The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  “I found your cottage by following the picture I’d painted in my mind, the cottage I’d created in my novel.” She smirks knowing it wasn’t magic but rather tying together all the pieces she’d heard over the years, all those nights by the campfire when she was a young girl. She hadn’t realized at the time how she soaked in every word, every description of her grandma’s life. That was why words had become so important to her, just as they were to her grandma. It didn’t hurt either that half the waterfront knew exactly which cottage it was and even recognized her grandma in her. “It felt strange, as though I was coming home,” she says, her brow furrowed. “Two old ladies live there now. Best friends their whole lives. But what was odd was that even though they were originally from the north, they knew who I was as well. Said they’d been waiting for me, waiting for the person on the envelope.”

  As though expecting her grandma to clarify, Gilly reaches into her coat pocket and takes out the envelope. “It’s your handwriting, Grandma, with my name on the front. I sat on the hearth, two floorboards over from where the ladies found your letter years earlier, hidden underneath until the floor was nearly rotting through. They never opened it, said it didn’t belong to them,” she sighs. “To entertain themselves on cold winter nights, they’d imagine what was in the letter—usually a love letter, sometimes filled with betrayal, other times a mystery involving a smuggler. But always, they said, ‘in the end the rightful owner will come looking for it.’”

  “I’m not sure when you hid it, but I learned that you had kept the cottage for most of your life before selling it when I was a child. You can’t know how much I wanted to read the letter then and there. Instead, the ladies left me to my thoughts and I just sat there wavering. Should I open it now or shouldn’t I? Selfishly, I thought it could add to my book, but then I considered that the words inside this envelope were written for my eyes only. So I tucked it away unopened. I waited until it was time to bring it here. Just breathing the salty air on the Isle of Man and walking through the barren barley fields of winter, all I had to do was close my eyes anyway. I could see you perfectly standing on that stone wall waving to Christian as he swooped down in his crop duster, both of you as happy as the day you’d met. That was for my book. This letter,” Gilly says waving it lightly then tearing the seal, “is for me.”

  23rd of May, 1991

  My dearest granddaughter,

  When you find this letter, you will likely be a grown woman and I will likely be a memory. A happy one, I hope. When I held your tiny hand for the first time, I knew that I would never let go. And so here we are. I have told you my story as I always planned to. I don’t know where or how, but I know the good Lord would not have taken me before I had the chance to tell you. The remainder of my secret that I have kept for most of my life can finally be set free. I have waited for very good reason, but before I tell you what that is, I want to begin with the day I came to exist only.

  Living was something Christian’s memory had to teach me all over again. That beautiful man belonged on the Bruce Peninsula, not on the Isle of Man. Can you feel my breathy sigh rise from this paper Gilly, feeling right about my choice? So I took him home and buried him by his butterfly cove under a nest of sycamore trees. It was the place, he’d say, where all his troubles would float away on a fluff of silky milkweed floss.

  It was there after a quiet funeral that I met your grandfather, his name as sorry as the first time I met him… though it made me smile. He didn’t know at the time, but I was pregnant. When I told him, he promised to love Christian’s child as his own and to give an unwed mother-to-be a stable life. At the time, it felt like the right choice. I needed a soft place to fall, for my recent losses were cruel. He explained to me that he and Christian had become friends and that he was there the day Christian’s plane was shot down over the forests of Belgium. He, in fact, had parachuted from the same aircraft.

  Gilly, can you feel me squeezing your hand? If you can’t, close your eyes for a moment before I go on. Can you feel it now?

  Your grandpa, darling, was Christian’s gunner.

  Somehow I know there is a long silence wherever you are reading this. It seems to be weaving into the afterlife. But I must go on.

  Your grandpa had never really forgiven himself for Christian’s injury. He had nightmares for years, and although I know he grew to love me, I am quite sure that he married me to ease his mind… a sort of reprieve, if you will. That is why I have always kept a very special photograph next to my bed. But for you, my sweet, I have removed it from my Bible and tucked it in this envelope. When you look at it, I think you’ll understand.

