Be My Love

by Kit Pearson

  Maisie kissed them goodnight. How safe it felt to be told to go to bed! Her legs were so wobbly she could barely climb the stairs.

  * * *

  The sound of the lapping waves through the open window usually soothed Maisie to sleep. But the room was hot, and she thrashed and twitched.

  Granny was right—all Dad’s troubles began with what everyone now called the Second World War. Maisie had been almost three when it started in 1939. She and her parents had just moved to Duncan, where Dad had been appointed the rector of St. Martin’s church.

  At first the war was simply part of her childhood, like an extra guest at dinner. Maisie was glad that Dad hadn’t “gone over,” as so many of her friends’ fathers had. She assumed that he never would.

  It was such a shock, therefore, when he finally enlisted. When Maisie was seven, her father left eagerly for Holland to be the chaplain for a regiment there.

  Maisie and her mother had cried all the way home from the boat terminal. They waited eagerly for Dad’s letters and read them again and again when they arrived. At first the letters were long and descriptive. Then they suddenly became so short that Mum would search the envelope for more pages. “I guess your dad is just too busy to write more,” she said sadly.

  Finally the war was over, and at last came the bright fall day when Dad was expected home. Mum got her hair done and bought a new shade of lipstick. Maisie, who was almost nine, was decked out in a horrible pink dress that scratched where it stretched over her middle. She eagerly scanned the people descending the gangplank, watching for a tall man with a cheerful face and a mop of curls like hers.

  When Dad appeared, however, his merry curls seemed to be on the wrong face it was so serious and strained. Maisie rushed towards him. Her father used to give her bear hugs, but today it was more like the timid embrace of a teddy bear. He kissed Maisie’s mother just as tentatively, and their conversation on the way home was full of silences. Mum’s and Maisie’s shock and disappointment filled the car like a fog.

  “Don’t worry—he’ll cheer up,” Mum kept saying the first week Dad was home. “The poor man is just completely worn out.”

  But he never did cheer up. Maisie began to think of the golden time before Dad went to war as Before. Before, Dad was her jolly, joking companion. They had a trick where she climbed up his thighs while he held her hands and then flipped her over. He had patiently taught her to ride a bike and swim, and to use a hammer and nails in his workshop. Like Mum, he’d called her “pickle”—the name they had given Maisie in the womb, when her mother craved pickles.

  Now he never called her “pickle.” When he talked to them or preached or had parishioners to dinner, it was as though he was simply going through the motions of being a husband and father and rector.

  The worst was Dad’s constant irritability. He snapped at them so often that Maisie and Mum learned not to ask him things. Maisie still worked with Dad in his workshop, but his expression was grim as he measured or drilled. She was proud of how obediently the pieces of wood submitted to her cutting and shaping, and she worked hard, desperately grateful for Dad’s occasional gruff compliments.

  Mum, also, used to brim over with jokes and teasing. Now the carefree mother Maisie had known Before had become careworn, instead. It was she who held the congregation together, organizing the altar guild, keeping track of illnesses and anniversaries, and making sure the church was spotless—all the things Granny had taught her when she became engaged to Dad. Granny did all this on the island with boundless energy. Mum, however, always seemed exhausted and dispirited.

  Before, their house had rung with laughter. Now Maisie would sit at meals and try to think of something to break the strained silence.

  As the years went on, Dad remained the same. He performed all his duties of conducting services and home visiting, but he never went beyond them. He copied his sermons from a book—Maisie had seen it on his desk—and read them so mechanically that people fell asleep. Rectors were supposed to comfort people and offer advice, as Grand did, but Dad tried to put off anyone who came to the door.

  He never talked about the war. When Chester told the family stories about his regiment, Dad would look angry and mutter, “That’s all over and done with now.” But he often had nightmares. Maisie could hear him shouting himself awake, and afterwards Mum’s comforting murmurs.

  Then Maisie couldn’t sleep. She tossed for hours, wondering what had happened to make her father cry out in such agony.

