by Kit Pearson
“Of course I am!” Ruth pushed her brother aside and grabbed the handle. When the bottle was full, Rodney lifted it back into the wagon and took out another.
After they had filled them all and stopped pumping, the water continued to flow. Ruth and Rodney each stuck their red faces under the spout. Then Patricia, too, thrust her head into the stream and opened her mouth. Icy water ran over her face and hair. It jolted her into an alertness that seemed much too real for a dream. The water was delicious, tinny and sharp. She drank deeply until the gush became a trickle, her feet slipping on the wet wooden platform. Then she ran to catch up with the others.
The store was crowded with children and teenagers. They sat, reading comics and chewing bubble gum, on a bench that edged the windows. Rodney swaggered in front of a group of girls while Ruth bought a paper, bread and milk. Then he sauntered back to her.
“Listen, Ruth. The Thorpes are having a marshmallow roast. Can you manage the wagon alone? You did say you could do it by yourself,” he reminded her. “When you get home tell Mother and Father I won’t be too late, and ask Gordon to come.”
“I don’t see why I should,” retorted Ruth. She eyed the giggling girls suspiciously. “You’re only fifteen, you know. I bet Mother won’t like you going to a mixed party.”
“It’s only a marshmallow roast,” said Rodney, flushing. “Just do as I say. Look, I’ll give you a quarter if you will.”
Ruth pocketed the money. “All right, but don’t blame me if you get into trouble.”
She had a hard time pulling the heavy wagon back to the cottage. The full bottles jiggled and spilled water on the bumpy road. Patricia tried pushing and grinned at Ruth’s surprise when her task became easier.
Gordon helped her carry the water into the kitchen. “Rodney’s gone to a marshmallow roast at the Thorpes,” Ruth told him.
“The Thorpes?” said Gordon eagerly. Patricia followed him into the living room as he handed his father the newspaper and asked if he could go as well.
“Are their parents going to be there?” said his mother. “I know what these parties turn into at your age. Rodney should have come home and asked.”
“Please, Ma,” begged Gordon.
Mr. Reid put down his pipe. He smiled under his moustache. “It’s those young Thorpe girls, isn’t it, Gordon? I saw them today … they’re turning into attractive young ladies. All right, son, but be home by eleven.”
“Andrew, I still don’t think—” his wife protested as Gordon hurried out.
“Now, Pat, they have to grow up sometime.”
She sighed, pulled the kerosene lamp closer and picked up a scrapbook she was working on.
Ruth stood in the doorway. “May I take the canoe out?”
Her mother frowned. “At this time of night?”
“It’s not dark yet.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Pull it well up when you come in,” added her father. The two of them seemed impatient to settle down to a quiet evening and didn’t look up as Ruth, followed by Patricia, left the cottage.
Something nudged Patricia’s mind as she followed Ruth down to the beach. Her grandmother had called her husband Andrew. But wasn’t his name Wilfred? That was the name on the watch.
This is a dream, she reminded herself. It doesn’t have to make sense. It occurred to her, however, that in dreams everything made sense. It was in reality that you noticed when something didn’t.
Once down at the beach she didn’t have time to ponder any more. She had to concentrate on getting into the canoe safely. It was hard to believe it was the same boat she had fallen out of just a few days ago. Its green paint was glossier, but the same crooked letters saying Loon were painted on its prow.
As she settled herself on the floor her hand bumped against Ruth’s knee. She froze in panic, but Ruth simply scratched her leg as if a fly had landed on it.
Patricia faced Ruth as the tall, dark girl steered the canoe. She was just as good at it as Kelly. Patricia studied her carefully and imitated the movements of her arms.
Ruth’s paddle dripped into water turned pink by the setting sun. Then an eerie cry came across the lake. It sounded like a mournful yodel—some kind of bird, Patricia guessed.
Ruth had tears in her eyes. They beaded on her thick lashes and slid down her face. Patricia’s own eyes prickled in sympathy. If only this weren’t a dream and she weren’t invisible, she could talk to this solitary girl. But all she could do was stare at her loneliness.
