by Caro Soles
I do, but I’m afraid he’d want to talk, and then what would I say? I might blurt out something, expose myself as a sly parrot accused of thievery. My eyes fill with tears.
“I have a sister, you know,” he says, looking over my shoulder towards the window. “She’s a little older than you, though. Should be just finishing her first year of high school.”
“Where is she?”
“Back home in Vancouver. Tell you what. I’ll just give this concerto a try here on your piano and then I’ll go. Would that be all right?”
“Oh yes.” I drop down on the daybed and wrap my leg in the afghan again while he sits on the piano bench and opens the music.
I’ve heard Jonathan play this piece many times, but when Brian touches the keys with his long slender fingers, it’s completely different in some way I can’t figure out. I know it’s to do with touch and phrasing, but I can’t analyze it. As I listen, I forget my throbbing leg, the nasty words I just heard, the fear of possible eviction. I watch the gentle sway of his body, the sunlight on his hair. The pure sound of joy coming from the piano wraps around me. My friend. I feel warm all over.
When he stops playing, all I can say is thank you. Then I feel like an idiot.
He turns around and smiles, and then he thanks me for listening. I expect him to get up now and go, but he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and looks at the floor between his feet. His hair hangs over his forehead, longer than anyone else I know.
“I have a favour to ask,” he says, looking up briefly. He flashes that sunbeam smile again. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Oh yes.” I nod vigorously but instantly wonder how I can keep from telling Janet. Things become more real when I talk to her. And she always asks about Brian.
“I’d like you to take a message to someone in your church choir on Sunday. You’ll be doing your procession thing then, right?”
I nod, watching him closely.
“Just give it to Helen.”
“You want me to take a secret message to Helen?” This makes me feel uncomfortable.
“It’s not for her,” he says, with a quick laugh. “It’s for someone else.”
“Why don’t you send it to that person directly?” I ask.
“It’s … complicated. Helen knows who to give it to.”
“Oh,” I say, understanding blossoming. “You can count on me.” I want to say friends forever, the way Janet and I do, but it seems childish with him so I just nod my head decisively.
“I knew I could,” he says, and he hands me a small envelope he had in his pants pocket. It’s warm from his body. Once he has gone, I slide it into my prayer book.
Janet is right! There is a Mystery Woman!
19. THE MISSIVE
DADDY IS COMING HOME for the Recital. Isn’t that grand? Mother says he should be here in a few days, so that’s worth celebrating. Also, Mother has a new job looking after a pair of troublesome twins while their mother is in the hospital having another baby. It’s only for a week, but that’s worth celebrating, too. I have had to swear to behave and stay inside our rooms unless I’m at Janet’s, and then Jonathan has to take me there and bring me back. But Daddy will be home by then anyway, so he will probably release me from this cruel and unusual punishment.
The other news is that Mother has heard of an eye doctor who has all sorts of new theories about bad eyes like mine. Mother heard about him from the twins’ parents. Their friends’ son went to him and now leads a normal life, going to a regular school and even playing sports. Not that I want to do anything sporty. Mother, her face bright with hope, keeps looking at me across the dinner table as she tells us, willing me to explode with happiness. The thing is, I don’t want to get too excited. I’ve been to so many eye doctors, each one gloomier than the last, it seems. But hope springs eternal, as they say, so I admit to a bubble of excitement about it, in spite of past experience. His name is Dr. Bachmann, and we have an appointment on Tuesday morning at the Medical Arts Building on the corner of St. George and Bloor. The really good thing about all this is that it takes everyone’s mind off the recent unpleasantness over Patricia’s lie. I squirm whenever I think of it. Sometimes I wish I could shut off my brain so no more thoughts would come in, especially about Patricia, but on the other hand, that would be like sitting in a white room all day long with no music. Or like being in a padded cell like that old childhood friend of Mother’s who went mad when Mother got married and moved out west. I wonder if Janet would go mad if I got married and moved away. Or perhaps it would be the other way around.
