“He’s a kind young man. I’ll ask him to come to my birthday party. I am going to be ninety-seven soon,” she says.
“Congratulations. Did you have birthday parties when you were a little girl, Miss Macready?” I’m hoping she’ll tell me about her childhood.
“Of course I did. Don’t you remember how we played hide-and-seek with my guests in the garden and there was always a big cake with candles for ‘dining-room tea’? Why did you go away? Why won’t you take care of me the way you used to?”
Gran warned me that Miss Macready might get confused. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“Hold my hand, hold Bessie’s hand, the way you always did.” I take her hand, which feels soft even though her knuckles are swollen. I’ve never met anyone this old before. Maybe she thinks I’m one of the girls who played with her in her garden. I don’t know why she stares at me.
“Do you remember how I was afraid of horses?” she asks.
It’s surreal out here on the rooftop. I feel as if I’m taking part in play, or a foreign movie, and I’ve forgotten my lines. I make a guess: “Even of your rocking horse?”
“You know I was. When Papa brought the horse upstairs to the nursery, he lifted me on and I screamed, ‘I’ll fall, I’ll fall,’ but you climbed on too and held me. You said, ‘I won’t let you fall, Bessie’ and you sang.” She half-croons in a quavering voice:
Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see my Bessie ride a white horse.
Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.
“Papa wanted me to learn to ride a real horse, but I never did.” She gives a mischievous chuckle. “After Papa died, I told the gardener to put the horse in his shed.”
“I’ve forgotten why you were so afraid of horses, Miss Macready.”
“Now, you’re teasing again. You know how I love to hear you tell me that story.”
Help. I’m lost. What story? In desperation I say, “It’s your turn to tell it today, Miss Bessie. We always took turns, didn’t we?”
“I like it when you call me by my pet name.” She starts to speak. She knows every word by heart.
“Mama and I were on holiday with Papa, who had business in Peterborough. I was not quite two years old, and I was waiting on the steps of the hotel with my nursemaid. Papa and Mama had promised to take me for a drive in the carriage. I saw it draw up, pulled by two black horses. Sometimes I still have bad dreams about them.” She hangs on to her shawl and sort of shrinks inside it, as if she wants to hide.
I take hold of her hand again. “Please go on. Don’t be afraid.”
“I dropped my ball, my new red ball that Papa had bought for me. It rolled away, down the steps. I ran after it, ran right between the hooves of the horses. Someone screamed, and then you were there to save me. You picked me up, and said, ‘No need to cry, little girl, you’re safe now’
“I’m thirsty,” she says. I hold the cup of juice to her lips. She drinks a little and then pushes the cup away, just like a small child does.
“And then you came to live with Mama and Papa and me.”
“What a lovely story, Miss Bessie, but I wasn’t the one who lived with you. I’m Katie–I wasn’t born then.”
“I remember you were like a big sister. Do you want to see my photographs?”
“I’d like that.”
Her purse is beside her in her wheelchair. She can’t manage to open the clasp. I help her and she pulls out two faded photos. “This one is of Mama and me, before you came to us.” It is one of those old-fashioned sepia-tinted pictures–a young woman wearing a long lace dress with a high collar and a huge hat with flowers under the brim. A plump little girl about two years old, a big white bow in her hair, stands leaning against her mother’s knee. On the back of the picture, it says ROY STUDIO, PETERBOROUGH, 1909.
The second photo is of the same child, a few years later, sitting on a swing. A teenage girl stands behind her, wearing a striped dress and white apron. Her hands grip the rope, as though she were about to push the swing. This one says HALIFAX, 1914. It was taken in the garden at Carpenter’s Rest. It’s hard to remember sometimes that the house my grandparents live in is where Miss Macready grew up. I ask her, “Who is the girl pushing the swing? What’s her name?” She doesn’t answer. Perhaps she thinks I ought to know.
“That was the afternoon you took me to the park. I have never forgotten that day. I had been well behaved all week, so for a treat you said you would take me for a walk in the Public Gardens. It was your afternoon off and I never liked you to go out without me.
“‘Hold my hand, Bessie. Don’t go running away,’ you said. We went around the lake and along the stream first because I liked to watch the ducks. Then I was allowed to run over the little bridges and under the weeping willow. ‘Five more minutes,’ you said, ‘and then home to have tea with your mama.’
“We walked back past the ornamental fountains. A soldier stood there. Many young men were in uniform at that time in Halifax. He turned around, stared at us, and said, ‘Flower? It is Flower, isn’t it? I’ve always hoped we’d meet again one day’ And you looked at each other and laughed and laughed. I didn’t understand why, but I felt I’d lost you, even though you kept tight hold of my hand.
“‘The boy with the smile,’ you said at last. Then you and he sat down on a bench, with me between you, and the two of you talked and talked as if you’d never stop. I might just as well have stayed home for all the notice you took of me. He spoiled my treat.
“I was late for tea that day. The soldier walked us home, and shook hands with both of us. He kept hold of yours for the longest time. I had to go inside the house to Mama, but you told him to wait and you’d be out again in a moment. Later, when you came to say good night, you said, ‘He’s going off to war,’ and I didn’t know what war was. I couldn’t go to sleep then because I was afraid you’d go off to war too. It was so very long ago. I am tired now. Will you come to see me another day?”
