“My brother, Edward, is a soldier,” Margaret offered shyly.
“Is he? Well, I’ll be sure to keep him in my prayers,” Miss Simmonds said.
Margaret instantly felt better, for herself and Edward, who’d be kept in the teacher’s prayers. School might not be too bad after all.
A handbell rang in the yard and laughter and shouts stilled. Shortly after, Margaret heard the sound of footsteps and muffled whispers, then a piano in the school’s centre hall began to play and children marched silently into the classroom, first the girls, then the boys, pushing their caps into pockets. Unable to meet so many strange eyes, Margaret studied her feet, thankful again for Evie’s shoes. But what, she thought with dismay, would she do tomorrow when Evie needed her shoes to go to her own school? Hopefully Mama would put new cardboard in her old ones. Mulling over that problem, she didn’t hear Miss Simmonds tell her to take a seat until the teacher repeated her request. Ears burning, Margaret slid into her desk next to Pauline. After a few minutes, she darted a quick glance around the classroom and peered over her shoulder to the back seats to see a brown-haired boy grinning back at her.
“That’s Peter Stevens,” Pauline whispered. “I told you he was handsome.”
“You can share Pauline’s books today,” Miss Simmonds said. “But you will have to buy your own, plus a scribbler, pencil and eraser, and a pen nib. We try to provide books to students at as low a cost as possible. Maybe you have some of these readers already.”
Margaret looked at the small pile of books Pauline had pulled out of her desk and her heart sank. Dad could never afford to buy her all those supplies. At home she used Evie’s old texts and readers, and George used hers. She watched carefully as Pauline shuffled through the pile looking for her spelling book, but didn’t see any books like those she had used in Saskatchewan.
“Stand for the anthem, class,” Miss Simmonds ordered.
Margaret scrambled from her seat and faced the pictures of Queen Mary and King George and began singing “God Save the King.” Finally, something familiar from her old school.
At recess, she stood with her back against the sun-warmed brick of the school, watching the older girls gathered in groups talking and giggling while the younger ones jumped rope. She avoided Pauline and her friends, not wanting to be introduced again as the poor relation, but from the sidelong glances being sent her way, obviously Pauline was talking about her whether she was there or not.
She could see George on the boys’ side already in the middle of a game of catch, throwing a ball to the boy Pauline had said was Peter. She envied George the easy way he made friends. She herself spent a long time getting to know someone and had only one best friend. If only Catherine were here now, she wouldn’t feel so quite alone.
“You’re new,” a voice growled at her elbow.
Margaret whirled around to see a girl standing beside her. Matted red hair hung in leaf green eyes. Her clothes were poorly patched, one elbow hanging out of a torn sweater sleeve. Looking down, Margaret saw the girl’s feet were bare, the new day’s accumulation of dirt ground into the old. A sour smell floated from her. Margaret inched away along the wall. The girl glared at her sullenly, aware of the inspection and having failed it, yet she didn’t leave.
“I just started today,” Margaret mumbled, fascinated by the number of knots in the girl’s hair. A comb would never go through them. They’d have to be cut out.
She jumped as a hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked her away from the wall.
“You don’t talk to Jean Thurlowe,” Pauline said loudly. “She’s not respectable. Her father’s in jail.” She propelled her cousin towards the school door as a teacher came out and rang a handbell.
“What did he do?” Margaret asked, wondering if she’d spoken to a murderer’s daughter.
“He’s a thief. He broke the window of the pharmacy and stole some tobacco and a bar of chocolate.” Pauline pushed her into line under the stone arch that said GIRLS .
“That doesn’t seem so awful . . .” Margaret began.
“No talking in line!” A man stood in the doorway, glaring at her.
Margaret froze, lips clamped together.
“That’s Mr. Riley, the principal,” Pauline whispered.
Margaret didn’t reply. She didn’t want to get into trouble her first day. She stole a look down the line and caught Jean’s eye, then quickly turned away as the piano played and they marched back into class.
