Brothers Far from Home

by Jean Little

  We have started the Knitting Group. We are reading A Tale of Two Cities. Mother says I can read aloud once I finish my first sock. I fear that means I won’t read a word of this book. It is exciting and so sad. When we’re at the group, I keep forgetting to knit. Mother reminds me, but once I saw her needles stop as she gazed into space, and her lips were trembling. I knew that she was not in our parlour. She was in the Paris prison with Charles Darnay. I reached out to poke her and then did not do it. I am more merciful than she.

  We all got playing with Isaac tonight, and Belle’s Eaton’s Beauty Doll got left outdoors. She looks dreadful. Belle keeps singing, “I once had a sweet little doll, dears,” in a mournful voice, hugging the faded child close. I could not help laughing to myself, but I kept her from seeing. Does my laughing mean I am turning into an adult who does not understand the broken heart of her little sister? I hope not.

  Sunday, January 28

  The house is so cold these days. I get under my covers and keep even my head buried and still the bitter wind sneaks in after me. The church was cold, of course. I told Mother that we should bring in our blankets that we use in the carriage and wrap them around our legs in church. She said she understood my feelings, but I clearly had no sense of the fitness of things.

  We stayed in the kitchen close around the woodstove until bedtime. Once we get under the covers, Verity and I make ourselves into spoons to keep warm. Too bad Isaac will not sleep with us, but he cannot be won away from Belle.

  Cornelia Webb came over to play yesterday. I think she likes to get away from her quiet house and her sad mother so I don’t ask about her brother. They have had no more news or, if they have, they have not told poor Cornelia.

  She is now so much friendlier, but she is certainly not adventuresome. She likes to play with paper dolls better than anything. We cut them out of the catalogue and old fashion magazines her mother gets. I like naming them and deciding who belongs in what family but it is the clothes that Cornelia likes. She has lots more dresses than I do. (That stands to reason considering the number of children needing clothes in our family.) I mostly wear middy blouses, but she wears proper dresses even to school.

  It is fortunate that I like middy blouses. They are more comfortable than most other clothes. Maybe they make me feel as free as the boys. Often I wish we could wear trousers. Boys never get told to keep their knees together and sit like ladies. But some girls, like Cornelia, don’t mind.

  I asked her what she wants to be when she grows up. She just stared at me goggle-eyed.

  “A wife and a mother, of course,” she said. “I’d like to have four children, twin boys first and then twin girls.”

  I thought of telling her the amount of work our twins were when they were babies, but let it go. “We could be nurses or teachers,” I said, “and then be wives later.”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t need to do that. My father will support me until I get married. He does not approve of women working outside the home.”

  I gave up, dear Reader. She is without an ounce of ambition or imagination. They have a woman who comes to do their laundry. She is a widow with a big family like Mrs. Ruggles in The Birds’ Christmas Carol. I wanted to ask Cornelia if her father approved of that lady, but I knew it would be rude and it would probably make her confused.

  When Cornelia told me she would have four children, I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. Who would marry poor Cornelia? Maybe nobody will want to marry me either, but I will be happy being either a nurse or a teacher. I can’t make up my own mind. I think I might be a good teacher.

  You could not become a teacher without being able to read well. When I told Cornelia my plan, she shuddered. I should say “my dream,” dear Reader. It isn’t a plan quite.

  February 1917

  Thursday, February 8

  Richard Webb was brought home today. The hospital wanted to keep him longer, but he got so upset that they decided he would be better with his family, since his father is a surgeon. He has an office in town. Cornelia says their house here in Uxbridge was Mrs. Webb’s before she married, and was not suitable for an office.

  Richard came while we were home for our dinner at noon. From the dining room window we saw him being helped into the house, and he has not come out even once. I asked Moppy.

  “Poor soul,” she said and wiped tears from her eyes.

  Cornelia stayed home from school. I saw her afterwards and asked her how he was, but she ran into the house without saying a word.

