She made herself climb slowly up the stairs to her room and not look at the easel that stood by the window. How simple and joyful it had been to do the sketch of Carlow, and how happy she had been to have art lessons. She wished she hadn’t heard of the Smiths and their snobby painting ideas. Now she didn’t know what to think. She imagined Carlow out in his kennel — his warm fur and comforting licks. At least there was nothing to be confused about where dogs were concerned. Sometimes it seemed they were the only things in her life Emily was sure about. No matter what, she still wanted a dog.
Emily had always wanted a dog of her own — a soft chubby puppy that would wag its tail and come to her whenever she called. It was almost December now. Her birthday was coming, and it had been a long time since Emily had last asked Father if she could have a puppy.
Emily put art out of her mind, and thought more and more about her birthday. On the first day of December she climbed out of bed into the chilly air and pulled out the basin of water that was kept under the bed. She dipped her hands in the icy water and splashed some onto her face. Father believed that children should wash with cold water every morning. If Emily skipped a morning wash, Father was sure to ask her about it.
Before breakfast the family gathered in the sitting room for their morning prayer. Father sat in his new wicker chair and reached for the small book of prayers that sat on the round table beside him. The others knelt on the floor in front of their own chairs while Father read the prayers. Emily liked to kneel in the bay window and bury her face in the windowseat cushion, but today Father asked her to kneel beside him. Emily knelt and ducked her head under one arm of the wicker chair. She’d much rather be by the window where she could sneak a peek outside now and again. Instead, she snuck a look at Tibby, the cat, who was curled up behind Father’s chair close to the warmth of the fireplace. Tibby was the only one who looked comfortable.
As Father prayed, the chair creaked and whispered as if it were trying to pray too.
Emily whispered a silent prayer of her own. “Please let me have a puppy. I don’t care about its size or shape or color — just as long as it’s a real live dog.”
When Father finally finished reading and leaned forward to reach for his bookmark, the chair squawked an “Amen” as grand as Father’s. Tibby joined in with a loud meow. Emily smiled to herself. God had heard her prayer for sure.
“Oh dear,” said Mother, rising to her feet. “Father’s chair has pinched Tibby’s tail. Take her outside, Emily.”
14
The Birthday Present
As the thirteenth of December, Emily’s eighth birthday, approached, Emily’s hope for a puppy grew.
“I know something is coming for your birthday,” Dede told her in one of her better moods.
“Is it…?”
“Wait and see,” Dede said.
Emily wiggled with excitement. How could she wait? She needed to know — even just a hint.
“Does it start with a ‘d’ or maybe with a ‘p’?” she asked.
“I think it does,” Dede said with a smile.
The day before Emily’s birthday she couldn’t help singing more loudly than usual as she did her chores after school. She brought the chickens their food and checked for eggs in the hen house. She sang out greetings to the cow who stood near the barn waiting for Bong to come to her for the evening milking.
Dede appeared on the back porch.
“Hush, Emily,” she scolded. “That noise of yours will scare the neighbors!”
Emily took her excitement away from the house and out to the woodshed. She dug out a wooden box and dusted it off, hoping it would be the right size for her puppy. Then she went to the garbage pile where discarded items waited for the spring bonfire. She poked around until she found an old brush that Alice had thrown away a month ago. It still had a few bristles left and would do for a dog brush.
Emily carried her supplies back to the house. She waited until no one was around, then quickly smuggled them up to her bedroom and hid them under her bed. She found a knitted blanket that belonged to an old worn doll and placed it in the box under the bed. Then she braided a collar out of blue and green cord and sewed on some hooks and eyes at varying distances, since she wasn’t sure how big the dog would be. Now she was ready.
The morning of Emily’s birthday arrived. Morning prayers seemed to take forever. “Hurry! Hurry!” Emily wanted to call out. “I want to see my puppy!” Finally, Father’s chair squeaked its concluding “Amen!” Everyone took turns giving Emily a birthday kiss, and they all filed into the breakfast room. Emily hurried ahead, anxious and excited.
