October 3, 1917
I’m so proud of you, Flower. I try to imagine you working in a munitions factory, your beautiful hair tucked under a kerchief. I’ll bet you produce more shells in a day than the rest of the girls put together. Tell the supervisor you’re spoken for, just so he knows.
Don’t you worry about leaving young Bessie. A big girl of ten doesn’t need a nursemaid picking up after her. She’ll be better off going to school in Quebec. You’ve spoiled her. Remember what we had to put up with in the orphanage?
Lillie, when the war is over (and now that you’re helping the war effort, it won’t last much longer), will you marry me? I will come back to you, and when I do, I’ll never let you out of my sight again. I am, as always,
Your loving
William
There is one note from Lillie among the letters. It must have been written only a few days before the big explosion in Halifax harbor.
December 4, 1917, Halifax
Dearest Will,
Yes, I will marry you. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me. What took you so long? I made up my mind that day we met in the Gardens. I hope you don’t think I’m too forward.
I love you,
Lillie
Suddenly I hear Lillie’s laugh, see her face shining with happiness, the way it looked that night when she told me she’d found William again.
And then, William’s last letter:
November 11, 1918
My own dear Flower,
The war is over at last. I’ll be sailing home to you as soon as I can.
Fondest love forever,
William
A sudden gust of wind scatters the pages all over the room. “You wanted me to find the letters, didn’t you, Lillie? I am so happy that you and William got married.”
I pick up the scattered pages and put them back in order, tie the ribbon round the package, and go down to breakfast.
Gran is making pancakes. “You are an early bird this morning! Sit down and keep your grandfather company.” She slides two pancakes onto my plate, but I’m too excited to eat.
“Grandfather, I’ve got a present for you. Open it.” I give him the package.
“It’s not my birthday.” He looks at Gran and then at me. He sees that I can’t wait another second. “Right, I’ll open it,” he says.
He reads every word. When he’s finished, he hands Gran the letters, pours himself a fresh mug of coffee, sits down beside me, and takes my hand. “Oh, Katie, thank you,” he says.
My eyes well up because I can see how happy he is to have something from his parents. Gran’s crying, the pancakes are burned, and nobody cares because in front of us is the history of our family.
Suddenly I remember the photo that Miss Bessie gave me, and rush upstairs to get it. Grandfather stares at Lillie’s image. “I can’t take it in–my mother here in our own garden,” he says.
I have to repeat every single detail about Lillie saving Miss Bessie from the horses, and I try to explain why I thought of looking in the trunk…that it began with me seeing Lillie’s shadow on the wall and how she talked to me through my dreams. Somehow I can’t describe Lillie’s visits: how she sang and cried, the way we talked and danced, and how we became friends.
The rain’s stopped. The sun slants through the leaves of the apple tree. I’m almost sure I see Lillie standing behind the swing. She waves once, disappears, and I’m sad because I probably won’t see her again.
I think I know why Great-grandfather didn’t talk to his children about Lillie after she died–it was because he missed her so much. I miss her too.
Two days later, I fly home. Dad and Step had arrived the night before, so they’re not too jet-lagged to hear about the letters.
They tell me about their trip. Dad says it was Step who found the book of photographs of the Yorkshire Moors for me. They’re exactly what I need to help me picture where Mary Lennox lived when she arrived from India. The Moors are pretty much as I’d imagined from reading about them in The Secret Garden–cold, barren, and lonely in winter, but wild and romantic when heather and yellow gorse bushes bloom in spring and summer….
For the first time ever, Dad, Stephanie, and I sit around the table talking like old friends. It’s good to be home.
When I go upstairs to unpack, tucked deep down in the hidden pocket of my backpack is a small narrow box. I open it and find Lillie’s white ribbon lying on a piece of black velvet.
There’s a note:
Dear Katie,
My mother would have wanted you to have her ribbon and I want you to have it too.
Much love,
Grandfather
Hammy
It is 1:00 A.M. on January 1. This is my first journal entry of the new year.
Last summer changed all of us, especially me. It sort of happened gradually, without us being aware of it, but we seem to be turning into a family.
The week I returned to school and the day before the auditions for the play, I looked at my book of photographs of the Moors–bleak and bare in winter, but covered with wildflowers in spring and summer. I tried to soak up the loneliness in the pictures… tried to remember what the wind sounded like on the night I heard Lillie crying…thought about how sad she was. That’s the way Mary and Colin must feel.
Next morning, I tied Lillie’s hair ribbon around my left wrist, the one with the freckle, as a lucky charm. I was totally nervous.
Our drama studio is in the school basement. No one seems to know what it was used for before it was converted into a theater space. Racks of costumes from previous productions line the walls. Boxes of props, steps, stools, ladders, freestanding lights, and a dimmer board provide just about any effects we need.
