by Caro Soles
The ladder shivers again, and I close my eyes for a moment, but only one side is loose so I keep on going. Now I can see the flat roof outside the window of the new people. It’s like a more dangerous sort of porch, dangerous because there are no railings and the floor part is just pebbles on tar under a thin layer of snow. Brian is huddled in a camel-hair polo coat with a hood, his back against the brick wall by the bay window of their room. He’s holding a cigarette in one gloved hand, staring down at the Secret Garden, and he looks so sad. I freeze, afraid that any breath, any movement will give me away. Perhaps he’ll think I’m spying. Sometimes I do, I admit, but not this time. It’s upsetting when people think you’re doing something you’re not. It makes me feel nasty.
A breeze springs up, and his curly hair stirs as the hood slips back. He turns and looks right at me. I stare, unable to move, to speak. Count Brian. My chest tightens, and it’s hard to breathe.
He winks.
A bubble of laughter rises inside, and panic flutters in my stomach. I imagine laughing so hard my hands slip off the cold iron ladder and I fall, twisting in the air, crashing through the bare bushes into the Secret Garden.
Nothing happens.
He lays a finger against his lips and points towards the window. I nod. Mother would be cross if Jonathan smoked, even if he did it outside. Hooking my left arm around the ladder, I lift my right hand and wave. His smile follows me back down to my own porch. I sit there for a while, trying to catch my breath. The memory of that smile keeps me warm.
5. NOBLESSE OBLIGE
SNOW FLOATS LAZILY PAST OUR WINDOWS, sparkles in miniature drifts on the windowsills, clings to the branches of the great tree outside our living room window. I have been in the house for days. All the library books are read, but we can’t go out for new ones. It’s a long walk to the library through treacherous slippery streets, and no one has time to take me anyway.
Jonathan is doing homework, so I’m supposed to be extra quiet. I am looking through old scrapbooks at pictures of Hadleigh Hall that Mother cut out of a magazine. I wonder if it ever snows like this in England. It must be cold in a stately pile with no central heating, trying to keep warm huddled over all those fireplaces, wrapped in steamer rugs and wool shawls from Jaegers like the one Mother has in her special drawer.
I wonder what it would be like if Mother’s grandfather had not “done the right thing” and married the village schoolteacher, ending up in the colonies as a remittance man with nine children. If he had been less honourable, it would have been better for Mother, surely. She would have grown up in the stately pile and wouldn’t have to worry about money, ever.
I say this to Jonathan, but he laughs. “You want to add the bar sinister to Mother’s troubles?”
“But maybe she wouldn’t have been born at all?” I suggest.
“Then where would we be?” Jonathan asks.
Where would we be? I don’t want to think about that.
I look out the window and wonder if there are any stately homes in my real family, if my real father or grandfather had lived in one, been disgraced, and moved to Canada as a last resort. Or maybe he was a modern sort of coureur des bois, never staying long in one place, always seeking adventure. I think of the famous Canadian poem: De place I get born, me, is up on de reever, Near foot of de rapide dat’s call Cheval Blanc.Was my grandfather like the poem’s Little Bateese? No. I shake my head and make a face. I take off my glasses and clean them using the shirttail of my blouse. I’m sure he was not like Little Bateese or his ilk.
Mother is always trying to lend a hand to the less fortunate. Noblesse oblige, she says; blood will tell. This worries me occasionally, but most times I just agree. Daddy calls the people Mother helps Lame Ducks. People tell her the most intimate details of their lives. She lends an ear, a helping hand, and sometimes a little money. When Daddy hears about this last part, he sighs and closes his eyes.
