Orphan at My Door

by Jean Little

  Thursday night, August 12

  Marianna was absolutely right. Babies are not rosebuds. They are hard work. We not only have to care for her but be nice to all her visitors — Mrs. Jordan and Cousin Anna, Uncle Peter and Aunt Gwen, Grandma and Grandpa Cope, Mrs. Cameron, the minister.

  Mother says, “At a time like this, you have to expect the world and his wife.”

  I am tired of saying that my nose is not out of joint and that I don’t care about not being the baby of the family any longer. I am weary of smiling at them while they go on and on teasing. I love her. I really do.

  Good night, dear Diary.

  Friday, August 13

  Another day crammed full of baby. Snortle is jealous.

  Saturday night, August 14

  I rocked Rosie to sleep again. She goes to sleep for me every time. She feels so small and warm and darling. But now I need to sleep myself.

  Sunday, August 15

  The baby is asleep again! Father and the boys went to church but I stayed home to help Marianna. At the moment, Mother and Rosie are both asleep and Sparrow is making some special dish.

  “Go away, Victoria,” she said, smiling. “I have to think.”

  I was glad because I was in the mood to write.

  Babies are not just sweet. Ours is forever needing to be changed or fed or rocked. All those diapers have to be washed and folded. Marianna irons them! Rosie wakes us up too. She is not a peaceful child. Mother says she will settle down.

  I do love her so!

  Thursday, August 19

  I put my diary down in the hammock and someone took it and I could not find it anywhere. It has finally shown up under my bed. I know I did not leave it there. I suspect Tom. I will skip August 16, 17 and 18. Nothing really exciting happened. Babies don’t stay exciting, but they do keep holding onto your heart as tightly as they grip your finger.

  Friday, August 20

  Today David actually drove over to bring Jasper home. He has been going every so often to visit Lou Johns and he has spent time with Jasper. My big brother seems changed. Not that he is perfect. He called me Picky Vicky tonight when I would not eat my turnips.

  The funny thing is, I am certain he hates turnips himself.

  Jasper’s hair is growing in and is back to its glorious red. His cheeks are rounding out and peppered with golden freckles. His bones don’t show any longer and his grin now blazes like sunrise.

  Sparrow is as happy as a dog with two tails, having him with her and not needing to hide him. He has a husky voice and he is still a bit shy. He’ll be starting school in September. They talked about asking the teacher over to meet him, but it did not happen for some reason.

  Mother reads to him when Rosie is asleep. She is still supposed to be resting a lot and the two of them are enjoying sharing Tom’s and my old books. When she read to him from Little Men, they both cried over Nat, who is like a Barnardo Boy in lots of ways.

  Having Jasper in the family has changed other things too. Marianna hovers over him! She hovers over Mother and Rosie too. She hardly has time to talk with me any longer.

  I sound jealous. I don’t think I am, really. I am just lonely sometimes.

  But there is lots to take my mind off myself. We are going to Grandma and Grandpa Cope’s later to help with the harvest. David is still mostly with them. When he does come home, he is so quiet he seems like someone else. I cannot believe this, but I miss the old David.

  Thursday, August 26

  I took my diary downstairs and lost it. Marianna found it this morning under all the baby’s washing. I should have missed it terribly, but I am so busy these days that I was a tiny bit thankful not to find it.

  But now, dear Diary, I have you back and I will take better care of you.

  When Emily Rose grows up and finds this diary, she will want to know what happened on the days I keep missing. Sorry, Rosie. The true answer is “Not much.”

  I am trying to teach Jasper to read and figure better, before school starts. He looks so odd still. And his arm was too badly broken to be fixed, so he may be teased by some of the boys. But he has me and Roberta to stand up for him.

  I found the poem Marianna’s mother named her after. We laughed and laughed. Tennyson’s Marianna is not like Sparrow at all. She’s moping and whining. “A regular watering pot,” Tom would call her. And the poem goes on and on and on for PAGES. Sparrow despaired of her and quit halfway through, but I thought it might turn out happily in the end. It didn’t.

  Men are coming to put in the bathroom as soon as Mother is well enough. They are going to use the little sewing room. There will be a tub with hot and cold water. I can’t quite imagine it.

  Friday, August 27

  Today Marianna Wilson turned thirteen. She says she is a woman. I see no evidence of this.

  Happy birthday, Sparrow.

  I made her a burnt leather cake and it was not too bad. It fell in the middle but it tasted fine.

  Sunday, August 29

  After recording Sparrow’s birthday, I let another day go by without writing anything. And I vowed to do better. There just never seems to be time. I would be too tired. And Sparrow and I would get talking. Also, looking after a baby is a lot of work.

  Snortle is so jealous of the baby! I wonder if he thinks Rosie is a puppy. He goes to Jasper for comforting. Yet when Mother puts Rosie down on a blanket, Snortle approaches her so carefully and just stands and breathes on her.

  Everything has felt a bit flat lately. No Jasper to hide! No baby to wait for! No Aunt Lib to set off sparks. I am glad all of that is done but, in a strange way, I miss it. It is so tame to write, over and over again, in my diary, “Picked blackberries.”

