The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  The inn was about as quiet as an inn could get. If he could, he’d stock it up with every fisherman from here to Georgian Bay for the next season or two. He liked the old man behind the counter. Didn’t do much. Just sat there on his bench whittling away at some piece of wood, churning out at least half a dozen nutcrackers just in the time Christian had been there. When the innkeeper wasn’t whittling, he was tying fishing flies—some real beauties, too. Gave them magical names like “Silver Doctor” and “Machete Moon.” Even Griffin could learn a thing or two from this clam digger. He was always friendly, but business wasn’t exactly booming.

  Christian sighed when he opened the door and saw his backpack next to the wardrobe. He’d spent one gloomy day wondering if he should go by Gilly’s again or not, then two days seeing Castletown and Douglas, the island’s capital. Truth be known, he wasn’t all that interested in seeing anywhere without her and had even considered asking her along. But something wasn’t sitting right, and he supposed he knew why. Christian glanced down as he hobbled to the backpack, tired from his bus trip back.

  He rolled up his shirts and the only other pair of trousers he’d brought with him, digging them down in the backpack as far as he could, saving room for the three-legged Manx flag Gilbert had dropped off at the pub for him. Apparently Mr. Ballard had worn it as a cape into the pub while snorting some God-awful pig version of “Tuxedo Junction.” Christian couldn’t have been more disappointed to miss that. He stretched his back and glanced around the room to see if he’d missed anything. It was time to leave. He stuffed his toiletry bag in the front pocket of his backpack then picked up his walking stick. Though he didn’t use it much of the time, it helped with a heavy load on his back. Christian bid his farewell to the innkeeper and to Roland at the pub then got on his way, knowing what he had to do next.

  Gillian held the maharani’s letter but couldn’t feel it in her fingertips. She couldn’t feel anything but the wet drizzle now trickling down her face. For a moment, she considered letting the ink run, washing away the maharani’s words. However, instinct ruled as she tucked it in her pocket. Her gaze fell to the gravel beneath her wellingtons, the umbrella lying in a puddle made of tears as much as raindrops.

  The smudged canvas of gorse and heather stretching across the mead and squared-off paddocks closer to the villages slowly exuded the rancid stench of death.

  “Shashi,” she gasped. In disbelief, Gillian crisscrossed the road like a drunken vagabond, a panic building inside her. How could this be? Was it a terrible prank, a trick to get her on a boat to India? Was it Samir impersonating his mother, thinking it mildly amusing? But she knew this exquisite handwriting could never be forged. A trace of Samir would have been left behind.

  A gust of wind whirled past throwing Gillian into an awful state. Images of Shashi and all they’d learned about one another over the years flooded her heart. She’d just been talking about her, telling Christian all about Samir’s secret palki.

  “Christian,” she muttered. His name felt sweet on her lips, taking away that sting of death. As her brow furrowed and her eyes traveled behind her shoulder to the Irish Sea, she realized that she had to see him. He was the only signpost ahead no matter what he was thinking about her. Had he left the Isle of Man, she would have unearthed him. It wouldn’t matter how or where. None of it mattered—only Shashi—and only Christian’s lips could sound her words. “Please let him be there,” she whispered as she headed toward town, toward the inn.

  Once out of town, Christian slogged along a heavily rutted bridle path before reaching the main road. Pockets of trodden hay padded underfoot made the hike easier. Christian was feeling okay, just okay, resigned to the fact that he’d be heading to Ronaldsway as soon as he said good-bye. It was the right thing to leave this way, even though there remained unanswered questions. Why had she really left him fourteen years ago? Maybe it was true. Maybe her father would have preferred her back in Ireland with an Irishman. But the way Gilly talked about him, Christian knew he wanted her to be happy even if that meant settling in a far off land. And Griffin? “No,” he sighed heavily. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine it was true. He’d never do anything like that. Griffin had a heart of gold. Christian resigned himself to never knowing the truth. Seeing the life Gilly had built for herself, using the power of her smile to make others feel hopeful in the worst of circumstance—it was enough. He was happy that a brighter side of life could shine her way now. Just around the corner there’d be a man waiting for her—the right man.