There on her plate was a flat flat parcel.
“Open it!” Lizzie and Alice urged her.
Emily looked around the room, but there was no other present. She began to untie the string of the flat parcel, her hands shaking.
“I’m glad to see, Emily, that you remembered your morning wash even on your birthday,” Father said, noticing Emily’s hands.
Emily tried to smile, but her hands were not trembling from cold. The happy feeling
she’d woken with this morning had drained away. As the parcel wrapping fell to the floor, Emily tried not to cry.
The present was a framed picture of a little girl holding a dog in her arms. It was a pale and tiny copy of a painting like one of Miss Woods’ prints — lifeless.
“She looks like you,” Alice pointed out.
“No, she isn’t like me,” Emily said in a hard voice. “She has a dog.”
Emily went to the fireplace at the end of the room, pretending to warm her hands. She slipped the blue and green collar from her pinafore pocket and dropped it into the fire.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’m going out to feed the chickens.”
That day took a long time to end. In the afternoon, Mother came and felt Emily’s forehead and asked her if she was feeling sick. Emily shook her head and tried to smile for Mother.
Emily climbed into bed that night without saying her prayers. What good was it to pray for anything? What good was it to wish?
15
Christmas
Although Emily had tried to put art out of her mind, she found that drawing helped to ease her disappointment about her birthday. When she stood at her easel, her pencil or paintbrush at work, she forgot about everything except the joy of what she was doing. She decided that it would be much better to keep the Smiths and what they stood for out of her mind, than to keep art out. She dove back into her drawing practice, filling more pages with noses, hands, feet and faces. As Christmas drew closer, she became further distracted by the preparations and growing excitement.
The day before Christmas, the Carr house filled with the spicy smell of boiling plum pudding and the fresh fir scent of the Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve Father took Emily and her younger sisters into town to see the shops lit up. Every lamp-post had a fir tree tied to it, and the shop windows were decorated with mock snow made of cotton wool and sparkly dust. In the grocer’s window was a Santa Claus grinding coffee. Bonbons, clusters of raisins, nuts, candied fruits and long peppermint candy sticks surrounded him. At the end of the food shops was Chinatown. Its dark streets held no Christmas decorations. Emily’s father turned them around to head back to James Bay.
Before bed the children hung their stockings from the high mantelpiece in the breakfast room, and Dede read “ ‘ Twas the Night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”
At the bottom of the stairs Emily peeked into the dark dining room and smelled the Christmas tree waiting there. She couldn’t see it, but she knew that it stood there, touching the ceiling and hanging heavy with presents ready for the morning. Up in her bedroom the air was chilly, and Emily dove under the covers next to Alice. She wiggled with excitement.
“Be still,” whispered Alice. “I want to sleep.”
Emily tried to keep still, but she tossed one way and then the other. How could she fall
asleep when there were presents waiting? She tried not to think of the new set of paints she wanted or of the cuddly puppy she had longed for. She knew it wouldn’t do any good to wish for them, but she couldn’t help hoping that something special hung on the tree for her.
Morning finally came, and they were off to church. After church, Father went into the dining room to light the candles on the Christmas tree. Then he called everyone in, and they held hands around the tree to sing Christmas carols. Then, one by one, the presents were taken down from the tree and handed out. Emily held her breath as she unwrapped each of her presents. Everything was practical, as usual: gloves from Dede, embroidered hankies from Alice and Lizzie, new black boots from Mother. No puppy. No art supplies.
I don’t care, Emily told herself. I’ll never be good enough to be a real artist, anyway.
16
Mill Stream
Winter seemed to last a long time, but finally the green buds of new leaves appeared on the trees outside Emily’s window. Father was in a good mood and promised the family a picnic the following Saturday. The days before the picnic crawled along. The hands of the clock seemed to stick in one place and Emily thought Saturday would never come. But it did.
