Exiles from the War

by Jean Little

  “Pixie’s only five and she kept crying almost the whole trip over from England,” Sam said. He sounded sad himself when he told us this part.

  “Poor little soul,” Mother said.

  Sam and Jane told us they had heard Pixie was going to stay with her uncle and aunt. But how could her own aunt be so mean? The Brownings want to go and make sure she is all right. Jane says Pixie needs taking care of.

  I tried to remember exactly how she had looked that day in Toronto, but I couldn’t. Her aunt did seem cross, but Aunt Carrie can be a real grouch when she is tired, so I am not sure Pixie’s aunt is all bad.

  “Since we know where to find her, let’s go home and make a plan,” Mother said. “I promise we’ll do our best to find out what the problem is.”

  But when we got home, Dad said we should leave it to the authorities. I could not believe he would be so cold-hearted. It was like the night they shot the skunk. But he did not see Pixie. It was awful. She was so small and her aunt was so large. Not just large. Hard — like a big boulder.

  Mother said, in her frostiest voice, “Charles, it was clear the child was wretched, but we can wait a day or two, if you do not trust our judgment.”

  She turned her back and went to the kitchen. I think she made Dad think twice. At supper, we ate mostly in silence. Nobody enjoyed the shepherd’s pie except me. I love shepherd’s pie. Then Dad had to go to a meeting and nothing else happened. Tomorrow though, the others and I will talk by ourselves and see if we can think of a way to rescue Pixie.

  After we came up to bed, Jane still went on and on about her. I felt sorry for the kid, but I wish Jane would stop harping on how sad she looked and how awful her aunt was. I want to forget her for a while and go on reading my Oz book. Maybe I am a hard-hearted person. Being soft-hearted all the time wears you out though.

  Thursday, August 15, 1940

  Today was George’s eighteenth birthday but he was not home. Mother had sent a box of cookies home with him to be opened this morning. Sam and I sneaked a couple out of the box. They were yummy. She saves up everything special for her darling George. I think Mother still sees him as her little boy even though he is practically a man.

  Today Pixie was the centre of attention though.

  At breakfast, before we had a chance to talk on our own, Mother said she would go with us to Pixie’s. She had found some little girl clothes which had been donated to the church clothing drive and some old toys and books of mine to give them. The family doesn’t live so very far away from us, so we could go this afternoon. Dad just sat behind the newspaper and did not say one word. I almost said I refused to give away a couple of the books. One was the story of Ferdinand and another was The Tale of Peter Rabbit. I really love them and they are mine. My name is written in them and I think we should keep them and give Pixie other ones. But I did not say so. I did not want Sam and Jane to think I was a pig.

  I never put down what Pixie looks like. She is tiny. She looks as though she is three or four. Her hair hangs down her back in two long, skinny pigtails. It looks dirty. Her braids remind me of the ball of string Mother and Lizby collected ages ago before we got a big new ball. The old one is fuzzy and brownish and nobody uses it. The ends of Pixie’s braids were tied with that sort of string.

  Jane says Pixie’s eyes are the same grey as rain clouds. She made them sound like the eyes in the Anne books.

  Sam thinks she comes from Liverpool. He does not know what her father does but Pixie said something about him driving a lorry. (A lorry is a truck. It will go in my next list.)

  I wish the time would pass faster, but Grandpa Twiss says I should not wish my life away. Back to Oz until after lunch.

  Bedtime

  We went. Jane got Pixie to come out to play while Mother took in the things she had brought to give to Pixie’s aunt, Mrs. Buckingham. I wanted to hear what the adults said, so I slid in at Mother’s back. Mother made a speech about having two War Guest children and knowing how it could mean a lot of extra expense, so she had brought over some things Pixie might be able to use. The woman was cross at first but then she saw the dresses and other pretty things and started going through them, holding them up one by one. She warmed up as she saw how nice some of them were.

  Then she told Mother all about how they had been sent Penelope.

  Pixie’s dad and Mr. Buckingham are stepbrothers, but the brother in Canada is a lot older and they have never been close. When Mr. and Mrs. B were married, ages ago, the two of them went to England so she could meet his family and see where he had been brought up. At the time, the men said they must keep in touch. “When war was declared,” Pixie’s aunt told Mother, “Herbert wrote to say ‘Let us know if there is anything we can do for you.’’’

  “That was generous,” my mother said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. B said. “But he was not prepared for what happened. All at once, when it looked like England could be invaded, Penelope’s father just wrote us that she was coming and shipped her out. She was already at sea by the time we got his letter. Pixie’s brother stayed behind since he’s big enough to work.”

  “Heavens!” my mother said.

  “My Herbert had forgotten about that promise of his, so you can imagine how stunned we were when we were told that ‘our’ little girl had arrived from England.”

  After all, she said, their twins were much older and used up all her energy. (Seems she was forty when they were born. I did not think people that old had babies.)

  She went on and on. Her husband expects her to do EVERYTHING for Pixie, who isn’t old enough to be left on her own. And she wets her bed.