Gran came back with a young woman. “It’s time for your rest, Miss Macready,” she said.
I bent down and hugged her. “Good-bye, Miss Bessie.”
She put a photo in my hand. “Take care of your soldier boy.”
On the drive home, Gran says, “That was kind of you, Katie. I don’t suppose Miss Macready has many visitors; she must have outlived most of her friends.”
“It felt kind of strange, Gran. She thought I was someone she knew once and talked a bit about her childhood. Do you know she never liked that beautiful rocking horse? It scared her, gave her nightmares.”
“I’ll make a point of visiting her once in a while. Talk to her about the garden and the house.”
The moment I turn off my bedside light this evening, Lillie appears. I’ve been half-expecting her. She stands by the dresser and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She experiments with hair styles, pinning her hair in a knot on top of her head, which makes her look older, finally letting it down loose on her shoulders. She checks her profile, smooths her dress, then sits on the foot of my bed. She curls her feet under her.
“His name is William, and his smile is nicer than ever. He waited for me.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to herself.
“Didn’t you know I would?” says a voice. A young man stands in front of her. He’s in uniform. Where did he come from? Is he really here? Is Lillie imagining him, or am I dreaming them both?
When Lillie stands up, she is almost as tall as the soldier. They hold hands, looking quietly at each other for a long time. Their faces are filled with joy. I’m afraid to speak, to switch on the light, to break the spell. The soldier puts out his hand as if to touch a strand of her hair, then sort of melts away into the shadows.
Lillie goes to the window. “We won’t ever lose each other again. He is the way I dreamed he would be. He’ll come back for me and we will be each other’s family. A family like they promised us.”
“Lillie?” But she’s gone before I get a chance to speak to her.
Letters
It’s still early. Outside the seagulls scream their way to the harbor. I sit bolt upright, instead of going back to sleep the way I usually do. Something huge has happened, and for now I’m the only person in the whole world who knows about it.
I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to work it out. I should have guessed when Miss Macready confused me with the girl who’d rescued her in Peterborough and who became her nursemaid.
I jump out of bed and sit on the window seat, my arms hugging my body in the early morning chill the way I’ve watched Lillie’s do. I pretend I’m her, looking out at the rain before turning away to inspect the room on the first day she arrived here. I know that this was her room too. I’ve been sleeping in her bed, and she hung her dresses in the narrow wardrobe.
I’m almost the same age she was then, nearly fourteen. Miss Macready thought I was Lillie coming back to her. I bet Miss Bessie wasn’t easy to manage, but she helped me discover that Lillie is my great-grandmother, the girl William fell in love with on board ship.
All those years they thought about each other, without knowing if they’d ever meet again. And then, on that day when they met in the park, Bessie knew she’d never have Lillie to herself again.
I feel as close to Lillie as I do to Angie–my best friend in Toronto–maybe closer. I think Lillie told me things she’d never told anyone else–how sad she was, how much she missed her mother, how cruel those women were to her. I get furious when I think of what happened. I wonder if she ever told William about that horrible Mr. Norman at the boarding house. I’m glad she trusted me enough to tell me. It would be awful to have to keep something like that locked up inside you.
I go over to the trunk and settle down on the floor of the alcove, the way Lillie always does. The trunk! What if this is Lillie’s trunk–the one she brought over to Canada, the one where she kept her things? What if the faint letter L on the lid is for her name and not Great-aunt Millicent’s after all? If that’s true, wouldn’t Lillie hide her treasures in there to keep them safe? Knowing Lillie, she’d make sure no one ever got the chance to trash her stuff again.
I open the lid, and start tossing out the spare quilts. I’m in a hurry, but then I stop. I’m behaving exactly the way Miss Alice did. I fold the quilts again tidily and hang them over the back of the cane chair.
“Lillie, I know you can hear me. Please don’t mind me checking out your trunk. I think your ribbon might be there, and the picture from Helen that you told me about. I really want to look at them and hold them.”
The trunk’s empty now, except for some sheets of heavy brown wrapping paper on the bottom. I take them out, and all that’s left is a little bunch of dried lavender and the faded striped canvas, lining the inside of the trunk. The stitches holding the canvas on the left side are coming loose. They look as if they’d come away once before and someone’s repaired them with a different color. I can feel something lumpy under the cotton ticking. I pull at the threads until there’s an opening wide enough to slide my hand inside.
I glance behind me, half-expecting to see Lillie looking over my shoulder.
My fingers touch a small package. There’s just enough room for me to get hold of one corner and pull it out. I sit awhile, holding the parcel in my hands, turning it over, thinking about how long it’s been hidden. I’m in no hurry, and to open it somehow seems like prying.
The name written across the front says LILLIE BRIDGES. My great-grandmother tied up this bundle of letters with cloth and a faded white ribbon. I run my finger along the length of the fabric. It’s even older than Miss Bessie. Did Lillie bring the ribbon with her from England? Is it the same one she wore for the Sunday school picnic, the one crumpled by Miss Alice? Lillie must have washed it over and over to make it look like new again.
