Growing Up Ivy
Page 12
“There’s Miss Derek,” Ivy said. “She’s the one who said I was a good writer.”
Maud had been outraged that Maclean’s magazine had rejected Ivy’s story. She had not the faintest idea what the story had been about, nor how good it was, but she held Miss Derek responsible for heaping more disappointment onto Ivy’s plate.
“I feel like giving that woman a piece of my mind.” Maud jammed eggs into an empty carton. “She had no business putting such big ideas in your head.”
“Please don’t say anything,” Ivy pleaded. “I guess writers have to get used to having their work rejected. I’ll just write something else and try again.”
Miss Derek had already expressed her own disappointment at hearing that the manuscript had been returned. “Maybe we aimed a little too high to start with. But it was a good experience for you, dear, even if not a happy one. We’ll take a look at some smaller markets next time.”
***
If Ruth Vernon hadn’t approached Ivy about joining the school’s Literary Committee she would never have considered going to one of their meetings, even though Miss Derek had told her the committee had chosen a short essay that Ivy had written and one of her poems for the yearbook.
Ruth had been in the same class as Ivy since starting high school two years before, but neither girl had spoken more than a dozen words to each other.
Ivy was surprised to find Ruth waiting for her outside the classroom one day. “Ivy, can you hold on a minute?”
“Of course.”
“The others on the Literary Committee wanted me to ask you if you’d like to come see what we do, at our next meeting.”
The others? Could that mean that insignificant Ivy Chalmers had crossed the mind of more than one person? It cheered her to think so.
“There are ten of us on the committee,” Ruth explained. “Elections aren’t till the fall, but we have lots to do before school’s out for the summer. We’d like it if you’d think about joining us. You’re such a good writer, Ivy.”
“I think I’d like to come,” Ivy said, warmed by the sincerity in Ruth’s tone.
“Okey dokey, then. We’re meeting in Miss Derek’s room at noon hour tomorrow. Can you bring your lunch? I notice you usually go home at noon.”
***
Ivy nearly backed out when she saw the number of people in the English room at lunchtime the following day.
“It’s not always like this,” Ruth said, drawing Ivy through the doorway. Excited chatter filled the air, and everyone seemed to be in a great hurry, rushing back and forth.
“The Yearbook Committee’s here, too, and they’re ready to do the final layout. The two committees sort of overlap this time of year.
“Those kids over there — you’ll recognize them — they’re the ones who took all the class photos for the book. That bunch at the front ran all over Larkin, begging local merchants to buy space for a small advertisement.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Opal Forbes. She’s helped me with all the mimeographing.”
Opal Forbes, Ivy discovered, also happened to be in her Third Form typing class. With her almost-white hair and translucent skin, Ivy felt the girl’s name suited her well.
“Once the yearbook’s done, things will settle down,” Ruth promised. “Then, when we get together at meetings, we can work on our own writing. Sometimes one or two of the kids will want to share their work with the group.”
“But you don’t have to,” Opal said quickly. “Some people are a little shy about that. And we always talk about the books we’ve read; that’s the best part of our meetings. I’ve seen you at the library, Ivy. Have you read Wild Geese by Martha Ostenso yet? You haven’t? Oh, you have to!”
Miss Derek slipped in to check on progress, and by the time one o’clock rolled around, Ruth had managed to introduce Ivy to everyone in the room. Those who could stop cutting and pasting long enough shook her hand or called out “hi,” as if she were already part of the team.
Until that day, Ivy had no inkling that there were others in the school who shared her interests. Or if there were, how to find them. Thanks to Ruth, she’d found a place in a special community of friends. Suddenly, the whole world looked brighter.
23
Jiggs
Charlie’s work for Edwin Fennell, who only six years earlier had bought most of the Bayliss farm, came to an abrupt end in June 1934, when the man was felled by a massive heart attack.
Charlie and Aunt Rena were wakened early that morning by the bawling of Mr. Fennell’s half-dozen milk cows, protesting their full udders. When Rena appeared at his bedroom door, long hair falling loose down her back, Charlie was already buttoning his pants. “I’m on my way,” he said.
The dog, Jiggs, did not come to meet him as she usually did, and when the farmer wasn’t in the barn, which Charlie had come to expect at that hour, he sprinted to the house.
He found the man sitting in the armchair he kept in the kitchen, looking as if he’d just sat down to rest a spell. His supper plate lay smashed on the floor at his feet, the food on it untouched, even by the dog.
Nineteen thirty-three had been the worst year yet for the area’s farmers. But Edwin Fennell would never have to struggle through another.
Mr. Fennell’s married daughter, Jean, came to stay in her father’s house until arrangements could be made to put the farm up for sale. On the day of the funeral, Jean had one final request to make of Charlie.
“I want you to choose one or two of Dad’s things that you would like to have for yourself, Charlie.” She gripped the youth’s hands as they stood in the parlour of the little house, too close to the coffin for Charlie’s comfort. “A keepsake or two. I don’t care what.”
