The Penderwicks on Gardam Street

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “Jane, call Daddy,” said Skye.

  “I’m too distraught about English class,” said Jane.

  This was unlike Jane, who loved English class more than anything, even soccer, which she adored. Rosalind turned away from the cookbook and looked hard at the third Penderwick sister. She did look upset. There were even traces of tears.

  “What happened?” asked Rosalind.

  “Miss Bunda gave her a C on her essay,” answered Skye, reaching under the table and swiping some of Batty’s cheese.

  “My humiliation is complete,” said Jane. “I’ll never be a real writer.”

  “I told you Miss Bunda wouldn’t like it.”

  “Let me see the essay,” said Rosalind.

  Jane pulled several crumpled balls of paper out of her pocket and tossed them onto the kitchen table. “I have no profession now. I’ll have to be a vagrant.”

  Rosalind smoothed out the pieces of paper, found page one, and read, “Famous Women in Massachusetts History, by Jane Letitia Penderwick. Of all the women that come to mind when you think of Massachusetts, one stands out: Sabrina Starr.” She stopped reading. “You put Sabrina Starr in your essay?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Jane.

  Sabrina Starr was the heroine of five books, all of them written by Jane. Each was about an amazing rescue. So far, Sabrina had saved a cricket, a baby sparrow, a turtle, a groundhog, and a boy. This last, Sabrina Starr Rescues a Boy, had been written during the summer vacation at Arundel. Jane considered it her best.

  “But your assignment was to write about a Massachusetts woman who was actually once alive.”

  “Just what I told her. Ouch!” Skye jumped away from the table, for Batty had just pinched her ankle as revenge for the stolen cheese.

  “I explained all that,” said Jane. “Look at the last page.”

  Rosalind found the last page. “Of course, Sabrina Starr is not a real Massachusetts woman, but I wrote about her because she’s more fascinating than old Susan B. Anthony and Clara Barton,” she read. “Oh, Jane, no wonder Miss Bunda gave you a C.”

  “I got a C because she has no imagination. Who cares about writing essays, anyway, when you can write stories?”

  The phone rang and Skye raced for it. “Hi, Daddy, yes, we’re all here and we were just about to call you…. We’re fine, except Jane’s upset because she got a C on her essay…. Really?” Skye turned to Jane. “Daddy says remember that Leo Tolstoy flunked out of college and went on to write War and Peace.”

  “Tell him I’ll never even get into college at this rate.”

  Skye spoke into the phone again. “She said she’ll never get into college…. What? Tell me again…. Okay, got it. Good-bye.”

  “What did he say?” said Jane.

  “That you don’t have to worry because you have tantum amorem scribendi.” Skye said the last three words slowly and carefully, for they were Latin.

  Jane looked hopefully at Rosalind. “Do you know tantum am—whatever it is?”

  “Sorry, our class hasn’t gotten much past agricola, agricolae,” answered Rosalind. She had just that year started studying Latin in a desperate attempt to understand her father, who was always tossing out phrases in that ancient language. “So far, I’ll only know if Daddy says something about being a farmer.”

  “Fat chance,” said Skye. “Since he’s a professor.”

  “How old do I have to be to read War and Peace?” asked Jane. “It would soothe my wounds to find a kindred spirit in Mr. Tolstoy.”

  “Older than ten, that’s for sure,” said Skye. Unwilling to be pinched in the ankle again, she headed back for the sugar mixture in the skillet, but this time Rosalind was ready with a body block.

  “No more,” she said. “I’m making a pineapple upside-down cake for Aunt Claire, and you’re ruining it.”

  “Aunt Claire is visiting!” Jane’s face lit up. “In my agony, I’d forgotten. She will soothe my wounds.”

  “And while I’m finishing the cake, you two can get the guest room ready for her.”

  “Homework…,” muttered Skye, drifting toward the door.

  “You never do homework on Fridays,” Rosalind said briskly. “Go.”

  Despite Skye’s attempt to avoid helping, she was an excellent worker, and the next hour at the Penderwick house went smoothly. The clean sheets and towels were taken care of, the living room was straightened up, and, as a special touch, Batty and Hound were both brushed. Just as Rosalind pulled the finished cake out of the oven, Jane’s joyful yell rang through the house.