  I liked picking blackberries though. It was peaceful. And I loved looking at Marianna growing happy and Jasper growing healthy. He’s happy too. He looks more like the boy I first saw at the railway station, except now he has a permanent grin on his face.

  School starts in just two days, so I’ll have new adventures to tell you about, dear Diary.

  Monday, August 30

  Tonight I will have a bath in our own bathtub and let the water run away down a pipe. Amazing!

  Now Marianna is thirteen, she asked Mother if she could stop going to school. She says she wants to look after Emily Rose, and I know that is part of the truth. I also know she wants to escape from the jeers of Nellie Bigelow and her kind, all the ones who despise Home Children. There are not many of them, but their taunts and belittling glances sting.

  Mother told her she must go half days at least. Then she can bring her work home and Mother will help her.

  “You have a good head on your shoulders,” she said. “It is best for you to keep on at school, Marianna. And Jasper will need you, I am sure. You owe it to your brother to be there, and I owe it to your mother to do my best for you.”

  I don’t know what she meant exactly.

  Then she made Marianna learn the 23rd Psalm to the tune the covenanters made up, and told her to sing it whenever she felt she needed extra strength.

  Marianna sings it constantly, putting special emphasis on “A table Thou hast furnished in presence of my foes.”

  She sings it and sings it. I told her she was as bad as Peggy bawling out “Annie Laurie,” but she was not at all crushed.

  “Any minute now, I’ll clap my hand over your mouth,” I told her.

  “Put both hands over your ears instead, Picky Vicky,” she said.

  She is getting too big for her britches — if she wore britches. When she came in May, she would never have spoken to me like that. But we weren’t friends then. We are almost like sisters now.

  Tuesday, August 31

  Tomorrow school starts. I am glad. I groan when anyone mentions it, but secretly I am glad. I have new clothes to wear. A tartan dress with a white collar. I also have a new pencil box.

  September

  Opening Day, Wednesday, September 1

  Mr. Grigson is gone! Hallelujah!

 
; We have a new teacher. She’s a woman named Miss Abbot. She is pretty but tall and strong. None of the boys try to play tricks on her. She walks around with the pointer in her hand and has already cracked it over a couple of their heads. Not hard, of course. But hard enough to get their attention.

  We have three new students, besides Jasper, and one of them is a Home Girl. She is twice the size of Marianna, with big shoulders and huge red hands and snapping grey eyes. Her hair is the colour of taffy, but nobody is calling her Taffy, you can bet your bottom dollar.

  She is meek as Moses when the teacher is present, but when no adult is around, her true self pops out.

  She eyed Nellie up and down and said, “You’ve never been outside Canada, I suppose. You can’t help it. But you have a lot to learn.”

  “Where’ve YOU been, pray tell?” Nellie jeered.

  “I was born in Dublin. I’ve lived in Liverpool and in London. I’ve seen the Queen lots of times,” said Molly. “Perhaps you can travel when you grow up.”

  I was shocked at her sauciness and Marianna’s eyes were wide with astonishment. I couldn’t believe a Home Girl would talk to Nellie like that. Nellie tried to think of something cutting to say back, but by then Sparrow was laughing right out loud.

  “Were you at the Girls’ Village or just at Stepney Causeway?” Molly asked, turning her back on Nellie.

  They banded together right then and there. Roberta and I go around with them a lot of the time, although certain things are different for them — hardships they have shared and we have not.

  Friday, September 3

  Jasper is in the other classroom, but we see him at recess time every day. He has made friends with Toby Price, who is a quiet little fellow on top but a tough customer underneath. Nobody bothered them after the first couple of fights. Jasper definitely does not fight fair, but he is so small that everybody cheers him on. And Toby is just as bad.

  I thought some of the boys, Jimmy Bigelow especially, might run to the teacher, but he only did it once. She made him give up the rest of recess for tale-bearing.

  The four of us girls, Molly, Marianna, Roberta and I, are by far the strongest group in the school now. The others mostly steer clear. Molly is so BIG and she isn’t afraid of any of the other girls. She can’t read properly and can only do sums where you don’t have to carry. She doesn’t seem to care a pin.

  “I’ll learn if it’s in me,” she said. “I know a lot about surviving without book learning, but I would like to know more.”

  Miss Abbot asked today if any of us liked writing stories. I put up my hand. She asked if she could see some of my work.

  Saturday, September 4

  I told Mother about Miss Abbot asking to see my writing.

  “That is splendid, Victoria,” she said. “What will you show her? Make it your very best.”

  I thought about it and was surprised at my own answer.

  “My best writing is in my diary,” I told her.

  “Good. Let her see it. But do you think I might read it first?”

  It was funny. I used to worry that she’d find it and read it. But when she said that, I realized that I had been wanting to show it to her for a long time. I will give you to her, dear Diary, just before I go to bed.

  But now I am remembering some of the things I have written. I can’t go back and cross out bits, because she would see them at once. Does she know Father thinks she’s like a sailing ship? Did I say she had no sense of humour? Did I tell any of Marianna’s secrets which she would mind Mother knowing? I feel slightly sick. I think I had better hand you over right away, dear Diary, before I grow so worried I have to tell her I have changed my mind. I think I will take a holiday from keeping a diary until I get you back again.

