by Kit Pearson
He was also very polite. He said “please” and “thank you” in all the right places and chewed his macaroni in careful small mouthfuls.
“What does your father do, Bernard?” asked Aunt Florence.
Bernard swallowed before he answered. “My father died two years ago. He was a garbage collector.”
Aunt Florence gave a small cough as Aunt Mary said gently, “I’m sorry, Bernard. You must miss him.”
“Where do you live?” Aunt Florence asked next. “How does your mother manage on her own?” In five minutes she seemed to have found out everything she wanted to know. For the rest of the meal she sat in unusual silence.
Gavin shifted his chair closer and closer to Bernard’s. “Do you want to come and see my rocking horse after lunch?” he asked eagerly.
“He wants to look at my things,” said Norah. “May we please be excused?” Gavin trailed after them, but Norah ignored his wistful look and shut the door of her room before he reached it.
For an hour she and Bernard examined the shrapnel and the old books. Bernard was properly impressed and wanted to know all about the Battle of Britain. He found an old geography book and asked if he could borrow it. “Let’s try to count the rooms now,” he suggested.
“Not today,” said Norah uneasily. “We’d better just stay here.” She couldn’t decide whether Aunt Florence had approved of Bernard or not. Her silence had been perplexing.
She found out the verdict at dinner. “Your young friend seems very well brought up,” said Aunt Florence. “Obviously his mother has absorbed the standards of the homes she works in. But I’m afraid I can’t allow you to associate with him, Norah. His background is quite unsuitable—why, his mother works for my friend, Mrs. Fitzsimmons! It would just make him uncomfortable to mingle with a family like ours. And then there’s his nationality. I don’t know why I didn’t realize at once that he was German.”
“He’s Canadian!” cried Norah, throwing down her fork. “And what does it matter what his mother does? At home my friends’ parents do all sorts of things!”
“Kindly lower your voice, Norah,” commanded Aunt Florence. “A small village is different than a large city—you can’t be too careful.” Her voice became less harsh. “I’m doing this for your own good. You are part of this family now and it’s my duty to take care of you.” She sighed. “You should really be going to Brackley Hall, where Mary went.”
Norah bristled. “I don’t want to go to a snooty school! And I’m not part of your family! I didn’t choose you and I wish I didn’t live here!”
There was a shocked silence. Aunt Mary pressed her linen napkin to her lips and Gavin stared at Norah with round, frightened eyes.
Finally Aunt Florence spoke, her voice icy. “Might I remind you that we didn’t have a choice either? If we had, I’m sure we would have picked a child who was grateful for the opportunity to live with a privileged family, instead of rude and inconsiderate. We have to put up with you, so you had better put up with us. I don’t want you to have anything to do with Bernard. That’s my decision, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
Aunt Mary took a deep breath. “Mother, isn’t that a little hard? He seemed like such a nice boy.”
“Mary, really! I think Norah had better miss dessert and go straight up to bed.” Aunt Florence looked as if she’d like to order her daughter to do the same.
Up in her room Norah tugged on her pyjamas violently, shaking away her angry tears. She glanced at the photograph of her family. Dad’s eyes looked reproachful and she remembered his parting words: “If you’re impolite or ungrateful, the Canadians will think that’s what English children are like.” But he’d also said the people she’d be living with would be kind.
She picked up the photograph and shut her parents’ faces into her top drawer. Aunt Florence was wrong. Norah couldn’t and wouldn’t obey her. Bernard would have to be a secret. She would just have to work out a way to see him without Aunt Florence knowing.
LATE THAT NIGHT she woke up when she heard a noise on the second floor. It sounded like singing. She crept downstairs and saw a light on in Gavin’s room.
Was he ill again? Norah tiptoed along the hall and listened outside his door. It was Aunt Florence who was singing, in a rich, tender voice.
Dance to your daddy,
My bonnie laddie.
Dance to your daddy,
My bonnie lamb.
You shall have a fishie
In a little dishie.
You shall have a fishie
When the boats come home.