  Imagine, dear Diary, how it must feel to be Pixie and to know nobody wants you. I felt a little sorry for her aunt, but none of it is Pixie’s fault. We left at last. Mother asked if Pixie could come over to visit us and Mrs. B jumped at it. So Pixie is coming here tomorrow, and on the weekend too.

  But she will have to go back there, of course. Poor kid.

  Happy birthday, George. Good night, Diary.

  Friday, August 16, 1940

  Pixie came today. Mrs. B brought her right at noon. Mother waved goodbye to the old bat. Then she took poor Pixie upstairs and washed her from top to toe. Pixie squeaked a bit, but that was all. Mother brushed out her hair and tied a blue ribbon around it. She looked like Alice in Wonderland. I guess the greyness was mostly dirt, I think. Dirt and despair. Then Mother gave her a big glass of milk and toast spread with Marmite. I tried not to stare but I never saw anyone gobble food so fast.

  Then, at last, we went out to play. She was so quiet at first she reminded me of a mouse. When it began to rain, we went to the library. Pixie stuck to Jane like a burr. She stayed on Jane’s far side as though I might eat her if she got too close. Maybe I sound like the Buckinghams to her. I have never scared anybody before.

  I feel sorry for her but she is a bit babyish.

  By the time we got home, she was beginning to skip and giggle though. She and Jane and Sam chattered away about the ocean voyage. It got pretty boring. Sam went over to Robbie’s the minute we got home.

  Finally I left Jane and Pixie to play with paper dolls and wrote some in you, Diary. I hate the way paper dolls’ clothes keep falling off. There should be a better way to make them stay on than those little fold-over paper tabs on the shoulders.

  I wish Barbara was home. I am not jealous! I am lonely.

  Bedtime

  Pixie looked a lot better when Dad took her home after supper. I think he offered so he could see what he thought of the Buckinghams. He came back shaking his head but he kept mum until Jane and I went up to bed. I sneaked out in the hall then and tried to eavesdrop, but all I heard was, “You were right as usual, Ellen. It’s criminal to leave a child with her. She has enough to bear with her own …”

  He shut the door then, but I think he said the Buckingham twins were “roughnecks.” Jane says the boys are mean. She got Pixie to show Sam and me scabbed knees and a lump on the back of her head. She was p
roud of them, as if they were war wounds. Afterwards Sam told me he thought Pixie was pretty gutsy.

  “Well, of course,” I said. “It’s what your dad told you. The British are the bravest of the brave!”

  He stared at me for a moment, as though I were talking Chinese. Then he laughed. “She’s a bit small to be all that brave,” he said.

  Saturday, August 17, 1940

  Mother has offered to keep Pixie here half days until she starts kindergarten in September. So there is another WG in our house.

  Neither of them feels like the sister I hoped I would get.

  Well, I am growing to like Jane. But she does insist on talking about Pixie. She asks me if I think Pixie is beautiful and then waits for my answer. Finally, Diary, I figured out what she is hoping to hear.

  “Your eyes are such a bright blue,” I said. “Much nicer than hers. And you have dimples. I wish I had them.”

  She grinned like the Cheshire Cat and said, “Dimples are nothing special, Charlotte. Mummy has dimples.”

  But afterwards, she kept poking her fingertip into her dimples as though she wanted to be sure they were still there.

  Sunday, August 18, 1940

  George came home and went to church with us. Mother was so proud walking up the aisle with him. She did not say so, of course, but it shone out of her like giant sunbeams.

  Pixie says George is a prince. He thinks she is “a little darling.” Ugh! He carries her around on his shoulders. I could tell Jane was not too happy about this. I know how she felt.

  It is mysterious how mixed-up feelings get. You would think you could say to yourself, “I will be happy today,” and then you could be that way. But it doesn’t work. Feelings just flip over into their opposite before you can blink. One minute you feel friendly and in charge, the next you want to yell or hit somebody. I hope this gets better as you grow up. It must.

  Wednesday, August 21, 1940

  I have a cold. Pixie had it first.

  We went to the doctor. When he stuck the tongue depressor in, Pixie gagged and then she kicked the doctor. It was embarrassing!

  We got to make Jell-O when we got home. It had only half set when Pixie went back to the kitchen, got a spoon and started to eat it. Thank goodness Mother caught her in time to save some. I love Jell-O. The little pig was not the only one with a sore throat.

  Friday, August 30, 1940

  I have been too sick to write, dear Diary. My sore throat has gone away at last. Not the throat but the soreness. Now I just have the sniffles. Colds in summer should be against the law.

  Saturday, August 31, 1940

  It is almost time to start back to school. I did not think about it much until Barbara arrived home from camp. She is very brown and changed somehow. She had lipstick on when she came over but she washed it off before Mother could see. She has a great tan and she has had her hair cut. She is trying to act older, I guess. I hope she gets over this.

  They called her Barbie at camp. I don’t think it suits her. We have a book that tells about names and hers comes from the same root as “barbarian” and means savage. Savage or not, I am glad she is back. I will have someone my own age to talk to.

