That was not my favrit adventure. I think saying goodby to Mr. Right was not your favrit to. But I like to think that life is like a bumblebee flying from flower to flower. It takes all the sweet it can. It flys to the next flower and shares what it taked from the first then a new flower grows. The old flower does not die you know, it wates for the next bee.
I would like to see Bears Rump Island but I think the name Flowerpot Island sounds much prettyer. What is a rump? And why is there a S in island? I cannot here the S. I have been working very hard on my spellings. Can you tell?
I also have a hug in my inky words for you but it is a maze to find it.
Love,
Shashi
7th of July 1933
Dearest Shashi,
I’m so sorry to hear of your butterfly’s demise though your bumblebee analogy has given me great food for thought. What a wise old soul you are!
A rump is your bottom. A bear needs something to sit on, too, after all. Island has an “S” because English makes no sense at all, and no I can’t hear it either. And yes, I can see you’ve been hard at work on your spellings—a remarkable improvement, my dear. Everything about your writing is improving. You are a pure pleasure to read.
My next adventure you ask? A new job! I am the new auxiliary nurse at Hogweed Home. I will clean bedpans and take temperatures and change dressings and tell wild, adventurous stories of little girls from Ireland to make patients forget all about their illness, and when given permission, I’ll include a few stories from little Indian maharanis.
Must dash my sweet. Until next.
Love and cuddles,
Gillian
Chapter 17 - 1946
I swore I would forget you
The day that you broke faith,
I’d quickly find another love
To fill your vacant place.
Love doesn’t work that way.
My grief wouldn’t die,
And to others who came
I soon said ‘Good-bye’.
Now I am left
In a world of gray,
My heart in the past
My future astray.
With nothing to hope for
As night follows day,
But another tomorrow
Seeking solace in vain.
Chapter 17
1946
Monsoon season. Or so it seemed in the Irish Sea. The rain hadn’t rested its weary drops since Christian disappeared behind Gillian’s hedgerow—until now. A timely break in the clouds let her breathe some fresh air as she sat nestled in tufts of grass high on the bluff. She hadn’t a clue how long it had been since Christian left—hours, days perhaps. She knew it had all been her doing. Not having once asked about him and how he’d suffered all this time, all these years. No, she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She knew it hurt him and no picnic by Cregneash would take that sting away.
Gillian hadn’t returned Beaty’s call, and she had walked away from the telephone ringing a tumbler full of times since. She didn’t know what to say after having read her sister’s letter. She tried to brush it aside, pretend she hadn’t read the article, never for a moment thinking he’d actually appear in her garden. No, she couldn’t face Beaty right now. She’d know instantly from her voice that she had forecast correctly, that Christian was… Gillian felt a lump swelling in her throat… “here,” she muttered.
Gillian held the letter snug in her hand, having read it a dozen times in the two days before Christian had shown up and a dozen more since he walked away. Had she missed something obvious, something that Christian hadn’t mentioned? After all, why had he really come? Gillian glanced down at the letter, unfolding it yet again.
10th of July 1946
Gillian,
I haven’t time to mess about with pleasantries. I’ve been trying to reach you on the telephone for three whole days but have had no success. Now I am at the mercy of the post. I would send a telegram but I’m afraid that for what I have to say, I haven’t enough shillings in my purse. You worry me sick, my dear, when you don’t bother to keep me informed as to your whereabouts. These darned telephones! Mine has been giving me nothing but trouble. Horatio says it’s all my twaddle that strains it so. And I am quite aware of how finicky your telephone can be, having no doubt that you’ve trained it somehow to screen my calls. There is method to my madness, dear. I’d be on your front doorstep if it weren’t for Horatio’s bad chest. There’s no reason at this time of year that he should bark in lieu of speaking like a normal human being. I’ll ring the doctor if he worsens.