At the end of the day, Margaret dragged her feet behind the others, letting their voices wash over and around her. Gold and red leaves swirled about her ankles, pushed by a cold wind that had sprung up in the late afternoon. Grey clouds veiled the sun and scented the air with damp. Rain soon, Margaret thought, feeling a butterfly flit in her stomach. Maybe a storm.
Hooves clopped on the road and Margaret turned her head to see a horse and cart draw abreast of them. Her eyes widened at the sight of a woman’s hat perched on the horse’s head between its ears and black stockings pulled over its forelegs. “Who is that?” she exclaimed.
“Johnny, the rag-and-bone man,” Pauline told her. “He goes around to all the houses gathering up junk that people don’t want.”
“Why’s his horse dressed up?”
“Because he’s a lunatic. Only a lunatic would be a rag-and-bone man. Mother says he should be locked up in the Hospital for the Insane on the edge of town, but Dad says he’s not doing anyone harm and should be left alone.”
A stone hit the side of the cart with a sharp whack, followed by a clod of dirt that thudded dully against the horse’s flank. Neither horse nor man reacted.
“George! Did you do that?” Margaret was aghast.
“Of course not. They did.” George pointed to a group of boys walking ahead of them.
“They could spook the horse,” Margaret said.
“Nothing bothers Johnny and that horse,” Pauline assured her. “Everyone throws stones or snowballs at them all the time. Crazy people don’t notice things like that.”
As they turned into the path leading to Uncle Harold’s house, a man came out, made fat by the many layers of clothing he wore. He carried a paper shopping bag tucked under one arm and a slice of bread in the other hand. Margaret stepped behind George to let him pass. They had the occasional man like him at their farm asking for work in return for a bit of food. Mama always gave them something, even when they only had a little. She watched him make his way down the road before she continued into the backyard.
Sheets snapped on the clothesline as the wind caught them. Evie was feeling each to see if it was dry enough to unpeg.
“You could help me bring these in before it rains,” Evie called.
Margaret nodded and ran inside to drop off her bag. The kitchen felt warm and moist from the large wash but felt like something else, too—an argument. An argument not finished.
Her mother pulled the final shirt from the rinse tub and poked it through Aunt Dorothy’s wringer on the washing machine while she turned the handle. “George,” she ordered. “You can empty this rinse water over the garden.”
Margaret could hear the anger in her clipped words. Mama was very mad. Something the twins did? She looked at Aunt Dorothy standing at the sink, back straight and forbidding, carrot peel flying furiously in long strips. No, not the twins, she decided.
She hurried out to help Evie, not wanting to stay in the kitchen any longer than necessary. You never knew where Mama’s anger would turn next. A few minutes later the piano tinkled as Pauline practised her lessons. Margaret grinned at her sister as she heard her cousin’s fingers fumble. Still, it would be nice to be able to play the piano, even if you hit the wrong notes most of the time.
They had to sit at the dining room table again for supper in order for them all to fit, even though Mama had fed the twins early and put them to bed. Aunt Dorothy sighed as she carried in a platter of chicken. Margaret and Evie had both helped prepare supper while Mary and Pauline did their piano lesso
ns, but even that didn’t help. Aunt Dorothy acted terribly put upon.
“Mama and Aunt Dorothy had a dreadful fight,” Evie had whispered as they’d folded sheets, but Mary had come out and she couldn’t say anymore.
Margaret looked at the faces around the table: Mama’s white and strained, Dad’s tired from his day looking for work, Aunt Dorothy’s tight with anger, and Uncle Harold’s puzzled, but trying hard to be cheerful.
As Margaret helped herself to a slice of bread, Aunt Dorothy cleared her throat.
“A tramp came around today looking for a handout,” she began. “Olivia took it upon herself to give him a slice of bread and butter. My bread and butter.”
Margaret placed the bread carefully beside her plate, watching as Mama’s face changed from white to red.
“I will allow, Dorothy, that it was your bread and butter. I helped a man more unfortunate than myself. A little kindness and charity never hurt anyone.”
“I already have charity cases right here,” Aunt Dorothy said.
