Flower

by Irene N. Watts

  For Vicki Duncan

  Acknowledgments

  As always, thanks to my editors, Kathy Lowinger and Sue Tate.

  The following people and institutions have been enormously helpful in the creation of this narrative:

  Cathi Zbarsky, Firehall Library, Vancouver, British Columbia

  Georgia Robinson, Lindsay Public Library, Lindsay, Ontario

  Lorne Gray, Blacksmith, Vancouver, British Columbia

  Marlis Lindsay, King Bethune House, Peterborough, Ontario

  The Peterborough Centennial Archives

  Professor Tania Watts, Department of Immunology, University of Toronto

  A lily of a day

  Is fairer far in May,

  Although it fall and die that night;

  It was the plant and flower of light.

  In small proportions we just beauties see;

  And in short measures, life may perfect be.

  From A Part of an Ode

  Ben Jonson 1572–1637

  Contents

  Katie

  Lillie

  Carpenter’s Rest

  William

  Sardinia

  Journey

  Skivvy

  Thief

  Gypsy

  Flower

  Letters

  Hammy

  Katie

  I used to talk a lot to my mother. I’d curl up beside her on the couch after school, and tell her about my day. How Miss Jones said Angie and me were chatterboxes, and about the bad boys in my grade one class. I saved up knock-knock jokes and she always laughed, even when I got them mixed up. Dad called us his laughing girls.

  One afternoon she said, “Time to teach you how to make Dad’s favorite cookies for Christmas.”

  “Gingerbread,” I said.

  Mom got the things we needed and handed them to me. I lined them up on the kitchen table one by one, and repeated the names so I’d remember them next time. She showed me how to measure half a cup of brown sugar and three cups of flour, a teaspoon of ginger and a pinch of salt, then two-thirds of a cup of molasses. I broke an egg into a bowl and beat it up with a fork (that was before I hated eggs). We took turns creaming the butter, then Mom added the other ingredients and I poured in the molasses a little at a time. When the mixture was ready, I rolled it out with the big rolling pin and made crescent-moon shapes and stars and trees with my own cookie cutters.

  Dad tasted the gingerbread and told Mom it was the best gingerbread she’d ever made. I shouted, “Mom didn’t make it, it was me!” Gingerbread became my signature dish, something I always made for Christmas and birthdays.

  That year Mom enrolled me in drama classes. I went every Saturday morning and, as soon as I got home, I’d tell her about the stories we’d heard and acted out.

  She said, “I love stories.”

  “Me, too,” I said, “and for Halloween I’m going to be a princess, or a witch, or maybe a ghost.” I made scary noises and Mom pretended to be frightened. I asked her when she was going to start making my costume, and she said, “There’s lots of time before then, Katie.” But there wasn’t enough time–there was hardly any time left.

  Mom died of cancer a few weeks after Christmas, soon after my seventh birthday.

  For a long while, I went on talking to her. I’d sit at the dining room table and look up at her picture. Dad told me it was painted when they went on holiday to Greece, the year before I was born.

  Mom’s eyes are green, not brown like Dad’s. In the picture she’s smiling at something a long way off. Dad says she’s looking at the ocean, but I know she’s smiling at me. Her short reddish brown hair is ruffled by the wind and she’s tucked her pink shirt into a blue denim skirt.

  I thought she was still there inside the picture, that she could hear me when I spoke to her. I told her all kinds of stuff: how I was having problems in school telling left from right, how I mixed up b and d, how my threes faced the wrong way.

  Soon after that, Dad came into my room for a goodnight hug and said, “A kiss for your left hand–the one with the freckle on it–and one for your right. Now go to sleep, Miss Kaitlin Carr. Dad has a mountain of work to finish.”

  That was how I learned left from right, so I knew Mom was still listening to me. I imagined her as a gentle ghost who could put things right. I was a pretty weird kid.