Charlie fixed his gaze above the heads of the mourners, on the view of sky beyond the open door. “Well, I don’t really know,” he said.
“Anything,” Jean said. “Dad appreciated all you did for him. I’m sure the pay couldn’t have been much, at least not lately. He told me how you like to fix things, Charlie — some of his tools, perhaps?”
“Thanks, but I have my Grandpa’s tools.” Charlie brought his eyes down to meet hers then and was suddenly touched by her kindness. “I’ll have a look around,” he said.
“Just promise me you’ll choose something. And don’t wait too long, Charlie, or there’ll be nothing left.”
Mr. Fennell’s daughter stayed long enough to see her father’s cattle go for five dollars a head at auction. After she’d gone, Charlie realized that she’d made no arrangements for Jiggs’s care. The farmer’s black and white border collie had been Charlie’s constant companion while he did his chores at the farm. Now he wondered what would become of her.
“Maybe whoever buys the house will take her,” Aunt Rena said, as she scraped cold porridge into a pan for the dog’s breakfast. “I’ll see that she’s fed till then.”
“Or maybe,” Charlie said, “we could just keep her ourselves.” But every evening, in spite of Charlie’s urging, the dog insisted on returning home to curl up on its own doorstep for the night.
On the day that Charlie was supposed to be with his friends at the Larkin District High School’s annual end-of-year picnic, he and the dog were driving Edwin Fennell’s small flock of sheep to their new home, down past the crossroads.
The successful bidder for the sheep was impressed by the way Jiggs single-handedly moved the animals along the road, through the gate, and into the paddock. “That’s a smart dog you got there,” he said. “She part of the deal?”
“Nobody said she was.” Charlie leaned his arms on the gate beside the farmer’s to watch Jiggs’s performance for a minute. “Those there are her sheep, though.”
The farmer scratched his chin. “Well, I don’t want to put her out of a job. I’ll take her, if she’ll stay.”
Ch
arlie had not intended to leave the dog behind, but she was focused on herding the sheep into the pen, circling the flock in that low crouch of hers, defying any stragglers. If a sheep tried to break away, Jiggs would lie down, lower her head, and fix the animal with her characteristic gaze. It worked every time.
Charlie swallowed hard. “Her name’s Jiggs,” he said and turned quickly away.
Walking back home, he tried to tell himself that it was only natural for the dog to want to stay with the flock. Letting her go was the kindest thing he could do for such a well-trained animal. Best to try to forget about her.
He was on the far side of the crossroads when he heard the sound of heavy panting and flying feet behind him. He turned to see Jiggs racing toward him, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.
Charlie caught the breathless dog up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way back. She had made her choice, he thought, and it was to go home with him.
He opened the door of the house just long enough to call out, “We’ve got ourselves a dog!” and then hurried over to wash under the backyard pump. There might still be time to get to the school picnic.
Someone hailed him as he was crossing the yard to fetch his bike. He looked over to see a beat-up ’27 Chevy truck pulled into the yard next door.
“We’re here to pick up the goods we bought at the auction.” The driver was squeezing out from behind the wheel.
“I’ll get you the house key,” Charlie said.
A big woman in a faded housedress came around the truck. “And could you give us a hand with it? Frank here has a bad back and shouldn’t be lifting nothing.”
Charlie Bayliss had never been farther than the two front rooms of the little house himself. Mr. Fennell had done most of his living right there in the kitchen, often sleeping on the narrow cot next to the cookstove.
The second Charlie opened the front door, Jiggs burst into the house. Her nails clacked frantically on the wooden floors as she raced from room to room and up the stairs, searching for her master.
Charlie had not forgotten his promise to Mr. Fennell’s daughter, and now he cast his eyes around the two upstairs rooms. One room appeared to have been set up as the farm office, with a wooden swivel chair and an oak desk. But Aunt Rena had told him that she already had more than enough furniture.
After unloading papers and boxes from the top of the desk, it took three people to manoeuvre it and a mirrored wardrobe down the narrow stairway and out to the truck.
By the time Charlie made it to the fairgrounds where the school picnic was being held, it was late afternoon. All the students had left. The few teachers that had remained behind were rolling up the oilcloth from the tables and finishing off the cake.
Mr. Stevens, the history teacher, watched Charlie turn around and ride back out through the gates. He wondered out loud how many female hearts the youth had broken that day by his absence.
“I find he’s a likeable lad,” Miss Johnson added. “One can’t blame him for his good looks.”
And Mr. Stevens, a skeletal man whose nose came close to meeting his chin, knew that to be the truth.
With nothing else to do, Charlie biked on out to the Pechart River, sure that he would find Delbert Coon and some of the other boys there at the tail end of a hot day.
Delbert failed to notice him till Charlie had swung out over the deep hole and dropped off the end of the rope, landing in the water beside his friend.
“Where the heck were you?” Delbert demanded, when Charlie shot to the surface, flipping the hair back out of his eyes. “You missed the whole darn thing.”
“I was at Mr. Fennell’s. Couldn’t get away.”
