“How did you and your mother manage?” was the only thing she could think to ask.
“I don’t know; we just did. But it was hard on her. She never really got over losing my brother.”
Gillian felt her chest sink. “You had a brother?”
“Yeah. He’d gone ahead and found himself under the wheel of a threshing machine one day when he was doing some work over at the Dewey’s farm. I was only six at the time, but I remember that day like it was stitched in my brain.” Christian sighed then dropped his shoulders. “Like I said, it was hard on her. Burying your own child just isn’t right. No,” he said. “You never get over something like that. And then she got sick.”
“When did she pass away?”
“Two years ago.”
“How awful, Christian,” she said coiling her fingers in his as they dangled their feet in the water.
“It was the toughest time I can remember. You would’ve liked my mom. She taught me how to handle live-wires like you,” he said winking. Gillian smiled, understanding the serious tone beneath his words. “If I’m patient, it’s only because of her. She appreciated all the things that most people over-looked. Busy was an evil word to her.” Christian smiled when he said it. “A word for people who didn’t know how to enjoy this,” he said motioning across the cove. “People who didn’t know how to slow down.” Gillian could tell that he felt sorry for people like that, and she admired his way of looking at life. To him, breathing just felt better, he explained, when he’d wait quietly for those wild lightning strikes of inspiration. “Even igniting a clump of tinder had this way of triggering ideas. They came when they were darn well ready to come.” Christian put his arm around Gillian, and somehow she felt it was his way of saying, “I’m glad I’ve finally told you.”
The sun was already sneaking behind the treetops with shadows smearing the cove. The monarch butterflies had settled onto their velvety sausages and the chipmunks stopped darting in and out of the dock’s planks. Evening was starting to fall.
“Speaking of tinder,” Christian said, “I thought we could have a fire on the beach further down. One of the fishing boats came in late last night, and I saw some nice musky I could get for a fair price.”
“I’d like that, but I shouldn’t be late this evening. Auntie Joyce keeps asking all sorts of questions, and I’m not ready to tell her about you. I just know she’d be concerned and would wire my father. I know that sounds awful but…”
“It’s okay. I’m not bothered. But I’m sure she already knows. We spend so much time together and it’s not like Tobermory’s big. There’s almost nothing here.” His lips turned up at the corners. “I know you’ll tell people when you’re ready.”
“Well, Roderick knows, of course, and Shashi in India. Truth is, I like having you as my little secret. With six sisters and a brother, secrets are hard to come by in my family. Just this once, I want something special all to myself.”
“I feel that way, too,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t we take the pick-up into town quickly then rustle up a fire.”
“Don’t be silly. You go into town. I’ll stay here and start the fire.” Christian glared at her. “What? I can start a fire you know.”
Gillian could hear the tires of Christian’s lorry roll away toward town. It was that time of day when the light felt odd and she teetered back and forth trying to decide whether or not it was getting cool enough for a cardy. She needed to change her clothes anyway. No good wearing bathers well into the evening. And since she needed kindling from the woodshed, it was as good a place as any to change into something warmer. She knew Griffin wouldn’t mind her fetching what she needed. She’d seen Christian do it a hundred times, and he was probably out front whittling away at his engine anyhow.
The door screeched like a Siamese cat when she opened it. A window at the other end let in just enough light to see what she was doing. It surprised her how large the woodshed seemed inside. A stack of crates in the center funneled light to the sidewalls covered in pine and birch logs. Some freshly cut cedar smelled curiously like a hamster’s cage. Gillian leaned down to sniff it. No, it was bang on the smell of Daddy’s cedar chest, the one in which he kept all of his grouse hunting clothes. She inhaled a little more, trying to make the memory last.
Closer to the window, there were sheaves of kindling and bits of old newspaper to start a fire. Perfect, Gillian thought. An old workbench at the end would serve as good a place as any to set her clothing down while she changed. She stood there for a moment taking it all in, not quite sure if she wanted to be there after all. There was something raw about the shed, something that made her feel uncomfortable. It was cold nestled in this patch of trees, and she could feel a shiver rise in her skin. No. She was being silly, that’s all.
