“I had no arms around me for comfort, although Mr. Baxter would pat my knee when he’d notice I was shaking. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself, but in those moments I longed for my father… for Beaty. My brother and other sisters were safe in Longford, but oh, how I wanted Daddy to drop everything and come to me at that very moment so I could bury my eyes in his chest.”
Christian didn’t breathe a word.
“I’d still take the heavy rains and puddles at my feet in that time capsule we called ‘Billy Bunk’ over those incendiaries any day. I imagined the sky raining with fireballs, but fortunately the fire brigade dealt with those expeditiously. The worst part was the gas masks we were issued at the primary school in the event of gas warfare. Tried to swindle the children into believing they were funny by pasting a red nose on them like a cartoon character. Didn’t work, you know. I watched one little girl nearly asphyxiated by hers. And the adults weren’t much different. They terrified me—the gas masks. I’m sure you’ve seen more than your fair share.” Christian nodded. “Made me feel as though I was right down in that Nautilus with Captain Nemo himself.”
“You mean in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?” Christian asked, puzzled.
“Well, what other?”
“They weren’t actually gas masks,” he added, hatching a smile.
“And your point?”
That smile grew so large, it flashed happy memories of a time when neither of them had been able to wipe away their grin.
“When did you start reading Verne?” Christian wondered.
“After having a summer of pirate dreams at Georgian Bay,” she replied with narrowed eyes. “By sheer grit I was able to get through its narrative. How I loathe reading in first person, yet you couldn’t have peeled my eyes away. I have since read every work of both Verne and Wells. My sister thinks I’m mad to read such an abomination with creatures under the sea and warmongers from space coming to Earth. She’s never bothered to hide her repugnance and still can’t resolve how they’d get past the gates of heaven.”
Christian’s smile finally broke into laughter. “I would like to meet this notorious sister of yours.”
“She isn’t completely mad, I promise!”
Gillian’s gaze sailed across the sky, noticing that the clouds had darkened, growing heavy in the distance as though someone had scratched gray streaks down to the horizon. Rain. She didn’t want this moment to end; maybe the storm would bypass them.
“Should we head back to your motorcycle?” Christian said. “I’m not sure I can outrun that sheet coming toward us.”
“Yes, of course, but we needn’t run. It’s still only water,” she said braiding her arm in his for support. They walked back to the blanket where Gillian whisked it into the air then rolled it. She scooped up the grocery bag then reached for his arm again.
“So who were these other children you were talking about? The ones who were special?”
“Are special actually.”
“Are they yours?”
“Goodness, no. I told you about them when we’d first met. The little Indian children I took care of before I was sent to your wild place of birth,” she said ribbing. A mole poked his head from its nest as they approached a series of raised ridges in the meadow, no doubt trampling over their tunnels. Worried Christian might topple over, she held on tightly. “I don’t know what I would have done without them during these past years. Perhaps you don’t remember, but I had received a letter from their mother, the maharani, during my stay in Tobermory. Inside, there was a short letter from Shashi. We’ve been writing ever since. I’ve followed both of them, really, right through childhood but more intimately with Shashi as she is the one who writes. I hear of her brother’s antics through her.”
“That’s wonderful,” Christian said as they reached the stone wall. He sat on it then laboriously lifted his legs over. He’d left his walking stick in the sidecar, and although she’d had the urge earlier to offer it to him, she suspected he’d refuse it. They stood on opposite sides of the wall.
“I remember one time Samir, I think he was perhaps ten years old at the time,” she said looking into nothingness, “decided it would be amusing to coat the bottom of a laundry basket with a handful of vine snakes—seven to be precise. He placed a bath towel over top then waited behind a tree. When the servant returned to fold the remaining washing, he muscled up the courage to run to her and confess his crime. But she was called away again by her superior before he had reached her, leaving him to tend to those snakes. To his dismay, there were only six in the basket. Before he had time to breathe, a scream ripped through the palace walls all the way into the garden. Apparently, he was so afraid to face the maharaja that he went missing overnight. Everyone thought the worst—that he had been taken by some hooligans for ransom, perhaps. They even drained the palace pond for fear he had drowned. But there was one place they hadn’t looked: a secret burrow that Shashi knew her brother went as a tot when he was frightened. In the carriage house among all the beautiful palkis, some carved in elaborate design and draped in the richest jewel-toned silks, was a very small, sad palki stuffed in the corner. It hadn’t carried royalty in decades.”
“What’s a palki exactly?”
“I didn’t know myself until I found a book at the library called A Breath of Bombay. A palki is simply a carriage, mostly for females when they go out and about, carried on the shoulders of two or more men. The ornate ones are for processions, I suppose.”
Christian reached for Gillian’s hand as she clambered over the wall. The sky began to rumble with surly, whirling clouds above threatening to teem down on them at any moment.
“We best be getting on,” she insisted.
“Not until you tell me what happened in the carriage house.”