Now, do you remember at the start of the war there was a curious fellow asking all sorts of questions down in Cuckfield? You remember our weekend away after the scare of that first blitz, surely. We were by that lovely Elizabethan manor house. You know the one, down that pretty little lane where we were thieves shifting our eyes in all directions before taking a sprig each of that gorgeous English lavender for our pillows. Ockenden Manor, it was called. We both assumed it was still a Jewish boys’ school after Horatio had told us so. Why I bother listening to that man when he only lived there as a small child, I’ll never know. Things change, I tell him.
Now brace yourself, my dear. Did you know that Ockenden Manor housed Canadian soldiers at the very time we stood at the gate’s threshold? You would think it would have been obvious, a quiet lane like that and not a menorah in sight. And don’t think for a moment that I’m not fully aware of when those twinkling charms are lit each year. Mr. Adler, not two doors down, made a point of luring in even Horatio by baking his caramelized pear bread pudding then setting it outside his kitchen window, right next to his menorah to see which badger would come watering at the mouth. Needless-to-say it was Horatio, who was meant to be looping garland around the bannister outside on the occasion of our annual Christmas do. Both caught with crumbs sprinkled around their lips! Sadly our dos came to an abrupt end the moment fate decided it was fair game to drop a Jerry bomb on Harrow. My point being, though it wasn’t winter with twinkling menorahs shining up the streets, one would expect to see at least one Jewish boy running about the grounds. And what were the chances we would run into a Canadian in a small village like Cuckfield?
Suddenly it occurred to me when I was rummaging through some papers just days ago that you didn’t meet this man at all, this soldier. You had turned back in the direction of the inn to rest your weary mind from all of those loose brains up at Hogweed. I was telling you about him, that I had tuned out his atrocious dialect in favor of focusing on his dishy good looks. I thought I might feast on him, if he’d only kept his mouth closed. The Canadians are something, you know—not as pasty as our homegrown men, but they know it. You can see it in their eyes. You do remember this conversation, don’t you? It was only months before you left your dear sister in harm’s way to move to that island you now call home.
I do recall asking him to hand me down the moon. He was rather tall, you know, but his personality rather inveigling. Do you like that word? I thought you might.
My point you ask? Well, I now believe it was him, the man you’ve tried all these years to forget. The man you’ve kept locked in your past. The man that Roderick once wrote to me about so that I may watch over you and care for you silently in your healing. You weren’t privy to that, were you? What a dear cousin to safeguard you so. It never bothered me that you chose not to include me in your secret. I knew it was your first love and that you needed to deal with it in your own time, in your own way. I know his name was Christian and the soldier I met that day in Cuckfield was also Christian. I didn’t think to mention his name at the time. I suppose in the back of my mind, I had concluded there was more than one Christian in Canada. Honestly, what would be the chances that it would be your Christian? In any case, I know I’m right because I am staring at a photograph of him now… of wounded Canadian soldiers stationed at Cuckfield. The clipping was from The Star, a Toronto newspaper and sent to me by Roderick just days ago. Roderick was the only on
e who knew about him, wasn’t he? I also have a feeling that you may have shared this tidbit with the little pixie from India. Even so, I’m glad you shared in Roderick’s confidence. He informed me that you, too, were a source of great comfort to him in his time of need and that he is proud of who he is. Told me to give you two winks for him. Had no idea what all his prattle was about. So be it.
Hold onto your snood! There’s more. According to Roderick, who wisely chose to do a little detective work on your part whilst vacationing in that wild place you called the Bruce Peninsula (how vulgar to borrow a proud Scottish name like Tobermory by the way) walked straight over to an old hillbilly named Griffin and asked flat out, “Would you kindly tell me of Christian Hunter’s whereabouts?” The only reply the man would give was, and I note with gruff humor according to Roderick, “He’s crossed the big one.” What kind of response is that? Our university-trained cousin put two and two together and realized he meant the Atlantic Ocean.
