by Janette Oke
Grace’s smile didn’t dim as she added, “But I’ll warn you, it isn’t much. It’s just that I can’t wait for you to meet my roommates.”
Lillian slowed her steps as she approached the house. The yard was scruffy with weeds, and there were spindles missing from the railing around the porch. The white siding was in desperate need of paint. Oh, Grace, how hard is your life here? Forcing a smile, Lillian asked with what she hoped sounded more like interest than doubt, “You have roommates?”
“Well, they should be home by now. But they’re probably not quite what you’d expect.”
“No, I’m sure you must have lovely friends.” Lillian swallowed hard before commenting, “It’s just that the house appears rather small. It doesn’t seem to have much space for multiple bedrooms.”
“Oh, they sleep upstairs.”
Lillian gaped at the squatty house before her again. It seemed impossible that the low roofline would allow for usable space beneath it. “It has an upstairs?” Then she noticed a small dormer window facing the side yard.
Grace shrugged off Lillian’s comment and led the way up the steps to the front door. With one last welcoming grin, she swung the door open wide. “I’m home,” she called. “And our guest is here at last.”
A patter of feet. Two small faces peeked around the end of a short hallway.
“Oh, come closer, sweethearts. This is my sister. I know you’ll want to meet her.”
The first to brave an approach was a dark-haired girl with untidy pigtails. “This is Hazel.” Following along in her shadow was a smaller child. Grace stretched out an arm toward them as encouragement. “And behind her is Bryony. They’ve both come from England and needed a home to stay in while we find a proper family for them.” Hazel leaned up against Grace’s side while Bryony remained almost completely hidden behind. Reassuringly, Grace stroked the dark strands of Hazel’s hair, pushing the stray bits back into order. “Where are the boys?”
Shuffling noises came from the front room in answer, then a stifled giggle. “Come on out, boys. I want to introduce you.” Obediently, two boys who appeared older than the girls emerged. “This is George.” Grace gestured toward the taller of the two. “He and Hazel are siblings. And the other boy is Harrison.”
With a grin the smaller boy moved forward. “I’m pleased ta meet ya, miss. My name is ’Arrison Boyd.” He offered his hand confidently, as if he were a gentleman Lillian was meeting at Mr. Dorn’s office. “Please don’t call me ’Arry, miss. As I prefer my full name, ’Arrison.”
She shook his hand mechanically, still too much in shock to speak.
“Children, this is my sister that I told you about. This is Miss Lillian . . .” Grace’s eyes turned quickly to her as she stumbled over her words. “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten your new last name.”
“Walsh. Lillian Walsh.”
“Nice ta meet ya, Miss Walsh.” The younger boy smiled. “It’s kind of ya to visit us.” His eyes sparkled with life, but Lillian was certain there was more mischief than manners behind that grin.
“That’s all of them,” Grace added. “Just four. And they haven’t been here with me for long. Bryony came to me first—almost five months ago now. And then the Whitaker children not long after that. Harrison only joined us three weeks ago.”
There were so many questions Lillian wanted to ask. Instead, she smiled clumsily toward Grace and nodded in response, as if finding her sister the guardian of four children were not the most unexpected turn of events.
Dinner in Grace’s home was a rather hectic occurrence. Each child had been assigned certain responsibilities, but keeping them on track required a great deal of coaching. Grace’s interactions with them were calm but blunt and firm. “Boys, that’s enough butter. It needs to last for the morning too. Hazel, you can set the potatoes on the table now. Bryony, honey, please take your seat, I’ve got to have room to move.”
This smallest child had remained pressed close against Grace’s side, eyeing Lillian suspiciously where she stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The little girl, her green eyes narrowed with distrust, slipped to the table obediently and scrunched down in a chair. For the first time Lillian noticed a small stuffed lamb, its wool worn thin from affection, tucked under Bryony’s arm. She knew immediately that it must have been Grace’s own cherished possession. The realization brought a lump to her throat.
At last they were all seated and ready to eat. Harrison offered to pray before their meal and Grace nodded.
“Oh, Lord God,” he began vigorously, “Thou ’ast gived us this fine feast. And Thou ’ast brought this kind lady to our ’ome. Grant that we be’ave for Miss Grace and not bring unto Thee shame. And . . .”
“Amen,” Grace finished for him. Turning her head sideways, she said quietly, “We’ll speak about that again later.”
But the boy’s expression didn’t fade. He seemed entirely pleased with his own performance as he tucked into his dinner.
Lillian smiled in spite of herself. He was, after all, awfully endearing. How on earth does Grace manage?
After dinner, the girls cleared the table and the boys were given the task of washing dishes. Hazel brought out her schoolwork and Bryony busied herself in the next chair, where she laid out some paper dolls to play with. Grace and Lillian withdrew to the front room so they could be within earshot of the active kitchen.
Keeping her voice low, Grace explained, “I hope I didn’t surprise you too much. I wasn’t sure how to tell you about my arrangement here. So I thought it would be easier to meet the children than to hear me describe them. They’re all very sweet, really.”