Gillian furrowed her brow remembering the details of the letter. “Shashi peeked into the darkness through spider nets and dust, and there was Samir, shivering in the corner of the palki. The carriage house was like an icebox during the night, she said. But she had brought a blanket and a pocket full of potato bhajji for his starving little body and climbed in, nuzzling up to her brother, warming him.” A soft smile weaved into Gillian’s mouth remembering the spicy chili bhajji she had tried with the maharani on a rainy night in Virginia Water. She insisted that piping hot tea accompany bhajji just as they used to drink in India’s monsoon season. But drips from the sky tapped Gillian back to the present.
“Please…” she said motioning for Christian to climb into the sidecar.
“I don’t think so, not with your sleeping record,” he said presumptuously straddling her motorbike. “Would you mind?”
“You’re not looking for an answer, are you?”
“No,” he said.
Christian’s voice fell flat in that one syllable as he wore an expression of great disappointment, rain now trickling down his cheeks. “What?”
“You still haven’t told me what happened to the boy.” Gillian hardly heard his words when she noticed how his shirt clung to his skin, wet, revealing his lovely form as he sat propped up above her.
“Right,” she said, peeling her eyes away. “I suppose the rain pooling up in my eyes distracted me,” Gillian answered in a saucy tone.
“Well?”
“Shashi never revealed Samir’s hiding place but brought him back to their parents, wrapped like a cocoon. Not a word was spoken about those snakes, but Shashi said the laundry maid was never seen again hanging the bedclothes.”
“You really like this girl, don’t you?”
“Oh…” Gillian gave a wide, toothy smile, the rain cascading down her and into the sidecar. “She makes my heels click!”
The cottage stood limp in the rain, gray sea and gray skies dragging it down. All the green seemed to be syphoned from the garden and the chill was bone snagging. The smell of worms soaked the air, reminding Christian of Tobermory and wet days by the docks hauling in friendly-sized northern pikes and the odd giant musky. Now it
felt like a different season altogether from the morning. Gilly’s front door seemed miles away down that gravel path, and Christian didn’t want to walk it. He didn’t want the day to end. They reached the door anyway and stood under the thatch overhang. He could feel a steady stream of rain skimming his back as Gilly stood pressed against the door fumbling to open it behind her.
“Don’t,” Christian said taking her hand. He gazed into her eyes, his chest pressed against her. She stared up at him, her mouth slightly open with the sound of the rain tapping the window next to them. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, but her silence nudged him to walk away. A woman who never found it difficult to strike up a conversation, a woman who talked so much that he’d kiss her just for a little peace that summer at Little Tub Harbour. And with all that chatter, not one question about what happened to him. Why? he asked himself as she stood there looking as if she wanted to be kissed, needed to be kissed.
Gillian could feel her heart begin to race. She’d almost forgotten how disheveled she must have looked, her hair wet as a mop and her brown cardy sagging and smelling like the soggy Manx sheep that wore the wool in the first place. She tried straightening the strands of hair at the sides of her face.
“Stop,” he said taking her hands away. “You’re lovely just the way you are.”
She could feel her chest rise suddenly, unsure of the moments to follow. Knowing she wanted to be kissed but knowing it was madness to fall for a man from her past, the one man she could never erase from her heart… the same conflict she’d fought under the Georgian Bay moon.
“Why did you take me home first?” she asked, a tiny piece of her wanting him to say, Where else would I spend the night?
“Haven’t you noticed it’s pissing down rain?” he said instead.
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that but yes… I noticed.” His eyes drew closer as he lifted her chin. Her heart had left the starting gates the moment the rain splashed all over him, leaving his skin gleaming, teasing from underneath his soaked shirt.
“You should be home in this weather,” he said soberly. “I’ll walk.”
“The inn’s too far.”
“For someone like me?”
Horrified at such a rebuttal, Gillian refused to feel her pulse any longer. “That’s not fair.”
Christian smiled, but it wasn’t condescending. It was humble. “Thank you for today. It was perfect,” he said, a hint of shiver to his skin.
As he turned his back to leave, a desperate gasp reached her lips, “How long will you be here… on the Isle of Man?”
“Till I know.”
Gillian swallowed, her pursed shoulders suddenly relaxed as she felt her own shiver fly away. She stood under the thatch, and through a screen of rain she watched Christian walk unsteadily down her drive, his walking stick now in hand. “Good-bye,” was all she managed to mutter through empty lips.
Chapter 16 - 1933
The autumn has a beauty, no other season knows,
It gently turns the leaves from green to brown and bronze and gold.
The smoke of garden fires, prepare the earth to sleep,
In winter’s storms, it’s snug yet free, and never calls to weep.
The leaves are gone, the scene will change, as it likes to do,
The distant fence thro’ naked trees and hills beyond stay true.
As swirling mist, their beauty veils, silence reigns again,
As evening fades and peace descends, it brings the close of day.
