by Jean Little
Jemma and Phyllis came down to breakfast in their nightgowns. As soon as they found out about the War being over, they pulled on their coats, grabbed some bread and jam and ran out onto the street to join in the celebration. They did not even go up and get properly dressed before they flew out the door. Aunt tried to haul them back but they were too crazy with happiness to listen. She ran after them though and pushed masks into their hands. They laughed harder than ever but they did put them on.
Then they vanished around the corner and Aunt came slowly in. She was scandalized and also afraid.
We have been warned that the Flu is probably passed from person to person somehow and we should stay home and keep out of crowds where there is danger of contagion.
But Jemma had on her mask as she went dancing up the street, pulling Phyllis after her. Not that Phyllis was dragging her feet! They are two giddy goats.
I longed to go, too, but I would not leave Fanny. Also I confess I was afraid. After all, I watched Fanny almost die. Jem knew it was happening but she was never allowed in the room so she didn’t see just how close Fan was to death. She’s seen others who were ill, of course, but it does not shock you in the same way.
We can hear celebration noises coming in the windows, church bells ringing, sirens blowing and noises like clanging cymbals and people shouting and singing. I know it is wonderful and it is a historic day but it still feels far away and not quite real. It has been going on for hours!
I wish Jemma would hurry up and come home. She’s been gone for ages! Aunt looks sick. She keeps muttering, “She wasn’t even properly dressed.”
“But you made her put on her mask,” I said at last.
“Yes,” she said, staring at me as though she hardly knew me. “Yes. I did do that.”
Early evening
Jemma and Phyllis did not come home until almost suppertime and they were both still happy but exhausted. They dropped into easy chairs in the front room and they said they had blisters from dancing and sore throats from singing “Rule, Britannia” and “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag.” They said they kissed soldiers and sailors and just about anybody and got kissed back.
Grandmother glared at them and said their behaviour was scandalous. “It’s hard to credit that you are two well-brought-up girls,” she said.
But Father ignored her and kept staring at Jem in the strangest way. Then I figured out what he had seen. He was not worried about their scandalous behaviour. He had seen that Jemma’s mask was gone.
Aunt was looking as shocked as he was. I could tell she was beside herself with fear but I do not think either of the girls noticed.
Jemma stood up and began to go to the kitchen for a drink of water. She had kicked off her shoes but she was still limping badly.
“Was it worth it?” I asked her. “Your poor feet!”
She grinned at me and said it was superb. That is one of her favourite words at the moment. She added that I should have come with them.
She disappeared into the hall and Aunt whispered, “She had it on when she left.”
“Had what on?” Grandmother snapped.
Aunt didn’t answer so I said, “Her mask.”
“Oh, I don’t think they do much good,” Phyllis said. “They got in the way. I think she shoved it in her coat pocket. That’s where mine is.”
Jemma hobbled back in and told us that the most enormous sailor stepped on her foot and then kissed her to make up for it.
“He looked just like John Barrymore, Fee,” she said. “Honestly. All my toes feel crushed flat.”
She sounded remarkably happy-go-lucky for a girl with a broken foot. She had risked her life and she seemed not to guess anything was wrong. On her way back to her chair, she bent and kissed Grandmother on the top of her head. Jane, she acted drunk with joy.
Nobody spoke to her about her mask. I suppose they thought there was no point.
Phyllis’s father came and took her away in their motor car while Theo, green with envy, watched with his nose pressed against the window. He is after Father to get us one but Father says he can walk to school, and the church and library are nearby, so why spend money on an automobile? Theo is working on a good answer.
Then Aunt chivvied Jemma into a hot bath, washed her hair for her and put her to bed. If being clean can keep you healthy, Jemma is safe as houses. There was half a cake of Ivory soap in the bathroom and it is gone! The coconut-oil-and-tar shampoo bottle is also practically empty. If I was a Flu bug, I’d fly away when I smelled that stuff. I guess it is the tar that makes it stink.
So, Jane, that was what happened to your relations on the day the War ended. It is a bit of history come to life for you. Jemma is still singing in her room although she sounds sleepy. Surely she will be all right.
Tuesday, November 12, 1918
We spent all day doing little household chores while we watched Jemma for signs of Flu. So far she seems as healthy as ever. Just tired from all her jubilation.
School is back but Aunt is keeping us home a while longer.
Wednesday, November 13, 1918
Jemma still seems all right although she has a bit of a cold. That is what Aunt is calling it anyway. She made Jem go to bed to get rested. You would be bound to catch a cold from somebody, what with all that kissing.
William G. dropped by and asked Jo to come out for a walk. She said she couldn’t at first, but Aunt told her she owed it to William since he’d come all this way. She went then but she was not gone long. It is easy to see that, sweet as she is on William, she is more worried about Jemma.
Thursday, November 14, 1918
Jemma was not safe. Tonight Aunt is sure the slight cold she had yesterday is turning into the Flu. She is sick in bed with it and so, we hear, is Phyllis. Jemma does not seem nearly as sick as Fanny was, though, so I am sure she will recover. Phyllis is a thin, pale girl who gets a lot of colds. I think she is in more danger. Aunt keeps checking on how she is by telephone.
