With thanks, ever to all of you reading and/or reviewing. I've been remiss saying so lately, but I do appreciate it.
Ingleside
Glen St. Mary,
August, 1926
Jo,
Lovely to have seen you here so lately. And finally with the children all in one place! It has only taken – how many years to achieve again? (Under no circumstances answer that.) With Poppy down for the occasion I make it the first time all the Swallowgate girls have been in one place since Shirley's wedding at least, though she seems to have been often enough at Fox Corner since then.
Do you know, I didn't know the little girls when they arrived? John saw them lately, but I was still thinking of them as they were at that same wedding, still babies and just learning to sit up. There have been photos since, but that's never quite the same, is it? I mean, one looks at them and can't quite make sure they aren't playing some kind of trick on the viewer. But there was no mistaking the two knobby-kneed, impish faces stepping off that train. Mandy has got the Shirley tilt of the head to the letter, and the same way of looking slightly down and away from you when reticent, also the red hair. Miri, of course, is our nut-brown lass, though I notice her hair runs wild, no matter the pins and the plaits her mother weaves. She had even got blue grass in it, though where from is anyone's guess, all day on a train like that.
They hadn't been through the door half an hour when Miri had climbed her way onto the overhang that shields the veranda, giving Susan, Nan, and Anne all palpitations, and Mandy had scaled the piano in a quest to deconstruct it. I sometimes suspect Nan of watching the wrong twin. Every girl climbs roofs and walks a ridgepole or three, I should imagine, but Mandy's quiet mischief is a whole different character. Her mother, of course, had the nerve to say it was all my fault! And Anne agreed! All because I joined Mandy at the piano to show her how the hammers work! I call that decidedly unfair.
Seriously, Jo, I spent that whole first day ears pricked for arrivals and gloating in them as they amassed before me. The boy that conjured the ghost of his sister for a playmate as he traversed the prairie could not have conceived of a family like this. It was enough in olden days to have Anne, to go wandering, just us two, through hollow lands and hilly lands. But then the children came in their richness, and their children – and if sometimes I feel starved for their company between-times, I have only to gather them together on such an occasion as this one to feel the weight of such bounty after a lull. Other times I wander the house and take stock of them differently; Nan's gilt-leafed Harrington books with A. C. Meredith stamped on the front, Di's photos – many of them of family occasions – the model aeroplanes Shirley built in Queens days and a framed cut-out from The Spectator. You'll know the one; One day a piper came through the Glen…
Jem was next to arrive with a war-whoop, and one quite as bright and spackled from little Christopher, who tripped over his own feet in the rush to grab my knees and tell me all about the new stratagem he has devised for the tin soldiers. Teddy and Kitty were wrangling what I think must have been the case of the hour when they left Kingsport, Investigateers everlastingly. The girls followed; Mara and Faith, Poppy behind them, and Di, Nan trying to pull them all at once into a hug. Her arms weren't quite wide enough, so naturally they helped her along in this endeavour, and no one seemed to care that really all her attention was for Di. I think it was the same with all of the girls who pin hopes. The little knot they formed meant that, inevitably, I stood no chance of catching any one of them alone for the remainder of the holiday, much less my sunset-girl, but I found it didn't matter. It was enough to have them here.
Susan came in at some point and whisked Iain away to her rocker by the fire, which theft no one seemed to much grudge her. Jem had got an arm around Jerry by then and they were talking on the settle, Shirley and Alastair appropriating the chess set I had intended to interest Teddy in.
Much later in the evening the Toronto Fords slipped in, barely in time for dinner, Jims leading the charge. He cornered Bruce Meredith and they set to a very earnest talk about trains and which one had lately broken the speed record. Anne, Leslie and Rilla were by then trying to get a minute of Di's attention and ended up joining forces with the girls who pinned hopes, so that it fell to Owen, John and I to minister to Liam and little Anthony. Liam is currently experimenting with a vegetable-free diet, causing much maternal frustration. I had to invoke the Long-Armed Wailing Monster all over again, this having proved effective with Jims in the past. Teddy left off gently bickering with Kitty long enough to get Iain away from Susan so that Mara could insist she have something to eat herself and all while Naomie watched, eyes agog. I'd quite forgotten she'd never seen our family assembled in full force before. (I would here write presuming your children more civilized, but was gratified to discover over the course of your visit that they are at least as tearaway and wild as ours ever were. A shame Una and Carl were not here; they might have proved to her that at least some members of this crosswise family can do steady and sane. I know she has quite given up expecting that of me.)