  When the Easter disaster happened, everyone in Duncan seemed to know about it, even the ones who didn’t go to their church. Some of Maisie’s friends asked her curiously what was wrong with her father. Maisie attempted to change the subject, but when they persisted, she tried to explain those strange new words: depression and nervous breakdown. If only she could tell her friends something more normal, like Dad having a broken leg or the flu!

  Mum told her that Dad’s depression was like having a broken leg or the flu—that he couldn’t help being so sad and passive. Maisie couldn’t believe that. She wanted to shake him and scream, “Do something!”

  Mum had to help Dad get dressed and encourage him to eat, as if he were a toddler. Worst of all, the doctor had said that Dad couldn’t be left by himself. Mum stayed in the house until Maisie got home from school, then Maisie had to be there while Mum shopped for food.

  When Maisie asked why Dad couldn’t be alone, Mum just said he would get too lonely. Maisie thought this was ridiculous. Dad barely talked to them—why would it be any different if he was by himself? For three months she had had to cancel all her after-school activities, just to sit in the house with a silent father. And she couldn’t have any friends over; it was too embarrassing to have such a weird dad.

  Again Maisie thought of how quiet and dreary her house must be now that she was gone. Mum would have no one to talk to, no one to cheer her up.

  It was cooler now. An owl screeched as it hunted in the woods. Maisie wanted to sob into her pillow, but that would be being as weak as Dad. She was the strong one in the family, and strong people didn’t cry. Instead she drew the quilt over her head to make a cave. Then she prayed.

  Years ago Grand had told her that the best way to pray was to simply talk to God. “Say whatever you like—how you feel, what you wish for, all your complaints and joys.”

  So tonight, as usual, Maisie spoke to God in her mind:

  Thanks for letting me come to the island again, God. Please make Dad get well. But can’t you make them stop asking me about him? And please, God, let this summer be exactly like all the others.

  Chapter Two

  Waiting for Una

  When Granny called her, Maisie rolled out of bed and got dressed in her blouse and kilt. She wolfed down some porridge and hurried over to the church to ring the bell. Every summer since she was three that was her job: to pull on the worn leather rope that made the steeple bell clang out over the island.

  Today, however, a small freckled boy was waiting in the vestibule with his parents.

  “This little chap is very eager to ring the bell—you wouldn’t mind letting him have a turn, would you, Maisie?” asked Mr. Francis, the warden.

  What could she do but pretend to agree? It’s just a bell, she told herself as she sat down beside Granny. Who cares who rings it? But she always had!

  Today was Dominion Day. Maisie listened to Grand pray for Canada on its eighty-fourth birthday. Normally the two front pews were filled with her family, but now they were crowded with summer visitors. Maisie glanced at them resentfully. This was their pew! She and Una usually sat at the end of it, whispering and giggling.

  Granny kept the little church sparkling clean. One of Maisie’s summer chores would be to help her, but she didn’t mind. She liked being in this calm, simple space, with its wooden walls and its clear-glass windows. Visitors were often surprised that they weren’t stained, but Maisie liked how the windows brought the outside in.

  It was a much more attra
ctive church than Dad’s, which had ugly pink walls and concrete pillars. Maisie hadn’t been there since Easter. Mum had encouraged her to attend while she stayed home with Dad, but Maisie refused. Everyone would just stare and whisper.

  Today she realized how much she missed the familiar service. She never paid much attention to the words, but their old-fashioned cadences had rolled comfortably over her all her life.

  Inserted in the wall beside her was a large marble plaque honouring her great-aunt, Clara, Granny’s older sister. She had died when Maisie and Una were eleven.

  Aunt Clara had been Una’s “Nonie,” her great-grandmother. She’d looked after Una while Maud, Una’s mother, worked in Vancouver. Maud was a lawyer and only came home on the weekends.

  Granny had called Aunt Clara “the queen of the island.” Everyone admired her and followed her example. She would just look, and you would do as she said.

  Sometimes Maisie had been the receiver of that look: when she talked with her mouth full or persuaded Una to do something daring, like the time they both climbed onto the roof of the rectory. Maisie had been a bit afraid of Aunt Clara, but Una was her pet. When Aunt Clara died, Una cried so much that she threw up. Maisie had held her and stroked her hair, the way she had sometimes watched Aunt Clara console her.