“When will I see my dad?” asked Gavin. “And my muv….” He sounded as if he had been crying.
“As soon as the war is over, sweetness. But you’re with me now, and I’ll keep you safe. Is the nightmare all gone now? No more bogeyman? Lie down, then, and I’ll sing to you again.”
Norah peeked in as the vibrant voice crooned. Aunt Florence was wearing a pink silk dressing gown that made her look soft in the dim light. She was stroking Gavin’s hair and her expression was sad and yearning.
“Why are you angry with Norah?” asked Gavin sleepily. “You made her unhappy.”
“Your sister has to learn to control her temper,” said Aunt Florence stiffly. “But don’t worry about Norah, sweetness. She’s such a strong girl, I’m sure she’s not that upset. Go to sleep, now.”
Norah slipped upstairs before Aunt Florence caught her. Gavin didn’t belong to her, she thought angrily. And what a babyish song for a five-year-old. But she couldn’t forget that look of longing. Perhaps Aunt Florence had once sung the song to Hugh.
15
News from England
Norah stood beside her desk on Monday morning, her chest so heavy she could hardly breathe. Around her, the rest of the class mumbled their way through the Lord’s Prayer and “God Save the King.” Miss Liers left the piano, returned to her desk and took the roll call.
Why did she have to have a last name so far along the alphabet? Norah sat on her hands to stop them from shaking and Dulcie looked over with surprise. If only Bernard were in her room, someone would understand her agony.
Finally Miss Liers called “Norah Stoakes” in her tight voice.
“Present, Miss Liers.”
The teacher raised her head. “You weren’t here on Friday, Norah—did you bring a note?”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Miss Liers. At home we didn’t need to bring a note when we were sick.”
Her voice was so strained, it must have sounded convincing. Miss Liers appeared to believe her. “Here you do need one,” she said coldly, “but we’ll let it go today. Kindly remember next time you are ill.” She frowned at the rest of them. “That goes for the whole class. Far too many of you are forgetting.”
Norah slouched with relief. It was over, and she’d hardly had to lie. She knew she’d never play truant again. It was too nerve-racking. But now school would not be quite so bad, not when she had a friend to meet at recess.
She found Bernard at the flagpole, as they’d planned. They both looked around warily for Charlie, but he was at the other end of the schoolyard playing football.
Norah didn’t know how to tell Bernard he couldn’t come to the house again. “Aunt Florence says we’re not allowed to see each other,” she blurted out awkwardly.
“My mother said she might not approve of me. That’s why she made me get all dressed up.” Bernard’s voice was nonchalant, but his eyes looked hurt. “Does this mean we can only meet at school?”
Norah shook her head, grinning. “I’ve thought of a place we can meet every day, and no one will ever know—the library!”
SHE GOT A FORM from Miss Gleeson that afternoon and took it home for Aunt Florence to sign. From then on, she was allowed to go to the library every day after school. It was a perfect solution, because it was almost legitimate. Norah did choose books every day and brought them home. Miss Gleeson had a knack of knowing exactly what she would like and saved new ones for her. When No
rah got home she went straight to her room and read until she had to join the Ogilvies in the den before dinner. She often read long into the night as well. No one ever checked on her after she’d been sent upstairs. In school she became sleepy and inattentive, but the work was easy enough that she didn’t fall behind.
Aunt Florence seemed pleased that Norah had found an activity that kept her occupied and out of the way. Norah even heard her boast about it to one of the Sunday evening bridge players: “Norah’s turned into a real book-worm,” she said, with surprising pride.
But Aunt Mary began watching her anxiously. “You’re looking peaky, Norah. I think you spend too much time alone.”
What she didn’t know, of course, was that Norah wasn’t alone. She now took her lunch to school every day; after she gulped it down in the classroom, she and Bernard had half an hour to talk in the playground. It never took her long after school to choose her books. Then they had a whole hour to play.