  The main road, barely wide enough for two cars, curled through the last of the slate-stone cottages and outbuildings heading toward the sea. Sheep peppered the rolling hills to the west as a hedgerow of rosehip led him to the final cluster of whitewashed cottages. The drizzle wouldn’t let up.

  Gillian breathed in the languid air that would surely make her drop at any moment. Dizzy—that’s precisely what she felt. She stopped by the rosehip to steady herself, her heart racing as she glanced down at the envelope clenched in her fingers. And as the numbing sensation in her limbs surrendered to her need for Christian, she rounded the corner. There he was, as striking as the day she first met him—his sport coat, collar turned up, and trousers now hanging suitably damp against his body, a military kit bag flung over his shoulders, and those droopy eyes held heavy in the mist. He was beautiful. And he was here.

  “Gilly!” Christian said, his brow creasing at the sight of her. Her brown sweater hung sopping, dripping into her boots. She looked like a stray cat that had been caught out in a storm. He glanced past her noticing the umbrella lying on the road then hobbled toward her as quickly as he could manage, throwing his backpack on the wet ground. “What is it? What’s happened?” he pleaded into her shaken expression.

  Gilly tried to speak, but her words fell silent through the trembling and cold. All she could manage was to take out the envelope from her pocket. As he gingerly took it from her fingers, Christian saw the return address. India. A sudden weight plummeted inside him.

  Once in the cottage, Christian stripped Gilly of most of her wet clothes then threw a blanket around her and eased her into the lounge chair. After adding a couple logs of peat to the fire, he filled a pot with water to boil for tea. As he stood next to the stove, he glanced over at Gilly warming by the fire under the low-beamed ceiling, the envelope sitting on the hearth. He’d never seen her like this, the invincible Gillian McAllister. If he’d only had her magical way of pulling someone out of the darkness…

  “Will you read it to me? The one marked with my name?” she whispered as he knelt now in front of her. He set her tea on the table next to her.

  Christian took the envelope then moved to a small needlepointed footstool in front of the hearth. He’d imagined straight away the long evenings she must have spent here alone writing or crocheting. Signs were scattered everywhere: fountain pens, parchment, yarn, knitting and crochet needles, and his pocket watch slipped between the pages of a blue notebook, the notebook he’d seen in the garden the day he’d first visited, the notebook filled with poems.

  Christian lifted the flap to the envelope then pulled out the letter marked Gillian.

  23rd of November 1943

  Dear Gillian,

  I am not certain when you will have this letter. It could be in two weeks or in two years. If I am lucky, you will never have to read these words. I have asked my mother to post it one day in the future when I have passed. My fifteenth birthday was a fortnight ago, and it has been eleven and a half years since we waved to each other from sea to dock. I remember that day very, very well. I held my mother’s hand as a tear fell to my very English, shiny black shoes with the buckles. You chose my dress, do you remember? It had such a pretty lace collar, and you said that it was befitting a princess.

  If I had all the rupees in all of India, I would snip that day from my memory, for it is the day that I left my nanny, my best friend, and I shall never meet her again.

  I am a terrible person, Gilli
an. I have kept my illness from you, but I always planned to tell you one day of my greatest and final adventure. If you are reading this now then today is that day.

  I do not need to speak of my illness. I am quite sure that my mother has told you what you need to know. Instead, I want to tell you about the angels.

  My mother and father were having a small party a few years ago. It was just before the war came to be. We are controlled by Britain, you know, so it was not such a good idea to have a big party when the world was shaking like your fizzy drinks waiting to explode. But it is an important celebration for Hindus, and one that my mother and father, especially in my circumstance, wanted to hold. It is called Raksha Bandhan, which is a ceremony where a sister ties a sacred thread called a rakhi to her brother’s wrist. This shows the sister’s love and prayers for her brother’s wellbeing and the brother’s lifelong vow to protect her. Samir gave me an envelope with rupees in it and a small note that said, “Money is just money but you, Shashi, are my angel. I wish I could protect you from your sickness.”