We hear about some of the Lame Ducks when Mother tells us their stories at dinner time: people she meets waiting for the bus, or someone who fell on the street and she helped them up and took them into Murray’s to get them something to eat. She’s a great storyteller. She hires the educated ones to be my tutors for a while, like Mr. Jackson, but I’m not sure if he is a bona fide Lame Duck. He is certainly lame, not that we ever mention that or even notice his two canes and twisted legs. I pretend he walks just like everyone else. He never talks to me about his terrible experience in the Japanese POW camp. I wonder if he ever talks to other servicemen. “He’s a proud man,” Mother says. “He has dignity.” Like Daddy, I think. Daddy would never be a Lame Duck.
Miss David, on the other hand, is a real Lame Duck. Mother met her at the Scott Mission where she was rooting through clothes at their thrift shop. “She’s a diamond in the rough,” Mother says. “Not much education, poor soul—she never had a chance—but a hard worker with a heart of gold.”
Miss David lives in a one-room basement apartment she shares with five cats. Mother shakes her head when she talks about the time she visited the apartment. She had dropped by to bring Miss David some important papers she had picked up for her at some government office because Miss David, who holds down two jobs, couldn’t get there before closing time.
“Total chaos,” she says. “Everything’s higgledy-piggledy.”
“I imagine all the cats mess things up a lot,” I suggest.
“They certainly don’t help,” Mother agrees, shaking her head. “But the place is pretty clean, all things considered.”
Miss David comes over one day to get help filling out some other papers. She’s applying for citizenship. She brings a big box of chocolates as a gift.
“My brother, Stefan, he work in candy factory,” she says, smiling her gap-toothed smile.
I hope she comes again. I never get candy! Sometimes as a special treat, Daddy makes fudge, but that hasn’t happened in a while, and anyway, it’s not like real chocolates.
Mother and Miss David settle down at the dining room table to work on the papers while I keep on arranging the books we took out of the bookcase this morning, dusting them with a damp cloth and putting them back again in the proper order. Miss David is odd-looking. The first thing you notice is her impossibly red hair, the colour of a Raggedy Ann doll. The profusion of tiny sausage curls all over her head reminds me of pictures of Shirley Temple in my scrapbook, but Miss David’s face is wrinkled and old. Only her eyes are young: bright and twinkling. She is short and wears odd clothes that don’t quite go together. Today, it’s a green jacket, a mauve blouse, and a black skirt that’s too short. Under the skirt, her legs look like inverted drumsticks, and as she sits at the table, her feet, in her funny little lace-up boots, barely touch the floor. She is always smiling.
Miss David has been in Canada for ten years, but it’s hard to understand her until you get used to her accent. David isn’t her real name, which is difficult to say. Her brother has a different last name, which is also difficult. Maybe they are half brother and sister. Maybe her father died a horrible death fleeing the Germans on the Russian Front and then her mother married someone else in desperation. When I told Janet about her, she suggested Miss David’s brother might be wanted by the police for war crimes and so had to change his name. But that’s too scary. I don’t want to think about that.
“We save to buy house,” Miss David says as they put away all the papers. “Stefan and I, we save every cent for this, our dream.”
I see the wistful look on Mother’s face and wonder if she thinks she could do that, too, if it weren’t for piano lessons, trying to save for Carnegie Hall, paying tutors for me, and “key money” to find a place to live that will have me and the piano. I look down and notice Miss David has short stubby fingers. Peasant hands, Mother would say, but not to her face, of course. I’m glad that my fingers are slender, my feet small, my instep high, like a lady. It makes me feel like a real part of t
he family. I wonder if being a peasant will help Miss David to actually get her house someday. Being a lady does not seem to be doing Mother much good.
Finally, it has stopped snowing. Jonathan is practising now, and Mother and I are going to the shops to get eggs and margarine, Kraft dinner and bread, and maybe peanut butter. I am pulling on my long over-socks that Grammy knits for me, several pairs every winter. They are all strange colours. This pair is a deep heathery purple. I love the colour but wish it could have been a pullover instead. I hate that I never see anyone else wearing over-stockings. Mother says this makes them special, but I don’t want to be special all the time. Not like that. I want to be special because I’m brilliant. Or talented. Or because I can climb higher than anyone else. I yank the stockings over my Oxfords and up my legs, fastening them with the garters that hang down under my navy bloomers. I pull my rubbers over the stockings, the Oxfords, everything. I pull on my navy coat and round hat.