Mr. Keith encourages us to watch each other’s auditions and listen to his comments. It’s a fair way of running things, but scary too. After we’d finished our prepared speeches, Mr. Keith put us in two’s and three’s to read different scenes.
Next day some of us were called back. Mr. Keith said to help him make a final casting decision, he wanted us to tell him something about ourselves, and what we thought we could bring to the role we were auditioning for. He gave us a few minutes to prepare.
It was hard. I couldn’t hide behind someone else’s lines, the way I can when I’m just reading aloud. The words and thoughts had to come from inside me.
I understood what Mr. Keith was looking for, but I didn’t know if I was brave enough to do it. I knew that if I wanted to play Mary Lennox, I’d have to fight to play her, and I could only do that by showing I wasn’t afraid to share myself.
When it was my turn, I looked up at the studio wall, remembering the first time Lillie appeared to me. I wished I could see her shadow holding the flower. I sat down, and folded my hands in my lap, so that my fingers touched the ribbon she used to wear. (I had tied it around my wrist again–this time to give me courage.) I remembered the touch of Lillie’s hands, how rough they’d felt from all the work she’d been made to do. I remembered how she never gave up hope, however awful her life was. I remembered how she spoke of things that must have been really painful to talk about. I won’t let you down, Lillie. I promise.
I took a couple of deep breaths and began to speak: “I was seven when my mother died. When Mary wakes up in that big empty house in India, I think I know how lonely and scared she felt. I think I know how angry I’d be at having to leave every thing familiar to go to a strange country to live with people I’d never met, even if they were relatives. And when she gets there, she doesn’t feel she’s wanted and wonders if she’ll ever be part of a family again. It takes Mary a long time to find out that people care about her, and that she has to meet them halfway.”
I stopped for a minute, trying to find the right words, not knowing quite how to go on. I looked up, and there she was–Lillie, I mean. Little and thin, wearing a shapeless dress. She was skipping along, as though down an alley. The boots she had on looked too big for her skinny legs. She stopped, held out her skirt, and be
gan to dance a funny little dance. In a moment she was gone.
This was the hardest part. My fingers tightened around my wrist, touching the smooth ribbon. It gave me the confidence to continue: “This summer I found out about trusting people. I discovered that my great-grandparents were Home children–shipped over to Canada from orphanages in England. William Can and Lillie Bridges and the other children had been promised kind families to take them in, and happy lives. Only the promises weren’t often kept.
“Neither Lillie nor William ever gave up hope for a better life, and it made them stronger. Then at last they found each other and became the family they’d both been hoping and waiting for.
“I think I can play Mary Lennox. I understand the pain of that kind of loneliness and how it can help you to grow.”
There was a dead silence. Mr. Keith finally said, “Well done. Next please.” I got up and walked back to my chair to listen to the others, feeling as tired as if I’d crossed the ocean myself.
Two days later, the cast notice for The Secret Garden was posted:
Mary Lennox – Kaitlin Can
*
Dad and Step and I kind of decided together on names for the baby. It was a pretty obvious choice after the discovery of the letters: William Hamish if it was a boy and Lillie Helen if a girl. Helen was my suggestion, and Step really liked the name. Somehow, when we talked about the baby, it was such a mouthful saying both names. We got into the habit of shortening it to Hammy. Hopefully it won’t stick, or the poor kid will go through life being called something that sounds like a hamster.
Step thinks babies can understand stuff even before they’re born, and kept telling Hammy she did not want him to appear early, and to hold his arrival until after December 10th, the final night of The Secret Garden.
Mr. Keith had asked Step to coordinate costumes, and she ended up making a lot of them, so naturally she was invited to the Saturday night cast and crew party. Dad dropped us both off at Mr. Keith’s house, and said he’d be back after he’d checked out some embryos in the lab.
I was talking to the guy who played Colin in The Secret Garden when Angle grabbed me and said Stephanie was asking for me. I found her on the stairs, clinging to the banisters. Mel had already phoned for an ambulance and Mr. Keith was on the cell to my dad. The “drama club baby” was on its way.
When the ambulance finally got there, Step tried being noble and didn’t want me to miss the party. But, as I tactfully pointed out, Dad would kill me if I stayed behind. Actually I wanted to go with her.
Lillie Helen Can made her appearance at 12:05 P.M. on December 11, six days before my fourteenth birthday. She does not resemble a hamster. We think she’s perfect! She has Dad’s chin, Step’s eyes, and a few stray white blonde hairs.
I close my journal and lie awake looking at Mom’s portrait. How differently I feel about everything now! My sister is three weeks old today and, so far, has not grasped that there is a difference between day and night. In other words, she sleeps and we don’t. Dad mutters pathetically about sleep deprivation, and I tell him he’s getting old.
