by Kit Pearson
“He ran away because he knew no one would believe him! And he didn’t need to say anything because he is innocent!”
“No, Polly,” said Uncle Rand. “Your father ran away because he was guilty. You need to accept this, my dear. What he did was very wrong.”
“He did it for you,” said Noni, “but that’s no excuse.”
Waves of disappointment crashed over Polly. “Do you believe my father stole the money?” she asked Gregor.
Gregor looked as if he wished he were playing tennis. “I’m sorry, Pollywog, but I do.”
“I never did trust Daniel after what he did to our Una!” said Aunt Jean.
Polly stared at her. What did she mean?
Noni said sharply, “Be quiet, Jean! Our personal feelings about Daniel have no place in this discussion.” Then her voice softened. “Girls, we know how hard it is for you to hear these things about your father. We don’t expect you to believe them yet, but you’re going to have to one day. I don’t doubt for one minute that your father loves you—that’s why he stole the money. But just remember that he’s capable of breaking the law.”
Maud spoke for the first time. “Are you going to tell the police that our father is alive?” she asked them.
Hope fluttered in Polly. Was Maud going to defend Daddy?
“No, we are not,” said Uncle Rand. “We’ve decided that it’s not fair for the two of you to suffer the publicity that would follow from that. A man presumed drowned who is found alive is going to make a much bigger story than before. It might hit the B.C. papers, and then everyone on the island would be talking about it. We can’t do that to you.”
Or to yourselves! thought Polly. Daddy was right. None of them was going to risk the scandal.
“At least your father has promised not to try to see you again until you’re adults,” said Noni. “By then I think both of you will have realized how wrong he was.”
“I already know that,” said Maud. “I know our father is a thief.”
The family all looked approving. “Oh, poor chickie,” said Aunt Jean, giving her a hug. “What a cross to bear!”
“I hope you are praying for him, Maud,” said Uncle Rand.
“I am,” said Maud tightly, “but I’ve already decided I don’t want to write to him.”
“You don’t have to, Maud,” said Noni. “You’re being very mature and sensible and I’m proud of you for that decision. What about you, Polly? Don’t you think it would be better not to correspond with your father? All of this is simply too much for you right now. I’m sure he’d understand.”
“That would be so much easier, chickie,” said Aunt Jean. “If you and Daniel had no communication he could be out of our lives. It really would have been better if he had drowned,” she added to Uncle Rand in a murmur, but Polly heard her.
Gregor smiled at Polly. “Let’s just forget about your father and carry on with the good times we’ve had since you arrived.”
“Nobody but us is aware that Daniel’s alive,” said Uncle Rand, “and I know that you girls will continue to keep that a secret. So nothing needs to change from before, Polly. Your happy life here can continue. But if you and your father start writing to each other, you’re always going to be reminded of him and you won’t be as happy. I don’t think it’s fair of him to ask you to write.”
“Neither do I,” said Noni. “Polly, you can cling to your belief that your father is innocent. In time I think you’ll realize he isn’t, but we’re not going to try to change your mind. In fact, as Gregor says, after today we’ll just carry on. We’ll continue to keep Daniel a secret and we won’t talk about him among ourselves. But Rand is right, hen. Writing to him will just upset you. Wouldn’t you rather put all that misery behind you?”
Polly sat on the fender stool in front of the fireplace as her family’s voices pelted her. She looked up at the circle of faces—the faces she had thought she loved. They had all betrayed her … even Maud and even Noni.
She stood up, swallowing hard—she would not cry. “Of course I want to write to Daddy,” she said quietly. Then fury whipped her voice into a shout. “Of course I do! Daddy isn’t wrong—you are! He’s not a thief! He didn’t steal the money and I will never believe he did! I hate all of you! I wish I could leave this place and live with Daddy!”
She fled.
Polly pressed her face into the mattress in the cabin, trying to catch a whiff of Daddy. She pulled the blanket tightly around her, but she couldn’t stop trembling. Tarka curled into a ball at her feet.