Mother holds out her hand, and we leave. With her other hand, she is fastening her Persian-lamb coat at her throat with the large ornate black button. On the stairs we pass Mrs. O’Malley, but Mother doesn’t stop, just waves hello and sweeps down the staircase, past the griffins, and out the heavy front door.
Outside I can see my breath. As we walk along, I pretend to be a dragon, breathing fire and smoke with great snorting noises and thinking of dire curses until Mother gets annoyed, almost as if she can hear what I’m thinking. But she can’t. Not really. I let out a big puff of air in relief. She’s worried about the job taking care of the difficult child.
It was all we talked about last night at dinner. “The poor thing spends her life in bed, her muscles not coordinated enough to move around, and she’s barely a child at all. She’s eighteen if she’s a day, but she has the mind of a four-year-old.”
“Hardly what you’re trained for,” Jonathan says.
“She must be very heavy to handle,” Daddy points out. “You aren’t strong enough.”
“They need a male nurse,” Jonathan suggests.
“They tried that,” Mother says. “There was an … unfortunate incident. Now she’s afraid of men she doesn’t know.”
Daddy shakes his head sadly. “Shameful,” he mutters. “Just shameful.”
“But ladies can do shameful things too,” I suggest.
They all turn and stare at me. “I hope you never know what she has been through,” Mother says sternly.
They go back to discussing the pros and cons of accepting the job and ignore me. I help myself to a usually forbidden second helping of scalloped potatoes. Nobody notices. In the end, Daddy puts his foot down. There will be no job with the difficult child, in spite of the money it would bring in.
I can tell Mother is still unsure this is the right decision. She is to call them with her answer this evening, so there is still a chance she will change her mind and convince Daddy it will be all right once it’s a fait accompli. Mother is a great believer in the fait accompli.
The greengrocer’s is busy. Mother has brought the wicker basket that Aunt Dottie sent last Christmas filled with goodies, and we make our way to the dairy section near the back, looking for half a dozen eggs and a bottle of milk. We are almost there when Mother sees Mrs. Pierce inspecting a head of lettuce. We all shake hands.
“How are you settling in?” Mother asks, pulling her glove back on.
“It’s a little cramped, but the convenience makes it worthwhile,” Mrs. Pierce replies. She takes one more look at the lettuce and drops it into her wire basket. “The only thing is, it’s a bit far to the Conservatory for Brian’s practise sessions. Not that he ever complains,” she adds quickly. She gives us a sharp look as if we might be about to accuse Brian of being a whiner.
“If he needs a piano to practise on, he’s welcome to use ours,” Mother says, always quick to help. “It’s an upright grand, not quite a Steinway, but a Heintzman, which is close enough. It has a wonderful tone and is in perfect tune.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Mrs. Pierce seems to be completely present now, really focusing on Mother for the first time. “Thank you for the offer, but it isn’t necessary. I don’t mind spending money on Brian’s music. That’s why we’re here.”
“Of course, and that’s why we’re here, too. But it’s an expensive business, launching a career, isn’t it?” Mother goes on. “Our piano is just a suggestion.”
“Thank you. Most kind. I’ll keep it in mind.”
They nod at each other, smiling. The feathers on Mrs. Pierce’s hat quiver and sparkle with droplets from the melting snow. The beady little eyes of the silver-fox fur around her neck sneer at me.
Then Mrs. Pierce looks off into the distance for a moment, as if thinking. One hand goes to her throat, fingering the cameo brooch she wears on her scarf. She looks down at me as if suddenly remembering my existence. “And do you play, too, dear?”
I cringe.
“Vanessa is quite good,” Mother answers for me, taking my hand in hers. “Miss Layne offered to take her on as well, you know.”
