by Kit Pearson
Polly had tried to enjoy the festivities. She and Eleanor had taken part in the egg-and-spoon race and the three-legged race, and had rooted loudly for Kingfisher in the softball game, even though the island team had lost. The weather was perfect for walking Tarka and going out in the boat. Everyone in the family had taken to Eleanor, and she seemed to be having a wonderful visit.
Polly, however, couldn’t stop feeling anxious about Maud. Being home made Maud’s predicament more real. Everyone kept asking about her, and Polly had to keep explaining that Maud had too much work to come home.
“How I miss her!” Aunt Jean kept saying. “The family doesn’t seem complete without Maud and Gregor and Sadie here.”
What if they knew? Polly kept thinking. Would they reject her? Would Noni really disown her, as Maud had said she would?
“I’m so worried about your sister,” Noni had told Polly this morning. “She started out at university by having such a good time, but now all she writes about is her studies. Is she still upset about Robert?”
“I don’t know,” said Polly. She had hoped not to be alone with Noni, but her grandmother still expected her to bring her breakfast to her room every morning.
“Ann’s mother has written me a very pleasant letter saying how they’re looking forward to having Maud in Portland,” said Noni. “But the course she and Ann are taking is so long, and we won’t see Maud until August. That doesn’t seem right. Do you have any idea why Maud wants to do this? It’s as if she’s avoiding us.”
Polly just repeated “I don’t know.” She wondered how they had managed the letter; Ann must have written it. Noni was so worried that Polly yearned to tell her everything.
“Polly …” Noni seemed embarrassed. “Your father has written to tell me that he’s getting married. How do you feel about that?”
“I feel glad!” said Polly. “He and Esther seem really happy, and I like her a lot.”
“That’s reassuring. But I wonder … could she be Jewish? Her last name sounds as if she might be.”
“Yes, she’s Jewish,” said Polly. She waited for Noni’s reaction, hoping that Daddy was wrong.
“What a shame,” said Noni quietly.
Polly bristled. Why was Noni like this?
“I don’t think it matters if Esther is Jewish or not,” Polly said firmly. “She’s just Esther.”
“I suppose you’re right, hen. Anyway, it’s none of my business whom your father marries. I just hope—”
“What?”
“Well, I hope you will always regard the island as your home, Polly.”
“Of course I will!” Polly forgot her anger as she gave Noni a hug.
Now the music changed to a waltz. “There you are, Polly!” Biddy came up and frowned, as if Polly had been trying to avoid her. Polly flushed. All weekend she had felt pulled between her two friends. Eleanor was friendly to Biddy, but Biddy regarded her suspiciously. She had shocked Polly by telling her that Vivien and her parents had suddenly moved off the island. Her father thought he could find better work in Sidney.
Polly smiled, trying to reassure Biddy that they were still friends. “It’s too bad about Vivien,” she said. “You’ll really miss her.”
“It’s terrible! I have no one to be with except Dorothy, and she’s so boring. But at least you’ll be back next year, Polly. It will be just you and me again, the way it was before Vivien … and before you knew her.”
Polly was silent.
“You are coming back, aren’t you?” demanded Biddy.
“Yes, of course I am,” said Polly quickly.
Eleanor approached them with two glasses of lemonade. “I brought you a drink, Poll. Your uncle is some dancer! Oh, hi, Biddy. Do you want me to get you a drink, too?”
Biddy just glared at her and walked away.
“Instead of painting this week, we’re going to visit someone very special,” Miss Falconer announced the next Saturday. They all piled into Miss Falconer’s old car. Jane sat in the front and the other four squished into the back; Polly had to perch on Dottie’s knee. They asked whom they were going to see, but Miss Falconer said she wanted it to be a surprise.
She drove downtown, and past the Empress Hotel into James Bay. Then she told them to look for Beckley Avenue. Margaret spotted it first. The car turned onto an unpaved road lined with shabby bungalows. It stopped in front of a rundown cottage. “This is it—number 316,” said Miss Falconer.