“Dot,” Uncle Harold rebuked sharply.
“It’s true,” Aunt Dorothy insisted. “Look at the amount of food they eat!”
Mama’s chair went over with a bang as she sprang to her feet. “I am sorry, Dot, if we are such a burden to you. As soon as Martin finds work, we will repay you for the food we have eaten.”
“Now, Olivia . . .” Uncle Harold began.
Tears ran down Mrs. Brown’s cheeks. “Harold, I am sorry to have spoiled your dinner. I’ll just excuse myself.” She ran upstairs.
Margaret’s father pushed his chair back. “I’ll see to her. She’s not feeling well these days with the new baby coming and all.” He followed her out of the room.
“Another mouth,” Aunt Dorothy muttered.
“Enough!” Uncle Harold thundered.
Aunt Dorothy glared at him, stood up, and took her plate to the kitchen.
“For heaven’s sake!” Uncle Harold exclaimed. He threw down his fork and stamped into the front porch. Margaret heard the squeak of a chair as he sat down. A few minutes later the smell of pipe smoke floated back into the dining room.
She looked at the food in front of her. Aunt Dorothy’s food. She didn’t feel like eating it now. She saw a tear tremble on the tip of Evie’s nose before dropping on to her plate. Mary pushed her carrots around with her fork, while Pauline glared at everyone. George continued shoving food into his mouth.
“How can you eat?” Margaret asked him.
“I pretend nothing’s happening,” he said. He reached for another slice of bread. “I pretend like that all the time.”
Margaret studied him curiously. How long could someone pretend? Maybe he wasn’t so easygoing after all.
Evie washed the supper dishes while Margaret dried. Pauline and Mary sat at the table, school books open in front of them. That reminded Margaret that she had to ask Dad for money to buy school supplies. Probably Evie would need some, too.
Uncle Harold came through and stopped short, staring at the four girls.
“Help your cousins with those dishes,” he said to Pauline and Mary.
“We have homework . . .” Pauline began.
“I said, help your cousins,” he ordered. “Now!”
Pauline jumped to her feet and picked up a drying cloth. She bumped hard into Margaret as she reached for a dish. “You’ve ruined everything by coming here,” she hissed.
Chapter 5
Finally, Saturday. Margaret felt relieved there was no school. She was running out of excuses for not having bought her scribbler or books, but there hadn’t been a good time to ask Dad for money. He was always off looking for work and coming home tired and out-of-sorts. Every evening he’d sit with Uncle Harold’s paper, looking through the help wanted ads until he tossed it aside in disgust, to spend the rest of the evening wrapped in a stony silence. It left her feeling bewildered not to be able to speak to her father. She’d always been able to tell him everything.
Saturday also meant she didn’t have to think about Jean. The girl confused her. Every recess she wandered over to talk, even though Margaret didn’t say much back. Surprisingly, though, after days of no one else speaking to her, she found herself half-watching for Jean.
Rain lashed against the bedroom window, while wind tore crimson leaves from the maple tree out front and sent them dancing through the air. For two days it had rained steadily. Water gathered in clouds passing over the great Lake Huron spilling on them, Uncle Harold had told her. Come winter, he’d added, it would turn to snow and then she’d be surprised by the huge mounds of white on London’s streets. But the water was nuisance enough, lying in puddles on the roads and, unfortunately, ruining cardboard soles newly placed in her boots. Sighing, Mama had examined the soggy footwear and pronounced them no longer fit to be worn.
The morning had been spent putting the house in order, and Margaret was glad that was done. Her mother and aunt politely moving around each other had left everyone jittery.
A gust of wind rattled the panes of glass. Too wet to go out, Margaret decided, so she reached under her bed and pulled out the bag of cloth scraps and spread them over the bedroom floor in a circle around her. She loved being surrounded by colour. No matter how bad she felt, the blues, reds, and greens she fingered would lift her spirits. She had come to the decision to make the Flying Geese quilt. In my hardest times, that’s when I need something pretty, Grandgirl. Something to lighten my heart. With anticipation she picked out the blues and light greens and put them in one pile. They would be the sky. The reds, browns, and blacks, all the darker colours, would be the geese themselves. Some of the remnants were so small, she’d have to sew them together to get a single patch, but material was scarce and she’d salvaged every bit she could find. Thank goodness Grandma Brown had been a pack rat, and thank goodness Catherine had given her the pattern. Thinking about Catherine, Margaret felt a prick of worry.