“Is a padded cell really padded?” I ask Jonathan.
He looks at me crossly. “If you keep up the way you’re going lately, you’ll probably find out,” he says, and goes back to packing up his school books to sell to next year’s students.
The thing I’m most excited about is the Secret Missive. I wonder what Jonathan would think if he knew about that! I keep looking at my prayer book, feeling the small envelope slipping between the tissue-paper-thin gilt pages. It’s a struggle not to keep picking it up and checking to make sure it’s safe, but that would be really obvious. One must be careful when keeping secrets. Loyalty is of prime importance. Semper fidelis.
On Sunday morning Mother and Jonathan talk a blue streak on the way to church. He’s explaining something about the music that Dr. Willan has chosen, or maybe written, for the Corpus Christi mass. Usually I listen to this sort of thing, but today my mind is busy with my own plans: how to find Helen, how to pass along the Missive, how to let her know who it’s from and what she’s to do with it. There are many questions it occurs to me that I should have asked Brian, but it’s too late now. We are already on the Wellesley Street bus, rocking along Harbord Street to Manning Avenue.
By this time, no doubt, Brian will be at St. Paul’s on Bloor Street with his mother. It’s quite Low Church so no incense or candles and such, but Dr. Peaker is the organist there and Jonathan has taken some organ lessons from him, so I’ve met him, too. He seems a jolly sort of man, who makes jokes and draws picture on a chalkboard down in the choir room where we met him. Mother and I go to that church to hear the free concerts he gives sometimes—Bach, Buxtehude, Handel. It’s always thrilling when he makes the organ thunder and shudder, sigh and whisper and sing high up in the Gothic ceiling above our heads. It’s a grand Casavant organ, Jonathan says, and when Dr. Peaker lets it loose, it’s as if the whole huge building shakes, the sound reverberating inside my body, filling me up, becoming a part of me. One time Jonathan took me to visit the organ way up in the choir, with its four different keyboards and numberless stops and all the long wooden peddles you have to dance on to get the effects that make the mighty organ thunder from different parts of the church. When this happens, sometimes the sound from the back takes a few seconds to catch up, and so there’s this wonderful delayed sound, a kind of musical echo in the vast space that makes me shiver. Our church organ is smaller, but so is the building, so maybe we would really shake apart if we had such a mighty instrument, and anyway, Jonathan says it’s a fine organ already.
I am wearing my new white dress, with pie-shaped pieces so the skirt swirls out like a dancer’s. The sash is eyelet embroidery, like Mother’s good summer dress. It fits me perfectly, and I love it. I feel as special as Mother says I am as we walk along Manning Avenue.
It’s hot and all the gardens are bursting with bloom. Some of them are shimmering with new greenery, as vines begin their journey up the string ladders and long narrow sticks laid out for them to climb. There are grape arbours with runner beans and peas and tiny tomato plants crowded together in the small garden plots outside each colourful house. And the flowers! I don’t even know half their names! Maybe these flower people are counting on the generosity of their neighbours to give them the overflow when their vegetables finally mature.
As it turns out, when we reach the church, it is ea
sy to find Helen. I have to go downstairs to get ready for the procession, and for a moment I am afraid Mother will insist on coming to help. Jonathan saves me. Sometimes he comes in handy and does the right thing, usually without meaning to. Of course, the choir is down there getting their robes on. When they are ready, we are all in the same room, milling about, waiting to line up. I see the man who looks like a happy frog, the tall one Mother calls the Streak of Misery, the man who looks like a Velázquez painting, the large lady with the feet like sausages. I can feel my heart beating hard up in my throat as I spot Helen and go up to her. I smile and almost stumble, and say “hell” under my breath.
“Oh dear,” Helen says, trying not to laugh.
I feel my face burning as I thrust the envelope into her hand. “It’s from Brian,” I whisper.
“What?” She looks down at the note in confusion. “For me?”
“No!” I clear my throat. The man next to us is staring at me. “He said you’d know who to give it to,” I whisper.
