So here is my attempt at the ever undecided, ever startling Phil Gordon. I hope she makes more sense to you than she does to herself.
CHAPTER IV -April's Lady
Tuesday 31st August, Wallace Street, Kingsport
The Ochre Notebook
Misery mine!
I have just returned from that spooky old cemetery around the corner when I came upon those girls I mentioned earlier. One tall and pale as a fountain of water -I do like girls like that because I look so petite and vivid in comparison. The other a red head. Not a carrot top or a ginger puss, a veritable red head, her perfect nose dressed with imperfect freckles.
Whether I could like a girl like that I'm not so sure. For it will take a discerning eye to appreciate her beauty. And as I only like to be surrounded by discerning mannies there is a good chance she could outshine me. In fact I know she will. She was wearing the primmest little pin tucked shirtwaist. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw it, imagining the effort she must have taken over such a dowdy looking garment. Yet, as I stood next to her I had the oddest sensation of being made to look faddish and overdressed.
What am I to do? I am desperate for decent chums. Especially after Jacinta Dawlish declared she didn't see the point in my remaining in her set if I was bent on going to Redmond. She is under the impression that the only girls who try for Bachelor degrees are bespectacled, dried up, spinsters-in-the-making. If I should dare to replace her with two potato pickers that nasty cat will never let me hear the end of it -which appears to be my fate at the moment. And there is worse to report. Because I began boasting! To country girls! I couldn't help it, I really wanted them to like me. And let me tell you I am a terror when I decide that I want something because then I become convinced I shan't get it. Not that such a thing has ever happened to me before but I hear it's a horror to go through.
And that is why I can never decide whether Alec or Alonzo shall win my hand. I can't bear that one of them should suffer such bitter disappointment, I shall have to choose my wedding flowers wisely as I am apt to end up placing them on the loser's grave. If only there were two of me. Speaking of which I feel inclined to write cheerfully now.
The Rose Notebook
I know now what Victor Hugo meant when he wrote, "What makes night within us may leave stars."
For three whole days I have endured unimagined horrors -what with yawping cats, stewed tea and only two eggs for breakfast! I had about decided I would prefer to face Mother's crowing and Jacinta's vile little circle than suffer such hardship for another minute when the gloom did part. And what did I spy but the brightest of constellations.
The first star was Anne. Such a flaming individual and the reason I could never make up my mind whether to say hello or not. One moment she was the dreamiest, loveliest, cleverest girl. And the next I felt so horribly intimidated by her, certain she would see through me in a minute and leave me lonelier than ever.
Her friend Priscilla is golden haired and long limbed, with a regal elegance I can only dream of. Not that I honestly have. It must be intolerable being a head taller than most other boys. But once she has me by her side I shall make them all mad for her. Probably the thing to do is invent a craze for parties where everyone sits down.
Oh, Philippa Jean Edwina Forbes Gordon! Go back to your nasty Ochre Notebook and be your awful, selfish self again or admit there is one boy who would suit Priss down to the ground (and what a long way down it is.) That Gilbert fellow was really something and quite tall enough for Priscilla. So if you aspire to be the sort of girl who would put her chum before some mere mannie -surely they exist outside of novels- then here is your chance.
The Ochre Notebook
Though if Gilbert happens to fall for me I can hardly help that now, can I?
... ... ...
Friday 3rd September, Wallace Street
The Rose Notebook
Well, who knew! Goodness is it's own reward! I have been thinking on how to secure an introduction to the fabulous Gilbert (for Prissy's sake, of course) and thought I would have to resort to asking that funny faced boy to carry my books. He was at the library yesterday and it seemed that every time I turned around there were his bulging brown eyes staring back at me. I believe I would have asked him too -in another day or so. But lady luck was on my side.
I went over to St John's Street for tea this evening -I hadn't been invited, I was literally in need of tea. I am positive the stuff Miss Eglantine doles out is making my hair go frizzy. Fortunately I have the cleverest milliner so it hardly matters if my hair behaves or not. I was glad to have gone with my peacock chapeau -the way it falls over one eye is so becoming- because as I was ushered into the parlour who should be sitting there but Mr Gilbert Blythe.