Often they went to the ravine, descending into it well before they reached the Ogilvies’, to be out of sight. They were building a fort under the bridge and carried down old scraps of lumber and cardboard. Bernard had invented a complicated method of making a roof by weaving thin branches together. It took a long time because the branches kept snapping.
The trees were changing colour rapidly and the air was as tart as new apples. Horse chestnuts littered the ground in their split green cases. They collected them to make conkers—Bernard called them bullies. At Bernard’s place, they baked them hard in the oven, bore holes through them with Mrs. Gunter’s meat skewer and threaded Bernard’s skate laces through the holes.
But their beautifully tough conkers were wasted as they stood on the sidelines of the bully matches that now happened daily in the schoolyard. No one invited Norah and Bernard to compete. Instead, they had to be content with swinging at each other’s.
Charlie and his gang seemed reluctant to beat up a girl, so Norah’s presence protected Bernard. The boys still shouted “Hun” and “Limey” after them, but they ran away together and tried to laugh.
BERNARD LIVED IN ONE QUARTER of a “fourplex” on the other side of Yonge Street. “My mum cleans the building, so the rent is cheap,” he explained. Sometimes Mrs. Gunter was finished work by the time school was out. Then she would greet them with cupcakes and cocoa. She was a large woman who sighed a lot. Her doughy face was always creased with a tired smile, but somehow it still looked sad. “I’m so glad Bernard has a friend,” she said the first time Norah met her. Norah hoped he hadn’t told his mother that their friendship was forbidden; she didn’t want to add to her sadness.
Norah told Mrs. Gunter all about her family and her journey to Canada. Even though she was tired of telling the story to the Ogilvies’ friends, she didn’t mind repeating it to this comfortable woman.
“It’s not right that children should have to go through so much,” sighed Bernard’s mother. “What trying times these are for us all. And your little brother, how is he liking Canada?”
Norah shrugged. “All right, I suppose.” It made her uncomfortable to think of Gavin. Yesterday afternoon he had appeared in the doorway of the tower.
“What do you want?” Norah had asked, startled from her book. He hadn’t been in her room since they had shared it.
“Nothing. I just came up.” As if that explained everything, Gavin came in and sat on her bed, swinging his legs.
“What?” asked Norah irritably, wanting to get back to her story.
“Norah, do you think Hitler’s captured England yet? Will Muv and Dad and Grandad and Joey be prisoners?”
Norah couldn’t answer for a second, her throat was so tight. She took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “No, I don’t. We’d hear about it, wouldn’t we? And there might not even be an invasion.”
Suddenly her brother’s trusting face made her want to shake him. How was she expected to know? He should have asked Aunt Florence.
“Go away now, Gavin, I’m trying to read.” She picked up her book and turned her back on him.
But she couldn’t read any more. Instead she listened to his slow footsteps descending the stairs and almost called him back.
“Norah?” asked Bernard. “I said, do you want to go to my room now?”
“Sure!” Norah shut Gavin out of her mind and followed Bernard. As usual they pored over the maps which covered his walls, and then they stretched out on his rug to play Parcheesi and checkers. Norah felt much more at home here than at the Ogilvies’. “Come over as often as you like,” urged Mrs. Gunter, but she was seldom there herself—she was usually out working.
ESCAPING INTO BOOKS and having a friend made being a war guest more bearable. But now Norah lay awake worrying about her family. The radio reports from England were worse and worse—London was bombed every night now. She checked the hall table each day for mail, but still no letters came.
On the same Monday she had given her excuse to Miss Liers, Norah heard some shocking news. She was lying on the floor of the den, finishing off the Saturday funny papers. At home, most of the newspaper comics had disappeared because of the paper shortage. “Rupert,” her favourite, was still published, but even his adventures had been reduced to one panel at a time. But here there were such thick wads of comics from all the different papers that it often took her several days to get through them. Superman, the Lone Ranger, Tarzan and Flash Gordon—they were all new to Norah and she devoured their adventures with relish.
Aunt Mary was sitting beside Norah reading the Evening Telegram. “Oh, no!” she gasped.