  Granny poked Maisie out of her daydreaming; they were standing up for the final hymn. Then Maisie had to help serve coffee and tea in the church hall, enduring countless handshakes welcoming her back. Across the room she spotted Wendy and Doris, two of Una’s friends. She could go over and talk to them, but without Una she felt awkward. And they wouldn’t welcome her. To them she was a lowly summer visitor, not a real islander.

  * * *

  That afternoon Grand took the gasboat over to Walker Island to conduct a service there. Maisie chopped kindling and filled the box beside the stove with wood. Then she helped Granny cook dinner for the Cunninghams.

  “Wait until Mildred tastes my venison pie,” muttered Granny, thumping down pastry on a marble slab. “Her crust is always so tough.”

  Maisie had to put on her kilt again and sit politely while the adults talked about tedious things like the Korean War. Grand had tried to explain to her about this new war, between North and South Korea, but Maisie only pretended to listen. How tired she was of hearing about wars!

  Dr. Cunningham asked Maisie about her favourite school subjects. That was even more boring, and Maisie answered as shortly as possible. It wasn’t fair to ask about school when it was over!

  Granny looked satisfied when Mrs. Cunningham praised the pie and the rhubarb crisp. But then she began boasting about her son, Alec, who was a businessman in Ottawa.

  “And how is your dear son?” she asked sweetly.

  Granny winced. “As well as can be expected, thank you.”

  Maisie’s cheeks burned. The whole island must know! Mrs. Cunningham tossed her head with an expression of superiority and pity—as if there were something shameful about Dad.

  * * *

  Monday was unbearably long. Grand retreated to his study as usual, and Granny had one of her headaches.

  “I’m going to have a wee lie-down, chickie,” she said after breakfast. “Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich and go out and play. Be sure to take your hat—it’s going to be a scorcher again. Stay in the shade as much as you can. You know how easily you burn.”

  Maisie bristled. She was fourteen and a half—much too old to “go out and play”! And she didn’t have to be told how to protect herself from the sun. As usual, Granny treated her as if she were still a little child. Grunting a reply, she packed herself a cheese sandwich, an apple, and three chocolate chip cookies. She pushed her lunch into a knapsack, crammed on her favourite old blue hat, and decided to walk to the lighthouse.

  Maisie knew every beach and road and rock on Kingfisher, and almost every one of its 180 inhabitants. As always, however, the island was so quiet it seemed deserted. The only life she encountered was a doe and two tiny new fawns in the ditch, reaching up to nibble goatsbeard blossoms. The mother tried to persuade the fawns to cross the road. Finally they darted nervously after her.

  Una used to yearn to stroke a fawn and would spend hours outside in a chair, trying to entice one with a piece of apple. Once, a doe approached and took it, but never a fawn.

  Maisie found some wild strawberries and nibbled on them as she trudged along. How hot it was! Wiping the sweat from under her hat, she decided to turn back and go to the beach, instead. She headed for the rocky shore in front of the rectory. At the far end was a shady patch of sand, under the low overhanging branches of a huge arbutus. This was one of Maisie and Una’s secret spots. When they were little, they’d bounced on the branches and pretended they were horses, or made forts out of the driftwood that littered the sand.

  Maisie leaned against a log and ate all her cookies. She watched an otter roll and dive as it fished offshore. Then it swam out too far to be seen. At least it was allowed to swim.

  The water looked so clear and green against the grey rocks. Maisie took off her sandals and paddled, but that just made her long to go right under. Boys didn’t have to endure this monthly restriction . . . it was so unfair!

  What could she do? Maybe go to the Hut . . . but she wanted to save that for Una. Nothing seemed worth doing without her cousin. Maisie felt so empty and listless it scared her. This was how Dad must feel all the time.

  But she wasn’t Dad! She forced herself to get up and walk briskly along the road to the wharf. Little Bobby and Lennie Maclean were fishing at the end of it. Maisie sat with them, the boards rough under her thighs. Many small fishing boats were in the pass, with crowds of gulls screaming over them.

