by Caro Soles
“Is it that bad, dear? I didn’t notice.”
“You would if you lived right beside them, let me tell you. Now, Marie, you know I don’t have anything against children, but that girl is downright—”
What I am is lost as the kettle whistles shrilly. I push my glasses up on my nose and creep back home.
6. JANET GETS VIBRATO
“JANET’S FATHER IS A KNIGHT,” I tell Mother as she braids my hair, pulling it back till I wince. “He’s Sir Kelly and her mother is Lady Margaret. Isn’t that exciting?”
Jonathan snorts in derision, a sound I know well. “He’s just a Catholic knight, Piglet.”
“So was Sir Lancelot,” I say, my voice rising.
“He was a Knight of the Round Table,” Jonathan sputters, “not a Knight of Columbus.”
“He was so a Catholic,” I shout.
“Hush, dear,” Mother soothes. “Before the Reformation, everyone was Catholic, including the knights.”
I glare exultantly at Jonathan, but he is still grinning annoyingly as he packs his books into his satchel. He’s going to tutor some boys who are having trouble with Latin and English. He says they are so bad I could probably tutor them. I’m not sure this is meant as a compliment, but I pretend it is.
It’s Saturday, and Daddy is sleeping. He’s going to work tonight because someone else is sick and can’t come in. Mother tried to talk him out of it because he isn’t very well either, but he was adamant.
Adamant. I like that word.
Mother and I are going over to the Sullivans’ to hear Janet play the violin. She called on the telephone to invite us yesterday. She was very excited. She says she now has vibrato. If she had managed that sooner, she might have done better at the Kiwanis, Jonathan says. I don’t really understand this. I just want to go to a party.
The Sullivans have a big family. Janet is the youngest, though she’s a year older than I am, just the same age as Janey Drew, in fact. But Janey’s an only child. Janet has two sisters and three brothers. Two other children died years ago. Janet never really knew them, but she’s always sad when she mentions it, as if they were best friends. She says they’re with the angels. Not sure I’d like that. All those feathers. Today, only the sisters will be there and maybe some neighbours. Janet is very nervous. She told me so this morning when I called her on our telephone to make sure of the time.
“You shouldn’t goad your sister like that,” Mother says to Jonathan as she ties the yellow ribbons into bows on the end of my short braids. I wish I had long ones, like Janey Drew, so I could toss them over my shoulder, but every time they get almost that length, Mother pulls out the scissors and chops them off. After that, they look like paint brushes, the kind you paint houses with, not landscapes.
I’m wearing my good dress, the yellow one with the brown and red smocking that Grammy did for me three years ago. Mother has let it out a few times, but it’s still a bit tight. If I don’t make any sudden moves, I can wear it a little longer. My winter coat is getting tight too, but Mother says it’s almost spring so it can last a few more weeks. It’s so short now that my dress shows underneath a couple of inches. I’ll be glad when spring comes.
We walk to the corner to cross with the lights. When I’m not with them, Mother and Jonathan cross right in front of the house. So does Janet. I know. I’ve seen them from the window. I don’t say anything because I know the reason I can’t. It’s always the same. My glasses might fall, leaving me helpless in the middle of traffic, or some other version of disaster.
Mother is reviewing the rules of etiquette as we turn the corner into Janet’s street. I smile and nod and wonder if Sir Kelly will be there. I secretly admit that the name doesn’t have the grandeur a knight should have, like Lancelot or Gawain or even Percival, but I suppose modern-day knights have to have modern-day names. And he isn’t really grand anyway. He’s a brown sort of man: his eyes, his hair, his suit, his shoes. He’s short; even Jonathan is taller. And he has small darting eyes and a busy anxious look that is disconcerting. I feel my palms getting moist, and I swallow.
Janet’s house is tall and dark and narrow, with a big arched window overlooking the ragged front lawn. On one side is the laneway that leads to the back door, which all the children use unless it’s a special day. On the other side, it’s attached to someone else’s house. I don’t know who they are. No one ever mentions them. Maybe they’re peculiar.
