The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  “It was astonishing,” Shashi had written. The slums melted into the horizon, and Shashi wept in her palki until she saw a girl about her age standing in front of a hovel holding a baby. “Hovel” was being generous, she explained. Truth be known, she stood in a breeding ground for rats, flies, and viruses. Shashi was certain that Southampton after its worst blitz paled in comparison to this place, as though every German bomb ever dropped had been dropped on this site alone.

  Gillian had always been truthful about the war but never wanted to frighten Shashi either. And Southampton was a letter that even a child could read between its lines. Of course the war had stormed into the lives of everyone Shashi knew. Even the streets seemed to be cleared of young men, most of whom had enlisted, she heard her father saying. She could feel war’s presence right there in the slums but this one had nothing to do with Hitler. The girl’s clothing was tattered, and although she was filthy, she stood smiling softly at Shashi with a proud gleam in her expression. Shashi smiled back. It was at that moment that she understood humility.

  The next fortnight was spent begging her mother not to send her into this arranged marriage that she suspected was being secretly planned. Instead, she knew there was another purpose in her life. She didn’t know what exactly, but she wanted the chance to discover it. The only certainty was that she couldn’t devote her life to serving one man. She was meant for something more.

  A loud grunt from the Loaghtan ram down the way pulled Gillian back to the moment. She glared at him curtly, his four horns looking as though they were ready to charge her by reason of acrimony. She’d stolen his wool for that cardigan after all. Even from a distance, she could see in his eyes that that was precisely what he was thinking. Had he only understood that it was her favourite, cozy cardy.

  The letter.

  Gillian felt no urge to go indoors despite the squelching of her wellingtons as she shuffled her weight from one foot to the other. The maharani’s wax seal hadn’t changed, although it served no purpose with the glued edges to the envelope. As Gillian tore it open, the street grew quiet like a slow, melting oil painting. The smell of newly cut timber and smoldering peat from the flues atop the thatch whirled around her. Two envelopes inside, one marked Gillian, the other Please read first.

  19th of June 1946

  Gillian,

  I hope this letter finds you and your family well.

  Since the moment my daughter met you at our home in London, it has been nothing but Gillian this, Gillian that. I must confess to you that for some time, a small part of me was envious of your bond, but I soon realized what a gift you were to my daughter and eventually to me. Because of you, we have a well-used hammock in the palace garden. We had one crafted and hung between two jujube trees next to our pond. It came to be Shashi’s and my favorite nook, a place where only the two of us existed. She learned to read so quickly that I became her audience. But what she liked to do most was tell her own stories, stories at times involving pirates with peg legs and hooks. I believe she got her wild imagination from you. Who is Snarky Cutter, by the way?

  There were times that Shashi would wake me to watch the sun rise together. I always told her to go back to sleep, but she insisted. I wish I could put into words the beauty of an Indian sunrise, especially from our hammock. Shashi would say that all the juices from the gods float up from the sea and splash the day with happiness. We would swing gently listening to the frogs and watching our peafowl wander the gardens. Shashi named the hen “Darjeeling” but you probably already know that. By your example, Shashi learned to be her own person, to speak her mind. Though it is not always appropriate in our culture to do so, I have come to admire this about her.

  The reason I am writing to you is to fulfill a promise that I made my daughter some years ago. She has kept a secret from you but for very good reason. Shashi has always wanted you to love her because you wanted to not because you bled for her. I tried to explain that you would understand, but she would not hear of it. My little girl has bloomed into a beautiful Indian wildflower, a ‘datura’ I like to think—a soft flower that stands tall with its trumpet shape as though playing music to the valley in the distance. It grows at will on arid wasteland, amidst rubble, by railroads and roadsides, or in the ruins of old buildings. If you dust it off, it is quite spectacular. She has become the datura of the slums of Bombay, a symbol that beauty can grow anywhere with a helping hand. From the moment I showed her the lining of India, she has spent every drop of energy helping those in need. I agreed to interrupt marriage plans, for I knew in my heart that this was Shashi’s vocation in life. It is for this reason a single datura was placed on her chest during arati when the oil lamp was passed over her body.

  Gillian, to you I must say that our Shashi died two days ago, though it is not how we see it. Her soul will go on after life. It is what we believe as Hindus and something that should not be grieved. But I will secretly tell you that I had tears raining from my eyes in private. Shashi had been ill with leukemia for some time. She asked me to tell you of her passing when the time came and to send a letter that she had written when she was still spirited and agile. She also asked me to remind you of a playwright named William Shakespeare. “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” Shashi lived by this mantra.

  I know that you will be saddened by my news. I close this letter saying that a world war could not take our girl, and if you look around, the datura still blooms even in Europe under the name ‘Thorn Apple’ and in America as ‘Jimson’s Weed.’ Not the prettiest titles, but daring, adventurous, and hardy. You see, Shashi’s trumpet has sounded the world!

  Sonali

  Chapter 19 - 2003

  When we are young

  Such trifling things,

  Take the sun from our lives

  As though it has wings.

  To fly away

  Leaving tearful mood,

  Until at last

  Time frees the gloom

  So however big

  A trifle seems,

  Youth only grieves

  Till new hope gleams.