  I haven’t talked out loud to Mom for years. After she died, Gran (Dad’s mother) came to look after us for a while and, when she went back to Halifax, Dad and I muddled on. Actually, we managed pretty well with help from neighbors, invitations to meals, and a lot of takeout dinners from Greek restaurants nearby.

  I’m glad we didn’t move from the house Mom and Dad bought when they got married. They chose it because it was close to the University of Toronto, where Dad still works, and because Chester Avenue is right round the corner from Danforth Avenue, which is the center of the Greek district.

  My father’s an associate professor of biology at the university. He often works late, and sometimes he goes away to give lectures on his research project: “Lymphocyte Development in Chicken Embryos.” When I went to meet him one Saturday, he showed me the warming chamber, which held a rack of eggs. He shone a light on the eggs and I saw the embryos inside. They were honestly the most disgusting things I’d ever seen–totally, absolutely, gross. I didn’t know how he could face eating eggs ever again. It doesn’t seem to bother him. I guess scientists aren’t as squeamish as other people. I can’t look at an egg without seeing those poor little squirming creatures. I’m even into baking eggless cakes now.

  Last year, we redecorated and had the dining room painted terra-cotta. When it was time to put the pictures back, Dad asked me if I’d like to keep Mom’s portrait in my room. I hung it on the wall facing my bed. I look up at her sometimes when I’m learning lines for a play, or writing in my journal. She’s been dead over six years now, and I guess, most of the time, I’ve kind of adjusted to losing her.

  Actually, I thought about Mom today. We had drama this afternoon, just about the only subject capable of keeping anyone’s attention on the last Friday of school before summer vacation. Mr. Keith, our drama teacher, let us do the first read through of The Secret Garden. We sat around and took turns reading different parts. When Mary Lennox wakes up in her big house in India, not knowing that everyone has died of cholera, and she’s all alone, it reminded me of how quiet our house is, without my happy mother.

  There are great roles for all of us: hunchbacked Uncle Archibald; Martha, the maid; Lily, the ghost of Mary’s aunt and mother of the spoilt, bedridden boy, Colin, who becomes Mary’s friend. Mel really wants to play Dickon, the boy who talks to animals. A lot of the guys do. I wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Keith’s shoes at audition time. That usually happens the first week we get back to school. I’m desperate to play Mary and can’t wait to begin rehearsals.

  Angie said, “Don’t obsess, Katie. Thank goodness that’s months away.” I can’t help it–what else is there to look forward to? Mel’s going on a fishing trip with his dad and Angie is off to an arts camp on Lake Ontario.

  After Mom died, I thought we’d always keep the house the way it was. That’s not what happened. Things started to change around the time Dad promised to come to the annual fund-raising evening at school. He was late as usual, and snuck in just as the school orchestra finished their first number. Truthfully, he didn’t miss much. Our class put on a play with music called We Shall Never Die. It’s the true story of a mining disaster that happened in an English colliery in 1832. Twenty-six children, aged seven to seventeen, were lost. I was one of the trappers, a young girl who’s afraid of the dark. A flood swept through the underground tunnels and the kids whose job it was to open and close the doors as part of the ventilation system drowned.

/>   Dad wanted to know why we couldn’t put on something more cheerful, but said he’d make it somehow. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would have moved Heaven and Earth to keep him away. Not because it didn’t go well; it did. Some of the parents were even wiping their eyes by the end of the performance, and a huge amount of money was raised for new computers and library books.

  When the play was over, the principal went round greeting people. She’d invited her niece–you’d never guess that they were related. Our principal looks like … well … like a principal. Her niece is tall, with shining blonde chin-length hair. As far as Angie and I could tell, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

  “Bet she’s a model,” Angie mouthed to me. I saw perfect skin, big gray eyes, and one of those skinny bodies that look great in anything. She was wearing black leather pants, a red blazer, and a white silk shirt.

  The principal introduced her to Dad. Stephanie told us that she and her brother had recently opened a boutique, Stephanie and Giles, in the Distillery District–a trendy part of downtown Toronto that used to be an old Victorian industrial area. It’s being restored into a cool place with coffee bars, boutiques, art galleries, and work spaces.