“Why are . . . ? How did you . . . ?”
“Come to be in charge of them? That’s a fair question.” Grace called to the boys before she answered Lillian, keeping her voice patient. “George, if you break a plate, someone will have to eat out of a bowl from now on. That someone will be you. So I don’t want to hear clanking of dishes, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the answer, followed by muted laughter.
With a low voice, Grace started her explanation. “For years I’ve volunteered at Brayton House, a home for children who were . . . undesirable for one reason or another.”
Lillian flinched. “Undesirable?”
“Yes, harder to place.” Grace’s eyes searched the ceiling for a better explanation. “For me, it was because of my false diagnosis. But others had their own difficulties—physically or mentally or just internally troubled. Thankfully, the home wasn’t very large. As I got older, it was the easiest thing in the world for me just to become one of the helpers there. And because of my own story, I found I could relate well to these children, could understand a little more than most what they were enduring.”
“I see.” Lillian’s eyes closed empathetically for a moment as she let the few words begin to paint a picture of Grace’s world in her mind.
“But last year they became involved with an organization that brings children to Canada from England. It was our first encounter with this process. For the most part, there were homes waiting for the children when they arrived here, and it was just a matter of organizing their placements. But soon we discovered that all too often there were difficulties. The children might live in a home for weeks or even months and then be returned to us. Sometimes families simply changed their minds. When they met the children, they decided not to adopt them after all. Or they had expected a boy and a girl arrived. Boys are generally more desirable—they’re seen as better laborers. We weren’t prepared for any of that. It was dreadful—to see the looks on the children’s faces, their rejection—especially after all they’d just been through in preparing and traveling.”
Lillian gasped. “People changed their minds?”
“Sometimes the children rejected the new homes—just ran away. The organization’s solution was simply to pull up the next application waiting in line and reassign the child. But the toll it was taking was entirely unacceptable.”
“I can
just imagine.”
Grace seemed encouraged by the look of compassion on Lillian’s face. “It was a conundrum. Our director preferred not to send them out again immediately. We discussed it often as staff. But we didn’t have room to house them. We obviously couldn’t send them back. We weren’t well equipped, but we managed a few more beds and packed them in. So I brought Bryony home with me first. She’s such a sensitive child, but who could blame her? The things she’s been through, the hardships she’s already faced in her short life. She needed stability.” Grace laughed aloud. “I know my home doesn’t look like much—and it isn’t—but at least it was a little bit of protection for her. And she took to me quickly. We . . .”
“But how do you do it, Grace?”
She shrugged humbly. “I had my waitress job already by then. The restaurant lets me work from breakfast to midafternoon, so it works with the children now that they’re finally back in school. It was much more difficult during the summer. They had to spend their days at the children’s home with the others. There wasn’t another option. But George is thirteen, so now he gets them off on time in the morning.”
Grace continued, “My job doesn’t pay very well, but with a great deal of help, I was able to rent this house from one of the families at our church. And others were as generous as they were able in donating what I needed to get set up.” She looked around at the mismatched furniture in her living room. “It doesn’t bother me that we’re not all put-together here. It’s the sense of being in a home that matters to us, not the looks of it.” She laughed again. “And for me, this is the first time I’ve lived in a real house since—well, since we lived together in Brookfield.”
Lillian wilted inside, thinking of the spare bedrooms in her large house. She tried to remember if they had ever shared a bedroom as little girls. The idea seemed too much to comprehend. If only Mother had known. She blinked hard to clear away the debilitating thoughts, forced her voice to be steady. “Are there . . . are there prospects for the children—for new families?”
Grace’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “There are, quite easily if we contacted the society about them. But we want them to have a respite from it all in order to heal and get their feet under themselves again. And even with that there are interested families. For instance, the cook at the restaurant says he and his wife will consider adopting Harrison. But I have my doubts that it’s a very good match, so I haven’t encouraged him. The boy is . . . Well, he’s special.” She shook her head as if trying to find the correct explanation. “I know they’re all special, but he’s a handful in his own way. He’s very clever—too clever for his own good, really—and he’s lived on the streets. So he isn’t above stealing and lying and doing what it takes to survive. That’s why his new family rejected him. He was caught stealing. So I’m trying to help him learn to manage life in a much different way. But old habits . . .”
“I like him,” Lillian whispered with a stifled laugh. “He’s . . . well, he’s one of a kind, for sure.”
Grace’s eyes held her gaze, studying Lillian’s expression. Her shoulders seemed to relax a little as she sighed. “Most people don’t understand him. He fools them easily with his antics. And they don’t suspect how charming he can be one minute and how devious the next. When they see that side, they merely judge and dismiss him.”
“I just . . . I just don’t understand.” Lillian was thinking about the secretary in Mr. Dorn’s office. “How are you allowed to do this? A woman? A young woman? Alone?”
For the first time Grace’s eyes clouded. Lillian watched a spirited temperament emerge. “It’s ridiculous, if you ask me. My mentor, Alice Copsey—the widow who governed Brayton House and trained me—she always encouraged me not to stay in the narrow roles women are allowed, as if anyone should doubt that a woman could care for children without male supervision!”
