from the sun in her eyes. The sun today shone on his skin differently. Tiny lines etched into it, by his eyes, on his neck, made him seem more real today. He hadn’t shaved, and a light bristle was working its way into his jaw. But it was his eyes, even now, that made her weak—the way they drooped like her neighbor’s St. Bernard puppy’s.

  “Yeah, there’s something about this place, this island.” Christian hesitated as he scanned the shoreline. “I like it.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I showed you more?” she said with her eyebrows arched with impulse.

  “No. Not at all. But are you sure you have time? I mean, Dr. Pilkington might need your services. Your professional services,” he said feigning a very serious expression.

  “Now, now, Mr. Hunter. If you’re not careful, I might be inclined to think you were indeed jealous—as green as an avocado.”

  “This conversation could go many ways.”

  “Oh, you are a cheeky blighter aren’t you? Haven’t changed a bit.”

  Christian relaxed in their banter with one another. Except for the hidden tone threading their words together, the conversation felt almost natural, as if no time had passed. But time had passed. So much was yet unspoken, and they both knew it.

  Christian found bliss in being chauffeured by a beautiful, fiery woman. Although he’d offered to drive, he suspected Gilly was uncertain of how he could. She hadn’t yet broached the subject with him, so he went along for the ride until she was ready.

  The promenade hugged the edge of the saucer-shaped beach Christian had noticed earlier. Through a whistling voice tempered by the buzz of the motorcycle, Gilly explained that the townhouses following the line of the curve had been home to a slew of prisoners. It had all been part of the camp. In the distance at the end of the promenade, there it stood, the Ballaqueeney Hotel, even more severe than Gilly had described. Christian could understand why they chose it. The structure was perfect for a prison: stiff lines with towers like guards on each corner stared out to sea, and arched windows, no less than eyes, watched every move. The fence surrounding the building hadn’t yet been torn down. Although internees had relative freedom during the war, Gilly explained that there was a perimeter wire keeping them in check, but no barbed wire. Sometimes, she said, the police wardens carrying truncheons and revolvers had made her more nervous than the internees themselves.

  A weightlessness rose in her expression when they drove past Cowley’s Café, then again when they took a moment by the sea. Sitting on a bench that faced the water, just outside the white hotel that housed a lifetime-to-come of troubling memories, Gilly had told him of the one joy she’d seen every day. Cowley’s Café had been requisitioned and equipped with everything needed for a school. On her way to an elderly patient’s home (a civilian who could afford to pay her a small salary in exchange for home aid and a little companionship) she’d pass children on their way to school—child prisoners—laughing and forgetting about a war they couldn’t understand. At least that piece of childhood hadn’t been taken from them. Children always found a way to laugh, Gillian said, and Christian knew that would have meant the world to her.

  “Shall we stop by the grocers and make ourselves a picnic lunch?” Gilly asked eagerly. “I know the perfect place where we can sit and talk. I think you’ll like it.”

  Christian mulled over her suggestion, wondering if she’d cleared her schedule just for him. “Are you free from work today?” he asked, worried about monopolizing her time.

  “I’ve just come off work. Mrs. Hemsworth’s baby was as stubborn as an alfalfa sprout working its way through concrete. I like the name alfalfa, don’t you? Didn’t have a clue what it was until my Uncle Herbert in Canada told me it was a de facto term for lucerne, simply lucerne.” Christian darted up one eyebrow, curious as ever about the mechanics behind that beautiful face. “You know, like the town in Switzerland,” she added unable to suppress a grin. “I didn’t get home till nearly half eight.”

  “You mean you haven’t slept at all?”

  “I had precisely forty-one-and-a-half winks. It’s more than I sometimes get,” Gillian said ruefully with a shimmer of playfulness.

  “Sounds great—the place you want to take me, I mean. But now that I know the truth,” he said glaringly, “I’m driving!”

  As Christian straddled the motorcycle, he could feel her eyes on him.