That was the beginning, of course, but afterward – Jo, how does one write of what is surely the end of an era? The last of my little girls married – the last of the children if it comes to that. John, as ever, made a lovely job of the service, and Susan outdid herself with the cake and its marzipan decorations. Well, you know. You were there.
It was lovely of course, but came with the queerest ache; we were watching and listening to the vows and drinking in John's prayer when Anne murmured to me, 'Doesn't Di look just the way you picture Joy would have done on her wedding day?' And of course she was right. Not, you understand, that I've ever gone actively looking for the likness in the girls, neither of us do, but we do stumble up against it of times. She'd have loved Nan's Harrington, for instance; I fancy had she lived, Joy would have been even more our Nanlet's soul-twin than Jem ever was, weaving her any number of fantasy worlds to play in. But she'd have been practical when Rilla needed an anchor, and whimsical when Walter was sombre – and of course she get Anne's red hair. No doubt she and Di would have commiserated for hours over that legacy. (There's a daydream of Anne's where they play at dying one another's hair black – but I am rambling.) So of course, once Anne had said it, caught that likeness, I couldn't unsee it for a minute or two, dreaming up a sweetheart for her. One of your lads maybe, solidifying us officially as family. Not that I suppose we need that at this juncture, having grown well beyond such formalities.
Do you know, I thought I had grown almost used to seeing the children so happy again. I hadn't expected to be ambushed by the sting in the tail, the letting go of my girl, though certainly I braced myself enough for it. It leaves an emptiness, or perhaps a hollowness, somewhere in my middle. Approximately underneath the lung cavity, I think. Rather irritatingly, I strongly suspect there is no prescription going for it. I shall await a Redfern solution and content myself, meantime, with the knowledge that soon they will be back and under our roof again.
They are off now for Singapore and a visit with Una and Carl until the autumn. A long holiday, but an earned one. Di never has taken leave from The Chronicle, and even in this she hasn't quite given them up. Already I am greedy for her share of letters, and more grateful than I can possibly say that your daughter continues with us until next year. Otherwise we should be entirely at a loss. Ingleside is home in the old sense to none of our chicks any more. A strange thought, with an ache in it, but no less true for that.
Do pass on my love to Phil and the children. Anne and I were thrilled to have them here for the occasion. I trust Evie and little Emma were not completely overwhelmed by our young harridans, nor too egregiously corrupted by them. Do let me know if you need a hand sorting that heating out before the cold weather sets in. I seem to recall Martyrs' is still suffering a faulty heater. My father would have been the better person for that kind of job, but I owe you a favour for loan of your child, and am acutely sensible of it, and I can stand for him in a pinch. You need only ask.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
September, 1926
Gil,
There is absolutely nothing you can do about that heater. Shirley has looked at it, Jem has looked at it, Simon Hazelhurst and I have all but deconstructed it. Geordie Carlisle and Teddy Lovall reassembled it to no better result, all while ignoring Phil's indignant protestations that they shouldn't be doing this as it wasn't even their church and if the secretariat couldn't tend it, neither should they have to. Martin Gibson, Sam and Jake disassembled it again, for good measure, and exasperated, Jake suggested we call in an engineer. Investigation by an expert we could ill afford has revealed it needs some highly specialised piece of equipment only manufactured in Ottawa. Of course it does. Hetta Gordon, who has somehow persisted in living in spite of her double pneumonia this summer, has insisted on making a donation towards our purchase of it, for which my gratitude. The secretariat say only that this is what comes of efforts to modernise the church. I thought it was probably unchristian of me to remind me it was their idea to modernise the idea in the first place – not least because as of 1907 when that radiator went in, the church really was untenably cold of a winter.
I suppose you'll have had news of Di and Alastair's safe arrival by now? I gather from Una that she has seen them, and they are staying somewhere suitable. Not Raffles Hotel, because no one normal can afford the place, but comfortable even so. (She adds that for all she has walked by it, she has never seen the appeal of Raffles Hotel. It is nothing like the city proper, a weird sort of island of Britishers in the midst of a vibrant and varied community, from the sound of it.)
Our news is that little Mattie is shortly to be displaced as the baby of the family. Ruthie is dreading it, saying that once was quite enough. Phil and Hetta, in an alliance never before seen, are in agreement about the excellence of this news. So am I, though I'm also the littlest bit perplexed as to when my children became parents. The war was one thing; it seems that since then I have blinked several times successively and become the patriarch of a tribe of a tumbling, acrobatic small people. They are very delightful, often boisterous, and give me a striking impression of Phil as a very young girl, but I don't quite see how they came to be mine. I keep forgetting the children are not, in fact, still children.