The bird called again. With a sigh, Ruth wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “I’ll show them,” she whispered. “Someday I’ll show them all.”
She turned the boat towards the shore, but Patricia never got there. One instant she was in the canoe. The next, she was sitting on the bed in La Petite.
7
Patricia ran her hands rapidly over the tufted pattern of the chenille bedspread. She couldn’t believe that she was back here so suddenly … that the vivid dream was over. She rubbed her forehead, trying to wake up fully.
Her hair was damp.
She pulled her fingers through it and started to tremble. Her hair was damp because an hour ago she had stuck her head under icy water that had seemed surprisingly real.
Had it been real? She had been just as wide awake then as she was now. She had known it all along in some part of her. Pretending it was a dream had cushioned the shock of what had happened—that, somehow, she had been spirited back thirty-five years to her mother’s childhood and now, just as mysteriously, had returned to the present.
Think it out, she told herself dizzily. There must be a logical explanation. That was one of her mother’s favourite phrases.
How long had she been gone? It had been about two when she had left the cabin. She looked at her wristwatch and shook it. The hands still pointed to two o’clock; the battery must have run down.
Then she took out the other watch, the gold one hidden under her T-shirt. It said nine thirty-five.
The second hand on her own watch was still jerking forward. It hadn’t run down after all. But the pocket watch had stopped. She pressed it to her ear, but there was no sound.
Patricia lay down on her back on the bed, her fingers running along the watch’s gold chain. She sat up again with excitement as the solution came to her.
It was the watch. She had wound it up and it had taken her back to 1949. It had carried on ticking away the seconds and minutes and hours of the time it had kept when it was last wound. Then it had run down, so the other time had ended and her own time, 1984, had started again where she had left it—at two o’clock.
It was a logical explanation; all except for the reason it had happened. But Patricia was too exhilarated to worry about why. She knew it had happened—her wet hair was proof. And it could happen again. She was certain that, if she wanted to go back to Ruth’s time, all she had to do was rewind the watch.
She couldn’t do it yet, although she knew she would later. Right now she needed some time to recover. At least she had plenty of it. She’d spent about seven hours in the past, but in the present she still had the whole afternoon to lie and think.
She curled up and pondered every detail of the adventure. Her grandparents, Pat and Andrew. (Why not Wilfred?) Her uncles, Gordon and Rodney. Her aunt, Ginnie. And especially Ruth, her mother. Ruth’s anger and isolation and unhappiness. And old cars and wood stoves and pumps and the canoe and the strange call of a bird … Patricia closed her eyes.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The clear peal of a cowbell startled her awake. Feeling very tired and confused, Patricia checked her wristwatch: five o’clock. She was here, in the present, and she had to meet Kelly and Trevor and pretend she’d been with them the whole afternoon.
First she had to hide the pocket watch. She lifted it off her neck and caressed its smooth surface for a second. She didn’t want to return it to the cavity beneath the floor-board in case Uncle Doug put down the new tiles. Glancing around the room, she quickly thrust t
he watch under the mattress of the bed she’d been lying on. She balled up the yellowed cotton and pushed that under the mattress, too. Then she ran out of the cabin.
Patricia yawned all through dinner. “Are you all right?” Aunt Ginnie asked her. “What did you three do this afternoon?”
Her aunt looked surprised and pleased when her niece grinned at her. It was impossible to believe Aunt Ginnie was grown up, she still looked so much like her four-year-old self. “We … ummm … built a fort,” Patricia answered, noting Kelly’s relieved expression.
Aunt Ginnie sent her to bed early. She stretched, luxuriously alone, in the cosy sheets. This had been Ruth’s room, too; maybe even her bed. It was a comforting thought.
THE NEXT MORNING Patricia again contrived to go to the Main Beach with Aunt Ginnie. As they waited for the others to join them, she cleared her throat and asked a tentative question.
“Aunt Ginnie … about my grandmother’s husband …”
“Call her Nan, Patricia!” laughed her aunt. “I know you haven’t seen her for years, but she’d want you to call her what the others do.”