Don’t you see, Gillian? I would wager Horatio’s prizewinning foxgloves that that fellow from your past is crossing the seas to see YOU. Of course we have no proof, but you cannot say that you haven’t been forewarned. It’s my duty as your oldest sister. I wonder what his wound was? The article didn’t say. And he looks fit as a fiddle in the photograph, don’t you think? The lad behind him could have used a drop of dreamy tonic himself, I’d say. You can peruse the article at will as I have enclosed it in this envelope.
Now about that Griffin fellow. Don’t you abhor those select few who are dreadfully quiet, who answer questions with a “yes” or “no”? For God’s sake, don’t they know how uncomfortable they make others feel? How difficult can it be to drum up a two-way conversation? It merely requires a little effort on one’s part to put two or three words together or half a dozen if they’re up to it. I don’t know how you ever managed with all that Hindi going on around you at the maharaja’s all those years ago. They may as well have been silent. You would never have known if the maid of root vegetables had been blatantly insulting you in front of the scullery maid.
Now very briefly, I should enlighten you to Winnie’s latest antics. Barclays was strumming with clients not one week ago and, as usual, she was weaving about looking busy, not doing a bloody thing, if you ask me. (I’ve already asked for the Good Lord’s pardon regarding any foul language I may use in this letter. I believe I’ve slipped up twice now.) Well, it was precisely half ten when that succubus (one cannot ignore the way she eyes Mr. Tyler, and right in front of his wife, too!) stood in the center of the reception for bank loans and dropped to the ground, showing signs of an epileptic fit. No doubt to get attention from Barclays’ most prestigious clients. Everyone just stared. I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up a newspaper, the Catholic Herald mind you. I’ve already given penance for that one! And slapped her face silly. It must have worked because she came to and there I was on top of her like some sort of sumo wrestler. I think the wooden butter knife she’d kept hidden behind the counter was too blunt for the job, but she threatened to cut my head off anyway!
There you have it—the latest news. Now be wary of any visitors from the colonies. And if by chance your sister here was right, then I shall not accept anything other than full detail of events. So don’t go sending me off without tea on the slightest little pretext. It won’t work.
Your fairy godmother,
Beatrice
Gillian took out the article that had been tucked in the envelope. The newsprint had been smudged, likely by her sister’s appetite for tea. It looked as though vanilla teardrops had fallen then dried. But in the foreground, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, was a man who could never escape her memory. The man she’d just spent a day getting to know all over again, yet she hadn’t learned a thing.
Gillian stroked his silhouette, the murky gray of the article. His features weren’t clear, but he stared into the camera as if staring right through her with a sedate expression. The loose curls of his hair fighting their way through a modest military cut and Brylcreem—something she knew he never liked. She could feel her cheek rise and fall at the bittersweet memory of a man she once loved. So much had happened since then. At moments, she felt as though the world had tumbled into bits at the bottom of a canyon, the weight of sorrow too heavy even for her.
Hard times were wrung from even the best of families. The lad standing behind Christian was probably just another example of a boy torn from his family to fight in a war he never wanted to be a part of. Suddenly, a tiny gasp sounded from her lips as she squeezed her brow together, drawing the photograph closer. “That man?” she mumbled. She hadn’t noticed him the way Beaty had. He was dressed in everyday military garb. Gillian nearly dismissed it as RAF when she noticed a badge on the shoulder, which she was sure read Canada. Gillian studied his face when it occurred to her that she’d seen him before. She was sure of it… but where? She couldn’t place him.
This letter, this article had taken all that she’d worked for over these years and scattered her life like confetti in the wind.
Gillian tried to focus on the sea instead. It was raging now, clouds swelling again, ready to burst at any moment. She glanced behind her when she heard the wind smacking her back door. Her cottage, a place that had become home, was never more at odds with the stubborn Irish Sea as it was now, fighting for her attention. If she could just loosen her grip on the article, the wind would slip it from her fingers and carry it out to sea. Perhaps then she’d be able to forget Christian. Maybe she should have heeded Beaty’s warning and taken a long trip to anywhere.