  Verity took some fresh bread over to them though, and got herself invited in. She actually saw him. Trust her for that! She said he did not speak while she was there, but True tells her he stammers terribly and twitches. Dr. Webb told them that Richard has nightmares which make him scream. He dreams he’s back in the trenches and is buried alive and keeps begging someone to get him out.

  We got a letter from Hugo the other day telling us about their trench cat. They do have animals there. This cat of Hugo’s walked into their outpost one night and never left. They call him Scrounger and he seems to have a charmed life. He has only lost a tiny bit of one ear even though he has been on hand when shells were bursting. Some men even have pet rats.

  The stories Hugo tells sound so much more cheerful than the things True said about Richard. I am afraid that means Hugo skips the worst parts to shield us. I wonder if lots of them do the same. I don’t want to be shielded and yet, I do, if it is too terrible to be borne.

  Cornelia’s silence is easier to understand now. She must be terribly muddled by Richard’s acting the way True told Verity. Maybe she just can’t bear to see hurting things. She needs life placid. Poor Cornelia. From what I’ve seen and from the news of the War, life is not going to be placid in our world and we must take courage and be strong.

  Friday, February 9

  I saw Richard Webb today. I never met him when he was well, of course. I think he was handsome once. But his face is grey and it keeps grimacing as though he is in terrible pain. He shivers and he stammers. Sometimes he shouts out words, and now and then he whispers, as though he is afraid someone is listening.

  He was out in their back garden for a few minutes this afternoon but they took him in again when he started to shout. I could not help but see since the Twins and I were shovelling the snow off our garden paths. He really frightened me. I felt like running inside and slamming the door. But I did not do it.

  I didn’t look straight at him and I warned the Twins not to stare. “What is wrong with him?” Susannah blurted out. She has a loud voice, very deep. I tried to hush her but she would not listen to me. She asked if he was a lunatic. I told her to be quiet and I said he was sick. “No. The child is right,” he roared out. “I’m a maniac. A loony.” Charlie giggled. He was nervous, I think. Then Richard began to cry.

  Father must have been listening. He came out the back door, passed us and went through the gate in the hedge.

  “Let me help you back into the house, Mr. Webb,” he said so gently that my eyes filled with tears. “It is too cold for you out here.”

  “Don’t touch me,” Richard screamed. Then he stumbled toward the door.

  Father followed him, making sure he got in safely. Mrs. Webb met them on the step and thanked Father. I was going to ask him about Richard when he came back, but he went out their garden walk to the street and did not return to where we were. The Twins wanted to stop working right then and run after him to ask what had happened, but I held them back, telling them Father would be helped more by the shovelling being done than by a lot of questions. I knew by the look of his back striding off that he wanted to be alone.

  I know, dear Reader. Backs cannot stride off — but you know exactly what I mean.

  I am sure I have already told you that Father does not believe in war. He is in trouble about it because he will not pray for God to give the Kaiser boils or leprosy or some other deadly plague. He does pray for our fighting men, asking God to bless them and keep them safe. But he p
rays for both sides to come to their senses.

  The head of Session told Mother today that when the last minister died suddenly and Father preached for the call, the congregation took it for granted that he was truly patriotic because they had heard about Hugo being at the Front. They were deeply shocked to find Father so peace-loving “at an hour when our Whole Civilization is in Peril.” Mother told Father what she heard the Elder say, and Father said, “That man talks only in capital letters.” He laughed, but he sounded unhappy. Then he said, “He’d hand me a white feather if he did not know they would not take me.”

  I came to find you, dear Reader, since I should not listen in on them. I do it anyway, but I suppose I should not.

  It is strange to think that Hugo’s going to war might have gotten Father the call to this church. When Hugo came home in uniform, he asked Father to forgive him. Father hugged him and could not say one word. The Twins cheered and I saw Verity looking at him as if he were a god. Like Apollo or one of those Greek ones. Do I mean Hercules? I get them mixed up.