“I hate them, I hate them!” she whispered, pounding her fist into the mattress.
Maybe she should run away. She could go and live with Daddy. She’d have to take the boat to Vancouver, but how would she get to Kelowna? She didn’t know where Daddy lived. She had no money, and someone would be sure to stop a child travelling alone.
That was the whole problem. She was still a child, so the adults wouldn’t listen to her. She had no power.
I hate them! thought Polly again. The word was like an icicle inside her. She wished she could cry, but her tears were frozen as well.
Tarka whined—he wanted his dinner. Polly hadn’t touched her lunch. She was hungry too, but she couldn’t bear to eat with any of the family.
She decided she would sneak back to the house, get food for both of them, and hide herself and Tarka out here the way she had hidden Daddy. They might think she had run away. They would worry and cry. That would teach them to listen to her! She’d return in the morning, but she would make them all miserable for a night.
What could she do with Tarka? If he came back with her, he might give her away, but if she tied him up, he would bark so shrilly that someone might hear him from the road. She would just have to keep hold of him and hope he’d be quiet.
The rucksack she had used for Daddy’s food was still lying on the table. Polly picked it up and walked slowly back to the house, using her belt as a leash for Tarka so he wouldn’t run ahead. When she reached the back door, she picked up Tarka and paused.
Luckily it was Mrs. Hooper’s day off. Polly crept to the kitchen window and peeked in: no one was there. Maud and Noni must be in their rooms.
It was too difficult to hold Tarka and try to open cupboards. Polly put him on the floor. “Stay!” she whispered. Quickly she ransacked the pantry, stuffing cold chicken, Tarka’s meat, carrots, and cookies into her rucksack.
When Tarka smelled his dinner, he rushed over and yapped at her to hurry up and feed him. “Shush!” said Polly, but it was too late.
“Is that you, hen?” Noni came into the kitchen. She looked at the stuffed rucksack sitting on the kitchen floor.
“Oh, my poor Polly, what were you doing?”
There was no point in lying. “I was going to spend the night in the cabin,” muttered Polly, not looking at Noni. “I don’t want to be with any of you.”
Noni started towards her, then stopped. “I don’t blame you, hen. We’ve all let you down, haven’t we? I’m very sorry you’re so disappointed in us. Will you listen to me for just a few minutes?”
Polly just stood there, gazing at the floor.
“Polly, you are simply too young to understand. I admire your loyalty to your father, but one day you’ll have to realize he did something very wrong.”
“You don’t like him,” said Polly. “You’re pre–” What was that word Daddy had used? “You’re prejudiced. “
“I don’t know Daniel,” said Noni. “I’ve only met him a few times. And yes, Polly, there are reasons I took against him, but those don’t concern us right now. I’m far more concerned that he’s a thief. However … he’s still your father. I won’t be able to stop him seeing you when you’re grown up, and I’ve changed my mind about you writing to him in the meantime. I apologize for trying to persuade you not to, hen. I’ll give you his address and you can write as much as you want.”
“Good,” muttered Polly. She couldn’t say thank-you for something that Noni should have to
ld her in the first place.
“Oh, my dearest Polly, all I want is for you to be happy! Enjoy your father’s letters and enjoy being young while you can. Enjoy the island and your friends, enjoy your last year at school. You’re going to like St. Winifred’s too, despite what you think. You’ve become so contented, living here. I want you to keep on being happy and not worry so much about adult matters that you have no control over.
All right?”
Part of Polly yearned to give in to that soothing, safe voice, but a new, stronger self didn’t trust it any more.
Noni sighed. “I know you’re still very angry at us, and you can be angry for as long as you like. Just remember that we love you very much and we’re so grateful that you came into our lives. Now, why don’t you go up to your room and tidy up for dinner? I’ll feed Tarka.”
“I won’t eat with you,” said Polly.
“Then I’ll bring you up a tray. Off you go, now,” said Noni firmly. Polly had no choice. She stumbled upstairs and closed the door. Then finally, after this long, long day, she let herself cry.