Aunt Florence jerked up her head. “Gavin, would you go and fetch my needlepoint?” she said quickly.
As Gavin left the room, Norah jumped up and scanned the front page over Aunt Mary’s shoulder. “Children Bound for Toronto Victims of Hitler’s Murder,” said the bold print.
“What does that mean?” she whispered.
“Let me see.” Aunt Florence snatched the paper from her daughter. “Disgraceful!” she fumed, when she’d read it. “What I would do to that man if I had a chance …”
“Please,” choked Norah. “What happened?”
Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary held a kind of silent conversation with their eyes. “I suppose we can tell you, since you’re safely over here,” said Aunt Florence, “but when Gavin comes back we must stop talking about it. What’s happened is that a ship was torpedoed by the Nazis. It was full of evacuees on their way to Canada and many of them were drowned.”
“How many?”
Aunt Florence seemed reluctant to answer. “Eighty-seven children and two hundred and six adults,” she said finally, her voice unusually thin.
Aunt Mary touched Norah’s shoulder. “Thank God it wasn’t your ship!”
Norah was stunned. All those days at sea she had looked for periscopes she’d never really believed the Germans would attack their ship. She remembered Jamie saying he wished they’d be torpedoed. He hadn’t believed they would either. It had just been a game—but this was real.
Then she remembered Miss Montague-Scott, who was hoping to come back again on another ship. “Does it give the names?” she asked in a small voice.
Aunt Florence shook her head. “Not yet—I expect the families haven’t been notified.” She looked at Norah with sudden, unexpected concern. “I don’t want you to brood about this, my dear. I’m sure there was no one you know. Let’s just be thankful that you and Gavin made it over here safely.”
The two women tried to change the subject, but in the next few weeks Norah kept hearing more about it on the news. The ship was called the City of Benares and some of the children thought drowned were rescued after spending days in a lifeboat.
In the meantime, she finally got a packet of letters from home. She whisked it off the table and flew up to the tower. Three letters tumbled out, from Mum, Dad and Tibby. “Dear Norah and Gavin,” they each began, but she had to read them by herself before she could share them with him.
“What
lucky children you are—it looks as if you’re living in a mansion!” said Mum. “We’ve shown the picture of the house to everyone in the village. Mrs. Ogilvie sounds very pleasant—she wrote a reassuring letter. It’s too bad Gavin isn’t old enough for school but it sounds as if he’s having some splendid outings. We feel much better knowing you’re both in such a secure home.”
Both her parents continued in the same way, expressing relief at their safety, saying how much they missed them and answering some of Norah’s questions. “We still see lots of planes and another one crashed near Smarden,” said Dad. “It’s London that’s really getting it now. Everyone is bearing up, though. People are sleeping in the tube. We can sometimes see the reflection of the fires from here. We go into the shelter most nights but don’t worry, there’s been no damage in Ringden.”
Grandad sent his love in a postscript. Tibby told her she and Muriel were being trained as mechanics, which was much more interesting than all the scrubbing and cooking they had been doing. Her letter was spotted with words that had been blacked out, words that looked like place names. “You will probably find that parts of this have been censored,” Tibby warned. It was unsettling to think that someone else had already read her words. Muriel had added a note to the bottom of Tibby’s letter. “I’ve met a dreamy lieutenant and we’re very much in love.” Norah grinned; that was what Muriel always said.
She read the letters again and again, extracting every morsel of news. The only part that made her uncomfortable were some questions for her from Dad: “Norah, we are delighted to know you’re learning so much about Canada. Mrs. Ogilvie told us all about Gavin, but we’d like to hear more about you. Are you happy at the Ogilvies’? Is school all right? Please tell us everything.”
But she couldn’t. As she wrote home again the following Sunday, Norah still had trouble finding enough to say. She couldn’t tell them Gavin was being kept out of school deliberately. She couldn’t tell them about Bernard, in case they mentioned him to Aunt Florence. Her letters, too, were censored.