The present Lillie’s mother gave her is here too. It’s a picture postcard of a lady with glossy long hair, wearing a low-cut dress. The flower she’s holding is a lily. The name printed on the front is LILLIE LANGTRY. A dried violet is glued to the back. Once Helen gave me a picture and a flower. I’m going to keep them forever, Lillie said.
The letters are signed by my great-grandfather William. I’m touching paper that Lillie and William touched. One by one I spread the letters out on the floor. It’s hard to make out the words–some have faded, written in pencil instead of ink.
I imagine William writing his first letter to Lillie, his cap on the back of his head. I know just how his voice sounds because I heard him tell Lillie how he’d waited for her. Didn’t you know I would? he’d said. I begin to read:
November 8, 1914, Salisbury, England
Dear Flower,
Or do you prefer me to call you Lillie? At last I know your name. I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, writing like this in my first letter to you, but after all, we have known each other since we were twelve years old. When I saw you that day in the Public Gardens with the little girl, I was afraid that she was yours–that you’d got married, before I realized you couldn’t be old enough.
I never forgot you, Lillie. I always regretted not knowing who you are. Do you remember when you ran off to join the girls at the other end of the deck? I shouted out after you, “My name is William,” but my voice got lost in the roar of the waves.
Once, thinking about you, when I was working at the furnace in the forge, I became careless and didn’t turn my shirtsleeves under, as Mr. Armstrong had warned me to. Sparks caught in the folds of the fabric, and I’ve still got the scars. So I was reminded of you every day.
I’ll write whenever I get the chance. The officers say we’ll be sent over to the front as soon as we finish our training. I got lucky and am with the Second Canadian Division, the Cavalry Regiment, which is what I’d hoped for. I want to stay with the horses.
I’ve been given a weekend pass, so I’m off to London to meet my brother, Frankie. We haven’t seen each other since I left for Canada. It will be great to catch up, after all this time. He writes that he can’t wait to join the army next year, when he’s eighteen.
Best wishes from your friend,
William Carr
November 16, 1914
My dear Lillie,
I’m back from my leave, the last for a while. Frankie met me at Paddington Station and the first thing we did, after we’d had a mug of tea at the refreshment stall, was to go looking for our old home. I’d forgotten how narrow and mean the streets were where we lived. Our house was a lot smaller than we’d both remembered. There wasn’t a blade of grass, nor a tree in sight. No wonder Frankie’s lungs were weak when he was a kid, breathing in that dusty damp air. He’s fine now. He works as a market gardener outside London. I tell him he should emigrate after the war–come over here and find some good Canadian land to cultivate.
I can’t bear reading this because I know that Frankie’s going to die and will never have a chance to meet Lillie or to get that land. I’m almost afraid to read any more.
I’m homesick for Canada and for you, Lillie. When I come back, we’ll go on long walks and I’ll teach you to ride. If only we’d met sooner, before this war started and separated us again. So much precious time has been wasted.
Please send a photograph of yourself
Your friend,
William
I go on browsing through and reading the letters spread out on the floor.
January 2, 1915, France
My dear Lillie,
Your welcome parcel arrived in good time for Christmas Day. I shared the delicious cake you baked with my friends and I wear the muffler you knitted day and night. Christmas Day was the strangest time. It really was a day of peace, the way it should be. Men on both sides of No Man’s Land, the strip of ground that divides us from the Germans, sang carols. We were close enough to see the faces of the enemy. We called out good wishes, and exchanged names and food. Some showed photographs of their families. It w
as good to forget about the war for a few hours. But what I want to know is, how are we going to shoot each other now? How do you kill a man with whom you have shaken hands and who has told you his name?
I never want to spend another Christmas apart from you.
Love
William
The next letter is written on a page that looks like it’s been torn out of an old exercise book. It’s streaked with dirt, or maybe blood.
September 15, 1916, France
Darling Lillie,
We go forward a few yards, retreat, and advance over the same few yards of ground, over and over again. What’s the use? I feel as if I’ve never lived anywhere else but a trench.
There’s talk of a few days’ leave soon. I can’t wait for a bath and a change of clothes and a proper hot meal. No, there’s no news of Frankie. He joined the Third London Rifles last year, but I haven’t managed to meet up with him.
You asked me to tell you what the worst thing is out here. Well, apart from the lice and being so far away from you, it’s the mud. I hate it. I’m used to Ontario mud. I’m used to axles and cattle and horses getting stuck and having to pull them out, but here it’s a lot worse. It’s like a stinking yellow bog. A man or a horse can disappear in seconds, and all that’s left is a bubble on the surface. A friend of mine went under yesterday. He’d have had more of a chance going overboard crossing the Atlantic.
I’m sorry to write like this, Flower.
Your letters brighten even the gloomiest day.
Your loving
William
I find another sad note from Great-grandfather. It’s dated February 9, 1917. I can only manage to read a few lines.
The loss of so many beautiful horses breaks my heart. This war is not for them. They should have been kept out of it. The animals lie rotting on the battlefield, or on the cobbled streets of what is left of the villages, shelled by us or the enemy.
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