Theo trots around after Aunt saying she should give Jemma a cup of Horlicks but it is Theo who really loves it. He’ll get it, Jane, never fear. He has Aunt wound around his little finger.
Aunt just took Jemma a mug of Horlicks and she would not touch it. She has started to cough. Theo drank both his and hers.
Oh, Jane, writing this diary is not pure fun after all. I never knew life could be so joyful and so filled with anxiety and pain all at the same time. It makes me feel deeply confused. I thought that if you were good and went to church and said your prayers, God would look after you. Where is He? Did He watch, with me, by Fanny’s bed, and did He save her? If He did, where has He gone now Jemma is getting so sick?
I’d like to talk it over with Father but he seems distant these days. Aunt says he is weighed down with sorrow. So many young people he taught have died. That is one of the bewildering things about this Influenza — it strikes not so much the old and weak but the young and strong. It seems so senseless.
But the War is over! I keep telling myself. Peacetime has come at last. As old Mrs. Manders sang out, joy to the world.
Saturday, November 16, 1918
Phyllis died last night. Jemma is much worse. From outside her door, you can hear her fighting for breath. The doctor sent a practical nurse to help Aunt even though he said, “By now, they are as scarce as hen’s teeth.” She brought a pneumonia jacket with her but she no sooner got it onto Jemma than she tore it off and grew so wild that they gave up on it. I am not allowed in her room, and Jo has been sleeping on the pull-out bed in the back room.
Aunt is pale and hardly speaks. She wears that mask all day even though Theo hates it. She looks as though she has seen a ghost.
Jemma has always been taller and stronger than Jo, we keep telling ourselves.
The doctor thinks maybe we should cut Jemma’s hair because it could be harbouring the Influenza. We all know that she would not want her beautiful hair cut off. They do cut your hair off wh
en you have scarlet fever. One of my friends had it and came back to school looking almost bald. But Aunt says to wait. Every night, since she was my age, Jemma has brushed it one hundred strokes without any nagging from Aunt.
Why am I telling you about hair-brushing when Phyllis has died? I think I am trying not to think.
It sounds as though Jemma is delirious or something. “Give me a drink!” she calls. Then she chokes on the mucus clogging her poor throat. Aunt tells us that she asks for water immediately after she has had some. Aunt also says Fanny was like this before I got home.
Mrs. Davis, the nurse, keeps shaking her head in a doleful way. I wish she had never come. Although she does give Aunt a chance to catch forty winks. It is more like five winks. She can’t rest with Jemma so ill.
Jemma will get better. She has to. Without her, Jo would be as heartsick as I would have been if Fanny had not come back to me.
Listen to me, God. Save our Jemma. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
I will keep praying. But there must be so many prayers going up to God that I can’t see how He can pay special attention to mine.
Sunday, November 17, 1918
No change. Jo started to go out to do her S.O.S. stint and then turned around and came back in. Aunt telephoned the Galts to tell them what was happening. Jo is in Aunt’s bedroom now. I went up to see if I could help somehow but she just said, “Leave me alone, Fee. I’m better alone.” So I did.
Monday, November 18, 1918
Jemma is still alive but she is now as sick as Fanny ever was. Aunt stays in the room with her and the doctor took his nurse away when Aunt told him she would rather be without her. When she needs anything, I take it to the door. They think I might be immune because of being with Fanny, but nobody really knows.
Oh, Jane, I cannot write any more about these days.
Tuesday, November 19, 1918
Jemma is no better. Even Theo has stopped smiling and Hamlet is so quiet. He just lies with his giant head on his paws and looks as though his heart is breaking. Pixie lies outside Aunt’s door and will not be moved.
Maybe Jemma will pass the crisis tonight, like Fan. But when I said that through the door to Aunt, she didn’t say a word.
The doctor told Father he should prepare himself for the worst. He said he had not seen a patient recover once their face became almost black like Jemma’s. He shouldn’t have said such a terrible thing. We can’t give up hope, not while she is alive. Father looks like an old man.
Later
We are all just waiting. The whole house is filled with Jemma’s terrible struggle to breathe. But we must still hope. I crept to the door and peeped in. I wish I had not. The girl I saw was not Jemma. Jemma had gone
I can’t write it.
We must keep praying while she still breathes. That is what I heard Dr. Musgrave tell Father. But his voice held out no hope.
Wednesday, November 20, 1918
My sister Jemma is dead. She died just before dawn. Hamlet began to howl in the strangest way and then Aunt called to us to come.
At least we never cut off her beautiful hair.
I feel I cannot write about it. Yet I cannot keep so much pain shut up inside me.
Thursday, November 21, 1918
I don’t know how Jo can bear it. Their room has been cleaned already even though it has not been two days. I asked why and Aunt said we must rid the house of any trace of the contagion.
She is right, of course. We must not endanger Theo — or Aunt herself. She has spent so much time exposed to whatever causes the disease. And she looks exhausted. It terrifies me to think of anything bad happening to her.
I think I will tell Father to make her lie down. She pays no attention to me but she would listen to him.
