by Janette Oke
Grace and Lillian exchanged a quick glance, relieved that he was behaving properly.
Mr. Thompson tapped the paper forward a little, contemplating for a moment.
Here it is. Lillian held her breath.
“I would like to discuss Hazel with you for a moment.”
“Hazel?” Grace tipped her head to one side.
Lillian gripped her armrest a little tighter. “Hazel?”
“Yes, Hazel seems more than comfortable in her class. She has a sharp mind and does seem to enjoy having a good deal of attention—answering most questions, always volunteering to help—good things. But in addition to her enthusiastic participation, it seems that Hazel has been telling stories. That is, I presume her claims aren’t true.” A half smile flickered across his face.
“Oh my. What’s she saying?”
“Well, that her parents were gypsies. That she and her brother George were raised in a caravan in the forest. That there was a war between the gypsies and the dark knights, and that’s when her parents were killed. And that she was kept in a dungeon for two years before the king’s men rescued her. Something about being sent away to Canada by fairy ship—so that the dark knights would never find them again.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes.
“I see.” Grace’s face had fallen serious. “Mr. Thompson, please understand, it isn’t unusual for a displaced child to create a fantasy story around herself. I’m surprised that Hazel chose this tactic. She’s been quite steady and predictable for as long as she’s lived with me.”
“How long is that, Miss Bennett?”
“Since the end of May.”
He cleared his throat. “That’s not very long, just a few months. May I ask, is it appropriate for you to share details about her background with me? I don’t want to put you in a position where you’re uncomfortable, and I assure you that whatever you tell me will be kept in strict confidence, with the possible exception of a meeting with her particular teacher, Mrs. Murphy. Again, please don’t feel any pressure to reveal things you don’t feel will be beneficial.”
“Of course.” Grace bit her lip. There was an awkward pause. “George and Hazel have a rather typical background, I’m afraid. They lost their mother when they were very young. Their father was unable to care for his five children. So they were passed from family member to family member for a few years. Finally, it seems they were all surrendered to the state and were remanded to a workhouse for a relatively short time. . . .”
“Excuse me, an actual workhouse? Do they still have those? That sounds like it came from Dickens. Honestly, I find that almost as shocking as Hazel’s account.” He tried to speak the words with a bit of humor, but his eyes betrayed his deep concern. His chair rocked forward and he shifted positions in it.
“I’m afraid they do,” Grace admitted softly. “Poverty is rampant in England’s cities. It has been for decades—probably as far back as Oliver Twist. It’s a very difficult problem to solve.”
Now leaning forward with his elbows on the desk, Mr. Thompson interrupted, “But you mentioned five children. Where are their siblings?”
Grace continued, “I don’t know what happened to the older children. As far as I’ve been able to find, only Hazel and George came to Canada. And it’s actually rather a miracle that the two of them remained together. You see, late last year they were sent to Canada and spent a couple months at a training facility in the East. . . .”
“I’m sorry to cut you off again, Miss Bennett. But what do you mean by a training facility?”
“Children brought to Canada for adoption are typically trained first—taught skills for farming or housework. The belief is that this makes them more ‘adoptable.’ Unfortunately, in truth, it often leaves them viewed as little more than farmhands and household help to many who receive them into their homes. I’m afraid this is one area where the charitable idea of bringing England’s orphans and street children to Canada went terribly awry.”
Mr. Thompson made a sound rather like he was choking but ended with a cough, pressing the back of his fist up to his mouth. “I would say so.”
Lillian wondered if the odd sounds might have been to cover over unpleasant emotion. But she understood. She knew Hazel and George now. It was far different to discuss such concepts when the words brought to mind sweet, innocent faces of children she knew.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Lillian began tapping her fingertips silently again and Grace leaned farther forward before adding more to the gloomy picture of Hazel’s childhood. “Once trained, George and Hazel were sent west last winter by train and assigned to a farm family near Lethbridge. But they ran away together in early May and ended up on the doorstep of the children’s home where I volunteered. Since there wasn’t room and they’d have been sent east again—or reassigned but split up—I brought them into my home instead. So, you see, they don’t really remember their first parents—even their father, who is still alive. They only remember being bounced from place to place, and I’m afraid the conditions they’ve endured have rarely been good.”
“Why weren’t they returned to the family who adopted them?”
It was Grace’s turn to clear her throat uncomfortably. “It wasn’t an adoption as you would presume, Mr. Thompson. They were housed in the barn. I’m not able to describe to you all that happened to them there, but I assure you, it was an unfit situation.”
Lillian pursed her lips to control her own countenance. This was probably another conversation she should have had with Grace. She pictured George and Hazel, who had always seemed so—well, normal and well adjusted—living in a barn. Her heart fractured just a little more.