“Why, Grace . . .” Lillian thought of Father. How would he respond to this kind of talk?
Reaching out a hand to pat her sister’s knee, Grace quickly said, “It’s all right. I’m not a radical. But there are ways to sneak in through back doors, if you’re familiar with the system. Please be assured that I submit fully to God, and it’s for that reason I respect the authorities over me. It’s a delicate balance. I have to be quite careful in whatever I do, but Mrs. Copsey certainly taught me to have courage in doing good works for the Lord—and not to be too put off when doors seem closed before me.”
“Oh, Grace, it is a good thing you’re doing here. I don’t know how you can possibly manage them all, but I’m so . . .” Lillian’s throat constricted with emotion, choking out her words. She started again. “I’m so proud of you, Grace.”
“Father, what would you tell me to do? I wish I could speak to you. I wish I could ask your permission.” Lillian mumbled her thoughts into the air as she paced the floor in the new bedroom she’d rented in Lethbridge. This house was nothing like Miss Simpson’s. It was small and crowded with other guests, noisy and quite roughly furnished. And even though it was near to Grace, it wasn’t a place where Lillian wished to remain for long. In truth, she was fully aware that Father would not approve.
She contemplated her next course of action. She’d been sorting and re-sorting through the ramifications of an idea that continued to stubbornly grow. Grace and the children should come home with me. We should live together in the big Brookfield house until families can be found for them. Surely, surely that can be accomplished within a year while Father is still absent.
However, it would mean that Lillian would remain in Canada—would not follow Father to where he had arrived by now in Wales. The disappointment he’d feel weighed heavily on her shoulders. And then there was the difficult matter of communicating with him. There was no option of a telephone call all the way across the ocean. Only a telegram could reach him quickly, and that would be so very limited in length. A posted letter would be slow and tedious, would take well over a month before she could possibly hope for a reply.
“Well, Father, you told me to recall Mother’s instruction. You told me that I should do what I thought Mother would advise me to do. And I think I am. I believe she would encourage me to use the house for the good of Grace and the children.” Lillian stopped her pacing. Of course, there was no way to know if Grace would even be interested in this radical suggestion—if she’d be allowed such liberty by her supervisors.
Stopping in the center of the bedroom and covering her face with her hands, Lillian made up her mind. She would send a telegram to Father with the necessary brevity. What should she say?
She scribbled on a scrap of paper. MOVING TO BROOKFIELD WITH GRACE—STOP—LETTER FOLLOWS—STOP
Was it enough information? Would it be hurtful? Was there anything else she could add that would take the sting away a little? Should she mention the children? Probably not.
Which action should she take next? If she offered the house to Grace before sending the telegram to Father, what if Father then refused? But if she sent the telegram to Father and then Grace rejected the idea, would she make arrangements to depart for Wales instead? Or would she stay in Lethbridge in this new unpleasant housing arrangement in order to assist somehow? Grace didn’t seem to need much help here, but Lillian wanted to be near her sister. It was all so confusing and tangled.
She determined she’d send the telegram first, but she’d make one small change to it. She would add a question mark after her first statement so that Father would know it wasn’t settled—that she understood he could object. Then, if Father rejected the idea, there was no point in setting others up for disappointment. If he didn’t and if Grace agreed to the move, she would explain everything in detail in a long letter to Father. But she felt she couldn’t wait until he’d replied to her letter before she set things in motion. Whatever happened with the two telegrams would have to suffice. She would do what she felt was the right thing, and hope with all her being that Father would agree when he replied to her letter of explanation.
“Grace, I have a proposition for you.”
“You do?” Grace had just finished her workday and crossed the empty dining room to where Lillian waited at a table. Untying her frilled apron and dropping it over the back of a chair, Grace took a seat. She drew coins from her pocket and began to carefully count what she’d received in tips. “What is it you’d like to propose?”
A deep breath. “That all of you come live in Brookfield with me.” There, I’ve said it aloud.
The coins from Grace’s fingers clattered down onto the table. She caught a penny just as it was about to roll off the edge. “You what now?”
Leaning forward against the table, Lillian clasped her hands together nervously around the telegram that had just arrived with Father’s reply. “I know how it must sound. But I think you should come back to Brookfield to live with me at my father’s house—at our house. It has room enough for everyone, and I’m sure there’d be people in my community who would be interested in adopting. I know so many of the families there personally that it would be easier to find a good match for the children. And even the ones I don’t know personally, I’d at least know other people who knew those people well and who could advise us on pretty much everyone in the area, town and ranches both. That’s one advantage of a small town. And . . .”
“Oh, Lillian, please slow down.” Grace pushed the coins into a small pile and repositioned herself on the chair. This time she gave Lillian her full attention, tilted her head to one side, and drew several long breaths before speaking again. “I love that you’re so generous. But . . . hmm . . . What you’re suggesting—it isn’t quite as simple as perhaps you imagine it.”