More on this theme, since neither John nor I has the answer; when on earth did Bruce Meredith get to an age where he is old enough to apply for university? John's latest letter is full of his plans for funding, scholarships and all sorts. I still think of him collecting stamps and Scout badges, though thinking on it, there's no reason why he mightn't still collect stamps. Even so – I remember him as a baby! It makes me feel terribly old to think he will shortly be in Kingsport or somewhere of that ilk.
On which note, I am off, before I blink and find that I have missed the Elie session mission in addition to all the rest.
May you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
October 1926
Jo,
Never mind little Bruce, I have just escaped an animated debate about the details of your little girl's wedding, when I make it a week or so ago Anne and I came up for her christening at Martyrs'. How has that happened? (You'll notice I have no answer re Bruce. He still talks trains with Jims, but now he also talks the finer points of ruptured spleens with me. It is disconcerting to say the least.) When I left, Cornelia and Susan were offering input, and Naomi proving by the hour that she has all of Phil's spirit and your patience – an admirable combination. Much needed too, as Cornelia was wielding a wooden spoon with terrifying dexterity and attempting a take-over of the wedding cake. How she plans to conjure a fruitcake when her hands grow more twisted by the day I did not like to ask. She would only call baking an alternative to the exercises I prescribe her in any case. (It is not, any more than you retiling the Holy Trinity floor is an antidote to your bad knees. Let this be a warning.) Rosemary and Anne would seem contented with arbitrating, and the occasional offer of practicalities – Anne's veil, Rosemary's gloves, things like that. I gather it's supposed to be quite important to have loan of things, though do not begin to understand why.
We have indeed heard of the newlyweds safe arrival, no thanks to my daughter, who is caught up in photographs. John got a letter from Una running the closest to an I told them so Una Meredith is likely to get, as the whole country is thoroughly deluged in rain and the water levels rising. Di being ever her mother's daughter, she is entirely unfazed, and sees it only as an opportunity for good photography. Mind you, having seen some of the photographs by way of an edition of The Chronicle (courtesy of Kitty), I see her point. The submerging of the causeway stands out particularly in my mind. Even so, I shall be glad when she is home – as will Mara. Apparently you don't grow up in a fishing family without a healthy fear of rising water. I don't know why this surprised me; as Rosemary subsequently observed, not by chance is the Ave Maris Stella the anthem of the very Catholic, and very seafaring Acadians.
On the subject of uneasy things, the way Leslie writes of Toronto suggest things at Maple St are uneasy at best – my fault probably. Rilla has her heart set on a girl, presumably to carry on the tradition of nonsensical hats, and Ken has about had enough of waiting to hear from me whether the baby in question has been the death of his wife or not. Well I remember that feeling. Thinking on it, 'uneasy' is probably Leslie carrying off an understatement at its level best. I must make an effort to have a word with Betty Meade as was next time she has cause to summon me out. She is many things, but not much given to understatement, and she exchanges weekly letters with my daughter.
Of course the little boys are all caught in the middle, with various degrees of grasping the situation. It can't be comfortable for any of them. In fact, I know it isn't. I recall only fuzzily the afternoon the doctor pronounced that my mother losing any more blood would be the death of her, but I do remember the atmosphere it left behind. A watery sort of thing that I never understood until Shirley was born and I had to fight so for Anne, and later Rilla brought my heart into my throat. If I thought it would do any good, I would go to Toronto and try and explain all this – but I recall too the fierceness with which Anne wanted Rilla, the way my mother looked, and I think probably my little girl wouldn't listen anyway. So I shall trust you and John to pray on it, and Leslie with her gossamer-deftness to navigate that water for me, and hope all concerned emerge whole.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
October, 1926
Gil,
It's the photo of the family boating down what I make Middle Alley that struck me. When you wrote of Di's intention to keep The Chronicle in picture stories I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. I am used to her catching those gentle, butterfly-wing moments between people, not to having the breath knocked out from between my ribs by the strange alchemy that is image composition.