  “Aunt Claire’s here!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Blue Letter

  THIS VISIT OF AUNT CLAIRE’S started out like her visits always did. There was the usual tussle to see who could hug her first, and she had dog biscuits in one pocket for Hound—just like she always did—and in the other pocket, chocolate caramels for everyone else. And when Mr. Penderwick came home she sat on the kitchen counter, just like always, while he made dinner—eggplant parmigiana—getting in his way and teasing him every time he mislaid a cooking spoon, or his glasses, or the salt, which was every two minutes. All through dinner she continued to be the same old Aunt Claire—telling funny stories about her job and peppering the girls with questions about school. It wasn’t until everyone had stuffed themselves with eggplant and the table had been cleared that the visit started to turn odd. Rosalind was just bringing out the pineapple upside-down cake when Aunt Claire abruptly pushed back her chair and stood up.

  “I think—” She sat down again. “Maybe not.”

  “Maybe not what?” asked Jane.

  Aunt Claire stood up again. “I mean, I guess this would be as good a time as any. Though, actually, later would be better.”

  She sat down yet again, and smiled at everyone. They would have smiled back if it hadn’t been obvious that her smile was a guilty one, though the idea of Aunt Claire being guilty of anything was beyond imagination.

  Mr. Penderwick frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine. Just ignore me,” she said gaily. “The cake looks delicious, Rosalind. Aren’t you going to cut it?”

  Rosalind picked up the cake knife, but before she could make a cut, Aunt Claire was back on her feet.

  “No, no, definitely best to get it over with. I’ll go get the presents from my car.” And she rushed out of the room.

  “What presents?” Skye asked, but no one knew. It wasn’t Christmas or a birthday.

  “Is Aunt Claire going crazy?” This was Batty, and no one could answer her, either. If Aunt Claire wasn’t going crazy, she was doing a good job of acting like she was.

  Then she was back, pulling a shiny new red wagon full of interestingly shaped packages and talking very quickly. “The wagon is for Batty, of course. Sorry I couldn’t wrap it, dear, but it’s too big and bulky. The wrapped packages are for the other three girls.”

  “All right, Claire,” said Mr. Penderwick. “What is all this about?”

  “Can’t I bring gifts without a reason?”

  “You never have before,” said Rosalind. Aunt Claire was making her nervous.

  “You’re hiding something, Claire,” said Mr. Penderwick. “You know that never works. Remember my submarine?”

  “What submarine?” asked Skye.

  “Your aunt destroyed my favorite model submarine and blamed it on our dog, Ozzie. But I knew it was her.”

  “It’s nothing like your submarine this time!” cried Aunt Claire.

  “Then what is it?” Rosalind burst out—she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Are you sick, Aunt Claire?” asked Jane, looking suddenly pale and sickly herself.

  “No, no, I’m not sick. It’s—I mean, I should have started all this with your father later, in private. Not that it’s anything so terrible. I just—Oh, Martin!”

  Mr. Penderwick took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve. “Girls, give me a few minutes alone with your aunt, will you?”

 
“Can’t they open the presents first?” pleaded Aunt Claire. “Or at least take them with them?”

  “They may take them.”

  It was a miserable group that filed into the living room, with Rosalind dragging the red wagon, and Skye dragging Hound, who would have preferred to stay in the vicinity of the pineapple upside-down cake. No one was in the mood for presents.

  “It would be ungrateful not to open them,” said Jane after a few moments of gloomy silence. She still wasn’t in the mood for presents, but she’d noticed that the package with JANE on it was the right size and shape to be books.

  So Rosalind handed out the packages. Jane’s was indeed books, six of them by Eva Ibbotson, one of her favorite authors. Skye got an impressive pair of binoculars, army issue and with night vision. And Rosalind’s gift was two sweaters, one white and one blue.

  “Two!” she said. “Something is definitely wrong.”

  “And my books are all hardbound, and two of them I haven’t read even once yet,” added Jane. “These must be Aunt Claire’s dying gifts.”