  Labour Day

  Monday night, September 6

  We had a holiday from school today. Right after breakfast, Mother gave me back my diary.

  “Victoria Cope, you are a born writer,” she said. “I’m afraid you will find some tear stains on a few pages. And you made me laugh out loud — even if I am a serious person. I showed bits to your father and he wants to read it next.”

  I was so pleased I could not speak a word. I could feel myself blushing.

  Tuesday, September 7

  Jasper boasted to me that he was sent to the blackboard this morning and he got every sum right. He should. We had been over them enough. Tomorrow I will give my diary to Miss Abbot.

  Friday, September 10

  I planned not to write anything until Miss Abbot gave me back my diary, but I have to. I’ll write this in on loose sheets and copy it in later.

  The Barnardo people have written back and given Father and Mother permission to keep both Marianna and Jasper here. Mr. Stone was ordered to send his Barnardo trunk over here and he did not. Jasper wanted Father to forget it, but Father said, “No. You have little enough, my lad. That box is your property. He must account for it.”

  The police went with him to Mr. Stone’s place and found it deserted. The dog had been taken in by the neighbours, Father says. I asked him to find out about it and he smiled at me and said he would try. They found Jasper’s trunk in the barn. It had never been opened. The farm itself is going to be seized by the bank for bad debts.

  “What will a bank do with a farm?” I asked Father.

  “Auction it off to the highest bidder,” he said.

  The neighbours said Mr. Stone had told them he was heading south.

  Father also asked about Emily Rose Wilson, Marianna’s sister. The Barnardo people say she has been adopted by a good Canadian family who love her dearly and will see she has the best of everything. They are not at liberty to release any more information about the family, or even tell us where she is. They also said that both parents of the Wilson children were dead.

  Marianna cried a little, but I think she had guessed this must be true long ago. I also think our baby is helping to heal her grief. Knowing her sister is well is some comfort.

  “There’s nothing more you can do, child,” Mother said to her. “Pray for God to bless and keep her and hold our little one to your heart. Jasper too needs all the love you can spare.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marianna said.

  Mother looked at her.

  “I think it is time you and Jasper started calling us Aunt Lilias and Uncle Alastair,” she said thoughtfully. “We’ve been through a lot together. I don’t feel like ‘ma’am’ any longer.”

  Sparrow went red as fire and smiled her crooked smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  But Jasper started in right away. Mostly he calls Mother “Auntie Lily” and Father “Uncle Al,” which sounded funny at first but is just right now.

  Cousin Anna and Mrs. Jordan came here for supper tonight. Mrs. Jordan drove them over in her buggy.

  Mrs. Jordan and Jasper looked at each other. She should have defended him more, but I guess she was too timid. I was going to write “too cowardly,” but I was afraid of that man myself and I was never alone with him. She patted Jasper’s shoulder and he ducked his head down and went pink. But neither said a word. He is still a Home Boy to her.

  Sunday, September 12

  Emily Rose Cope was baptized this morning. She was so good. Just sucked her thumb and gurgled all through. One of the other babies yelled his head off and punched the minister on the chin.

  Monday, September 13

  Miss Abbot told me this morning that she had read my diary. She said she wanted to read it again and she will talk to me about it after she finishes.

  “It is a remarkable piece of writing for a girl your age,” she said. “You got me so interested in the story of all that was going on at your house, that I did not pay proper attention to the writing itself.”

  I did write a poem. I finished it today. At least, I think I did. Every time I am sure it is done and I copy it out in my best writing, I see a word I must change. I’ll write it out here and give her the other one. I let Tom read it. I had to try it
out on somebody. He stared at me goggle-eyed.

  “Vic, it sounds as good as anything in the reader,” he said in a hushed voice. “Did Father help you?”

  “No,” I said. I was angry for a moment, but then I realized he was saying my poem was so good he thought a grown-up must have given me some help. It was a compliment, not an insult. I could feel my face go red right up to my hair.

  Now I will copy it onto your pages, dear Diary.

  Thanksgiving

  By Victoria Josephine Cope

  Thank You, God, for the whispering breeze,

  For the stately grandeur of lofty trees,

  For the tinkling laugh of the rippling stream,

  For the face of a child in the midst of a dream.

  Thank You, too, for the moon at night

  As it blesses the world with its cool, clear light,

  For the silent hour at the close of day,

  For the soft, warm rain that falls in May.

  But thank You most for the eyes I see

  That look with such love and pride on me.

  For those I can turn to in time of need,

  Oh, God, thank You for these indeed.

  It took me a long time to write and I still feel it isn’t even close to perfect. I could go on and on. I also wanted to put Snortle in and Miss Abbot and Emily Rose and Mother. Well, I did, in a way. I need a better word to describe the stream. “Tumbling” maybe.

  Writing poetry is harder work than writing in a diary, and not as much fun as telling a story. But it satisfies me somehow in a way those others don’t. I have to work so much harder at it. I can’t describe the feeling. Long ago, Father asked me what I thought of the world, and I said it was wonderful.