There wasn’t a curtain on the window, but since it didn’t face the house she decided she’d be fine. Gillian’s brow crinkled together, still not feeling quite right about it. As she lowered the straps to her swimsuit then pulled it down to her waist, she turned quickly away from the window. A creak in the floorboards made her jump. Surely it was nothing. Must have been her shifting weight.
When Gillian looked up, she noticed a hummingbird fluttering just outside the window feeding on some nectar. Such tiny things they were. That’s when she noticed a photograph of a woman pinned to the wall hidden slightly by an animal trap. The photo had yellowed and was stained around the edges. Gillian looked closely and marveled at how alike she was to this person. Her hair was dark and wavy just like hers, and there was something confident about how she stood, as though she knew she was something a little bit special with one of those smiles people always remember.
Gillian slipped her blouse over her head then changed quickly into her knickers and skirt. When she sat down on a crate to put on her shoes, another creak sounded. This time it couldn’t have been her. Gillian’s eyes widened, trying to see past the stack of crates, pins suddenly pricking her fingertips. She felt trapped as though she had been caught in one of the spider webs dangling across the low trusses.
“Is someone there?” she called out.
Gillian felt a pinch in her throat when she heard the door bang shut.
“Christian, is that you?” He didn’t answer. “Please stop teasing, I don’t think I like it.” A grumble sounded behind the crates. The walk was clunky, uneven, and it occurred to her when the floorboards fought to hold his weight, that it wasn’t Christian at all. “Griffin!” she gasped holding her chest as he stepped into the light. “You gave me a scare. You know you shouldn’t do things like that.”
“Didn’t mean to spook ya, dear,” he mumbled. Griffin looked more like a troll in the woodshed, lines of years marked across his face. He was unshaven and grubby; he barely skimmed the wooden beams that held dusty baskets and rusty tools. He was wearing a discolored shirt with braces on his trousers that held up his huge belly, and he coughed a cough that shook the earth.
“You know, you really should see a doctor about that,” Gillian said.
“I know, Bugsy,” he chuckled. “You’ve told me so many times it’s gone thick in your throat.” Gillian kneaded her brow. Bugsy? she thought. She tried to recall but was certain she’d never told him to see a doctor… ever.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m in here. I needed some kindling,” she said.
“Why would I mind? It’s not the first fire you’ve started.”
What a strange comment. How would he know if she’d ever started a fire? Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly. His mumbling was terrible and she found herself having to concentrate harder, the more she got to know him. Gillian leaned down to tie her shoelaces, thinking it best to leave at once. Although she liked Griffin very much, such a mellow man, she’d never actually been alone with him until now.
“Here, let me help,” Griffin said as he awkwardly lowered to one knee. He pawed at the laces, unable to pick them up with his fingers that looked like bloated sausages. She not
iced how deformed his knuckles were in this light and suddenly felt an urge to knee him. Of course, she wouldn’t. He was only trying to help after all. But she didn’t need help.
“I can do that!” Gillian said sharply. The sting of her words instantly sketched hurt into Griffin’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Griffin. It’s only that I don’t need help,” she said as her gaze shifted to the kindling at his back. “I need to start a fire.”
“So do I,” he said with a throaty voice. He seemed nervous, almost vulnerable. Gillian could see his hand shaking and didn’t know what to make of it. He must have been a hundred years older than her, she thought. As she started to rise from the crate, Griffin cupped her hips with his hands, preventing her from getting up.
“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling her voice tremble.
“You’re so beautiful, Shelby, and it’s been a coon’s age.”
“What are you talking about?” Gillian spat, feeling pinned to the slats.
“I saw you changing,” he mumbled through a mouth that reminded her of a ventriloquist’s dummy, only his expression was strangely tender… there was love in his eyes. “Somehow you still make me feel like whistling, but you steal my breath every time.”