  I think he looks wonderful in his uniform. Jack and Rufus will too, especially once they get their Royal Naval Air Service uniforms. Jack can’t wait to put on the navy blue with its gold buttons. I am so proud of them, dear Reader. Besotted, Father says when he gets teasing me. Do you have a brother in uniform? Somehow I think you are an only child.

  I am afraid for Hugo, as well as proud, but I struggle not to think about it.

  Dear Father in Heaven, do not let anything terrible happen to Hugo. He is so strong and brave and jolly. I pray this in Jesus’ name, Amen.

  I went out on the verandah a few minutes ago to see the stars. I heard Richard W. screaming at his mother as though he did not know who she was. Then Cornelia shouted out, “Make him be quiet. Make him stop.” She can’t talk about him without crying. Yesterday she shocked me by bursting out that he had spoiled everything by coming home. She saw the look on my face and she ran away from me and we haven’t spoken properly since. How could you be angry at your own brother who is so hurt? I know I decided she was weak and could not help being that way, but she still shocks me. I cannot understand her. If Hugo came home like that, I would cherish him every moment.

  Mother brought me a new library book called Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. She says I am like Rebecca. Rebecca reminds me of Anne Shirley but I like Anne better. Or maybe it isn’t Anne herself I like better but the rest of the story. Rebecca isn’t as harum-scarum and she is not an orphan.

  After I thanked her for the book, I told Mother about Cornelia hating reading. She’s nearly fourteen and cannot read even the easy words. And I told her about what Corny said about Richard spoiling things.

  Mother looked sad. “Be thankful for your good mind, Eliza,” she said. She told me that Mrs. Webb is worried about Cornelia. She was very ill as a baby. She had several convulsions and, although she pulled through, she has always been slower to do things than other children her age. “Perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you about her like this,” Mother said, “but I think she needs your understanding. Her father keeps punishing her for not working harder at her lessons.”

  I stared at her. I couldn’t believe she was telling me this, but she even went on.

  “He says she just does not apply herself. But her mother and I believe she does the best she can. It is hard on her having True for a sister, and Richard was always top of his class before he enlisted.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. I could not think of anything else.

  “That family has had more than its share of troubles,” Mother said.

  Then, dear Reader, she went and added, “I’m glad Cornelia has you for a friend, Eliza.”

  I like it when she talks to me as though I were an adult but, to be honest, I am not such good friends with Cornelia. I’m too old for paper dolls and I hate sewing. When I try to get her to come out for a walk, she’s always too tired or she dawdles. It is no fun walking with a dawdler. But I will try harder. Sigh!

  Monday, February 19

  I know. I have neglected you, dear Reader. But I have been so busy with schoolwork and knitting and writing letters overseas. But here I am again, for I have something interesting to tell.

  Richard Webb hardly sleeps. We can hear him shouting and moaning until his father gives him a sleeping draught.

  “The poor laddie,” Mother murmurs.

  Cornelia stayed home from school again. But when I came in, she was sitting in our kitchen with a face like stone. When I stared at her in astonishment, she jumped up and ran out the door.

  “You be gentle with that child, Eliza,” Moppy said, as though I had been planning to be cruel to her, which I was not.

  I snapped that I couldn’t be gentle if she never lets me come close.

  “You keep trying,” was all she answered. Why was Cornelia in our kitchen? Getting away from her brother, I suppose.

  Or perhaps it was her shame at getting not one right answer on her arithmetic test last week — and Mr. Royle gave her the questions he gives to the ten-year-olds. It would not be so bad if he didn’t talk to her about it out loud where everyone could hear.

  March 1917

  Thursday, March 1

  I know. I have missed a few days again, dear Reader. I forgot about you because we have been working on a school pageant. I will be the Spirit of England. My costume is mostly a Union Jack made into a dress, and a crown and sceptre which are used for every play with a king or queen in it. Even Herod holds them in the Christmas play. I think I look silly but Mabel looks worst as the Spirit of France with lilies all over her and a big ribbon crossing her front. The ribbon is too short and she looks ridiculous bulging over it.