You might just warn Naomi – or perhaps Anne and Rosemary – that Ruthie and Phil are wrangling for control of that wedding and attendant details at this end. This notwithstanding a letter from Naomi that everything was well in hand. And from what you say, it certainly sounds it. Personally, I am dreading it. I understand rather better now, how you must have felt as last August approached. There is something about the final severing of that familial cord that aches – though I suppose it is less a severing and more a complex kind of weaving together of families. Even so, the last of my children is no longer wholly mine. I shall be sorry not to have one of the girls go from Martyrs' – but don't let on. Your Knox will do quite as well, and I refuse to complain at another occasion to visit you and John. Perhaps we could even organise our shooting excursion for the Upper Glen afterward? It will take some of the sting out of the parting.
Perhaps don't mention that I have appended your Toronto connection to our intercessions. It's the most practical thing I know how to do, even as I realise that not everyone welcomes being prayed over like that. Rilla might do, I don't know, but Ken strikes me as rather the sort to keep his trouble to himself. I recall a letter of Anne's to Phil in which she mentioned Rilla agonising over the increasing shortness of his wartime correspondence. But perhaps here I do him an injustice. Know anyway that I am thinking of them both and the children likewise. They made for such impish little things at Di's wedding, I hate to think of anything snatching that from them.
And you can disregard Phil's letter on the subject of my sprained ankle. It was only a very light sprain and would never have happened if I had been paying attention coming out of Waterford's Holy Trinity. I really must have the flags in the courtyard redone, preferably before winter sets in. Otherwise we shall all be laid up with bad ankles, and that won't do at all. Besides, we both know your hands are quite full enough trying to keep Cornelia and Susan killing themselves with work. To which end, may you ever be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
November, 1926
Jo,
Can I take it as read that you'll lead the service? It is really the last of the details that needs settling – or perhaps I mean it is the only detail that cannot be negotiated over a mixing bowl and the Ingleside dining table. Anyway, Nathan and I have conferred and agreed it is really your right. Your doing so would of course soothe the souls of Cornelia and Susan, who for a novelty, agree about something and are pretending they do not, though that is hardly the point.
Gil is, predictably, all in excitable uproar over Di's return at the end of the month, though our foreign correspondents shall be sorry to lose their company. For all that talk of not staying at Trinity House, they were fairly often together, never mind the rain. Carl particularly enjoyed the excuse to show his city off to an appreciative audience. (I fear Una was rather otherwise occupied to have done much in the way of hosting – ACS work, but you know this, no doubt.) Piecing together the Kingsport correspondence, we get the impression Alastair's letters have been something of a catalogue of architectural nuances, and Cornelia is now newly dreading the holiday homes planned for the shore road. It was bad enough that they were going to interloping city people; the thought that they might look foreign is a bridge too far, apparently, and her efforts to stop the project before it has begun have redoubled. This in spite of the fact that looking at Di's pictures in The Chronicle the houses in question look positively normal – not that I pretend to know anything about houses and their composition.
You were asking about Toronto. I only know a little, you understand, but none of it is promising. Betty called in on Rosemary the other day and let slip over Victoria Rose and Ceylon tea that the atmosphere at Maple Street is still reminiscent of the average cold room. We are concerned, but also rather touched that notwithstanding the move to Lowbridge she still considers us her parochial advisors. Otherwise, Anne and Gil between them have taken to making an honest-to-goodness study of all letters made out in Leslie's copperplate. Tough we hear less than we otherwise might in light of Naomi's upcoming wedding. I fancy they don't want to spoil the occasion by worrying her beforehand about such complexities of childcare and marital life, as she often sits with us and Susan of an evening. Mind you, I fancy as your daughter, growing up in your parish, she more than likely knows her share of such things anyway. It's Jims I keep thinking of. Not that I don't think on the others too, but his little history has been more than usually malleable and twelve makes for a very awkward age, even in the happiest of homes.
In light of which, you will find no objection from this quarter about keeping our hunting nearer home next season. Between weddings, the Toronto Fords and Bruce's departure for Redmond, it will do all of us good to get out of the house, I shouldn't wonder. Gill thinks likewise and calls it a grand idea. There is even talk of Dick Parker joining with us for an afternoon, if he can arrange it with Dr Hargreave over harbour. If nothing else, it will be good to see you again. It's been too long.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
P.S. It has been pointed out to me repeatedly these last few weeks in conversation with my daughter that you cannot lay flagstones kneeling on a bad ankle. It stresses the tendons or something. Ask Gil. Anyway, I am getting excessively tired of Faith telling me so, so you might do me a favour and listen to her. It helps Waterford, Elie and Martyrs' kirk not at all if that ankle worsens in time for Christmas. Especially not if that Yarmouth chap comes back and throws Mission out the window to focus on Ministry. Then where will you be?