His last name is Blythe! Have you ever heard such an adorable name? Now if Alonzo had a last name like that I mightn't mind marrying him so much. The other boy was there too. He recognised me instantly of course, and proceeded to push all Miss Ada's cushions onto the floor so that I might sit by him. His name was Sloane (forget his first name) and sad to say is neither relation to the Dunbar-Sloanes, or as I had vainly hoped, Gilbert Blythe's valet.
It turns out that both Mr Blythe and the Sloane boy hark from the Island too, and are old chums of Anne and Prissy. Needless to say they are also as poor as Anne and Prissy which is a piercing disappointment. As I foresaw upon my first meeting with Anne, Mr Blythe is certainly a man of discernment -meaning he could barely drag his eyes away from a certain red head all evening. Handsome, intelligent and so deliciously fun. But alas as poor as Miss Eglantine's mean little breakfasts.
The Ochre Notebook
So my latest fancy turns out to be a farm boy. That explains why every time I caught sight of him he was always wearing the same jacket and cap. Very nicely made, of course. I suppose his mother must be a decent little stitcher.
I can't make up my mind whether his devotion to Queen Anne is unforgivable or not. On the one hand I like to know that every pair of eyes is focused solely upon me. I knew I shouldn't suit playing second fiddle, I am certainly not used to it and hope I never shall be. However, since Mr Blythe is clearly not marriage material then I ought to let Anne have him.
I have given up on him falling for Prissy. As much as it galls to admit he appears to be a lost cause. Is there anything so alluring as a man in love -besides the rather shapely arms under his shirt sleeves? If Alec had a build like Gilbert Blythe I might forgive him for having an indifferent nose.
Happily Anne is as muddled as I am. For in one moment I almost wanted to ask if she and Gilbert would like the rest of us gooseberries to leave the room and the next she disappeared completely. Poor honey, I suppose she has even more to consider than I do. Anne is such a wondrous creature and would make a sensation in Bolingbroke. She must know she was meant for more than some insignificant Island life.
Well I certainly am. And whenever I find myself recalling those superior biceps of Gilbert Blythe's I shall just say to myself, potato, potato, potato!
… … …
Friday 3rd September, St John's St, Kingsport
Priss Report #203
Tonight the Misses Shirley and Grant have had the first of what I hope will be many gentleman callers.
Charlie Sloane arrived first with two roses for Anne. Two! How is one supposed to arrange such a number with any style? They fell apart in the vase like a pair of legs. I was given marigolds. I would rather credit Charlie with swiping them from our neighbour's front garden than suppose he actually paid money for them. But he would probably need a month of planning and a permission slip before he could bring himself to make such an impulsive gesture. Gilbert came a half hour later and brought only his good self. You may imagine which of the two Anne and I were more grateful for.
I cannot make head nor tail of Anne and Gilbert. They seem so chummy and like minded as though they had grown up brother and sister rather than arch enemies. It seems unimaginable that Anne ever bore him a five year grudge, though I saw it myself at Queens. There has never been any flirtatiousness between them. No lingering touches or overlong laughter, none of the embarrassing things that I did myself in another life. But now something new has developed where the two of them go unnervingly quiet. As soon as that happens Anne will invariably find something to do on the other side of the room (or the other side of the campus, or the other side of Kingsport) then Gilbert will make some dry observation and the awkward silence is almost forgotten. But why there should be one in the first place, when there is nothing to hinder them? If I had the freedom that Anne now has- but as I said, that was in another life.
I know I resolved not to tilt my hat at Gilbert Blythe but tonight I admit that resolve did waver. Anne left the room and in the next moment Gil plucked a few petals from my ugly orange posy and suggested I rub them over the scratch I have by my wrist (Miss Ada had left a needle in her latest cushion.) He might have done it himself, but Phil would come over and demand to know what he thought of the spot below her ear. It was nothing but a tiny mole -and a perfect opportunity for her to display her delicate, ivory neck.
Gil only laughed and said whatever magic would take that away was beyond his homespun bag of tricks. Then Charlie chimed in with the helpful suggestion that a quick nick of a sharp knife would probably see to it. Apparently Grandmother Sloane often made use of her husband's razor to shear off the carbuncles that sprouted on her chin. Phil gave up her seat next to Charlie entirely then and placed herself where Anne had been.
Goodness, I thought for a moment I heard Anne crying. But on further listening believe that one of Phil's diabolical cats is the likelier cause. She probably flung one over here in despair. I think the lack of sleep is causing her hair to kink -and it doesn't matter how she tilts her hat nothing can disguise that.