  “So what’s this place called again?” Christian asked, pulling off the dirt road.

  “Cregneash is the village we just passed. But this place here can be called a piece of heaven perhaps.” Gilly clambered from the sidecar giddy as a schoolgirl, grabbing the cloth bag the grocer had loaned them. “Come! I’ll show you!”

  She sat on a partially tumbled stonewall, swinging her legs over it, then scampered through a pasture filled with tufts of stunted grass, clumpy to the step and greener than Christian ever seen before. The grass rolled off the cliff, cascading into a sea the color of ripened Ontario blueberries, the islands opposite girdled in softened green, white foam churned up from the crashing waves. Christian stood for a moment drinking in the view, not quite believing he was standing here and now beside the girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

  “Come!” Gilly shouted, waving him toward her. The breeze had already begun dancing in her hair and dress. It was the second time today he’d noticed how it played with her figure.

  Christian lumbered through the pasture, the tufts of grass at odds with him, but he could make it if he took his time. He was swift on flat ground; with Gilly standing there, he did everything he could not to fall. He’d mastered most things. Rowing his boat and pulling it to shore had been at the top of his list when he’d first gone home. But there were still challenges and some things he hadn’t a hope in a month of Sundays to manage; climbing down a cliff side was one of them. When he looked up, Gilly had swept the blanket from the sidecar into the air like a billowing parachute as she shimmied it down to the ground. He gazed at the staggering scenery around her, not a house or person in sight except Gilly McAllister, and she was even more staggering.

  Gillian could see straight away that Christian was as taken with this place as she was. She hadn’t known any pirate ships having sunk in these waters, and there were undeniably no beavers anywhere near this island. Yet it still felt adventurous, being here with him on this beautiful day. She’d expected rain or at least drizzle, but it was as though the gods blew the skies clear in one great puff just for them.

  Their picnic spread was sim
ple, four slices of Hovis bread cut on the diagonal as a favor to Gillian. She was certain the proprietor had eyes for her, as he would often slip a recipe into her produce bag that she was sure he’d copied by hand from Florence Greenberg’s Cookery Book. The best by far was, “How to Make a Meatless Meat Pie.” She’d nearly considered acknowledging his affections after that meal until her eyes met his lips again. Beaty had always said that you couldn’t trust a man with thin lips, and for whatever reason Gillian could never seem to shake that insight away. From then on, every man she’d encountered unfortunate enough to be unhallowed with such a deformity as thin lips began to look deceitful, even downright ornery in some cases. The latter wasn’t such a worry, it was the crafty creatures she needed to armor herself against.

  Spread out on the blanket were a rather large wedge of cheese, hardly tasting of anything—more like rubber Gillian entertained—and some beetroot, neither of which were rationed now nor during the war on the Isle of Man. She never liked queuing up for the meager supplies in the grocers, but for the second time today, the gods up there had puffed away even the drizzle in the shops. She normally loathed beetroot and cheese sandwiches, but today they tasted gorgeous. Treacle scones were dessert. She wasn’t sure if Christian would like them, but she’d brought two wedges from home in the off chance they may wish for a snack. There was one little dazzle in their picnic lunch: some Cadbury’s chocolate.

  “So tell me,” Christian said biting into his square of milky, brown delight. She could see the satisfaction on his full lips now, something the grocer would never be able to proffer. “Why didn’t you ever return to Ireland?”

  The question startled her, though she wasn’t certain why. After all, it was a perfectly reasonable question. Ireland was her home, where she grew up, where all her siblings lived, except Beaty, of course. But the longer she had lived away, the more she realized that nowhere became home… though everywhere had. Gillian had a strange mix of belonging while simultaneously feeling distant, detached, sometimes utterly severed from the culture or the people, even on this tiny island in these bizarre times. Even so, she was drawn to it, living in the unfamiliar while feeling completely at ease with herself and the life she had nurtured.