Theirs was the only car on the road. They stumbled out; a group of children and dogs playing nearby turned to stare at them.
“Who lives here?” asked Katherine.
“Miss Emily Carr,” said Miss Falconer. “I’ve wanted you to see her work for a long time. She just moved to this house, and I haven’t visited her new studio yet. Now, girls …” She hesitated by the front door. “Miss Carr can be crotchety, so don’t be upset if she seems rude. That’s just her way.”
Miss Falconer knocked and a chorus of yaps answered. A stout old woman in a shapeless dress opened the door. Four small dogs with grizzly hair swarmed at her feet. Polly bent to pat one. It resembled Tarka, but was much more whiskery.
“Come in, come in,” said Miss Carr. Her voice was gruff. “How are you, Frieda?” She led them into a tiny studio. “Now, whom do we have here?”
Polly tried not to stare as Miss Falconer introduced them. Miss Carr’s round face was sunburned. Tufts of white hair poked from the wide black band around her forehead. Her eyes were direct and bright as she examined them.
“So these are your fancy pupils!” she said in a mocking voice. Polly avoided her gaze and gave her attention to the studio. Every inch was covered with paintings: some hung on the walls and many more leaned against them.
“Oh!” gasped Polly, advancing towards a painting as if it were calling her.
“Look as much as you like,” said Miss Carr, her voice warmer. “Frieda and I will get you some tea—if I can find the teapot, that is.”
The two women left the room, and the girls walked around gingerly.
“What are those?” giggled Dottie, pointing to a cage on the table.
“Chipmunks!” said Katherine.
Polly rushed to the cage. Three chipmunks were nibbling on a bowl of nuts. She watched them for a moment, but the glorious paintings beckoned her back. Miss Carr painted forests and skies in swooping strokes, using the deep-green and bold-blue colours of the west coast. The paintings shimmered with light and energy.
“I’ve never seen anything like these!” said Dottie.
“That’s because they’re Modern Art,” said Katherine solemnly.
“I don’t like them,” said Jane. “Trees don’t look like this.”
But they do, Polly thought, gazing at a painting in which a tree soared to the sky and became part of it. This was the essence of a tree, its freedom and wildness and power. Some of the paintings made Polly feel like flying; some invited her to walk right into their dark, wooded depths.
Miss Falconer came into the studio with a tray full of mismatched cups and a teapot. Miss Carr followed her with a crumbling cake on a plate. She set it down on the floor and shut the door to keep out the dogs.
“Help yourselves, young ladies,” she said. “The cake is a bit stale and I’ve run out of milk, so you’ll have to make do.”
“Do you have any questions for Miss Carr, girls?” said Miss Falconer.
Everyone was silent until Dottie asked, “How do you decide what to paint?”
“How do you decide?” said Miss Carr.
Dottie laughed nervously. “Well, I paint something that I think is pretty—or something Miss Falconer asks us to.”
“That’s all very well, but you should try to paint what calls you. Trees and totems and skies—they all beg me to capture their reality, so I try to do that.”
Since the other girls were still tongue-tied, Miss Falconer asked Miss Carr several more questions. Polly listened avidly, wishing she could write down the answers.
F
inally, as she was sipping a cup of cold, bitter tea, Polly murmured, “Miss Carr, how do you make your paintings move like that?”
“I beg your pardon? You’ll have to speak up, child—I’m a bit deaf.”
Polly repeated her question in a louder voice.
Miss Carr smiled at her. “Movement is vital. If you really look at God’s creation, you will see how it’s always in motion. I try to let that movement get into my brush.”
“That’s why your paintings are so alive.” Polly said the words softly, but this time Miss Carr heard her.
“Thank you—what is your name?”
“Polly.”
“Thank you, Polly. Do you want to be an artist?”
Polly nodded.
“Well, here’s some advice for you—for all of you. Be careful that you don’t paint anything that isn’t completely yours—that isn’t in your own soul. You have to learn the mechanics, of course, but use them in your way, not someone else’s.”