  Cornelia is at home with grippe again. Her father never treats her the way a doctor father should. You would think she made her nose run on purpose to annoy him. “Where is your handkerchief, young lady?” he asks in such a sharp voice. “Please employ it.”

  She looks scared when he talks straight to her and glares. My mother got her a bottle of Aspirins. Her father says she does not need pills, just mustard plasters. But these Aspirins really help her head not to ache and Mother says they are better for her than laudanum.

  I cannot imagine being afraid of Father. But Dr. Webb barks at Cornelia in such a fierce way, as though she is an utter dunce and he is ashamed of her. When I was there yesterday, even Richard noticed.

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it, sir!” he yelled. Then he saluted his father and hid under the table.

  I wished I was anywhere but there.

  But I also wish that Cornelia would not snuffle like that. She sounds a little like a pig. I can tell you such unkind things, dear Reader, which is a relief. Sometimes I fear I am more of a beast than Verity.

  At school today Mabel showed us an item from the newspaper about the battalion her cousin is in, the 116th. They are going to the Front. Colonel Sharpe said in the paper that when he told the men they were going to France as a unit, “you could hear their cheers for two miles.”

  Bedtime

  A letter came from Hugo. He didn’t send anyone a message. Whatever he did say made Mother cry. I think somebody from where we used to live must have been killed. I told Mother I was old enough to know, so she gave me the news at last. Ross Maynard was not killed, but he has had to have his right leg amputated. Hugo helped get him to a stretcher and he said Ross kept asking for his mother.

  I wish I did not know. Ross is older than Hugo and I never really knew him. But I do remember one thing about him. He was a wonderful runner. He used to win all the foot races at school.

  Father says we must pray for the wounded. I think we should have prayed earlier. But I’m beginning to wonder if praying does any good.

  Ross Maynard has a brother who is Verity’s age. He must be sick at heart. If they bring him home, will his brother feel like Cornelia does about Richard? Never.

  They did not tell the Twins yet. Mother told me not to talk about it where they could hear. Then she made a big pan o
f Russian toffee to send to Hugo. Moppy has knitted more socks too. Hugo says her socks have saved him and his friends from frostbite. He says it is terribly cold at the Front. She knits them fast as lightning and sends them in bundles and he passes them out. They love the Russian toffee because it does not get hard but stays all fudgey.

  Mother has finally given up on my ever completing a sock which could be worn by a human foot. When the knitters meet, I’m always the one who reads aloud now. We’re still on A Tale of Two Cities. Mother asked the Webbs to join us, and Cornelia knits faster than her mother or True. She never drops a stitch. And her whole face looks different, as though she’s really alive in a way she usually is not.

  It is wonderful to sit and read a great book without feeling guilty. Almost always, you have to steal reading time.

  I look over to see if Cornelia is listening to the story. I don’t think she is. But she isn’t minding. Even Madame Defarge does not make her shudder.

  Friday, March 2

  Susannah is very proud of herself tonight. This morning she spelled down all the boys in the class Spelling Bee. She spelled the girls down too, but the boys seem to be the ones that matter. The words that defeated the last two boys were parallelogram and hypotenuse. I am glad she didn’t ask me to spell them. She asked Father. She should have known he would get them right without even needing to stop and think.

  Charlie said he could spell Mississippi so Father told him to prove it.

  “Missississississ …” Charlie started in. When he saw us beginning to laugh, he yelled out, “ippy.”

  We laughed so hard he stamped off up to his room and would not come back even for the last of the peaches Mother and Moppy put up last summer. Because there’s so little sugar or proper flour to be had, Moppy makes wartime cottage pudding, which she herself says tastes like sawdust, and then we spoon the peaches over it. It is not delicious, but it is usually good enough to tempt Charlie. We all felt mean. Susannah forgot he had been teasing her and looked at us as though we were monsters. She would not eat dessert either. She took Isaac and went upstairs to look in on Charlie. Half an hour later, I saw Moppy carrying up a big bowl filled with dessert, twice the peaches the rest of us got. I’ll have to practise making spelling mistakes!