Emily’s aunt and uncle were visiting from San Francisco, so Father ordered the omnibus to pick them up and take them out to Mill Stream. The bus was yellow with carpeted seats. Emily’s uncle made a nest of cushions in one corner for Aunty. The baskets of food were tucked in around her, then the children climbed in. Emily settled on one of the high seats. Up ahead, the driver called for the two horses to be off. The bus jerked and rattled over the dirt roads. The wheels were rimmed with iron and made a terrible clanging sound over the stones. Emily’s body swayed, and her dangling legs bumped against the bottom of the seat. She began to feel queasy. She climbed up onto her knees and rested her arms on the open window ledge. That was better.
On her nest of cushions Aunty coughed and held a white lace handkerchief up to her face.
“The dust is going to ruin my new coat,” she complained. She waved her hankie at Uncle, and he hurried to close Emily’s window. Emily went back to bumping and swaying and feeling queasy.
Finally, the omnibus came to a stop. The driver opened the door and everyone spilled out onto a grassy clearing beside a stream. Emily stood, drinking in the sight of meadow and forest, the smell of new green, the tinkling sound of the moving water. Behind her, Lizzie pushed past, carrying a basket. Reluctantly, Emily turned back to help unload the bus.
Soon, Dede had a tablecloth spread across the grass, and she and Mother were removing cloth bundles from the baskets and unwrapping cakes, pies, cold meat and sandwiches. Uncle made a new nest of cushions for Aunty next to the tablecloth.
“Lunch first, children,” said Mother. “Then you can play.”
After they hurried through their food, Emily, Alice and Lizzie jumped to their feet and headed to the stream. Little Richard followed them.
“Keep by the stream,” Mother called after them. “Don’t go into the woods — and watch out for your brother.”
“You have four hours,” Father called, holding up his watch on its chain.
Emily sighed happily. Four hours was a wonderfully long time. She walked slowly, poking along the edge of the stream. They followed it into the forest, though they stayed close to the water as Mother had directed. The woods were too thick to get into, anyway. Pine and cedar trees towered overhead, smelling spicy and sweet. The stream made a tunnel through the dark, shadowy forest. This was the type of wild place Emily loved.
She climbed from rock to rock. In one spot the stream rushed around a huge boulder and bubbled into a pool. In another spot the stream was gentle and slow. Mossy stones looked like babies’ heads, which Alice pretended to be giving a bath. Many-fingered ferns hung over the banks, dipping into the water. Around a bend, there was a muddy beach with mysterious heart shaped prints.
“Deer hooves,” said Lizzie.
Emily imagined the gentle deer coming to the stream to drink. She sat down on her knees and bent forward. In front of her the water looked clear and fresh. She was thirsty.
“Milly!” Alice cried in alarm, catching hold of the back of Emily’s pinafore as she began to topple over into the stream.
Emily flung out her hands to help stop her fall. One of them went into the stream, but her sleeve was only wet up to the elbow. Not too bad, Emily thought.
Plop! Something jumped into the water beside Emily.
Splash! Both Emily’s sleeves went in up to the elbows this time. She pulled her hands out of the water, triumphantly holding a large, golden-brown toad.
“Ugh!” said Lizzie and Alice together. “You’ll get warts.”
Emily turned her back on them and held the toad for little Richard to see. His eyes opened wide as he stared at the toad. He smiled in appreciation. Emily put the toad in a tin and placed a large skunk cabbage leaf over top for a lid, then she hid it under a plant to collect later.
Suddenly, Dede appeared from around the bend behind them.
“It’s time to go home,” she said.
“It is not!” Emily cried. They’d hardly been gone long at all.
Dede gave Emily an angry pinch, then turned to take little Richard’s hand. For the first time, Emily noticed that he looked tired.
“It’s been four hours,” Dede said as she began to march them back.