Janet opens the door. “Come in, come in,” she cries, making wide beckoning motions with her whole arm.
“Thank you, dear.” Mother shepherds me in before her, as if I might not be able to get through the door without her help. She hands over our hostess gift of English marmalade, and Janet’s mother coos and clucks as if she’s never seen any before. In fact, she may not have for some time. Neither have we, as it’s hard to get since the war. I wish we could keep it for ourselves, but of course, I never say this. Mother used our luxury money from her small lacquered box. Now there’s not enough left to buy the new dessert spoon we’ve been saving for.
Janet’s face, usually long and pale, is pink and animated. My grandmother would say she has roses in her cheeks. It’s not something I can say. I just grin at her and whisper good luck.
“We have marble cake,” she whispers back.
I try not to lick my lips.
Their living room is filled with people I don’t know. The names slide by me as Mrs. Sullivan introduces us. I recognize the names of the two old sisters, dressmakers who live at the end of the street; Mrs. Moore, the mother of the annoying little boy named Mingy who lives across the street; and Janet’s grown-up cousin Patrick, who’s staying with them. Mother folds me against her as we share a high-backed padded chair from the dining room.
Janet’s big sister Kathleen sits on the piano bench, ready to accompany her. She’s in high school, like Jonathan, but she goes to the Catholic one. She doesn’t look a bit like Janet or Magda, the sister who’s one year older, or their mother. She is dark-haired and rosy-cheeked, and always seems about to burst out of the plain white blouses she wears with her homemade skirts, except when she’s in her black school uniform with the starched collar and cuffs. Today, in honour of the occasion, she’s wearing a bunch of violets pinned to her collar, and a purple ribbon ties back her long shining hair. I wonder when the marble cake will appear.
Janet finally joins Kathleen at the piano, picks up her violin, and announces what she is going to play: part one of some concerto by Mozart. The numbers used to name pieces of music never stick in my head, sliding out just like water slipping through my fingers. I’m nervous for her now, hoping she gets through it without mistakes. I tense against Mother, and she pats my hand. I think she is nervous, too.
I have never seen Janet play before. As I watch, I envy the smallness of the instrument, the intimate way she tucks it under her chin and draws the bow across the strings, swaying her thin body back and forth, her long pale curls swinging in silent accompaniment. She’s much more interesting to watch than someone playing the piano. The violin is less intimidating, too, its size easily handled with one quick look, not like the long sliding look you need to take in all ten feet of a gleaming concert grand.
But as I listen, I decide a violin is a treacherous instrument. Its looks are deceptively friendly, but it is clear there are many pitfalls involved in mastering it. The bow squeaks and the notes waver and slip off pitch from time to time. I try not to wince. I drop my eyes and wonder if my playing sounds this painful to others. I feel like a traitor even thinking this, and I remind myself of what Mother said. It’s about progress, not perfection.
“I’ve got vibrato!” Janet had sung over the telephone. “I finally got vibrato!”
I look up again, hearing the improvement as she gains confidence. I glance at the music on the piano. Janet is speeding up as she nears the finish line, dragging Kathleen with her. I smile. I do the sam
e thing. And then I hear the vibrato. My smile widens.
Everyone claps, and Magda brings in the marble cake and some homemade pinwheel cookies.
“That was really good,” I tell Janet, and she blushes and takes a slice of cake. I take one, too, and eat it in tiny bites, making it last as long as I can. Then I help Janet carry the teacups to the kitchen, and we sit on clean brown paper bags on the back stairs and whisper to each other.
“I got the strap Monday for talking in class,” Janet tells me, her voice so low I have to lean close to hear. She holds out her hands, palm up, telling me how it stung, the noise it made coming down on her skin.
I stare at her hands, searching in vain for evidence of her pain. I shiver, but there’s a strange thrill of pleasure in it somehow that makes me uneasy.
“Did you tell your mother?”
She shakes her head, the curls at the ends of her long blonde hair swinging. “I told Magda. She said not to mention it ’cuz Mother might get all upset and flustered before the party.”