  She congratulated me on my performance, gave Dad her card, and said, “Why don’t you bring your daughter to my shop? We’ve got some lovely things in right now, and it’s fun down there.”

  Nice try, I thought. Shopping is not the way to my dad’s heart.

  “We might do that. Katie’s always complaining she’s got nothing to wear. Perhaps next Saturday?” Dad said, leaving me speechless.

  It got worse, much worse, because five months later they were married.

  Dad helpfully pointed out how nice it would be for me to have someone around the house who was only twenty-eight, young enough to be my sister. Is that how he wanted me to think of her, as a sister? I needed a sister about as much as I needed a stepmother.

  I thought Dad and I were just fine before she arrived. Dad said, “Nothing is going to change between us, Katie.” Ha-ha, big joke. Everything has changed, and all the stories I’ve ever heard or read about stepmothers are coming true.

  Step works long hours, so Dad and I more or less continue our routine: we shop and take turns cooking, but I hardly ever have any real time with him. We’re not a family anymore. There are the two of them and there’s me, and I’m the one who’s supposed to adapt.

  The day after tomorrow, they’re shipping me off to Halifax for three weeks to stay with my grandparents. It was all arranged when Gran and Grandfather came down for the wedding. They’ve just retired and are converting an old Victorian house into a bed-and-breakfast. I was actually looking forward to going until a couple of weeks ago, when Dad casually announced that he’d been invited to give a talk at a science conference in London. He must have told Stephanie before he told me because she immediately said that Giles would be thrilled to get rid of her (I bet) while she’s away.

  “Dad, that’s fantastic,” I said. “I’ll check the Net and see what plays are on in London.” Not that I was thrilled at having to share the trip with Step, but with luck she’d be shopping full-time, so maybe Dad and I would get a chance to do some stuff on our own. “How long are we staying? How much time will we have to go sightseeing after the conference? Can we visit the Yorkshire Moors? Wait till I tell Angie I’m actually going to the place where The Secret Garden happens.”

  “Katie, I’m afraid you’re not coming with us this time,” Dad said.

  My hands went icy cold. I couldn’t bear to look at Step. She must have known all along that I wasn’t going. I bet she begged Dad to leave me at home. At that moment I didn’t just not like her much, I hated her.

  “What do you mean, I’m not going, Dad?”

  Step mumbled something about making more coffee and headed for the kitchen.

  “You promised to visit your grandparents and they’re looking forward to seeing you, Katie. It wouldn’t be right to disappoint them. This is a working holiday, lots of chicken talk. You’d be bored,” Dad said.

  “That’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever heard. Why can’t you at least be honest and say you don’t want me tagging along? Dad, I won’t get in the way, I promise. I can go places on my own.”

  “Sorry, Katie, not this time. Stephanie needs a change and so do I. It’s only for three weeks. We’ll be back by the time you come home.”

  “It doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. You don’t care what happens to me. How can you be so mean? Three weeks in England and you’re going without me and taking her?”

  “Stop the dramatics, Kaitlin. The world cannot revolve around what you want all the time. You’ll have other opportunities to travel.”

  “Right, I’m holding my breath.”

  “I don’t want to hear another word about this. Go to your room.”

  I stormed out, slamming the door as hard as I could.

  Next day Stephanie brought me home a pair of designer jeans. Typical–it just showed how brainless, how insensitive she is. A pair of jeans was supposed to make me feel better?

  “No, thank you. Do you really think this makes up for leaving me behind?” I said icily, and didn’t give her a chance to reply. We all kept out of each other’s way for the next few days.

  On the second to last night before we go away on holiday, traditionally Dad and I go through the fridge, looking for leftovers. Any food that isn’t green with mold or actually walking comes under the knife. Ancient carrots, dried-up mushrooms, onions, whatever we can find is stir-fried. I pour the result over brown rice and somehow it always tastes great. Then, on the last night, when we’re all packed, we eat out.