“Yes, well … Nan’s husband. What was his name?”
“Andrew.”
“What was his middle name?” Surely it was Wilfred.
“He had two: Thomas and Hughes. Andrew Thomas Hughes Reid. Father was quite pompous. Having three names suited him. But why do you want to know?”
Patricia babbled an answer. “I just wondered. He died before I was born, didn’t he? What was he like?”
She barely listened to Aunt Ginnie’s reply because she already knew what he was like. But she still didn’t know who Wilfred was.
“Father could be terrifying. He made a pet of me when I was little, but later on I was frightened of him. He was one of those people who grow more rigid with age. And he was quite a bit older than Mama, you know. I sometimes wonder if she only married him because …”
“Because why?” prompted Patricia, now interested again. It was so convenient, the way Aunt Ginnie was willing to gossip about the Reids. She could learn a lot.
“Because she was trying to recover from losing her first fiancé. Mama was engaged to Father’s younger brother, but he died of polio, which was a common disease in those days. She loved him very much—she’s talked about him to me. She still does, sometimes. I think she never got over him.”
“What was—what was his name?” asked Patricia, guessing the answer.
“Wilfred. Now, that’s a name you never hear anymore. Maggie, no! You’re too far out!” Aunt Ginnie jumped up and ran down to the water.
Patricia sat dreamily on her towel. That explained why the watch was inscribed with the name Wilfred. But how did it come to be hidden under the floor? If she kept visiting the past, maybe she would find out. It was like reading an incredibly absorbing book; she wanted to discover all she could about the Reids.
Rosemary cooed beside her and Patricia picked her up, holding her hand behind the baby’s neck the way Aunt Ginnie had shown her. Rosemary was a silky warm lump. Her hair smelled like vanilla. She blew a raspberry at Patricia—her latest trick—and Patricia blew one back. She hoisted the fat baby over her shoulder and held her close, as if she were guarding her secret. This afternoon she would wind the watch and go back again.
BUT AFTER LUNCH Aunt Ginnie had other plans. “Patricia, dear, do you feel ready to learn how to paddle the canoe? The lake’s so calm today it would be a good time for Kelly to give you a lesson.”
Both Patricia and Kelly looked crestfallen, but Aunt Ginnie stilled their objections. “It’s something you should know, Patricia. Don’t you want to learn?”
She did—though not this afternoon. But there was nothing she could do about it. They had to gather up paddles and life jackets and carry them down to the beach.
“Don’t you dare work on the fort without me!” Kelly shouted after Trevor, who pushed past them on the path.
“We can if we want to!” he yelled back.
“I hope you’re a fast learner,” Kelly muttered as she tugged the canoe across the pebbles. “Then we can waste just one afternoon on this. They’ll ruin that fort without me.”
Once Patricia had resigned herself to having a canoe lesson, she began to enjoy it. Kelly didn’t know she had been observing someone paddle only yesterday.
“Don’t sit—kneel with your legs apart and lean against the thwart,” commanded Kelly. “That’s right.” She looked surprised when her cousin immediately took the correct position in the bow Patricia picked up her paddle and put her right hand over the top and her left one around the middle. When Kelly pushed off, she slipped the paddle in the water and lifted it out. The canoe moved forward.
“Hey! I thought you didn’t know how to do this! You sure couldn’t when you dumped it. Has someone else been teaching you?” Kelly looked suspicious.
Patricia flushed. “I’ve been watching you from the shore.” Again she dipped in her paddle the way she’d copied Ruth. It made only a slight splash.
“That’s pretty good,” said Kelly grudgingly. “You catch on fast. Don’t put it in so deep and try to get a rhythm. One two, one two …”
With both of them paddling, the canoe glided so swiftly that it left a gurgling wake behind. Then Kelly showed Patricia how to turn her paddle for the “J” stroke. “That’s how I steer. Then it doesn’t matter which side you paddle on. Here, I’ll stop and we’ll switch positions. You steer now.”
Carefully they turned in their places so that Patricia was now facing Kelly’s back. It was difficult to stop the boat from going in a circle, but eventually she was able to keep it on a fairly straight course.