“Oh.” We sit in silence for a moment. I am trying to think of something bad happening to me and not telling Mother. Finally I say, “I talked to Janey Drew.” It’s my only news that’s not the really big news about Brian, which I don’t want to talk about yet, but it seems flat after her startling announcement.
“Really? What’s she like?”
“She’s rude,” I say, flushing as I remember her words. “And stuck up, too.”
“Well, that’s not very nice,” Janet says. She takes my hand and squeezes it.
I suddenly feel very happy, and at the same time I want to cry. I blink back the tears and begin to chant very softy, “Janey Drew, Janey Doo, Janey pooh, pooh, pooh.”
Janet lets go of my hand and claps hers over her mouth, her grey eyes filled with shocked laughter. “How about Zaney Du, Zaney, who? Zaney poo, poo poo. Or, Xanadu, Xanapoo, Xanaduu do, dee, doo!”
We’re giggling now, but I nod my head vigorously. Her way is secret, more exciting. No one gets into trouble spouting nonsense rhymes.
Suddenly she leans closer, the laughter gone. “Did you see that boy again? That Brian?”
I stop laughing too and look back at her. For a moment, I wish I hadn’t told her about the boy upstairs. Now he’s not mine anymore. I nod my head. I feel a little hurt as I feel her interest shifting from me to someone else. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the Brian in the tapestry. He’s still all mine. “I saw him on the roof,” I whisper.
“Tell me, tell me.”
“He was wearing a camel-hair coat and his hair was blowing all over the place in the wind. And he was smoking.”
“Lots of people smoke,” she says.
I hear Mother’s voice coming closer, talking to Mrs. Sullivan, collecting our coats, saying goodbye. I’m relieved.
“I’ll tell you the rest later,” I whisper. I get up and hand Janet the folded bag I had been sitting on. “Thank you for a lovely time,” I say in my normal voice.
“Thank you for coming.” Janet stands up and slips both paper bags back into their drawer in the kitchen before following us all down the hall to the front door.
There is a moment of confusion as we put on our coats and crowd through the inside glass door into the small vestibule. I shake hands with Mrs. Sullivan, and Mother and I go outside and down the stone steps. Mingy Moore is outside with his sled, but I pretend not to see him. I’m thinking about watching the light change in Janet’s grey eyes as she asked about Brian.
7. HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE
WALKS WITH DADDY ARE FREE TIME. Free of words. Free of “need to”: need to know, need to be an example, need to behave like a Dudley-Morris. It’s a gentle time, a safe time, a silent communication of affection. Now and then Daddy stops and smiles and points out a type of tree, describes the kind of wood that comes from it, the kind of thing you can make from it. He shows me birds and flowers but doesn’t expect me to memorize it all; he just wants me to enjoy it the way he does. Most of the time I can’t really see the birds he points out, but I never admit this; I nod and say “Yes, yes,” wondering where it is, what it really looks like. I used to say “Where? Where?”, but he would never stop trying to get me to see it and I never could, so I gave up doing that.
Lately, he’s been talking about Newfoundland joining the Dominion of Canada, making this big snowy island our tenth province. He says some harsh things about Joey Smallwood and shakes his head, and then he’s silent for a while. I think about adding the new province to my map of Canada, using a colour other than pink. I wonder what the Newfoundlanders think about not being their own boss anymore. Of course, they always had the King, so I guess not much has changed. I like King George. Daddy said he was very brave during the last war. I have pictures of him and all the royal family in my scrapbook. I have the Dionne quintuplets there, too, and pictures of the royal corgis. The Queen is the same age as Mother.
Today, Daddy stops and looks at the remains of an old bookcase that someone has left in the alley behind Ryan’s Art Gallery, which is a shortcut we sometimes take to Wellesley Street. It’s missing the top shelf, and one side is badly stained.
“It’s walnut,” he says wonderingly. He reaches out and runs his hand over the good part of the wood. It’s as if he can talk to it, feel what it was once, what it could become again. “I could fix that,” he murmurs. “What a shame.”