  I remember we fed each other sweets in the center of the dining hall with a small crowd around us. My favorite has always been Jalebi because it is chewy like English Milady Toffee. (I know you knew that Samir and I kept a tin hidden under our bed, but you never said a word.)

  Later that evening in our great dining hall when everyone was dancing and the colors of the saris swirled together like a sea of jewels, Samir and I crawled under a table and peered from behind a cloth of gold—and waited. The smell of incense danced with the flicking of wrists while an old man with a very hairy face sat in the corner smoking from a hookah. I was afraid of him, for I could see only little slits for eyes.

  When all was quiet and our guests had left, we knew that our mother and father would take the carriage pulled by our oxen (we named them Sir-Trot-A-Lot and Guy) and ride about our estate under the light of the moon. We had time before they would come to check on us.

  Samir and I lay down in the center of the dance floor, our arms spread apart with our hands held tightly to one another. The room was dark, but the moon cut through the tall window like your stream to the beaver dam in that great lake you were telling me about. Samir told me to look up, and for the first time in all the years that I have eaten in that hall, the four angels painted on the ceiling came alive and were flying above me. They have long black hair, just like mine, and wear saris the colors of the sea. Their wings have feathers the colors of the stone on the walls. They whirled around me smiling, each carrying a pendant… a medal. Samir told me to close my eyes for a moment while they placed the medals around my neck. He explained that one was for bravery, the other for storytelling, one for honor, and the last for a thousand smiles. When I opened my eyes, my medals felt like the large pebbles from my pond hanging on a piece of twine—just like an angel would give. Samir said that no maharani deserved such laurels as I did. He then took one of my thousand smiles and squeezed my hand.

  I asked the angels why they had chosen me to be sick. I always tried to be a good girl, after all. I learned all my spellings and I have always done as I am told—mostly. Samir told me that one day I would know. I also asked if I would grow wings just like them and how that could happen if I am burned. My brother told me that because our souls go on after life, my wings will fly to my soul, so I do not need to worry.

  What I did not tell my brother, what I have not told anyone until now, is that I am frightened. I am not supposed to be as a Hindu, but I am. I am terrified of fire. I don’t think I am supposed to know what will happen, but I know that they will make a special bed of sandalwood for my body and cover my head. I think I will try to brush the fire from my skin. I once burned my finger, and it hurt so. The next day, they will take my bones and ashes to the sacred water of the Ganges. I am not sure, but I think my father, the maharaja, will carry my ashes until the water comes to his waist. Then he will say something while setting me free. I will imagine that I am floating to my nanny in the Irish Sea. My mother will prepare three balls of food, my favorite food, and set them at the edge of the water. If birds come to eat my food, every bit of rice holding it together, then my parents will know my soul is at peace. But Gillian… what if the birds do not come? Perhaps I can roam for eternity in your little cottage on the Isle of Man. Would you mind a houseguest terribly?

  Now you know my last adventure, but I have a feeling that you would say to me that it is not my greatest—that my greatest adventures have been on this Earth. Please don’t be sad for me, Gillian. As you know, I have a thousand smiles, and smiles can be seen in words. All you need to do is read my letters and take a smile from them whenever you need. Your smile was always brightest when you wrote about Mr. Right, and I borrowed those ones especially. He built you that mushroom for a reason. He loves you, just as I do.

  Good-bye my nanny, good-bye my friend,

  Shashi

  Christian folded the letter then slid it back into the envelope. Gilly stared vacantly into the fire as he added one wood log then used the poker to stir up the peat. The crackling from the fire whispered through the room while dark seeped into the sky outside. Christian took the liberty of stepping into the bedroom for her robe, which he found hanging behind the door. She stood up, letting the blanket drop to the floor, and as he held up her robe she slipped her arms into it.

  “Will you stay?”

  He glanced at his backpack by the door ready for the airport. “Yes.”