Before Gillian could react, she felt Griffin’s hand like a thick club, slide up her thigh slowly between her legs as far as her knickers, her skirt like an accordion at her waist. She could feel him trying to arouse her with his gritty hand… a hand calloused… a hand that made her feel dirty. She glanced up at the photograph, the woman smiling down at her, then shifted back to what was happening. For a moment Gillian froze, unable to think as his eyes peered at her breasts through a shapely blouse meant for Christian, meant for young love. As the stubby fingers from his other hand moved to her breast, Gillian’s repulsion made her gag, waking up that strayed instinct all because she trusted someone she didn’t really know—an instinct she was born to follow.
Her heart seized at once as blood shot through Gillian’s body bringing her foot to his chest. She barreled through him as if he was the dummy she’d imagined, splinters everywhere. He had been teetering on one knee and toppled over easily… this big man. But the thrust gave her enough energy to break free and run. No steps followed, only the sobbing of a broken old man with words that muffled into nothingness. “I love you, Bugs. I’m sorry… I won’t do it again.” Tears streamed down Gillian’s face as she ran and swore she’d never return.
Gillian glanced outside again, the garden looking smudged with rain still pattering the drive and the dewy air seeping through cracks in the window’s jamb. The misery outdoors was keeping most people by their wood stoves, apart from the postman who’d just put something in her postbox. The memory of that day felt as though she’d read it in a book somewhere. She remembered all the details, the smells and the feelings, yet it was in the pages of the past. She later recalled Christian referring to Shelby once as Griffin’s wife and how he’d lost her in a slow, painful death. “Griffin,” Gillian sighed with a sadness running through her even now.
Gillian had always prided herself on being able to brush off the dusty bits of life. Right now at this moment she felt deflated, missing a man who fluttered into her life again for only a moment. “Christian,” she sighed this time. It had been such a lovely day before the rain. Why did she spoil it by ignoring the obvious? To him, it must have appeared as though she didn’t care. Truthfully, she didn’t care, but not in the way one might think.
Chapter 18 - 1946
Friendship is a flower
You cannot force,
It grows unfettered
Asking no reward.
A burden shared,
A heavy load is halved,
Hope and faith
Return to try once more.
For friendship true,
Ne’er seeks to know
Who was to blame.
It strives to renew
Trust and love.
Thank God
For giving me my friend!
Chapter 18
1946
The postman rounded the corner on his way back to town, his bicycle tires spitting up water and grit from the road. Had Gillian felt more spirited, she would have offered him a cup of hot mulled wine to warm the bones. She debated for a moment whether or not to brave the elements to fetch the post then decided that it might do her good. After all, stewing in her own gloom wasn’t serving any purpose whatsoever. Christian did nothing wrong; he said nothing wrong. He’d been nothing but a gentleman. He came to see her, a curiosity that, for whatever reason, sailed him across the Atlantic. Perhaps it was simply what it was, a lovely picnic with an old friend. She didn’t know if he had checked out of the inn, but she did know that he wouldn’t have come all this way without saying goodbye.
Gillian threw on her wellies and grabbed the umbrella from the stand next to the door. The rain was turning to drizzle when she reached the postbox and opened it. Inside was a small, well-stuffed envelope and one lettercard from Berkshire—her sister, Beaty, hunting her down, no doubt! Gillian immediately tore off the perforated selvages, the drizzle dancing down her umbrella as though siding with her sister.
Date = forever and a day!
Dearest little sister,
The Good Lord put me here on this Earth for two reasons, one to be “fruitful and multiply,” at which I’m afraid I have failed miserably. Perhaps Horatio needs a good licking—and stop being vulgar, you! And two, to carry out His duties and mind my scatterbrained siblings. Why on this blessed Earth have you not answered my calls? And don’t for a second try to pretend nothing is going on. My dear, you are like tumbleweed wafting through the desert with your aging sister skittering after you, butterfly net in hand. You wear me out. Though you are not in peril, thank heavens. I know this for I rang this very morning Dr. Pilkington’s surgery and Mrs. Hemsworth herself picked up the receiver. (I hope she was there for a hysterectomy.) She told me that she spied my little sister off gallivanting in her sidecar with a strapping young swain. It was him, wasn’t it? I was right. Christian Hunter is there on the Isle of Man. I can feel it.