  It may have aged with time but it’s a photo of the two men whom I have cherished most in this world for two very different reasons. Christian is in the foreground sitting on the wing of his Hawker Typhoon with your grandpa standing by the rear of the plane, both wearing their flight suits. It is the only photograph the two had ever taken together. But if you look closely, you’ll notice that the Tiffy only had a single seat. It was your grandpa who had arranged for Christian to abandon his plane and fly with him that day in a two-seater fighter, destined for ruin.

  As Gilly examines the photo, she can’t help but recognize it from her own writing. Though it differs in setting, it’s more or less the photo that has already woven its way into her novel. Perhaps it’s an anomaly of sorts, but maybe, just maybe, she considers, it was something divine. When a chill runs through her, she pulls her scarf higher, suddenly feeling the grip of winter.

  Do you see it now, Gilly? Just as I realized the truth through my poems, “the gift of their love was never mine, just lent to me for a short spell of time.”

  That day at the field, I planned to tell Christian my news, that we would have a child together. I know he was happy when I whispered it in my cries all that evening. Do you want to know how I know? Because all these years I’ve watched his smile in your father who bears his name and in your smile, my dearly treasured granddaughter who bears my name.

  Now comes the hard part: forgiving your grandma for burying the truth for so long. The reasons may not outweigh the injustice, but it is important that you know how much I desperately wanted to tell your father all these years. Granted, it was more important not to hurt the ones I loved than to ease my own conscience.

  Why now? you might be asking yourself. Angus’ love for your dad was bewitching. I’d say it was almost a crusade that he provide this child the life he deserved, the life that your grandpa believed he had nearly robbed him of. As he grew into his role, the deception grew larger than life. I’ve asked myself countless times if your dad needed to know the truth. After all, Angus has been the only father he’s ever known, the only father who has had a chance to love him, to nurture him. And as the years still pass, I know I can’t hurt your grandpa by telling your dad the truth. I actually think Grandpa has forgotten what the truth is. Moreover, when your dear grandpa passes away one day, I know in my heart that even then I will not be able to tell your dad. I pray to the good Lord that this knowledge will not burden you but instead make you smile knowing that you were the lucky one to have had an extra grandpa.

  So I hope you can understand why it has to be you who tells my story. You have inherited my love for words. I know because you never stop talking. Can you feel my smile now? You are a little girl full of wonder, and I know that as you read this in the future you are now a woman of wonder. Equally as important, my story cannot happen in your grandpa’s lifetime, and it has to be gentle enough to coo my darling son when the time comes for him to read your words. Only you have such finesse.

  My love to you for all time,

  Grandma

  “So that’s what it was,” Gilly whispers softly, finally understanding why Auntie Beaty didn’t want her to go to Cuckfield. “She didn’t want me to find out who my real grandfather was. She was trying to protect me, wasn’t she?” she says now cutting through the air. “But I’m glad to know the truth. And I’m glad I waited till
I came here.” Gilly breathes deeply, feeling the cold snatch her lungs. Yet as she lets the news fall softly around her, a loon’s song fills the distant air with an eerie, wistful cry. Saddened for a moment, wondering if it had lost its way in migration and was left to fend for itself, a surge of emotion fills Gilly, making her shudder in the cold. When she turns her head at the flapping of wings from shore, a rush of freedom takes Gilly to another place when she witnesses the bird’s mate land by its side.

  “Hardly a burden,” she finally concedes with soppy eyes. “This day is even more magical than expected. I got two packages in the mail this morning. That’s why I’ve come all this way today. One from you and one from my publisher. But I haven’t opened yours yet. Like the envelope, I thought I’d wait to do it here,” Gilly says reaching into a bag for the small package.

  As she strips the box of its brown paper and twine, she finds a dish with a silver lid inside wrapped in blue velveteen cloth. Gilly’s brow kneads together, a sudden tingling dancing down her arms. Could it be? Is it really possible? And when she lifts the lid, her heart skips a beat—a tarnished pocket watch! She lifts it out, letting the chain hang over her palm, not quite believing her eyes or daring to open it. When she does, she understands for the first time the marvels of love, for inside she finds a brittle four-leaf clover.