  September 1940

  Monday, September 2, 1940

  Today is Labour Day and tomorrow Central School will be waiting to welcome us. Even though I love summer, I always like the first day of school. Everything seems so new and you never know who might be in your class or who your teacher will be. Also you get new clothes. I have a pleated plaid skirt and a green blouse that matches the green stripe in the skirt.

  It will be Pixie’s first day in kindergarten. Sam should be in Grade Seven, same as me, I guess. He seems ahead of that though. Jane is the right age to be in Grade Three, but she is also very smart. We’ll see.

  Barbara does not like Pixie. Surprise, surprise! I actually found myself telling her that I thought the child was pretty cute.

  Tuesday, September 3, 1940

  School began this morning. Sam is in my class. He was in the Grade Six classroom until recess and then he came in with us. I guess they were trying to see where he would fit. You can tell the teacher likes him.

  Jane can read anything and do arithmetic that I just learned last year. And she has the neatest handwriting. It looks as good as Mother’s. Before the day was done, they moved her up into Grade Four. She and Sam both seem to fit in so far.

  My teacher is Miss McColl and she is lovely. She does want us to do decimals and percents though. She gave us memory work to learn. I love learning poems. Jane cannot understand this. I like having them in my head where I can think about them any time. Miss McColl let us choose and I picked “The Daffodils” by William Wordsworth. I wanted it because I like it, but also because Mother learned it for memory work when she was my age. She recites it every spring.

  Wednesday, September 4, 1940

  They are planning a concert in the park to raise money for The Cause. Miss McColl said they want children to sing. I would like to try although I never did such a thing before. Miss McColl says Jane and I could sing a duet. Maybe “There’ll Always Be an England.” I told her Jane absolutely hates that song. They were forever having to sing it on the way over and in Toronto too.

  Miss McColl said to ask her and, if she wants to do it, let her pick what we should sing. When I told Jane, she said we should do it. Then she looked sort of sheepish and said she would not mind singing “There’ll Always Be an England” now that she has had a rest from being made to sing it. I’m glad because I already know all the words.

  Thursday, September 5, 1940

  Got in trouble today for passing a note from Sam to Keith Maloney. All I did was hand it on. I thought Miss McColl was fair, but she must have been in a bad mood. She said she should keep me in after four.

  Then Sam put up his hand and told her he had written the note and passing it on was not my fault. I was amazed. I don’t think any of the other boys would have confessed. The teacher we had last year would have given him the strap.

  Then Miss McColl laughed and said we could forget it this time. After all, it wasn’t a hanging offense.

  I wonder why she changed her mind. I’ll bet it was the way Sam looked at her. Nobody likes picking on a War Guest kid. Sam says she is a brick.

  Friday, September 6, 1940

  Sam got a letter from Terry — the tall boy we saw at Hart House. He hates the people he lives with and he wants to go home to England. His brother has joined up and he thinks his parents need him. He hates Canada.

  Sam shook his head over the letter and said he would write back and see if he could persuade Terry to keep trying.

  I wonder if Sam himself feels that way at times.

  Jane and I are going to sing a duet at the bandstand in Exhibition Park a week from Sunday. We’re doing “There’ll Always Be an England” and, if they want two, “Bless ’Em All.” Jane says it is different singing it with just me. On the ship, they all had to sing at once and a lady kept saying to sing out so they bellowed it.

  I pretend I am not nervous. Dear Diary, guess what? I am VERY nervous. Shaking like junket. Wish me luck.

  Sunday, September 8, 1940

  We went to church and the minister prayed for the people in England who are suffering from bombing raids. Jane had gone downstairs with the Junior Congregation before that, but Sam was sitting with us and I could see him clenching his fists until his knuckles were white. Ministers should think about who is listening before they pray that way. Dad put his hand on the back of Sam’s neck and sort of shook it and Sam smiled a little. Dad has a comforting hand.

  Sam stayed home from Sunday School. I did not tell. Neither did Jane.

  Monday, September 9, 1940

  The news from England is terrible. The Germans bombed London yesterday for HOURS. Their planes kept coming in droves, Dad said. People have to go underground in air-raid shelters.

  Thank goodness Jane and Sam are safe with us. Sam told us that some of the families in th
eir neighbourhood had dug air-raid shelters. They are like little houses, only sunk in the ground with earth on top of the roof. I cannot picture them. The Brownings don’t have one but the people next door do, and they can go in with them if there is a raid.

  The Brownings’ neighbours have only three people in their family. They put food in the shelter and water and flashlights and a battery radio and all sorts of things. I could tell that Sam wished he could be there with them because he stopped talking about it all at once and ran back to the Bennetts’ without saying goodbye.

  Sam seems to worry about the milk-wagon horses as much as the people. Jane told me he can calm them when they grow nervous. “Our dad says Sam speaks Horse,” she said. “They will be so frightened when there are loud noises and fires.”

  I wish Jane had not said this about the horses, because I started to think about them and all the other animals in England who must be afraid but do not understand what is happening. Lots of pets must be killed or lost or injured. Not just pets either. Cows and sheep. Pigs too. Grandfather Twiss says pigs are highly intelligent creatures, but they won’t understand bombs.