He turned then and, with smooth strokes, swam out beyond the group and let the current pull him downriver. Then he swam back, enjoying the feeling of strength in his arms as they drew the water toward him.
“Hey, Charlie,” someone called. “Darling Linda was looking for you at the picnic.”
“And you know that girl in the typing class?” Delbert asked.
Charlie righted himself, treading water. “Which one?”
“That Ivy girl.”
“What about her?”
“Nothing,” Delbert said, floating on his back. “I was just sort of surprised that she showed up.”
“She come with anyone?” Charlie tried to sound nonchalant.
“Couldn’t say. I didn’t see her come in. Saw her talking to that bunch that worked on the yearbook. I don’t remember seeing her again.”
Before it was time to go home, Delbert and Charlie clambered up the riverbank to relax with the other boys. With school out, the talk naturally turned to plans for the summer ahead.
The Classon twins were leaving in the morning to go to work on a farm over near Dillfield. “Slave labour,” they called it, remembering last summer — long hours with few rewards, except a roof over their heads and the leftovers from the farmer’s table. But it meant two less mouths for the family back home to feed.
One by one the group of youths broke up and headed home for supper, until Delbert and Charlie were the only ones left. After this summer they wouldn’t see much of each other. Delbert would be leaving for Belleville in September, where he would board with an aunt and attend Ontario Business College. Charlie was waiting to hear whether or not Harry Pike’s brother-in-law would take him on at his repair shop. He considered himself fortunate to have kept his weekend caddying job. Unless one could find an odd job here or there, there was nothing else.
Suddenly, Delbert gave his forehead a slap. “Oh, no! I was supposed to ask the guys if anyone wanted to pick strawberries for the store. Ma’s going to kill me.”
Charlie wriggled back into his shirt. “Why don’t you pick ’em yourself?”
“She’s got me painting shelves,” Delbert said. “I’m not even halfway done. Besides, it’s hot as blazes at Elders’ strawberry field.”
“I’ll take the job,” Charlie said. “I’m done at Fennell’s now. Tell your ma I’ll do it.”
“Sure thing,” Delbert said. “You got any of those baskets left?”
Charlie shook his head. He’d been collecting six-quart baskets wherever he could find them because Coon’s Grocery paid a cent a piece for them. “Not since I took those in last week.”
“Come on down to the store,” Delbert said. He picked up his bike. “I’ll get you enough to get started.”
With the baskets strung along his handlebars, Charlie decided to take the long way home. He cycled back through the town and over to Arthur Road, just on the off chance that he might see Ivy.
24
One Penny at a Time
Just as Charlie had hoped, Ivy was sitting on the front porch, pencil in hand, her cat curled around her feet.
“I hear you were at the picnic today,” he called out.
Ivy raised her head, suddenly aware that the sight of him made her pulse quicken. “I was,” she said. “I didn’t see you, though.”
Stretching long legs out on either side of the bike, Charlie folded his arms across his chest. “I was finishing up at Fennell’s,” he explained. “Since Mr. Fennell died, there’s been a lot to do. His farm’s up for sale now.”
When Ivy bent to lift the cat into her lap, he said, “Got myself a dog now, too. She was Mr. Fennell’s, but I’ve been feeding her since he passed on, so I think she’s mine. Her name’s Jiggs.”
“Dogs are nice,” Ivy said.
“Say, what happened to your gate?” Charlie asked, noticing that it was propped against the fence.
“The screw nails fell out again.”
Maud Chalmers had had someone repair the gate twice already since spring, but it refused to stay that way. It was one of several odd jobs around the place that she had found for the men who came by looking for work.
The men reminded Maud of Alva, and although she couldn’t afford to pay cash for the little jobs they did, she always fixed them a hot meal and let them sit on her back stoop to eat it.
Charlie lowered the bike to the ground and came to assess the problem of the broken gate. “It just needs some longer screw nails,” he said. “I could come by and fix it for you.” It would be another excuse to see her.
After an awkward silence, he asked, because he was not yet ready to leave, “What are you writing now?”
“I think it’s a short story,” Ivy said, pleased at his interest. “I might send it away to a magazine if I think it’s any good when it’s finished. It has to be typed first, though. Grandmother and I are saving up to buy a secondhand typewriter. But it’s one penny at a time.”
“I know how you can earn a little extra money,” Charlie said, “if you’re interested.”
“How’s that?” She left the porch and walked out to where Charlie stood.
“Picking strawberries for Coon’s Grocery Store.”
“Really? I wondered what the baskets were for.”
“I’m starting tomorrow. Mrs. Coon will take all we can pick. So, you want a job?”
“I do,” Ivy said. “I’ll run in right now and tell my grandmother.”
When she returned she was carrying a basket of her own. “Grandmother wants me to see if they’ll trade some berries for eggs.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow on the bike, then. Seven-thirty? Best to get there before it gets too hot.”
“I’m sure I can walk. Grandmother said she used to walk out there herself, before her feet got so bad.”