  Chapter 19

  2003

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pugsley,” the nurse chirps. I can’t remember her name. Patty or Penny—something like that. “How are you feeling today? I’ll just open the blinds for you.” She smiles softly like it was part of her routine. She’s wearing a pale blue pantsuit that contrasts her flushed cheeks. Gone are the days when you could tell the difference between an orderly and an RN. The old uniforms were lovely, I think, but even I struggle to notice such details these days. “A little sunshine never hurt anybody, did it?” I watch her weave about the room, touching this and fiddling with that until she finally settles by my bed. “Well?” she adds. “How is the pain this morning?” I mumble something but even I can’t make out what I’ve said. “Don’t you worry, dear, a little morphine will help with that.” Dear, for goodness sake. She must be in her forties! Why does the world insist on treating the elderly like children?

  “My granddaughter, has she been visiting this morning? I’m afraid if I nod off, she won’t want to disturb me.” My words come out lumpy. I can hear them as though they need to clamber over a grotesque Adam’s apple crafted by cancer. Either that or a leftover hunk of the Garden of Eden’s forbidden fruit has lodged in my throat.

  “No, she hasn’t been here yet, Mrs. Pugsley. But your son popped by very early when you were asleep. Said he’d be back shortly after lunch.”

  I nod, knowing how I don’t like to inconvenience those whom I love. I’m sure my son’s work is suffering because of all the time he spends here on “the ward of the wobblies.” Yet I feel selfish knowing that’s exactly where I want him. Likewise, Kate is a godsend. Then there is Gilly, the one who has sat in that poor excuse for a chair, holding my hand as pain strangles me. But it’s the patter of her fingers on that laptop of hers when she doesn’t think I notice. It sings me to sleep, hearing my story being sculpted. All the bits and pi
eces I’ve told her over the years are coming together and I know she’s doing justice by them.

  “I’ll wake you if you like, when your granddaughter arrives,” the nurse says. “I promise, I won’t let her leave.”

  “Oh, you are a marigold in disguise, aren’t you,” I say through dry lips.

  “I had a grandma once, too,” she adds, winking.

  The winter sun is lovely but I miss it from the farm. I miss watching Ballerina shield flies from the other horses as she stands like a child next to her adoptive big brothers. Her wagging tail always reminded me to wave hello to others, despite any irritations I might have at the time. Quite like now, really. I need to put aside the acute pain that drills into me whenever it sees fit and smile, at least with my eyes, to my nurse who sits next to me now.

  “Mrs. Pugsley, are you awake?” she says softly. “Your granddaughter is here. She’s just gone to the vending machine for some hot chocolate. She’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Hot chocolate. If I look at the wintery sky outside the hospital window, there is a giant oak and if I try my hardest, I can see a hundred small thermoses dangling from its branches, all filled with piping hot chocolate. A smile should seize me, but instead a single tear falls down my cheek knowing that soon there will be no more surprises like my icy cage in the woodland with my granddaughter.

  It feels strange to know how much my passing will hurt others except for the one closest to me. I don’t think it will be like that for Gilly. I think she’ll talk to me in those quiet moments and see me sitting at the table having a good laugh when the family gets together. She’ll see me when no one else will, when to others I’ll just be a passing memory.

  Though she thinks I was her rock through those trying years, realizing that her own mother didn’t care enough to fight for custody, that she was so easily cast aside, Gilly’s got it all mixed up. That child has been my strength even before she came into being.

  And while my marriage was easy as far as marriages tend to go, it wasn’t without its moments. Even old Angus needed a watchful eye from time to time. But I couldn’t blame him, those times I saw sadness in his eyes when he knew my heart still belonged to another man. It grieved me to hurt someone whom I had grown to love deeply but in a different way. On the other hand, as long as I’ve had my granddaughter, I’ve never gone without a finely carved backbone. True, I’ve had one my whole life, really, but not one in my twilight years with its own ally—a non-judgmental ally at that, until Gilly came along.

  “Grandma?” I remember her words like it was yesterday. The family and every seedling it seemed from Port Stanley to Goderich had just celebrated Gilly’s sixteenth birthday. I know because Angus had dipped into the one and only bottle of scotch whiskey he’d ever owned. It was aged well and could tip over a bullfighter with the aroma alone. Normally, a party like that and I’d be leading a line dance. Well, not that night. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Angus on the patio after dinner trying to rekindle an old man’s fantasy with that creature from Clinton’s tiniest book club. A membership of one if I recall correctly! Somehow, Charmaine Dipple had weaseled her way into an invitation to my only granddaughter’s party. Angus couldn’t say no to anybody and fell weak at the knees to that harlot. I was horrified to see her there but proud as I am, refused to let the sight of her rile me.

  They had disappeared for twenty-two minutes. All the while I was growing claws, despite knowing full well there wasn’t a thing he could do in that short time.

  “Grandma, are you okay?” Gilly asked.

  “Go back inside darling. Enjoy your party.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You’re upset about something,” she said in a snippy sort of way. “Has Grandpa done something? I saw him here a few minutes ago with that lady. Who is she anyway?”