“Maybe you could rescue it,” I say. “Come back when it’s dark and bring it home. It’s not far.”
“We’ll see.” With a final pat, he turns away, and we continue our walk to Allan Gardens.
When we get home, Daddy is tired. After lunch, he lies down on the bed and covers himself with the quilt Grandmother made from old dresses many years ago. Mother tells stories about the dresses sometimes. The one with the tiny blue flowers that Grammy wore to the picnic with the church ladies the time Granddad put whiskey in the lemonade. He was always trying to “liven up the stick people,” as he called them. The one with pale red stripes that Aunt Dottie wore to the job interview; she had been careful to back out the door so no one would see the burn mark made by the iron when Mother tried to do her a favour and press it just before she left. There was even one of Mother’s dresses there, a crinkly material with navy blue polka dots. Looking at the quilt is like opening a book of family history, each piece a story. But it’s a book only Mother can read.
Daddy is asleep almost at once, his mouth slightly open, his breath sighing when he breathes out. I spend some time tidying up the table and the wardrobe trunk, both the top and the drawers. I find Mother’s box of jewellery. There isn’t much. All the really good stuff is gone, along with the big house and antique furniture, the paintings and silverware. “Gone like smoke,” Mother says, her voice thin and distant as she remembers what used to be. Something I never even saw. I slip on her silver link bracelet. Jonathan bought this one for her birthday a few years ago, saved up his money for a long time from his first real job. It’s big for me, heavy on my wrist, but it feels good. I push it up over the cuff of the navy pullover Grammy knit for me last year. Daddy catches his breath and sighs, turning on his side in his sleep. I creep out the door and go out on the porch.
Clouds scud across the sky, but I’m warm in my sweater. Looking over the back fence, I see the untended yard behind what used to be the coach house—the grass long, like emerald hair. I wonder what treasures lie buried under those green waves. I look at the high wooden fence. In the corner of our yard, partially hidden by a large lilac, is the one place where I have been able to climb to the top of the fence. So far, I haven’t tried to get over it; instead I clambered up on the garage roof, which is beside the coach house. That roof is lower. Janet showed me how to get up. When we play there, we call it Mount Olympus. But today, Janet is at school, everyone is working, and I am all alone.
I run down the stairs, across the quickly melting snowy l
umps of our yard, and into the corner. I push behind the lilac bush and find our log undisturbed. Janet and I have wedged it against the fence to give us a step up. It’s harder to climb the fence on my own, but I finally pull myself upright and stand on the narrow wooden beam that runs along the top, holding on to the bush for balance. I look down and it seems a long way to the ground. I look up quickly. When Janet’s here, we usually put one foot on the corner post and take a big step over the yawning chasm below onto the garage roof. But today, for the first time, I look to my left and realize the coach house building is very close. I can almost see into one of the windows on the ground floor. The glass is dirty, the putty falling out from between the panes. Faded yellow paint peels off the wooden frames. If I lean closer, I can touch the beam of wood that runs across from the fence to the building as support. I guess there used to be a gate below it, but that’s gone now, and a sheet of metal blocks the way in from the ground.
I take a deep breath and start to edge across the beam. With every step, I can see more of the window below me. But what catches my interest now is the wide ledge above it. From there it would be easy to climb onto the roof. What an adventure that would be to tell Janet! What a great view I would have! I could see what lies behind the coach house and the garage and everything that has been hidden up to now. My secret kingdom would be huge! I imagine lying in bed, running through all the new pictures in my head. “The curtain may fall any time,” the doctor said. And Mother says, “Fill your head with wonderful images.” So we go to art galleries and museums. “Remember everything,” she says. I will remember this.
I am across the chasm now, both hands resting on the soft yellow bricks around the window frame. If I bend down, I can see inside, but it’s so dark and dusty in there I can’t make out anything clearly—just long tables and piles of junk on the floor. Someone said this place used to be an artist’s studio—after the horses and coaches left, of course. Maybe there are stacks of canvases against the wall, undiscovered masterpieces, but I can’t make out anything clearly.