  “She said she wasn’t sick. Besides, she looks perfectly healthy.”

  “People often look perfectly healthy right before they die.”

  “Then we could all die.” Batty climbed into her new wagon. Perhaps it was safer in there.

  “Nobody’s going to die,” said Rosalind.

  “Shh,” said Skye, and now everyone noticed that she was lurking near the door.

  “You’re eavesdropping!” said Jane.

  “Eavesdropping isn’t honorable. I just happen to be standing here, that’s all,” said Skye.

  Her reasoning was so logical that her sisters decided to stand with her, and if they were quiet because there was nothing left to say, was that really the same as eavesdropping? Whether it was or not, it didn’t do them any good, for all they heard were bits and pieces. Aunt Claire was talking quickly, and their father said “NO” once loudly, and then they went back and forth, and the girls heard their mother’s name—Elizabeth—several times. Then there was silence, until without warning the door flew open, almost hitting Skye in the nose.

  It was their father, his hair rumpled and his glasses sliding down his nose. He was holding a piece of blue notepaper, holding it gently as though it were delicate and precious. At the sight of it, Rosalind suddenly felt cold inside, so cold she shivered, though none of it made sense—the letter, the cold, or the shivering.

  “It’s all right, girls. Not a tragedy. More of a comedy, or perhaps a tragicomedy. Come back in.”

  They filed back into the kitchen, sat down, and thanked Aunt Claire for their gifts. The pineapple upside-down cake sat, ignored, in the middle of the table.

  “You tell them, Claire,” said Mr. Penderwick. “This is your doing.”

  “I explained to you, Martin, it’s not my doing,” she said.

  “Tell them,” he said.

  “Well, girls—” She paused, then hurried on. “What would you think of your father beginning to date?”

  There was a shocked silence. Whatever anyone had imagined, it wasn’t this.

  “Dates? You mean, like movies and dinner and romance?” asked Jane finally.

  “Romance! Bah!” said Mr. Penderwick, his glasses falling off altogether and clattering to the floor.

  Aunt Claire picked up the glasses and gave them back to him. “Movies and dinner, yes, but there’s no rush for romance.”

  Again, no one could think of what to say. The only sound was Hound’s snuffling search for crumbs on the floor.

  “I don’t think you’re the type for dating, Daddy,” said Skye after a while. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” he said. “I agree with you.”

  Batty slipped off her chair and onto her father’s lap. “Why would you, Daddy?”

  “Your mother thought it best, honey,” said Aunt Claire.

  “Mommy?” This was Jane, whispering.

  Rosalind was feeling dizzy. The kitchen now seemed too warm and the lights too bright. “No, I don’t believe it,” she said. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “It’s true, Rosy. This was your mother’s idea,” said Mr. Penderwick, looking down at the blue paper he was still holding. “She was afraid I’d be lonely.”

  “But you have us,” said Rosalind.

  “Grown-ups sometimes need the company of other grown-ups,” said Aunt Claire. “No matter how wonderful their children are.”

  “I don’t understand why this is happening now,” said Skye, picking up a fork and stabbing the table. “Is there someone you want to date, Daddy?”

  “No, there is not.” Mr. Penderwick looked like he wouldn’t mind doing some stabbing himself.

  “Your mother believed you girls would be old enough by now that Martin could expand his world a bit, and frankly, I don’t think she was wrong,” said Aunt Claire. “So he and I have agreed upon a plan. Your father will jump into the dating pool, shall we say, and stay there for the next several months. During that time he’ll take out at least four different women.”

  “Four!” Stab, stab, stab, stab went Skye’s fork.

  “If, after that, he wants to go back to being a hermit, at least he will have tried, and I mean seriously tried. No pretending there aren’t any available women in western Massachusetts.” Ignoring her brother’s groan, Aunt Claire soldiered on. “And, since I thought he might have trouble getting started, I called a friend of mine who has an unmarried friend here in Cameron.”

  Rosalind’s dizziness was getting worse—her ears were ringing, and the refrigerator appeared to be tipping to one side.

  “And?” Skye jammed the fork so hard it bent.

  “And thus, tomorrow night I have a blind date with a certain Ms. Muntz,” said Mr. Penderwick. “The die is cast. Iacta alea est.”