“You’re really doing well!” Kelly’s expression was one of undisguised admiration. Then she looked embarrassed, as if she hadn’t meant to sound so friendly. “Next time, Potty, I’ll let you try taking it out alone. Let’s switch again. I’ll take us to the Main Beach and back.”
All the way there Patricia matched her strokes to her cousin’s. Every time she lifted up her paddle it left spinning whorls in the water. Her arm was getting sore, but she kept going. I can paddle a canoe! she thought. Like Kelly … like Ruth.
“Why is this canoe called the Loon?” she asked.
“Because loons come here. Our grandparents must have named it—it’s a really old canoe. Christie and Bruce’s is lighter, but this one’s steadier.”
“What do loons look like?”
“Don’t you know?” A trace of familiar scorn came back into Kelly’s voice. “Loons are wonderful—big birds with black heads and speckled bands around their necks. They used to nest on this lake but now it’s too noisy, so they just come here to feed. You hear them mostly at night. They sound like they’re laughing. That’s why people say someone’s loony. It’s a weird, laughing sound.”
But beautiful, too, Patricia remembered. She wished she were in the canoe with Ruth again. She wondered what Ruth was doing. Being in the Loon with Kelly, who looked like Ruth but wasn’t, made her long for the other girl.
THAT EVENING Aunt Ginnie sent them to the store as usual to get the paper. On the way they called on Christie and Bruce. Patricia cringed when Uncle Rod came into the backyard and boomed a greeting.
“Well, here’s our little Easterner! Why are you still so white, when the others are as brown as berries?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Patricia. She examined him fearfully. All that was left of his boyhood hair was a grey fringe above his ears. His expression was still patronizing; he looked at her in the present the way he did at Ruth in the past.
“Ready to show me your teeth, now?” Uncle Rod loomed over her.
“Daddy, we have to go!” said Christie impatiently. Patricia scuttered down the driveway after her cousins.
When they neared the store she looked around eagerly for the pump. It was still there, but it was rusty and half-buried in weeds.
“Does that old pump still work?” she asked Bruce.
“No,”
Kelly answered for him. “They boarded up the well years ago because the water was contaminated.”
Patricia walked on sadly, her mouth recalling the water’s tang. Then she brightened, remembering that she could go back and taste it again.
The Other Enders were sitting around the store. They read comics and chewed gum just as they had thirty-five years ago. Two of them even resembled the Thorpe girls from the past. For an instant Patricia forgot what time she was in.
Kelly walked by the group without a word.
“Hey, Kelly!” called one of the Cresswell boys, putting down his comic. His sister stared haughtily at them.
“What you want?” Kelly said coolly.
“Just to remind you to leave our boat alone or I’ll tell my parents.”
“Don’t worry,” retorted Kelly. “I wouldn’t touch your stupid boat. I just wanted to see how flimsy it was and I was right.”
Her words sounded lame. The row of eyes observed her with pity, then dropped to their reading.
“Somehow we’ve got to get them!” said Kelly on the way home. “They’re one up on us now.”
Patricia sighed guiltily; Kelly was probably remembering how she had let her down at the Cresswells.
Maggie ran to catch up with them. “Look what I found!” Around her neck curled a striped snake. Its tongue darted in and out rapidly as Trevor held it up.
“Look, Potty!” He waved it in her face. “Do you like garter snakes?”
“P-please don’t!” gasped Patricia. She slowed her steps and let her cousins walk ahead. Their laughter floated back and the familiar feeling of isolation filled here again.
Then she remembered her secret. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I’ll go back again.
8
If she was right about the watch keeping its own time, it should take her back to exactly the same minute she had left: nine thirty-five in the evening. Patricia’s fingers trembled as she sat on the bed in La Petite and twisted the gold knob. She decided to wind it more tightly so she could stay in the past longer.
She closed her eyes, expecting to be transported to the canoe. But she opened them on the same setting. The watch had resumed its brisk ticking, but she was still in the cabin, not out on the lake with Ruth.