They were all digesting this when the door burst open and a little girl in a yellow dress rushed screeching into the room. She grabbed Jane’s leg, and Jane screeched even louder.
“Get it off—get it off me!”
It wasn’t a little girl at all—it was a monkey!
“Oh, Woo, you bad thing.” Miss Carr pulled the monkey away by its collar and fastened it by a chain to the table leg.
“This is Woo,” said Miss Carr fondly. “She didn’t mean to frighten you. She just gets excited when visitors arrive.”
Woo chittered and scolded as they stared at her. She was about the size of one of Miss Carr’s dogs, with large ears and thick brown fur that stuck out over the back of her dress. Her beady eyes were close-set beneath her wide jutting brow. Jane retreated to the far corner of the studio, but Polly edged closer and closer.
“Can I pet her?” she said.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Miss Carr. “She bites!”
“How does she like her new house?” said Miss Falconer.
“She loves it. She’s taken over the plum tree in the back and spends all her time there, unless she’s plaguing the dogs.”
“I’ve never known anyone who has a monkey!” said Dottie.
“I used to have a white rat named Susie, but she died last year,” said Miss Carr sadly.
“Now, girls, we must go,” said Miss Falconer. “Emily, I can’t thank you enough for letting us come.”
“You’re lucky you caught me. Woo and the dogs and I are spending all summer in the Elephant. You and Frans must visit us there.”
Polly gaped. Did Miss Carr own an elephant as well as a monkey?
“Don’t look so surprised, young Polly!” laughed Miss Carr. “‘The Elephant’ is what I call my caravan. I park it in the country and sketch from it.”
She walked them to the front door and said goodbye. “Come and see me again in the fall,” she told them. They could still hear the dogs barking and Woo screeching after she closed the door.
“I want you to always remember this afternoon, girls,” said Miss Falconer. “Someday you can tell your children you met a brilliant Canadian artist.”
“Really?” said Jane doubtfully.
“Really! We’ll talk about her art next week, and maybe you’ll understand it better.”
Polly didn’t dare to say that she already understood it. That sounded like boasting. She sat in a daze all the way back, trying to remember every one of Miss Carr’s paintings and words. “Don’t paint anything that isn’t in your own soul …” Polly wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but the words opened up a window inside her.
PART THREE
NOW EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
POLLY’S DECISION
THE LAST FOUR WEEKS OF THE SCHOOL YEAR WERE PACKED with activities. The boarders were taken to the beach for picnics and to several concerts and movies. Four other girls schools arrived one Saturday for the drill competition. To Miss Gower’s dismay, St. Winifred’s came second, beaten by Ashdown Academy from Vancouver. Polly didn’t care; she was just relieved that the dreary marching she’d done for three terms was finally over.
Rhoda got her certificate from the Royal Drawing Society; she’d received top marks for the first level. “Miss Netherwood says I show great promise,” she boasted. “It’s such a shame you had to drop out of drawing,” she added to Polly. “You’ll find it hard to be an artist without the good training I’m getting.”
Polly ignored her. All she could think about was Maud. Now she had gone to the special home for “unwed mothers.” She wouldn’t tell Polly the address or telephone number. “I’ll phone you around the end of July and let you know when I’ve had the baby,” she wrote. “I’ll say it in code, in case someone else is listening on the line. After that I’ll come back to the island, and we’ll all carry on as we did before.”
At least Maud kept writing to Polly. The home sounded bleak and tedious, much worse than boarding school. There was a strict schedule of work and prayers and meals. Maud had to swab out bathrooms and dust furniture and peel vegetables. Polly could tell it was even worse than Maud’s stoical words implied.
And where would she have the baby? Would she be alone? Polly wasn’t sure how babies were born; would it hurt Maud? She looked in the school library for a book to explain childbirth, but found nothing.
Polly spent long hours after school wandering on the grounds. Now the roses were in bloom. They made her miss Noni’s. For the first time, however, she missed Maud much more than she did her grandmother. Her sister seemed so far away, as if she were in another country, a country that excluded Polly.