“Oh. Right.” She shoves it carelessly in a pocket under her robe. Then she laughs. “It’s like a Sabatini novel, isn’t it?”
“A potboiler,” I say, and she looks confused again. “An adventure,” I amend, and this time she nods and moves away to take her place.
Sister Mary Michael is flitting about like a friendly crow, trying to get us into an orderly line, adjusting veils, straightening hair ribbons. Another sister is handing out the baskets, this time with real rose petals in them, saying the same thing to each one of us: “Waste not, want not.” It seems an odd thing to say, and one girl obviously thinks so too.
“But we are wasting them,” she says. “We’re throwing them on the floor!”
“Yes, but to the greater glory of God,” Sister says firmly. “And don’t spill any. They need to last for the whole procession.”
“A handful is a handful,” another girl says.
“A small handful,” Sister says, and peers at the girl fiercely.
This time the whole experience is different. The church is full, and by the time we get there, incense is rising like prayers. Music wraps around me, and several times I almost lose count and turn too soon, but catch myself at the last moment. I try not to look at people as I walk by because it’s too distracting, but I know everyone is watching us. Afterwards, I don’t really remember the service.
Helen comes in while I’m taking off my veil downstairs and slips another note into my hand.
“The answer,” she says. “Isn’t this fun?”
I just stand there. It never occurred to me there would be an answer. Brian should have said something, should have warned me.
Helen winks and then goes over to talk to Jonathan who is standing by the door, waiting for me. I swallow. Did he see the note pass from her hand to mine? Will he demand to see it? Or maybe give it to Mother? I turn my back on him and stuff the note into the sash of my new dress.
On the way home on the street car, Mother sits with one arm around me, talking about the service, her chat with Father Wayne, the other people she talked to afterwards. Nobody mentions the note. All the way home, I can feel it bent in two, pressing against my waist. My secret. Something I share only with Brian. The next problem will be figuring out how to get it to him.
I hang my new dress up carefully in our cardboard wardrobe. It’s really for moving, but it works well for us all the time, shoved back in a corner of our Everything Room. My old dress from last year used to have bright flowers on a mauve background, but it’s been more of a washed-out pale blue ever since Mother made a mistake and added Javex to the wrong washtub. But it has pockets, which give me a place to keep the Missive in case I come across Brian somewhere, and it’s cool enough for a hot day, so I put it on. I take off my new hair ribbons and roll them up to keep them un-creased, the way Mother showed me.
We have Kraft Dinner for lunch. Make a meal for four in nine minutes, it says on the box, and it’s true. Mother has the new spoon this time. It’s her turn, and she’ll use it for the pudding she has made. Caramel sponge.
“When this job with the twins is over, we’ll have enough to complete one more silver setting,” she says.
Regaining what was lost is very important to Mother. If I lost something important, I would want to replace it too. At the moment, I can’t think of anything I would miss that much except books, like the Princess and the Goblin and Lorna Doone and Robinson Crusoe. And my family. And Janet. I would certainly not want to replace Patricia in my life if she were lost. The thought of her makes me almost lose my appetite for the pudding, but one sniff of that warm sweet caramel is enough to make my mouth water. I would not want to give this up!
I help Mother wash and dry the dishes and put everything away because Jonathan is practising for the Recital. He is playing the same thing that Brian played the other day, but it sounds so different. Brian’s touch was delicate and sprightly. Jonathan’s is powerful and making a statement, demanding to be listened to. It’s about interpretation, Rona Layne said before one of her in-studio recitals last year. I don’t really understand this, and maybe this is why I will never be a great artist even if we could afford lessons for me.
He stops playing and jumps up, searching through the piano bench for something. “Did you take anything from here?” he asks, looking at me accusingly.
“No! Why would—?” I stop, remembering Brian borrowing the music. “Oh,” I say, trying to sound calm and collected, “Brian borrowed the Bach thing. Is that the one?”
“Brian? When?”