For a week Polly spoke to her family as little as possible. She spent as much time as she could with Biddy and Vivien, or on long walks with Tarka. She was quiet with her friends, but she knew they would think she was still worried about her father. At home she ate quickly with her head down, then slipped from her chair and went to her room. She began to feel as if she were enclosed by glass walls.
Noni and Aunt Jean and Uncle Rand let her be angry, although they gave her sorrowful looks. On the weekend, Maud stayed at school as usual and Gregor didn’t come home. Vivien asked Biddy and Polly to a slumber party for her birthday on Saturday. Noni told Polly she didn’t have to go to church.
The slumber party was a welcome escape from home. For the first time since Daddy had left, Polly felt lighthearted. They squatted on the floor in Vivien’s attic room and wrote names of movie stars and colours and fortunes onto a folded paper square.
“Your turn, Polly,” said Vivien.
Polly picked “Ginger Rogers.”
Vivien rapidly opened and shut the flaps: “G-I-N-G-E-R-R-O-G-E-R-S.”
Then Polly picked “Blue.”
“B-L-U-E.”
Under the “Blue” flap was a fortune in Vivien’s printing: “You will marry someone with brown hair.”
“Chester!” giggled Biddy.
“Mrs. Chester Simmons,” pronounced Vivien.
Polly thumped her friends in protest, but she couldn’t help laughing. The ice inside her began to melt.
When she arrived home late Sunday afternoon, the house smelled of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Tarka jumped into her arms and licked her face. Noni and Aunt Jean were turning over the pieces of a new jigsaw puzzle they had laid out on the card table. Uncle Rand was deep in his newspaper. They all looked up and smiled.
Try not to be angry with them, Daddy had written.
“I’m back,” said Polly. She couldn’t resist. The room was so warm and welcoming and she itched to get at the puzzle.
“We’re so glad,” said Noni. “Can you help us? This is a devilish one.”
Polly pulled up a chair beside them and began looking for edge pieces.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
VALEDICTORY
Slowly Polly’s life returned to normal. Nothing, of course, could be the same as it was before Daddy’s visit. She acted friendly now to Maud and the rest of her family, but it was a careful friendliness. She didn’t hate them any more, but she was still angry. Her anger gave her an inner power. She knew she was right and they were wrong.
Now Polly felt free to wear her necklace. Its light weight helped ease the ache of missing Daddy. At least now she could write to him—letters that he answered, not letters that she hid. Every Sunday afternoon Polly wouldn’t let herself do anything else until she had written out her week. She ended each letter with the same sentence: “I can hardly wait until the day we can be together again.” Each time Noni silently handed her an envelope from Kelowna, Polly would rush up to her room to tear it open.
After apple picking had ended, Daddy had started a new job laying bricks. “I used to help my father sometimes, but I never thought I’d be doing it myself. I’m surprised at how satisfying a job it is,” he wrote. Jim and Perry had left, and Daddy had found a room in a boarding house in town, with a widow and her daughter. He got a reduced rate for helping with repairs to the house. There were three other boarders, and Daddy seemed to get along with them well.
He always addressed his letters to both girls and constantly asked about Maud. Polly told him as much as she could, sometimes simply copying parts of Maud’s letters from school—endless, boring details about prefects’ meetings and the Guppy’s teas and Maud’s friends.
Polly forwarded all of Daddy’s letters to Maud and quizzed her on them when she came home for Christmas: “Which person in the boarding house do you like the best? Do you think Daddy’s right about his new boss?”
“You don’t have to test me,” Maud told her. “I’ve read every letter. I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Oh, Maud, why don’t you write back? Daddy would really like it if you did.”
“I don’t choose to,” said Maud.
Polly sighed. She wanted to yell at Maud, but that wouldn’t help. Instead she sat down to finish the painting she was sending to Daddy for Christmas.