  Tears well in her eyes as she takes her newly published novel, the very first copy, then drapes the chain along the book’s spine… where it belongs.

  “This is for you,” she says setting the book down between the graves.

  Gilly’s eyes travel the snowy curve of the cove while feeling proud of her grandpa. He knew that he was the one lucky enough to grow old with her grandma, yet he still asked for her to be laid to rest here one day… where she belongs. As Gilly turns to leave, her eyes fall on the only neighboring stone on the shores of Georgian Bay. She kisses her fingers lightly then places them on his name:

  Christian Dean Hunter

  1912-1946

  Where all your troubles float away

  And only rest and peace remain!

  As Gilly walks through the wooded path, trees like naked statues, a gust of wind swirls around her and whoops through the branches and over to her grandmother’s grave where it throws open the pages of her story.

  To Grandma

  For your poems, your Irish jigs and making me laugh till tears spilled from my eyes.

  And this story?I could feel your hand on mine with every word.

  Acknowledgements

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my grandma, Gertrude Beck, for the amazing gift she placed in my trust just weeks before she died. “Maybe you can do something with these one day,” she said. Nine words that sent me on a creative journey ten years later for which I will forever be grateful. This book would not exist without her. I hope that I have captured your spirit in Gillian’s character, but most of all I hope that I have made you proud.

  My sister, Julie Blain. Thank you for your constant support and friendship and for drilling into me to dream big and make it happen. In her words, “Never give up!”

  Stephanie Harper, a treasured friend since high school, had just five words for me when I showed her what my grandma had left me, “THIS is your novel, Susan!” I am indebted to Stephanie for all those e-mails, phone calls and chapter critiques. Thank you for being my literary guru, and for always supporting my dreams.

  A special thanks goes to my dear friend, Barbara Rörqvist whose son gave me the inspiration for Christian, and whose character bears his name. I know he walks with you every day.

  Many thanks to my friend and colleague, Shashi Sethi for sharing her culture and photos from India with me. Who would have known the beautiful story those photographs would paint in my mind? Thank you!

  Thank you to my editor Elizabeth Turnbull for believing that this story needed to be shared and for seeing it through an objective eye. It has been a long journey of drafts and edits, but you’ve been instrumental in helping me fine-tune the manuscript. Thank you.

  Thanks to my two children, Alexander and Isabelle for craving my bedtime stories while growing up. You fed my imagination then and inspire me today as you grow into incredible young adults. I am so proud of you both. Thank you for always believing in me.

  Most of all, thank you to my husband Staffan whose unwavering support and love have helped me turn my dreams into attainable goals. You’re my sounding board, my best friend, and quite frankly, a gift from the Swedish rain gods. You are amazing.

  Lastly, I am indebted to a number of books and websites for the insight and stories of Britain’s Internment camps on the Isle of Man, life in Britain during WWII, and Hindu traditions, coupled with information by friends and colleagues. A full listing of these sources can be found on my website: www.susanornbratt.com/books.

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Susan Örnbratt was born in London, Canada and grew up on the dance floor until her brother’s high school rowing crew needed a coxswain. Quickly, she traded in her ballet shoes for a megaphone and went on to compete in the Junior and Senior World Championships and the XIII Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh, Scotland.

  A graduate from the University of Western Ontario in French and the University of Manitoba in elementary education, as well as attending L’Université Blaise Pascal Clermont-Ferrand II in France while she worked as a fille au pair, Susan has gone on to teach and live in six countries.

  Although a maple leaf will forever be stitched on her heart, she has called Sweden her home for the past sixteen years with a recent three-year stint in North Carolina, USA for her husband’s work. It was there where Susan wrote The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley.

  Susan lives in Gothenburg with her husband and two children and an apple tree beloved by the local moose population. If she isn’t shooing away the beasts, you can find her in her garden with some pruning shears, a good book, and always a cup of tea. If Susan were dried out, she could be brewed.

  A reader’s guide and interview with the author are available online:lightmessages.com/susanornbratt

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