“I’ll go get it,” I say quickly.
“Hurry up. I need it.” He sits down again and starts playing some exercises.
I glance at Mother, who’s sitting by the window darning socks. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, but she nods at me so I know it’s all right.
I almost run down the hall to the stairs, relieved to have a reason to see Brian, not even looking at the tapestry. The stairs creak as I go up. When I emerge on the third floor, I am out of breath from the excitement.
There is laughter coming from behind the door to number 8. When I knock, it stops abruptly. Brian opens the door, and for a moment I can’t say anything. He has no shirt on and his pale skin gleams with a sheen of sweat. His legs look longer in the baggy shorts that look more like underwear. Golden hair gleams against his skin.
“Yes?” he says, as if he doesn’t recognize me.
My tongue feels like flannel. I pull out the note and hand it to him. “And besides,” I say, as if continuing a conversation, “Jonathan needs the music back.”
“Oh,” he says too loud, and shoves the note into his waistband. “The music. Sure.” He turns to go to the window where the harpsichord is, and I see Mrs. Pierce reclining on an unmade bed in a satin and lace negligee the colour of ripe peaches, the kind I have seen in magazines like Vogue. I can almost see through the plunging lace inserts; I probably could if I had better eyesight. She’s smoking, her lipstick leaving a bright red stain around the end, and she stares at me as if she hates me.
“What is it, darling?” she says, watching Brian rifling through the music on the windowsill. “What does she want?”
“Just some music I borrowed. Won’t take a minute.”
“Well, get rid of her.” She takes a drink from a glass half filled with amber liquid. She is whining like a spoiled child. Mother would not approve.
Brian grabs the music and comes back to the door. Thrusts it at me. “Thanks,” he says softly, and I’m not sure if he’s thanking me for the Missive or the music. Or both.
He closes the door suddenly and I hear Mrs. Pierce cry out, “Finally!” and then a thread of laughter spirals up and stops abruptly. All is quiet.
“What took you so long?” Jonathan says when I get back.
“He had to look for it.” I hand over the music. And I see Brian’s bare back g
leaming in the heat and Mrs. Pierce’s white limbs tangled in the crumpled sheets.
20. ANGELICA
JONATHAN IS PRACTICING MOST OF THE DAY now that his school exams are over and the Recital is so close. We all have tickets to go and sit in the special section for family. Janet and her mother are coming too, so I’ll have company. Isn’t that grand? I haven’t seen Janet often lately because of her exams and all the end of school events she seems to be involved in.
“When I went to school during the First World War, we actually did real school work right up to the very last day,” Mother says. “Then in the afternoon, we sang songs and the certificates were awarded.”
“What kind of songs did you sing?”
Mother looks out the window, furrowing her brow. “All I can recall are the patriotic songs we sang every morning at the top of our voices. We’d sing songs like ‘The Maple Leaf Forever’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ and that hymn ‘Jerusalem’ that goes: ‘And did those feet, in ancient times,’ etcetera. Do you know that one?”
“I always cry when I hear it.”
“Everybody does. They used to sing it in London at the Prom concerts during the Blitz in the Second War, Aunt Dottie says. The bombs could fall, but everyone went to the Proms.”
“And they’d sleep in the tube stations afterwards,” I finished.
“Well, not every time.” She laughed and went on with her dusting.
I think about Mother being at school during the Great War, wearing a middy blouse and a huge ribbon in her long blonde hair. She was singing fierce, heart-swelling songs while Daddy slogged through the trenches, giving orders that meant that men would die. He rarely talks about it now, but he has mentioned the screaming hell of noise during the bombardments; people going mad from the relentless pounding noise; and the mud, thick and oozing and everywhere. I imagine it like molasses on a cool day, only smelly, like old socks. Most of the time, he refuses to talk about it at all, but I sometimes play with the little shovel he still has, snapped into its khaki case in pieces you have to fit together. I imagine I can still see bits of Flanders Fields mud on it. But it doesn’t smell anymore.