“Is something wrong, Poll?” Eleanor asked, when Polly wouldn’t go to the tree at the bottom of the field with her. Now that their hideaway was off limits, this was their new place to escape to.
“I just need to be by myself,” mumbled Polly.
“Are you trying to decide if you’ll come back or not?” asked Eleanor in her usual blunt manner.
“There’s nothing to decide,” said Polly. “I’m not coming back.”
“Have you told the Guppy?”
“Not yet, but I will soon.”
“Oh, Poll, please stay. I’d miss you so much!”
Polly tried to smile at her friend. “I’ll miss you, too, El, but I hate it here. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, all right?”
“All right,” said Eleanor glumly, “but I think you’re making a huge mistake.”
The next Saturday, Miss Falconer asked them to take away all the art they had done so far that term, so they wouldn’t have as much left to remove on their last day. Polly carried her large portfolio up to the dorm.
“What’s that?” asked Daisy.
“It’s my art,” said Polly shyly.
“Can we see?”
Polly spread her watercolour pictures out on her bed.
“Golly!” said Daisy. “These are amazing!”
Eleanor examined each painting. She looked up. “These are amazing, Poll. I didn’t know you were this good.”
“Thanks,” said Polly. She gazed at her paintings. Some of them she wished she’d done differently, but on the whole she was proud of them.
“I think they’re kind of sloppy,” said Rhoda. “Why didn’t you mop up those drips? And this tree isn’t in proportion with the one beside it. I hope you don’t mind me telling you,” she added.
Polly gazed at Rhoda’s pretty, simpering face. She clenched her hands. “I do mind, Rhoda,” she said slowly. Then her voice gathered speed. “They’re supposed to be that way. The drips add to the effect and the tree isn’t meant to be realistic—it’s how I felt it. You don’t know anything about real art, Rhoda. You’re good at technique, but that’s all.”
“How dare you?” said Rhoda. “I’m just as talented as you are!”
“No, you’re not,” said Polly. “You just think you are, because you got that stupid certificate.”
“You—you—” sputter
ed Rhoda, advancing towards
Polly.
“Oh-oh,” said Eleanor. “Come on, Dais—let’s get out of here.”
Polly and Rhoda faced each other. Then they began shouting.
“You’re such a show-off!” said Polly. “Why can’t you just accept that I’m better at art than you are?”
“Because you aren’t!” said Rhoda. “You’re the one who’s a show-off! You think you’re so special just because your mother is dead. But why won’t you tell us about your father? There’s something fishy about your life, Polly.”
“My life is none of your business!” yelled Polly.
They continued to argue, getting louder and louder. Tears flooded down Polly’s cheeks. Rhoda’s face was crimson.
Then Mrs. Blake hurried in. “Girls, girls, what on earth is the matter? Calm down, both of you!”
“Polly said I was a show-off!” said Rhoda. She began weeping in such a melodramatic way that Polly wanted to slap her.
“I don’t care what either of you said. Stop this immediately! Polly, you go and wash your face and sit on the front steps until supper. Rhoda, you stay in the dorm. I don’t want either of you to speak to the other for the rest of the day.”
Polly ran out. She splashed cool water over her face, then sat on the steps, trying to breathe steadily.
Eleanor found her there. “I hope you don’t mind that we told Mrs. Blake, Poll, but we thought you might kill each other! Why do you let Rhoda bother you so much? I know she’s spoiled, but she’s not that bad if you give her a chance.”
“I hate her!” said Polly.
“I wish you didn’t,” said Eleanor. “We’d have a lot more fun if the two of you got along.”
Polly was relieved that she wasn’t allowed to talk to Rhoda. At supper, the two of them carefully avoided eye contact with each other.
“Polly, how would you like to meet my little boy tomorrow?” Mrs. Blake asked her later. “I have the afternoon off and you could come home with me.”
“Only me?” said Polly.
“Only you, love.” Mrs. Blake smiled. “I think you need to get away from here for a while. Seeing Johnny will cheer you up—I promise!”