Mr. Thompson straightened, then dipped his pen in the inkwell in order to make notes on his paper. He was quiet for several moments. Then he looked up again. “This is a new situation for us, Miss Bennett, Miss Walsh. It’s not that we haven’t had students at our school who were adopted prior to your group’s arrival. That’s quite common. It’s just that we haven’t had children in such transition before. As their principal, I want to serve them faithfully—I want to serve all of you well. It doesn’t bother me that a child makes up stories. I’m fairly used to dealing with that kind of ordinary problem. But it does matter to me that our response to Hazel is appropriate and beneficial for her specific circumstances. And that’s where I’m not certain how to proceed.”
He bounced the dry end of his pen against his notepad several times. “I’d like to lean heavily on your advice. But, may I be candid?”
“Of course.”
“There’s just no graceful way to ask, I’m afraid. You see, I understand that the two of you are their current guardians. If I’m correct, the orphanage has placed them in your temporary custody. But I’d like to get some idea of what your credentials are for dealing with these children. What kind of experience have you had? Have you received any training at all? Forgive me, Miss Bennett, but you seem quite young for such a serious responsibility.”
Grace smiled, met his gaze evenly. “I haven’t had formal training, Mr. Thompson. That’s true. I wasn’t able to attend college. However, I grew up in children’s homes myself. So I suppose you could say that gives me a different perspective than most. And I’ve volunteered at Brayton House since I was fifteen—even while I held various other jobs, mostly caring for children. I was a nanny, for instance. But the woman who governed our house in Lethbridge spent time training me informally. She was a widow named Mrs. Copsey. She allowed me to serve somewhat as her apprentice for the years she was there. Whenever I was given responsibility, she discussed each case with me. And she was very, very good with children. I think she had a far more progressive way of dealing with them than most. She saw children as people, not just potential people, if you know what I mean by that.”
“I do. I certainly do. It’s why I chose to be a teacher years ago, and now it’s also why I enjoy guiding our school. I like to see children succeed, truly flourish. I find it very satisfying.” He spent a
few more moments tapping his pen in silence. And then, “Do you have support? What can we do for you, Miss Bennett?”
Grace cast a look toward Lillian, as if to draw courage. “We’re managing our funds for the time being. We have a budget that sustains us until Christmas, partially supported by the foundation in Lethbridge, partially due to donations—and Lillian’s family has been generous in the way they’ve helped, particularly for our housing. But it’s a lot of work to manage a household and still have the time we’re going to need in order to place the children in the best families possible. Laundry takes a full day with so many of us, meals are a feat, and cleaning such a large house—a blessing for which I’m so grateful—still, it’s a great deal of work as well. So I think our most pressing need is just help with managing the house. If you know of a good housekeeper—someone experienced and rather brave but also, frankly, quite cheap. I think that’s our biggest need right now.”
“A live-in position, I assume?”
“Yes, sir, room and board would be included. I think we could manage a small salary.”
Lillian sat back in awe once again. Grace had only mentioned finding a housekeeper once. They had quickly set the idea aside. If Mr. Thompson could assist them, it might suddenly become possible, and Grace had boldly stepped into his offer of help.
“I’ll do what I can. I think I might have a couple of ideas.”
“Thank you, sir. And, regarding Hazel, we’ll speak with her at home. We’ll instruct her to admit that the story was made up. She’s certainly a brave girl, and I don’t think facing this head on will damage her. But I’d rather not require her to state the truth about her past to her classmates. It would be, well, rather cruel—and I don’t believe it’s necessary.”
“I agree. I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Murphy so that she’s aware of this conversation. We’ll have Hazel apologize for lying but we’ll leave it at that. You may also want to speak with the children about how they can answer the questions that will certainly come up from classmates.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve spoken with them about things like that before, but we’ll talk about it again—as a refresher.”
Grace suggested that the discussion regarding classmates would best be accomplished in their after-supper devotional time. The routine had begun to develop. First, Grace shared from a children’s book of Bible stories. Most of the children sat quietly, only Harrison doing a bit of fidgeting restlessly. The children even responded to Grace’s simple questions about the lessons from the story of the lost sheep, a lesson Grace took advantage of, explaining the love that God, the Great Shepherd, had for each of them. Lillian was pleased to see them listening as Grace read. The plan for the future was to have some of them take turns reading from the book.
The highlight of the evening was the music time. It was the first that Lillian had touched the piano keys since the evening of their return. Something had held her back. Memories of Mother hovered just too potently for her to dismiss. Almost always as she had practiced over the years, Mother had sat in her favorite chintz chair enjoying the music. Always, Lillian had been rewarded with praise. Now, Lillian tried to put aside those memories. Mother would wish her to use her music to bring pleasure to her little family. She didn’t reach for one of the difficult classical books of the masters. Instead, she selected a book of common hymns from her early years of lessons. Hopefully it would contain some simple songs they could teach the children.
She was amazed at how attentively they sat. How closely they watched her nimble fingers. She hadn’t played for long before she sensed she had company on the piano bench. Glancing to her side, she was startled that it was little Bryony who had squirmed her way up beside her. The child didn’t lift her eyes from the piano keys as she watched Lillian’s talented fingers make the music.