Do you see how my penmanship turns to mud when I have to squeeze all of my frustrations on this tiny lettercard? Time for a cup of tea. I dare say, if you dried me out, I could be brewed!
Lovingly,
Beatrice
Post Script—In two days time, it shall be my birthday. I will become very, very, VERY old according to my husband who likes to remind me that I am nearly a senior at forty-two. I’m not sure what planet he lives on. But if that’s so then why do I still feel like an awkward teenager? You wouldn’t forget my birthday, would you, dear, despite your hairy footing?
Gillian expected as much. She planned to ring Beaty and tell her every detail, but what she really wanted was to fly to her now and curl in her arms, not a word spoken. “Silence is bliss,” she used to say when Gillian would skin her knee then come to Beaty for mending. She would hold her, patting her head till every tear dried just as Mommy had done before she died. Despite Beaty’s shortcomings, it was lovely having a sister like her.
As Gillian stuffed Beaty’s lettercard into her cardigan’s pocket, she recognized immediately the maharani’s handwriting on the plump envelope now in her fingers. A sudden pang of curiosity or worry, she couldn’t decide which, made her hand twitch uncontrollably. After all, the maharani hadn’t written her since Shashi’s debut letter over fourteen years ago. Gillian doubted she could count the number of adventures she’d received from Shashi over all this time. Through their letters, they’d been through everything together.
Every so often, Gillian would peruse her stack of letters that she kept tied with the blue ribbon Shashi had worn in her hair to school every day. “I want you to have it,” Shashi had said, “because then you will think of me.” That hint of curry lingered on it even now. Gillian liked to choose a letter to re-read occasionally and found that it either spiced up her mood or made her long to meet the young woman Shashi
was becoming. They were friends from the start, and they would be friends till the end. Gillian was certain of that. For some reason she knew that Shashi looked up to her, saw her as a role model. But the child couldn’t have got in more inside out and upside down. As Gillian stood there under her umbrella, the salty sea air sitting heavily in the drizzle, she smiled knowing that Shashi was the real role model, the one Gillian had marveled at all these years.
A dozen letters at least showed Shashi’s humility. How was that possible from a princess who’d had everything at her beck and call, who’d been sheltered from the hardships of the real world? Over time, Gillian came to realize that the two of them were no different. They both saw life as a set of tiny adventures, some big—just as she had encouraged in all those stories by the pond at Wentworth Estate. Two girls who wanted to see the world differently.
The one letter that reminded her of that the most was the one on the occasion of Shashi’s ritu kala, her formal invitation into adult society. Gillian felt aghast at the time when Shashi was only thirteen, just a toddler learning to walk on her own, really. Shashi hadn’t understood why this ceremony was taking place yet feared that the fate of her friends, all getting married around that time, would be hers, too. She had spied several meetings between her father (the maharaja) and the father (a very high-ranking officer in the Royal Indian Air Force) of a boy she’d once met on vacation. She didn’t like him; he had pulled her hair and teased Samir. At the ritu kala, Shashi was given her first sari and showered with gifts by all the women. She couldn’t understand why so many of the gifts were green. She only liked green on trees and grass, not on her! Later that evening, Samir had told her that the green was to make her have scads of babies, and when they grew up, another cluster or two.
Terribly upset, Shashi found her way to the streets of Bombay the next morning carried in her safe palki, observing the world from the inside. It was all she could do to get away from the palace and the traditions that suddenly felt strangling. The maharani had joined her. Shashi begged her mother to show her the real Bombay, the slums she’d heard about. And she did.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 22