Chapter 16
1933
1st of June 1933
My dearest Shashi,
It has been a long while since I last took pen to paper. Such a hiatus (your mommy can explain) was necessary given my raw state of mind. You are too young to understand, but you can know that I have been nursing a broken heart. I have left Canada and Mr. Right to return to a familiar place, one you know well, where there’s a pond swimming with stories of India and Ireland. There is a weeping willow in the garden, do you remember? I can only see its top over the stone wall surrounding the residence, but if I close my eyes, I get a perfect view. I have bought myself a small motorbike, which I take to Wentworth Estate on Sundays. You should see me on it—free as the wind. My kit bag and a good pair of goggles and I’m off. I once had a Mayfly sail into my ear. I thought they must only come out in May, but I was wrong. You can’t imagine the panic I was in when I quickly realized the poor creature must have been in shock himself, the way I tried to dig him out. My advice to you is to don an exceptional pair of earmuffs in the event you take to the roads at high speed. Do you have a bicycle, darling? (I would have loved to teach you to ride.) If not, perhaps you can hint to Mommy while she reads you my letter.
I hope you have been busy stirring up all sorts of adventure in my absence. My surprise last summer was by far the most exquisite adventure of all. Do forgive me for waiting so long to tell you about it. My heart has finally mended, or at least stitched together in layman quality.
Now on to the juicy bits! Mr. Right had taken me to a very special island, so wild they had to name it Bear’s Rump. Apparently, those living on the peninsula rarely take a rowboat out so far—but we did! Remember, these are the same treacherous waters as those swallowing up pirate ships. Was I frightened you ask? Terrified. But Christian, that’s Mr. Right if you recall, assured me that the bay was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Try not to giggle now!
I felt as though I was in the middle of the sea although it oddly lacked that tangy sea air that seems to go hand in hand with such a place. It’s all fresh water, Shashi, have I told you that? I could drink the whole basin clean and wouldn’t get a sore tummy. Of course, there was a fishy odor wafting past every so often, so I chose not to drink even a thimble full.
We stopped at Flowerpot Island to rest our weary fingers from gripping those oars. I managed to pull my weight on occasion, but I much preferred the view when I rested—though we dared not tarry longer than was necessary, otherwise our fate might have mirrored those pirates! (If you brave the seas with Samir, do take a pair of gloves. I sported three terrible blisters after that feat.)
The bluffs of Bear’s Rump were waiting for us. You should have seen them, as high as the heavens and peppered in tall pine trees. Even my tongue was dazed at the very sight. I couldn’t utter a sound. It’s quite a feeling to be put in your place when you meet something so daunting. (That’s big and scary to you, my sweet.) I wished for your courage that moment. The beach was white with small stones, and the water a surreal mix of green and blue, like something you imagine in the South Pacific or Indian Ocean near where you live, darling. Although I’ve never seen photographs, my mind paints a beautiful picture. Have you ever seen a colored photograph? I’ve heard about them, but I won’t believe they exist until I see one myself. Be that as it may, if you tell me it’s true, then I shall trust your word.
I’m rambling as usual. A terrible habit I’ve picked up from my sister since returning to the United Kingdom. Where was I?
Yes, Bear’s Rump. Christian had prepared a lovely picnic that he had hidden in the bow of the boat under a blanket. We hiked like two barbarians through the forest and up to the very top of the mountain. By the time we reached its crest, the sun was beginning to whisper “goodnight” through swirls of tangerine and violet. It hung in the sky threatening to leave the bay for just one more night, soon to return in a playful daybreak. I remember smiling as I thought the sun and moon are friends, like you and me, never truly leaving each other. If you close your eyes now, Shashi, I think you’ll be able to see our sunset.
The smell of pine brought a sweetness to the air and with it memories of Sunday morning boxty (Irish potato cakes), to which my father lovingly added far too much sugar and a whole tablespoon of my mother’s homemade gooseberry jam. I can taste it now as I write. And it was there that I saw it with my own eyes, tucked into the wood overlooking the mural in front… the mushroom I knew Mr. Right would build me one day. It was lar
ge enough for two and made from the trees right there on the island. There was a door and a big screen window to keep out mosquitoes and a fire pit just outside for warmth and late evening chatter while staring into the flames.
We stayed until the hours would have us no more. I don’t even remember time passing, yet I shall never forget a single moment of our lovely adventure.
I shall write again soon—two letters as promised—but for this night, my mended heart needs rest.
If you look closely into these inky pages, Shashi, you’ll find a squeezy hug just for you.
My love to you and Samir,
Gillian
7th of July 1933
Dear Gillian,
I know about broken harts. One day I went butterfly cetching with my father in the medow. I cetched the prettiest butterfly I had seen in my hole life. It was the color of your sunset. My father said, No Shashi. Butterflys need to be free. But I begged my father to let me take him for just one day. He showed me his home so I wanted to show him my home. My father said yes but I must set him free when the sun comes on the morrow. But when I was sitting by my pond I wanted to show my butterfly how I could read so well now. I lifted the top to my jar and he flyed out and onto my page. I was so happy becus he liked my story. But my brother Samir came like a snake behind me, to quiet for my ears and snapped my book shut. He runned away laffing but did not know that when I opened the pages to my book, my butterfly was dead. I cryd and I cryd.
Me and my father went to the medow the next day. Samir came to. We brot my butterfly to his home and set him on a big rock like a reel maharaja looking at his kingdum. I was suprised to see a tear fall down my brothers face. I think his hart was broken to.
The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley Page 20