She’d hoped every day for a letter from her friend. Also one from Edward. Mama had been counting on receiving a letter from him when they arrived in London, but there’d been nothing. Were he and Christian still standing in front of their barracks or were they on a train like the soldiers who’d travelled with them? Maybe his and Catherine’s letters were coming through the mail together. Her body relaxed as she fingered the smooth cotton and rough twills.
“Can I help?” Mary stood at the door.
Margaret shrugged. “Sure.”
Her cousin sat cross-legged beside her and picked up a small square. “This is a beautiful blue.”
“That’s from my grandmother’s courting dress. And this is all that’s left of the sleeve of Edward’s, then George’s, and then, finally, Timothy’s shirt.” Margaret pointed to a piece of green flannel.
This pink bit is from my wedding dress—a happy day that was—and that cream is from Grandpa’s shirt. First one I ever made him as his wife. This bit of white is from my first baby’s nightgown, but he died shortly after he was born. All my joys and sorrows are sewn into my quilts. Margaret suddenly remembered the tiny wooden cross on a small rise at the back of the farm. The prairie constantly threatened to bury it, but Grandma, then more recently herself, forced it back, keeping the tiny grave neat and tidy. She bit her lip in horror. There was no one to keep the prairie from the grave! Well, when they went back she’d clear grass and weeds from the marker and keep it tidy again.
She turned back to the material spread on the floor. Remembering is made up of the bad right along with the good. She pointed to a soft brown piece. “That’s Evie’s and my dress we outgrew. I wore it for Sunday best until I spilled Saskatoon berry pie on it, then it became my everyday dress.” She held it up for Mary to see. “Mama says I’m the messiest girl she ever saw.” She’d also been wearing it the day Dad had fallen from the hay mow, but she didn’t tell her cousin that.
Mary laughed. “What’s Saskatoon berry pie?”
Margaret opened her mouth to answer, but Pauline burst into the room befor
e she could say anything.
“What a mess!” she exclaimed, scattering the carefully sorted piles with a kick.
“That was mean, Pauline!” Mary said. She dropped to her knees and began to sort the colours.
“Never mind, Mary.”
Margaret scooped up the scraps, crammed them back into the bag, and flung it under the bed. She didn’t want Pauline anywhere near her quilt.
Glancing out the window, she saw a patch of deep blue like a promise breaking through the grey clouds. She flew down the stairs and grabbed her jacket. “I’m going out for a bit, Mama,” she called, banging the door shut behind her.
It felt good to be outside after being cooped up for three days. Damp air cooled her anger-heated cheeks. She stood for a moment, looking up and down the road, deciding which way to go. Not the way she went to school, she decided, and began to walk in the opposite direction. Leaves clung slickly to the road, rain robbing them of their crunch. Her bare feet were soon white and pinched with wet and cold, but Margaret ignored the discomfort, long used to it from life on the farm. The thought ran through her head that Mama might not like her out on the city street in bare feet, but she ignored it. A horse clopped-clopped by doing its milk-delivery rounds. That was something she couldn’t get used to in the city—the constant noise. The ringing of hooves on dirt roads, the clinking of glass bottles rattling in the milk wagon, the rumble of motor cars, the calling of the iceman. People talking and shouting at all hours. At home she heard the wind, chattering birds, the soft cluck of the chickens, and the honk of the geese.
“Margaret,” a voice called from a side street.
She turned and her heart sank. Jean.
Impossibly, the girl’s hair looked worse than before, plastered to her head from rain. She wore a short-sleeve cotton dress and no coat. Occasionally, she shivered as a chill swept through her.
“What’re you doing?” Jean asked.
Flying Geese Page 4