  “Look, Maisie!” said Lennie.

  A cod flopped in a bucket. While Maisie was admiring it, Bobby caught another.

  “We’re going to sell them to the hotel,” he said.

  “The hotel is closed until Wednesday,” she told them. “My uncle and aunt have gone to a funeral in Vancouver.”

  “Wednesday! But that’s too late! Mrs. Brown won’t buy fish unless they’re fresh.”

  “You’ll just have to take them home,” said Maisie. “I’m sure your mother will be glad to have them.”

  “Yeah, but she won’t pay us,” grumbled Bobby.

  Looking downcast, the two boys packed up their gear and trudged away.

  Maisie ate the rest of her lunch sitting on the coronation seat above the wharf. It was an octagonal bench built around a young beech tree that had been planted when King George VI had been crowned in 1937. Two years later, on the royal visit to Canada, Granny had stood with other islanders at Otter Point to wave to the king and queen’s boat on its way to Victoria. Granny insisted that the queen had waved back.

  After she’d eaten, Maisie wandered over to the store to buy a Coke. Susan and Glen Wade were sitting on the bench outside it, sharing a bag of chips.

  “Hiya, Maisie,” said Glen lazily.

  Glen’s greasy hair and pimpled face repulsed Maisie. She ignored him and said hello to his sister. Sometimes Susan hung around with her and Una, even though she was two years younger.

  Susan just grunted a reply, then asked “When’s Una coming back?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Maisie. Like the girls at church, Susan wasn’t going to be friendly unless Una was there.

  If only she were a real islander! Mum had once told her that Granny and Grand had invited her and Maisie to live with them while Dad was in the war, but Mum had said she didn’t want to be beholden to them. Imagine being here all year, living in the rectory and seeing Una every day!

  Granny had told Maisie how upset the islanders had been when the Japanese people on the island had been evacuated in 1942. Her good friends, the Okadas, had to leave along with seven other families.

  “But why?” Maisie had asked.

  Granny looked bitter. “Because they were regarded as enemy aliens. What nonsense—they were Canadians!”

  Maisie
had a dim memory of her and Una playing with a mischievous little girl named Mika. Where was she now? How awful to have to leave her home and live in a camp in the interior!

  So many children had left the island that the school had closed until 1944. Una was supposed to start grade one that fall, so for two years she and a few of her classmates had been tutored by Grand. If Maisie had lived here, she could have shared that. What bliss!

  “Hey, Maisie, whatcha daydreaming about?” jeered Glen.

  Maisie fled into the store. It was stuffed with everything anyone would want, from fishing lures to magazines to dishes. She went over to the pop dispenser and fished out a Coke from the icy water.

  “Why, hello there, Maisie!” said old Mr. Wynne, the storekeeper. “Welcome back! Shall I put this on your grandmother’s tab as usual?”

  “Yes, please.” He opened the bottle, and Maisie guzzled down the dark, sharp-tasting liquid. Mum didn’t like her to drink Coke; she thought it was bad for her teeth. But Mum wasn’t here.

  “Where’s your cohort?” asked Mr. Wynne.

  “In Vancouver,” Maisie told him, eyeing the candy. She chose Twizzlers, jujubes, and an Almond Joy chocolate bar, and laid them on the counter. Eating this much candy was also forbidden at home, as well as being too expensive. What a treat to be able to indulge herself! Granny never questioned how much Maisie spent.

  “Oh, yes, they all went to that funeral,” said Mr. Wynne. “You must be lonely without Una—I never see the two of you apart.”

  “Mmm . . .” Maisie pocketed the candy and turned away so Mr. Wynne wouldn’t see her sudden tears.

  What was the matter with her? Was Maisie so dependent upon Una that she couldn’t amuse herself for just one day?

  Stop moping! she told herself. She decided to go home and have some of the leftover crisp. Surely that would cheer her up.

  Next door to the rectory was where Una lived, in a large white house with a blue roof. As Maisie approached it, she had an irresistible urge to go up the path to its front door. Then she pushed it open—no one on the island locked any doors—and went inside.