Instead, Gillian sprinted to the cottage under the rain. She ignored the telephone as she closed the door behind her, not ready to speak to Beaty. If it were Dr. Pilkington, she’d have to give an excuse as to why she hadn’t come into the surgery today. But he had help and she wasn’t up to seeing him, not with everything that had been going on. Oh Reggie, you’d have been much simpler, Gillian thought as the web with Christian was tangling itself into the tiniest of knots. If Christian had only given her more time, she could have been married to the doctor and all her guessing would have been pointless. But no, he had to show up when he did.
Wind shifted the rain as it now slapped her front door with a curtain of water falling from the thatched roof. As Gillian sat huddled at the kitchen table, tea in hand, beads of water slithered down the leaded beveled glass window just inches from her nose. A constant tapping on the tin barrel outside caused Christian’s words to trickle back. ‘Till I know’ grew rampant in her head. She tried to stamp them out and instead dissected every possibility. What exactly did he mean? Till he knew what? That what he’d hoped to find wasn’t there anymore? That he still loved her? That he was finally over her? That what they’d had in Canada was nothing more than a youthful infatuation tied with a string of sundry emotions? Why had he returned?
Suddenly it occurred to her. “Griffin.” The name wheezed between her teeth like a frightened child. Could he know? Was it possible?
She whisked her teacup to the lounge then set it on the hearth—cold slate lintel slabs that made the chill rise to her bones even in summer—then reached for the hand bellows to make the smoldering fire swell into something more… “tempting,” she muttered. Gillian plopped into the overstuffed armchair, her mind whirling into the past.
All day, Georgian Bay had been glittering like a bath of diamonds. Gillian and Christian soaked in the sun while sprawling across his rickety old dock watching the butterflies he’d promised dance around them. The bulrushes were as high as she was, and the Blue Jays just as greedy. She wanted every morsel of sun to soak into her bones. If there had been a drop left, she’d probably have stolen that, too. Of course she loved what it did to Christian’s skin, the way it shimmered against his tan, teasing her. But it was the dip he’d take every so often when the sun became too much that freed him like a little boy who’d just learned how to ride a bicycle. After having spent nearly every moment of the summer together, it was t
he first time Christian had shared more than two sentences about his family.
“You know, my mom always liked days like this,” Christian said. “The kind of day that lasts forever.”
“Mmm. I know what she means.” Gillian looked at him. “You must miss her terribly though you don’t talk much about her.”
“That’s because there’s not much to say.”
Gillian laughed, “What do mean? There’s always oodles to say about a family. Mine drains me, but I wouldn’t change any of it.”
“You’re lucky then,” he sighed. “Gilly, I haven’t told you about my family because I’ve moved on.”
“What does that mean, you’ve moved on? No one just moves on from their family.”
“I haven’t had much choice.”
“Okay, so you’re one great mystery. Is that it?” she snipped.
Christian smiled, “I like when you get scrappy.”
“Scrappy? What are you talking about? I’m not scrappy. I don’t even know what you mean by the word.”
“Oh, I think you do. And yes, you are. It’s the one thing about you that my mom never was.”
“Scrappy?”
“Right.” His smiled widened.
“Well, what about your father, was he scrappy?”
“I don’t know. I never saw much of him. Except when he had to fix things or when he had deliveries to make in Toronto. He’d always invite me along.” Christian shrugged, “I guess he wanted some help when I got big enough. But I was a kid then, and I haven’t seen my dad in over eight years. He left a week before my twelfth birthday.” Christian sighed, “It wasn’t his fault. He needed work and the nickel and copper ore mines up in Sudbury offered something regular. Trouble is, he went up north and never came back.”
Gillian was already seething, sure Christian could see smoke coming from her ears. How could a father do that? It was one thing going off to war like Daddy did, but never coming back… on purpose?
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 21