  “Just someone not worth mentioning, I’m afraid.” And with that look that said her grandpa wouldn’t hurt a fly mixed with the thought of my reddened eyes, I knew what she would do.

  “Where have they gone?”

  “Around the house I think.” And before I could say another word, Gilly had marched away ready to bulldoze anything in her path. Sixteen years old and I could almost hear the clatter of elderly bones being scrambled for a late night snack.

  Needless-to-say, Angus had returned with a red mark across his cheek but it wasn’t my granddaughter who had given it to him, it was Charmaine. Apparently she wouldn’t have any of Angus’ nonsense either. Not at eighty years old. In the end, the whiskey got the better of him and he fell asleep on the lounge chair outside.

  Even though he was a fool behaving like that, it brought back the sting of him playing around all those years ago. Albeit only once, a Charmaine Dipple one never forgets! It stands to reason that Gilly would sit with me all that evening.

  She’s always been there for me, and it’s been through her, because of her, that I tended my garden. That I made my own datura grow inside me—a beautiful reminder that my Shashi’s trumpet from so long ago is still sounding the world. And through Gilly’s book, that little seed will grow inside each and every person who reads it. And though I may not be around to see it, this small world we live in will be filled with music.

  So before I leave such a world, I will find the right moment with my granddaughter to scrub clean my jar of pickled truths, but only in part. The rest is yet to discover on the Isle of Man.

  When I lift my eyelids, the hospital room is blurry but I see someone in the doorway. As my vision grows clearer, that pretty smile can belong to only one person… my Gilly.

  Chapter 20 - 1946

  We walked together

  I now walk alone,

  We then trod on velvet

  I now tread on stone.

  No blooming flower

  No bird’s song,

  The world is silent

  Now I walk alone.

  We wandered together

  Without thought or care,

  The sunshine could vanish

  And rain fill the air.

  Flooding life’s gladness

  To leave a deep sadness,

  To the end of my journey

  I walk alone.

  Chapter 20

  1946

  Fog hung in the air like a soggy rag, matching Christian’s mood. It was the first time he’d been missing Tobermory since he left. Sure he’d thought about it, even compared it with this place. But the rain hadn’t slowed since he left Gilly’s doorstep three days ago—until now—and it was getting to him, the way the skies could swallow up the earth. Relentless, that’s what it was.

  A foghorn brayed in the distance as he stood at the threshold of the inn and looked out to sea. A ghostly calm followed it, relaxing him and burying his blurred vision of Gilly into the seabed with all those urchins and sea stars. For the first time in fourteen years, he understood that she had categorically found a life of her own. A part of him had assumed that if he found her unwed, she would have leapt into his arms. Half a grin poked its way into Christian’s cheek as did clarity into his defeat.

  He came here after considering it for fourteen years, weighing the risks constantly. Even his wild search during the war, which turned up nothing, left him with the cold reality that he’d probably never see her again. But Griffin—what he told him. He didn’t have the heart to ask Gilly about it. If he had, maybe he would have stirred up a memory that she’d buried away all this time. He would have upset her. And it wouldn’t change anything. He’d be selfish bringing it up now even if he saw her again. Maybe it was just straining his ego to think she’d left because she didn’t love him. How would it benefit her? And how could Griffin do something like that? Christian rolled his shoulders back, considering it. He wouldn’t. But if he did, Christian knew in his heart that he’d never have hurt her. He would have stopped himself. He would have known Gilly wasn’t his wife. It broke Christian’s heart to imagine how upset—how scared—she must have been, if it did in fact happen. It broke his heart even mo
re to think she hadn’t told him.

  Second-guessing wouldn’t help. What was more important was that he’d found her, the girl he’d adored from the moment they met at Little Tub Harbour… well and happy, living in an uncomplicated place after a grossly complicated war. Christian felt proud of her for climbing out of it on top. And though words had told her story, he’d never know what it was really like for her—to know the trepidation she felt while the Luftwaffe thundered above Billy Bunk, Gilly in her rubber boots curled up with a family that wasn’t hers. Maybe his fear was the same the time those Bf 109’s emerged from the clouds heading straight toward his Tiffy. They hadn’t expected them. After their earlier mission, his war-weary squadron was ready for a breather, not a battle. But a terrific gun barrage in the skies it was. Fighter planes darting in and out of the clouds like a frenzy of rabid moths around a street lamp. Even when the adrenalin was choking, Gilly never left him. He wondered if he’d crossed her mind in Billy Bunk. He wondered what the morrow held in store.

  As the clanging of masts sung their evening lullaby, Christian decided it was time to leave. The Isle of Man was home to Gilly McAllister, not his Gilly anymore, but its Gilly. It deserved an impassioned, relentless woman like her. Christian glanced over at a couple who’d just sat down outside the pub, a frothy pint each and the sweet laughter that only comes with a new relationship. He nodded at them but wasn’t sure if they’d even noticed until Roland came out to take down the remaining chairs shouting, “Hi ya! Ya doin’ alright?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “The weather’s the craps, eh? First time in days anyone’s wanted to sit out here.”

  Christian smirked, attesting to his insight, “Brave souls!” he said, waving as he headed to his room.