  Then Gilly took his hand and led him to her small loveseat where they nuzzled without a word between them. Christian held her in his arms until she finally drifted into a soft pool of slumber. She’d never looked so beautiful.

  Dawn broke as Gillian gazed out the latticed window from her bed. The sea was rowdy this morning. She could feel the misty air all the way to her bones by sight alone. Her door was left slightly ajar. And for a moment she couldn’t recall how she’d made it to her bedroom until the events of last night settled. As she stared at the ceiling thinking of Shashi, a single tear dripped down the side of her face. “Christian,” she soughed. She wondered if he’d stayed the whole night or if he’d snuck out. Wouldn’t blame him—all that gloom. But she’d needed him, and he was there. She slid into her slippers next to the bed then threw her dressing gown over her shoulders, a cap-sleeved cotton nightgown trailing underneath.

  “Good morning,” she said stepping into the lounge where Christian was folding a blanket, propping it on the pillow she’d given him last night. Her eyes traveled downward noticing his large kit bag for the first time. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Home, I thought.”

  Gillian felt her brow kneading together. “I see.”

  “Well, I thought it was time.” For a woman of words, Gillian didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t ready for him to show up out of the blue, fourteen years and one war later, but she sure wasn’t ready for him to leave, either.

  “Please. Will you eat something? I have an egg and a little milk. I’m sure I can create a semblance of an omelette.”

  Christian hatched a grin while throwing on his sport coat then topped his fair hair with a flat cap. His five o’clock shadow from the other day had turned into a scruffy jaw. She wanted to touch it, run her fingers along it.

  He shook his head. “Thank you for last night. It was nice to be here.”

  “I should be the one to say thank you.”

  “You’re welcome then,” he said teetering toward her. “Listen, I’m sorry about Shashi. I know how much she meant to you. At least I think I do. It’s amazing what this war has taken away, but even more amazing what it’s brought. Every time you see a wildflower like the maharani described in that first letter, you’ll know that Shashi’s still trumpeting her music. She played it through the war, and she’ll play it through you… you’ll see.” Christian wore a soft expression, his eyes gentle. “Thank you for letting me read the letters.” He drew a deep breath. “And besides, who do you think Shashi got the musical notes fro
m, anyway?” Gillian cracked a smile as he leaned into her, “You’re extraordinary, remember that.” He picked up his kit bag, approached the front door, opened it—all of it in slow motion or so it felt.

  As Gillian watched him moving down her path, his walking stick in hand, the doorway framed the picture of a man she once loved—still loved—disappearing into the foggy mist and out of her life. It occurred to her in that moment as her stomach leapt to her throat that she wasn’t willing to let him walk away; she couldn’t. Shashi was right. Destiny was a matter of choice, not chance. Gillian deserved more and so did Christian.

  With a sudden jolt, she ran unbridled down the path, her dressing gown swaying behind her until she reached him by the hedgerow. She took hold of his arm in one great pluck.

  “Why do you do that?” she beckoned, steadying herself on the gravel.

  “Do what?”

  “Tell me I’m extraordinary then walk away. It’s twice now you’ve done it, do you know that?”

  “Is that such a bad thing—to be extraordinary?”

  “Oh, you’re infuriating! Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “Me?” Christian said sniggering. “Don’t push me, Gilly. I mean it.”

  “Why? If you’ve got something to say… say it!”

  “I’ve never been able to figure you out. One day you’re in love with me, the next you leave,”

  “Are we on about that now?” she wailed.

  “Right we are! I don’t think for a second it had anything to do with your father wanting you to come home. Sure, maybe I wouldn’t have been his first choice for his little girl, a Canadian who held little promise. But I think he was a good man.”

  “Of course he was!”

  “So why did you use him as a crutch? Why couldn’t you have been honest with me? Why did you leave, Gilly?” Gillian stood silent, staring into his wondering eyes, terrified to tell him the truth. “You’re as stubborn as you ever were. Even a war couldn’t change that, could it?” he said crossly.