When the little hymn-sing ended, Bryony seemed reluctant to leave the seat. Lillian and Grace exchanged glances and a nod. Here was a child with a love of music. Would she have opportunity to fill that yearning in her little heart?
The solution to the problem of housekeeping arrived the very next morning. Just after the children had been sent off to school, Lillian answered the door to find an older woman waiting there. She was short and stocky, bundled up in a thick coat in the cool morning air.
“Mornin’, I’m Mrs. Tillendynd. Miriam Tillendynd.”
Lillian drew back as the woman crossed the threshold into the house. “Good morning. I’m Lillian Walsh.”
“I got a call from Mr. Thompson at the school. He thought ya was needin’ a housekeeper. And I’d like ta apply. Don’t got no résumé or nothin’ fancy like that. All I can say is, I raised seven of my own young’uns and kept a good house throughout. That’s a trick, that is. Once they was growed, I cared fer my dear old auntie here in town till she died last year. I don’t like ta live alone. I prefer noise and bustle.”
Lillian chuckled. “Well, we do have that.”
Grace appeared from the kitchen. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Grace Bennett. What was your name again?”
“Mrs. Tillendynd. It’s a mouthful, that name, I know it. But the man who give it ta me was a good one, so I don’t complain.” She smiled with a wink.
“Please come into the parlor.” Grace motioned toward the sofa. “I’d like to get to know you. Chat for a bit.”
“Yes, miss.”
It took very little conversation for Lillian to be certain Mrs. Tillendynd would serve them well. She was honest and humble, direct and sincere. After a tour around the house and a candid discussion about what tasks would be involved, they were pleased to offer her the job. Since all the other bedrooms had been assigned, Lillian took a deep breath and suggested she could be given the master.
Mrs. Tillendynd promptly refused. “I don’t got no need fer that kinda plush, miss. I’ll do just as well down here.” She motioned to the workroom off the kitchen. “I got my own cot I can set up in there, one that suits my back just fine. I didn’t bring along much fer possessions from my home in Hope Valley when I come ta stay here in Brookfield at my auntie’s. So yer room’s plenty big. And there I’ll be close ta my work. Plus, it gives ya the second floor for yer sweet family.”
Lillian’s eyes gave a quizzical look. Has she misunderstood what we’ve explained?
“There’s lots of ways ta be family, miss. Some of ’em stick fer a lifetime. Some of ’em we just love along the way. But all of ’em together makes up yer family.”
“That’s exactly right, Mrs. Tildennid.” Grace touched the woman’s arm warmly. “I couldn’t have put it any better myself.”
No attempt was made to correct Grace’s mispronunciation. Mrs. Tillendynd just smiled heartily in return. She was gone again as soon as the arrangements had been agreed upon, promising to put her other affairs in order and arrive the next morning, Saturday, bright and early. Grace and Lillian closed the door behind her and immediately hugged one another.
“She’s perfect!” Lillian laughed.
“I know. What a godsend! We’ll need to introduce her to the children tomorrow. I think we should be somewhat cautious about how that’s done. We’ve just established chores and routines. So it’ll take some time to sort through—”
“Grace, what about the cookout?”
“I forgot about that.” Grace frowned. “Oh, sis, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’ll work tomorrow. Do you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Are you terribly disappointed? Can you see if they’ll reschedule?”
“I’m not sure. I think I’d feel kind of foolish asking them to do it another time. I suppose I’ll just decline.”
“For now?”
“Sure, for now. But I’ll still need to make a telephone call and let them know.”
“Aw, it was your chance to see old friends. I’m sorry.”
Lillian shook her head. “Me too.”
The slow walk into town in order to use the telephone in the drugstore was a burden for Lillian, wasting the perfect fal
l day. She worried who would answer the telephone at Maeve’s house. She worried that Maeve would be offended and spread rumors about Lillian’s poor manners. But she worried even more that she would have to explain her situation to Walter instead. And that would be a million times worse.
But the call itself turned out to be easy and straightforward. “Good morning, Gardner residence. May I help you?”
“Hello, my name is Lillian Walsh. I’m calling for Maeve Norberg—or rather, Maeve Gardner.”
“Mrs. Gardner is out of the house right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes, please tell her that I’m afraid I’ll have to decline her invitation for a cookout tomorrow. Please also pass along how much I appreciate her invitation and that I hope we have another chance to get together sometime soon.”
Lillian sighed to herself as she hung up the telephone. That wasn’t exactly true. I don’t have any great desire to see Maeve again. But Walter, that’s another matter.
There was a short list of groceries that needed to be purchased before she started home. With the difficult call behind her, Lillian found it easier to lift her own spirits. Soon she was finished at the dry goods store and carrying a wicker basket filled with necessities, pleased that the day was still comfortably warm at noon. Her light jacket was now draped over her arm.
She stopped short as she noticed a familiar calico print dress turn the corner in front of her. Had she really just seen what she thought she had? She hurried along the sidewalk to catch up to the little girl who’d disappeared. Passing around the brick bank building, Lillian searched down the perpendicular street. At first, she saw nothing out of place. And then . . .