  When I walked into the kitchen after school today, Dad was already busy grating a lump of old cheddar cheese. He smiled at me as though nothing had happened. I stood beside him and began to chop tomatoes and onions. He’d even got the rice started.

  Step came in and put a box down. I opened it. Ugh, chocolate cheesecake, disgusting.

  Dad said, “Hello, darling, supper’s almost ready.” He gave me a look, warning me not to say anything about dessert.

  We’d just finished the last of the risotto when Dad said, “We have something to tell you.” I thought he was going to surprise me–say it was all a joke and that they were going to take me to England after all. But when I glanced across the table, Step was looking at Dad, and he was looking at her. They’d forgotten all about me and my stomach was in knots, waiting for Dad to speak.

  “Can’t you guess, Kate?” Step said.

  I felt like saying, “I hate guessing games,” but instead I looked at Dad and said, “Guess what?”

  “We’re going to have a baby, around the middle of December.” Dad beamed and held Step’s hand. “We’ve been waiting to tell you, Katie. We thought tonight was a good time.”

  No, Dad, this was not a good time to tell me, in fact, it was a lousy time. Instead I forced myself to congratulate them. “Who wants some of Stephanie’s delicious cake?” I inquired sweetly, and started to clear the table, wishing I had enough guts to accidentally drop the cake on Step’s lap.

  My birthday’s on December 17th. I’ll be fourteen, practically old enough to be the kid’s mother. I hope no one’s expecting me to get up in the night to look after it.

  Step offered to help clean up, but I said, “Don’t bother, I’ll do it.” That’s all I needed at that moment, sweet baby talk in the kitchen.

  “I think I’ll go up to bed, then. I’m tired. Thanks for supper, Kate.” She kissed Dad’s cheek and went upstairs.

  I headed into the kitchen to load the dishwasher. Dad followed me and put his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away, and turned to look at him. “Another mouth to feed, Dad?” It was meant to be funny. I guess it turned out sounding the way I really felt, which was pretty upset.

  “Katie, can’t you be happy about this, make room for the baby? There is room for all of us, you know.”

  “You forgot me, Dad. Ther
e doesn’t seem to be much room for me lately. Oh, and by the way, Angie asked me over tomorrow night, so I won’t be going out for dinner with you and Step. Good night.” Dad knew I was lying, but I didn’t care.

  A little while later I heard him come upstairs. I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. He knocked on my door. I didn’t answer. He came in anyway, tucked the duvet round my shoulders, and stood quietly for a minute. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  I felt too miserable to even open my journal. I stared up at Mom’s picture and wished I still believed she was there, making everything alright again.

  Lillie

  My mother’s name is Helen. She lives in, and I live out.

  I’ve been boarded in ever so many places since I was a baby. I’m six, getting on for seven. At Mrs. Riley’s, where I am now, I hem hankies. All day I sit and hem. She slaps me when the stitches are crooked or too big, then I have to do them over. Mrs. Riley says I sew with the wrong hand. She won’t let me use my left hand, my bad hand she calls it, but that’s the only way I can hem. I don’t like sewing. Mrs. Riley watches me and hits my knuckles with the wooden spoon if she catches me using my bad hand.

  When Queen Victoria died last year, we were sewing black armbands all day long. Even the twins, Ethel and Esther, and they’re younger than me, were helping. Rosie’s got poor eyes; she can hardly see. Mrs. Riley hates her more than any of us. She gets money paid regular for Rosie–that’s why she keeps her.

  Mrs. Riley likes her own boy, Bert. He’s big and mean, always pinching us. I told Helen he looks up our dresses, and she sighed and said, “Keep out of his way.”

  The girls sleep together in the bed upstairs. The twins wet the bed, and Mrs. Riley gives them a whipping most days, but not too hard. At the place I was in before this, at Mrs. Tompkins’, there were seven children. We slept on the floor after she sold the mattress for drink. Helen took me away from there quick as a wink when she found out. “Don’t you ever touch a drop, Lillie, you hear me? Drink gets you in trouble.”