Emily hung behind to pick up the toad. She looked up into the silent trees. Only the stream made any sound. How could a few hours have gone so quickly when Saturday had taken so long to arrive?
She said good-bye to the forest and stream and followed the others back. At the picnic site, the baskets were already packed, and Uncle was building a new nest for Aunty in the omnibus. Mother was seated in the bus, looking tired. Richard climbed up beside her and laid his head on her lap. He was instantly asleep. His toy watch dangled out of his pocket. The hands had not moved since they’d started on the trip that morning. The toy watch is much truer than Father’s real one, Emily thought.
She sat down across from Aunty. The bus rolled and bumped along. Emily peeked under the skunk cabbage leaf she’d placed over the toad’s tin.
“Emily dear,” said Aunty in an indulgent voice. “You must throw that leaf out of the window. The smell is upsetting your old aunty.”
Reluctantly, Emily tossed the leaf out the window.
“What do you have in the tin, dear?” asked Aunty.
Annoyed that Aunty had made her throw out the leaf, Emily thrust the tin up to the old woman’s face.
Aunty screeched.
Dede reached across, took the tin and looked inside. Before Emily could stop her, she flung it out the window, toad and all.
Emily swallowed a cry and twisted around to look. As the omnibus clattered forward, the tin can bounced off into the bushes at the side of the road. She could just make out the golden-brown shape of the toad hopping slowly back toward the stream.
17
The Contest
Sitting in the hard, wooden desk at school the next week, Emily couldn’t stop her mind from wandering back to the stream. She wondered how the toad was doing. Only art class could keep her attention. In other classes, the time dragged, but in art class it flew just as it had at the stream. She had tried to stop being interested in art, but it was something inside her that had taken hold. She couldn’t shake it off.
Art was like the British Columbia nightingales. This was a nickname Father had given to the tree frogs that sang each spring in Beacon Hill Park. It was hard to believe that such a tiny creature could make such a big noise. When she was smaller Emily had been frightened by the chirping rattling sound that came in the open window and filled the whole bedroom at night. When Father had told them it was British Columbia’s nightingales, she had imagined the nightingales to be huge creatures lying in wait in the park swamp. No wonder her parents had forbidden her to wander alone through the park.
Then Mother had to
ld Emily that a nightingale was an English bird that didn’t live in Victoria at all and that the name was just Father’s idea of a joke. Now Emily loved the sound of the frogs in spring. All winter you heard nothing from them, then suddenly they were there, filling the whole world with their sound. Art was like that inside Emily. Now that it had woken, she couldn’t keep it quiet. She was like the frogs too — not a beautiful English singing bird, but a spunky creaking British Columbia frog. And she liked it.
At home she continued to draw at her easel, and Alice continued to complain about sweeping around the legs. Sometimes it seemed to Emily, though, that the complaining was just habit, and Alice didn’t really mind. Once, Alice had even told her that she thought Emily’s drawing was improving, but Emily was sure she’d only said it to be nice. Lizzie had not said anything nice when she tripped over one of Emily’s large plaster noses. She still thought Emily was wasting her time with art. Emily scowled at Lizzie and tried to ignore her words, but she felt discouraged. With all her heart, Emily wished she could be an artist. But wishes had disappointed her too many times.
One art class, Miss Woods announced that they were going to have a contest to see who could copy the best.
“Once you have learned how to copy,” explained Miss Woods, “you can begin drawing from life.”
The idea of drawing from life was exciting. Copying pictures was getting dull. Miss woods gave Emily a picture of a boy holding a rabbit. Emily looked at the picture. She tried to imagine drawing a real live rabbit, and thought about what the rabbit would feel like in her own arms. She remembered the day she drew the picture of Carlow — his warm fur and his wet nose. The rabbit’s nose would twitch. Its fur would be softer. Emily’s pencil moved across the paper. She forgot about the other children. The lines of the pencil and the imagined feel of the rabbit blended together and filled Emily.
Discovering Emily Page 4