While Polly was singing at the Christmas concert, she noticed Chester standing with his parents at the back of the hall. Ever since that long-ago kiss on the stairs, she and Chester had acted like polite strangers. But this evening Polly couldn’t stop looking at him. He was taller than his parents now, and he looked so handsome in his grey suit. All during the last carol Polly tried to decide if she could just stroll up to him and casually wish him a Merry Christmas.
“'Joy to the World'!” she bellowed with the rest of the choir. The words gave her courage. As soon as the applause had ended, Polly made her move.
“Hi, Chester,” she said quietly.
Chester smiled at her. But he couldn’t seem to speak, and the blood rose in his face like a tide. Polly immediately regretted her decision.
“Why, Polly, how are you?” his mother said. “What a wonderful concert! You children get better every year.”
Mr. Simmons chucked Polly under the chin. “What a pretty young lady you’re getting to be! Don’t you agree, son?”
That ruined everything. Chester stared at the floor; now even his ears were scarlet. Polly was trapped for agonizing moments while his mother asked her about her family. Finally she muttered, “I should go,” and escaped.
He doesn’t like me any more, Polly decided as she walked home under the stars. All the kindness he had shown her in school, his kiss and his shy greetings during the holidays—none of that meant a thing.
The encounter gave Christmas another tinge of sadness. Polly missed Daddy so sharply that the family’s usual jovial festivities bounced off her, as if she were inside her glass walls again. Daddy had sent her a cheap ring with a fake emerald in it. Polly noticed Noni trying to suppress her disapproval. She wore her ring defiantly until it turned her finger black.
The Hogmanay celebration didn’t feel like a fresh start to the year as it usually did. “Happy New Year!” everyone cried, but this was the year Polly had dreaded, when she would have to go away to school.
In March, Polly went to Victoria to write an entrance exam for St. Winifred’s. She sat in a classroom at the school with four other girls, a stern-looking teacher presiding over them. The room was chillier than the air outside. Polly waited to start, rubbing her bare arms.
“You may begin,” said the teacher. Everyone flipped over their papers.
The exam was in three parts: English, mathematics, and history. The questions were challenging, especially the math ones, but Uncle Rand’s tutoring had been so helpful that Polly knew she could do most of them. But she put her pencil down for a few minutes as an idea came to her.
>
Why not fail the exam? Then she wouldn’t have to come here! She could stay on the island and Noni would hire a governess. Biddy and Vivien could share her—it would be like having their own school!
Never in her life had Polly done something so deliberately wrong. Her pencil scribbled so fast she could hardly keep up with it, as if someone else were writing the exam. The math questions were the easiest to fake: Polly simply wrote down any numbers she could think of. It was also easy to choose the incorrect answers in the multiple choice sections for English and history, because, except for a few, she knew the right ones.
But then she had to write two short essays in ink. She put down her pencil and picked up her pen. The first essay was an analysis of a poem by William Wordsworth, the one that began, “My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky.” It was Noni’s favourite poem; she knew it by heart and had recited it to Polly many times.
The good Polly longed to write out her own love for the poem. She knew how well she could do it. But the bad Polly dipped her pen into the inkwell and began the essay in her messiest writing, making large blots and misspelling as many words as she could.
“The first sentens in this pome means that Wordwooth likes rainbows. It is very hard to understand the rest. It dont make sens that a child is a father of a man. I think Wodwooth is a stupid poet.”
Polly went on to write just as sloppily about the French Revolution, saying that she couldn’t remember what it was about but that it had something to do with all the French people eating cake. Then she put down her pen.
Everyone else was still scribbling away. Polly hugged her cold arms and stared around the room, her cheeks flaming. The teacher at the front came down from her platform. “Is anything wrong, dear?” she whispered.
“I’m done,” Polly whispered back.
“Already? But you still have half an hour!”
“I can’t do any more—it’s too hard for me.”
The solemn teacher became kind. “Now, my dear, you’re just nervous. Look over everything carefully and I’m sure you can add something.”