Later
Jo is in their bedroom alone. When I listen outside the door, there is only a terrible loud silence. If you think a silence cannot be loud, Jane, you are wrong. It slams against your ears.
Jo closed herself in there and when we knock, she makes no answer or, if we keep it up, she asks us to go away. I did as she said but I felt such pain for her. Then Theo walked to the door and simply opened it and went in. I waited but he did not come back out. Then I heard Jo start to cry and Theo saying, “Don’t cry, Jo. Aunt says Jemma is all better now.” His little voice was so clear and steady, sure of each word he spoke. I turned away, crying myself, Jane, and there was Aunt sitting on the top step of the stairs, leaning against the wall, with her eyes closed and tears making her face shine. I went to her and we held onto each other and felt comforted. Father did tell her to rest. I pulled her up from the stair step and led her to my bed. It is the quietest place at the moment. She collapsed and has not moved for over two hours.
Jemma’s body has been taken away, of course. The funeral will be tomorrow. They said it was the fourth young person to die in the last twenty-four hours.
Carrie and William came to the door but Jo would not come down.
Bedtime
Why was Fanny saved and Jemma taken, Jane? I feel I must know and then I know I never will. How can anyone know? Could it be that Fan was stronger? She’d just been on a holiday while Jemma
Poor, poor Jo.
I wonder if Carrie thinks such things. After all, her older brother was killed but William was sent home. Does she wonder why it was William who was spared?
Friday, November 22, 1918
Because of the Flu, we did not have visitation ahead of the funeral. We stayed quietly at home this morning. Father’s Sunday School boys are being pallbearers even though Jemma did have the Flu. As it is, Charles is ill and Barclay has been sent to his grandparents’ farm until all danger is past.
I sat with the rest of the family in the parlour this morning and thought of the words in the poem I memorized.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that, the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark.
All I could think of was that there WAS terrible sadness of farewell in all the hearts in this house. In the poem, it sounds beautiful and peaceful. But it must have been written by somebody old. “After that, the dark” has such a lonely sound. And it makes me afraid.
I know that Death is not like that, Jane. So lovely and poetic. Jemma suffered so. She could not breathe.
After the funeral
Jemma’s funeral is over, Jane, but I want to tell you about it. She would have been your aunt. I want to remember everything too for my own sake. In spite of the Flu, many people came to the church. Grandy and Grandma were there. A neighbour drove them in.
Aunt was so strong during the service, and then we began to sing Jemma’s favourite hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light.” When we came to, “The night is dark and I am far from home …” Aunt began to cry in great sobs. Jo was moving toward her but Father put his strong arm around her instead and held her close.
“Hold on, Rose,” he said in the voice he uses to comfort me during bad storms. “Hold on, dear heart.”
I was so glad I heard. Jemma would have been glad too. I reached my hand out and took hold of Jo’s and the two of us held onto each other tight until we had to sit down again. Jemma’s hymn ends up not with darkness but with “angel faces” smiling. And, when we got to that bit, I suddenly knew that wherever Jemma is now, Mother is there, too. It made me cry even harder but those tears did not hurt so much.
I must go downstairs, Jane. People are coming. I hid for a few minutes before they arrived but I can’t go on hiding.
Sent to my room for insolence
Jane, I am going to write it all down, not just because I want to remember it but to get it off my conscience. The truth is I ought to be ashamed of myself and I am not even sorry. But what a way to act.
After we sang the hymn, I turned my head and saw that Miss Trimmer at the back of the church. She was all in black like a crow, with a black veil even, so you could not see her properly, and she held a handkerchief with a black border up
to her face.
I wanted to run back and push her out the door. What right had she to come here and watch us suffer?
I hid when we got home, as I told you, but afterwards, I went down and friends and neighbours had come to the house to share our sorrow. Aunt Jessica and Grandma took over serving food and Grandmother poured the tea from her silver tea service. Jo kept herself in the kitchen at first, putting things on plates. Then, all at once, she turned and ran back upstairs. Aunt saw her go and followed after her.
Before I tell you the rest, I want to tell you something that amazed me. People were swapping stories — mostly about Jemma and Jo when they were little girls and up to mischief — and laughing! I never knew before how good it feels to laugh when you are so sad. It is as if laughter and tears come from the same cupboard deep inside you and when you take one out, the other comes too. They are like twins!
I was thinking about this and feeling lonely so I went to find Father. I was standing next to him when Miss Trimmer came rushing over and murmured, “David, my poor dear, my heart goes out to you in your great loss.”
I felt maybe I had been too hard on her but then she clutched his arm and added, “I was astonished that Rose permitted your poor little Jemima to go out in those crowds. I should think she will never forgive herself.”
Father stiffened and jerked free. “Rose!” he cried out. “Fee, where is …?”
“Upstairs,” I said.
He wheeled away and ran up the whole flight, two steps at a time.
Miss Trimmer had lifted her veil up and she went red as a tomato. She glared after him before she remembered to jerk her veil back down. She tugged it so hard that it came loose at one side and she couldn’t seem to fix it.
I laughed. I know, Jane. It was bad. But I could not help myself. Some laughs just burst out without being invited.