  Rosalind stood up so abruptly that her chair fell over with a loud clatter. They were all asking her what was wrong, but she couldn’t explain. She only knew that she couldn’t breathe properly and she had to get outside. She stumbled toward the door, pushing away someone’s hands, and heard Aunt Claire saying that they should let her be.

  Yes, let me be, she thought, reaching the door.

  “Rosy!” That was her father.

  Answering him—even looking at him—was impossible. She escaped, slammed the door behind her, and took great, hungry gulps of the night air. Yes, now she could breathe.

  “I’ll walk for a while,” she told herself. “I’ll feel better if I walk.”

  She set off down Gardam Street.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bedtime Stories

  “—AND HE HUNG HIS NEW COAT on the hook for his coat, and his new handkerchief on the hook for his handkerchief, and his pants on the hook for his pants, and his new rope on the hook for his rope, and himself he put in his bunk,” read Mr. Penderwick.

  “You left out Scuppers’s shoes.” Batty was in her bed, listening intently.

  “So you did,” said Aunt Claire.

  Mr. Penderwick went back a line or two. “His new shoes he put under his bunk, and then himself he put in his bunk.”

  “And here he is where he wants to be—a sailor sailing the deep green sea,” finished up Batty. “Now for the song.”

  “It’s late for songs. Time for sleep, Battikins.”

  “Rosalind always sings the song. Doesn’t she, Hound?”

  Hound barked nervously from his spot beside the bed. He liked to side with Batty, but after all, it was Mr. Penderwick who fed him.

  “Traitor beast,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  “Come on, Martin,” said Aunt Claire. “Let’s raise our voices in—I guess ‘celebration’ wouldn’t be quite the word for tonight. Let’s just raise our voices.”

  “As usual, I am outnumbered and outmaneuvered. I will sing, but only once, mind you.”

  And together all three sang, with Hound barking along:

  I am Scuppers the Sailor Dog—

  I’m Scuppers the Sailor Dog

&n
bsp; I can sail in a gale

  right over a whale

  under full sail

  in a fog.

  I am Scuppers the Sailor Dog—

  I’m Scuppers the Sailor Dog

  with a shake and a snort

  I can sail into port

  under full sail

  in a fog.

  When they finished, the two grown-ups tucked in Batty’s unicorn blanket and kissed her good night. She snuggled into her pillow and closed her eyes, and stayed that way while they turned off the light and left the room, and then for another few moments, to give them enough time to go downstairs. Then she turned the light back on, slid out of bed, and tiptoed across the room to her new red wagon. It was the best wagon she’d ever seen, and she wondered how she could have lived without it until now.

  “I’ll sit in it and wait for Rosalind to come say good night,” she told Hound.

  This was such a good idea that she climbed right into the wagon. And there she sat, certain that Rosalind would be along any minute. True, Rosalind had left the house in a big hurry, even slamming the door—Rosalind, who never slammed doors—but she would be back soon to tell Batty a story like she did every night. Though Daddy and Aunt Claire had read about Scuppers very nicely, it just wasn’t the same.

  She sat and she sat, humming the Sailor Dog song to herself, and she sat so long that Hound fell asleep, and still she sat, but Rosalind didn’t come. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. She climbed out of the wagon and pulled it down the hall to the room Skye and Jane shared. She knocked, and the door opened and a pair of binoculars peered out.

  “Oh, it’s only you,” said Skye from behind the binoculars. “I thought you were Rosalind come home.”

  “I need another story.”

  “I don’t know any stories. Go back to bed.”

  But Skye stepped aside and let Batty and her wagon into the room. It was a room divided dramatically in half. Skye’s side was tidy, with white walls and a plain blue coverlet on the bed. The only decoration was a framed chart showing how to convert from U.S. to metric measurements. Jane’s side was not at all tidy, and lavender, with a flowery coverlet that should have been on the bed but was instead in a heap on the floor. Scattered everywhere was stuff: books, piles of paper, old school projects, and more books. And then there were the dolls, for Jane had kept not only every doll she’d ever been given, but every doll ever given to Skye, too.