Last week I had to stop him boasting to Step, for the twentieth time, how I slept through the night at two weeks. “No way. Memory loss, Dad,” I said. Then I suddenly had a brilliant idea. “How about me baby-sitting one night a month so you two can go out to dinner by yourselves, like normal people?” Dad said, “I’d never keep awake long enough to eat!” Step said, “You’re an angel, Katie, and I’ll do the same for you one day.” They’ve booked me for next Friday night, and Mel and Angie are coming over for pizza.
My grandparents phoned just before New Year’s. Gran offered me a paying job next summer. They’ve got a waiting list of guests already. I’m to serve breakfasts, help clean up, and make beds. It will mean getting up at dawn, like Lillie did. But I’ll get afternoons and evenings off. Gran’s going to make my gingerbread the house specialty.
I’ll be paid fifty dollars a week and tips. Step suggested they fly out to join me at the end of the summer. “We could drive to PEI. Katie and I want to see Anne of Green Gables. Rumor has it that it’s next year’s Christmas play. You could watch the baby for a couple of hours, darling, couldn’t you?” she said to Dad.
“Fly? Are you serious? Will Hammy, I mean Lillie, be on a routine by then?” Dad said.
“I’ve no idea,” Step replied.
“Awesome. Thanks, Step,” I said.
“I guess I’m outnumbered. Fine, it’s settled,” Dad said, but he didn’t seem to mind being outnumbered one bit.
Routine has become a dirty word in this house. Step’s awful mother paid a flying visit yesterday, just before lunch. She was drenched in perfume, which is really selfish because she’s been told it gives me allergies. Hammy sneezed, so she’s probably allergic too.
The conversation went along the following lines (to Step): “You look exhausted, poor darling, and so washed out. Why don’t you run upstairs and put a face on and I’ll hold the baby?” She grabbed Hammy, who had the good sense to start yelling. Step took the baby into the kitchen to feed her. Her mother followed and went on and on about routines. “Do you mean to say, you feed her whenever she wants? Babies need to be put on a strict four-hour schedule. That’s how you and Giles were raised. Is little Lillie sleeping through the night yet?”
Step said, “Are you staying for lunch, Mother? We’re having leftovers, dolmades and Greek salad.”
“You know perfectly well, Stephanie, Greek food gives me indigestion. I just popped in to wish you Happy New Year.” She cooed loudly at Hammy, who showed perfect timing by starting to wail again. “And don’t worry about Lillie’s hair, dear. Some babies are bald for months. I’m sure she will be very pretty. It’s too bad she doesn’t resemble anyone in our family. Giles was a truly beautiful child.”
I’d had enough, and no warning looks from Step were going to shut me up. “Most people think Lillie looks like my dad, and they seem to agree he’s pretty good-looking for his age.”
Her mother turned to Step, who was trying to keep a straight face and not having much success. “I can see you have your hands full. I’ll call you tomorrow, dear.”
When Dad came home a few minutes later, Step and I were almost hysterical and Hammy was screaming. He took the babe from Step, and said, “You are all giddy from lack of sleep.”
Step said, “Katie and I were just discussing how good-looking you are for your age.” And that started us off again. After we’d calmed down, Step took Hammy up for her nap, and Dad and I made lunch.
I told Dad I didn’t think Step’s mother was very supportive. Is she jealous, maybe? He said, “You’ve noticed.” Then he said something that is pretty nice to hear: “If Lillie Helen Carr turns out even half as well as her big sister, I’ll consider myself a lucky old man.”
It’s past 2 A.M. Hammy is making little mewling noises. She likes company and hasn’t got used to sleeping in her own room yet, away from Dad and Step. The hall light is on and I creep into the nursery, pick her up, and talk to her. She works hard at her smile, but it’s not quite there yet. I show her how the night-light casts a sprinkling of stars on the wall above her crib.
Suddenly Lillie’s shadow appears, standing among the stars, the way I saw her that first time last summer. “Look, Hammy, that’s your great-grandmother Lillie coming to take a look at you. You were named for her. This is the song she used to sing: Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay, Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”
I wait until my sister’s eyes begin to close and then I tuck her back in her crib. “Happy New Year,” I whisper to both of them.
The End
Afterword
Of the more than 100,000 homeless children sent to Canada from Britain between 1867 and 1967, 30,000 came from Dr. Barnardo’s Homes.
Copyright © 2005 by Irene N. Watts
Published in Canada by Tundra Books, 75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box
1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004110125
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher–or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency–is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Watts, Irene N., 1931-
Flower / Irene N. Watts.
eISBN: 978-1-77049-050-5
I. Home children (Canadian immigrants)–Nova Scotia–Juvenile fiction. 2. World War, 1914-1918–Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8595.A873F59 2005 JC813’.54 C2004-904121-5
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
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