… … …
Friday 3rd September, on the peculiar street of St John's, in my peculiar bedroom, trying to make sense of the peculiar thoughts in my ever peculiar head
Oh Ida,
I am such an ungrateful wretch. How many times have I wished that my Diana might have a little more fire in her thoughts, a little more scope in her imagination? Now I meet dazzling, clever girls everywhere and it isn't at all what I thought it would be. I feel lonely.
I was so glad to be seeing Gilbert this evening. I think that the last time I truly laughed ~I mean properly with my whole self~ was on the boat coming over here. Since then we've all been so busy settling in, and will be even busier next week when we begin our first term proper. I almost dread it. Last September I was scrubbing down my schoolhouse floors and dreaming about the carefree life of a scholar. Now I wish it was the Avonlea timetable I was trying to juggle, instead of a clash between Classics and Modern Languages.
I miss Home.
I miss it.
I miss it.
Miss the scarlet of maples and bonfires. Miss the green of the sea and the green of the sky where blue becomes gold. Miss the half clothed trees tearing at the winds till they too become ragged. Miss the salty chatter of clam bakes and the flickering silence as the first of the russets are cooked in the last of the embers. Of course, one can find all these things in Kingsport. But here the maples grow in lines and the clams and potatoes are bought by the pound not dug by your own hand. I thought that Gilbert would help me feel more at home here. Instead I feel as if he is leaving me behind.
It is not much of an exaggeration to say that half of Kingsport is already on nodding terms with Gilbert Blythe. Everybody knows him. And as Phil-ish as it sounds I am not at all used to it. Back home it was me who made up clever teasers with him to put in the Daily Enterprise. It was me who received his secret winks when someone testified a little too honestly for a little too long during prayer meetings. It was me he built the A.V.I.S. with, who goaded and guided him through our studies, and ensured he go that fountain pen. It was me that he lead to the apple tree.
I look at that list and I think what a lot of insignificant, prosey things they are. In Avonlea they meant something and in Gilbert's eyes my rare ambitions made me something of a moonstruck pioneer. But Josie, Diana, even Ruby are nothing like Priss and Phil. Learned, lively co-eds abound at Redmond. So far the only thing to distinguish me are my seven freckles and bright red hair.
I know it should make me happy that Gilbert has settled so well and made such an impression. He has no wealth or name to recommend him, just a strong resolve and belief in himself. All I have is doubt. So many people told me I should change if I went to Redmond. It never once occurred to me that Gilbert might.
Oh, I have no right to even think this let alone waste a pot of ink in order to do write such nonsense. Last week I thought Gilbert Blythe was a sentimental pup, this week I am anxious I might lose him. What on earth is wrong with me?
Later...
I have had a good cry now. I had been putting it off for days because I knew there would be no Diana to mop my face, no Marilla to bring me tea, or Davy to bring me to laughter again. But I do have Priss and Phil and even Charlie. And I still have Gil.
I was remembering when he tried to teach me how to handle a boat at sea. I had only ever rowed upon the Lake of Shining Waters and Gilbert teased me ceaselessly that an Island girl should know how to sail on open water. On the designated day the weather turned a gale, and of course headstrong, proud thing that I am I insisted we go out in it. Gilbert refused. 'If I put you out in that', he said, 'you won't know what to do and you'll learn to be afraid, you'll learn not to trust yourself.' At the time I was infuriated. 'Self satisfied, patronising pot holder!' I think I called him.
Then tonight he and Phil were in debate over the theories of some speaker at the Philomathic Society and I felt like an insignificant drop in a bottomless bucket. I had to leave the room before I drowned in my own ignorance ~I just needed to be alone for a moment, you know how I am about that, dear Ida. And for reasons I still don't understand I sought out my new book of Shakespeare. The inside cover is inscribed with the good wishes of all my dear old Avonlea friends, but the one that caught my eye was Gilbert's.
It's time for you to sail, Anne Shirley
So, I guess I'll shall ready my little old boat and try and negotiate the current. But, oh at this moment I wish it would carry me home.
… … …
Thank you, as always for reading. It's quite a nice feeling, this making people laugh. To the lovely reviewers that I can't reply to personally let me thank you now for your encouragement, you made my day!
Next we shall discover a little more about Charlie and Gilbert's digs and all about Rush Week...