“Really?” Mrs. Pierce smiles and lifts an eyebrow.
“At the moment, though, we’re concentrating on Jonathan. We expect Miss Layne to pick him for the June recital. And Brian, too, no doubt,” she adds quickly.
“Oh, I expect so,” Mrs. Pierce says. She is paying for her groceries, tucking them away in her string bag. “You must come to tea sometime.”
“Thank you,” Mother says at once. “We’d love to.” But I wonder about “sometime.” Why doesn’t she say when? To me it sounds like another version of “We’ll see.”
I watch Mrs. Pierce turn off her smile before she turns away, hurrying out the door into the snow.
I usually enjoy our forays along Church Street, but today I am too full of thoughts of Brian in our living room. When will he come? What will he play? I see him on the roof, huddled into his camel-hair coat, smoking. I see his finger to his lips, his secret smile. Just for me.
That night at dinner, Brian is discussed at length. Mother points out we will have to have a major cleaning effort if Brian takes us up on her offer.“I don’t want him telling his mother what a terrible housekeeper I am,” she says.
“But you’re not,” I object. “And anyway, she didn’t say he would come.”
“Obviously if he does, it will have to be when I’m at school,” Jonathan points out. I’m glad to see he’s taking it seriously. “Make sure it’s at a definite time, with a definite time limit. If I do get picked for the recital, I’ll need to practise a lot myself.”
“And Vanessa must stay in the other room while he’s here,” Mother says.
My heart drops with an unpleasant thud. “Why?”
Mother’s mouth goes into that hard line that means a battle is coming up. Her grey eyes blaze as she looks around the table. “You cannot be alone with him. Understand?” Mother leans towards me, the heat of her gaze crackling. “Is that clear?”
I nod miserably, but it’s not clear at all.
“I don’t think you have much to worry about with Brian Pierce, dear,” Daddy says unexpectedly. He takes Mother’s hand and pats it, and the fire dies out of her eyes.
As it turns out, Brian slips a note under the door during the evening, thanking Mother but saying he prefers to practise in the Conservatory for now, so all the fireworks were useless. I’m disappointed, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. If I can’t be in the room, watching, listening, just being there, what’s the point? I wait for the invitation to tea. It doesn’t come. That’s just rude.
We’re not the only ones talking about Brian and his mother. Later that week, I am standing in the shadows by the third-floor landing when I overhear Baggy Bones talking to her friend Marie. It’s easy to hear her because she always leaves her door open a few inches. “Ventilation,” she told Mother one day, popping out unexpectedly when w
e were on our way back to our rooms from the bathroom. “It’s best to keep the air moving, you know.”
“You’re quite right,” Mother said briskly, and we didn’t laugh until we were inside, behind the closed door of our living room.
Now Baggy Bones is telling Marie about the noise from the room above, where Mrs. Pierce and Brian live: bursts of wild laughter, shrieks in the middle of the night, and pushing heavy furniture around. “And as if that’s not bad enough, there’s the constant tinkle of that spinner or whatever it is. It sounds like a giant music box.”
“That must be annoying,” Marie says, her voice soothing, her knitting needles clacking steadily. Although I’ve never seen her, I have a picture of her in my head. I imagine that she’s always wearing a hat and galoshes with furry tassels like Mother’s.
“And talk, talk, talk, all the time, nattering away,” Baggy Bones goes on, in her shaky voice. “And it never occurs to her to wear slippers in the house. Click, click, click. It’s enough to make my head ache.”
“Shall I get you some tea, dear?” Marie asks, and the knitting needles pause.
“Never mind. You stay put. I’ll get it.”
I can hear her sigh as she gets to her feet; then I hear her moving around, the rattle of the kettle on the hot plate, the sound of tea cups on saucers.
“Between that pair upstairs and those people at the end of the hall running up and down to the bathroom at all hours of the day and night, it’s a wonder I get any rest. My nerves can’t take it, I tell you.”