With thanks, always, to all of you reading and/or reviewing. But an extra shout-out here to Kslchen, who gives me the most eclectic writing prompts. You'll know this one when you see it.

Ingleside,
Glen St, Mary,
April, 1933

Jo,

Your last letter was asking after the children. We never did send Hector back to school after Christmas; aside from anything else there was no way of getting him there except in my arms, and no way to provide for him once there, which wasn't tenable at all. We're still finessing details of a chair, you understand. And even once that was sorted, well, you know Glen weather. Nothing like snow and mud to keep him home. At this rate, Anne's degree is getting a first-class polishing, though she doesn't mind to look at her. The reasons and circumstances, perhaps, but not the excuse to inspire a love of The Oxford Book of Children's Verse in a young mind or two. Three, if one counts Dulce, and everyone here does count Dulce.

Speaking of Dulce, she's as bad as Miss Abby for adhering to poor Hector, if not worse. I tried to take her on a ramble through the Maple Wood the other day, and she absolutely would not go. She planted her feet on the verandah and like the tree by the water's edge would not be moved. At first I thought it was the lead, so removed that. Once I had, she bolted directly back into the house, and up the stairs, where she lay down on Hector's bed.

It turned out he'd had a bad morning; had woken up and forgotten his legs didn't work, and had fallen in pursuit of a book. Tears and a slew of vexations followed that neither Anne nor Susan, nor poor Abby could assuage, though they all gave it a go. I'd missed the lot of this, having been up at Four Winds, setting a break in little Tom Pagett's arm. Anyway, Dulce, newly liberated, laid her head on his knees and proceeded to very thoroughly wash Hector's hands for him. This did what no one else had yet done and got a smile from him, so I relented about the walk, and settled down in my armchair to spend the remainder of my free time with Have His Carcass.

Have you read it? Lest you have not, I will say only that I saw the ending coming a clear mile away, but only, I suspect, because of my medical training and Mother's fascination with Victoria's relatives. Phil must have read it by now, and I'm confident she'll agree when I say Harriet and Peter spend the book being awful to each other. Do ask her for me, won't you?

And, lest I forget in the confusion of existing, a happy Easter in due season. We're short our Wandering Merediths this year. Persis has offered to host her Fords, we won't see them either. I cannot imagine how she will fit the lot of them into George St, and nor can anyone else, but no one challenged the arrangement. Jims', telling me of it over the 'phone, says the little boys are positively giddy with anticipation of it.

I'm sorry about it, as it means I must go in search of new and innovative means to lure Abby out-of-doors and away from the house now the weather's turned. Miri could do it in a heartbeat, but as her family are spending Easter in Vancouver – with a visiting Stella of all people – that is out of the question.

Did I tell you about that? Nan and Jerry hadn't been at the new house days before she dropped in with one of her crumbles and a pot basil by way of a housewarming offering. Anne had written to her that the children were coming. She was 'shocked and horrified' (Stella's words) that we all failed to anticipate her being on hand to greet them on arrival. Really, we should have expected nothing less. I blame the half-a-dozen other things preoccupying us at the moment.

Don't let that prevent you from sending a full report of the Bolingbroke Easter. We haven't had one of those since the year Hetta died, and I trust Ruthie to uphold all the old traditions to a tee. Besides, I always have time for one of your letters.

Love ever,

Gil

Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
June, 1933

Gil,

I suppose you will have heard from the children that Kitty has set out for Toronto? Christopher has been keeping me well apprised of the date of departure, so after giving Larkrise the first evening to themselves, I called in, only to find a lot of despondent Investigateers making minimal progress in the strange death of Barwick Green.

I called in again today and missed everyone but an exasperated Jem and Teddy, who had lost the last hour to fending off a new and intrepid reporter, anxious for the details of the case. It seemed a terrible idea to ask what Miss Catherine Foster had been like on first impression, so I sat at that spindly-legged table and let them vent. They were settling into the heart of it when the Inspector came in with a list of the latest grievances from the same quarter. Teddy made him tea without ever breaking stride in the venting process, which was quite remarkable, all things considered.

I managed to catch Shirley arriving as I was leaving, and so risked asking him what Kitty had been like in the days before she was Kitty to them. He blinked at me, a bit dazedly and said, 'I thought you knew. She was never anything else.'

When things have cooled a little, I really must get that story from somebody. Probably Fox Corner, as anything else is likely to further traumatise the young gentleman now covering the police beat for The Chronicle. To say Jem and Teddy were forever joking about the havoc Kitty used to wreak on the Inspector, I've never seen him less sanguine. Nor the others. Though I suppose that's only to be expected.

Meanwhile, I am assured by your children that the worst part of all of this is that there is no hope of Kitty joining with them on this year's excursion to Ingleside, as she will be settling in at The Globe. I hadn't realised she had never missed the trip until Christopher said. It makes me newly indignant with the teacher who took Helen to task for calling Kitty a sister, even if that was years ago.

Things are bound to settle. They always do. Well, soon you'll be seeing them for yourself and can send me an update on how they progress.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

Jo

Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
June, 1933

Jo,

It certainly isn't the same without Kitty. She telephoned Larkrise on arrival to say she had got there in one piece, as predicted, that Judith's baking had been delicious as ever, that the new flat smelled strongly of cabbage, and that Cass had called round within an hour of her arrival with stew to reheat, meat from the butcher, and assorted dairy.

Inquiry from Kitty – because naturally Cass got the full Inquisitorial treatment – revealed that the stew was hers, that she had got the date of Kitty's arrival from Jims, and that she was expected at the George St flat the following night for dinner. Pressed by assorted devotees, Kitty further said she was adopting Rosedale Presbyterian at Persis' recommendation, and for the sake of knowing some of the congregants, and that she makes nearly as many cups of tea at this paper as she ever did at The Chronicle. She adds that Cass was indignant about having her recommendation, for some place called St Mary Magdalene, disregarded on behalf of the conductor. He's a composer, as well as choir director, and apparently good at it – Healey-Willan or some name like that. Not one I knew, but Rosemary was positively awed by the revelation Cass knew the man to speak to. So was Bruce, when he heard of it. Miss Alice Caldicote gave a look that mirrored my confusion and made me feel better about being in the dark. She's clever, Bruce's Alice, and if she hasn't heard the name, neither should anyone else not versed in all things musical. Little Anthony has though; he's taken to accompanying Cass to church in the name of the music. Leslie jokes he's halfway to being Episcopal because of it, and if Cass's scheme to install him in the choir goes ahead, he may yet make the leap completely.

Leslie made the mistake of saying this where Susan could hear her, and was soundly scolded for it. Apparently none of little Rilla's children would ever desert the Presbyterian church, be other people's choirs ever so good. It just wouldn't happen. Anthony would come to his senses and go back to attending church with his family the way God intended little boys to do, and we would never have to worry about that Healey-Wilan person or Old Roy (Rosemary parses this as Oldroyd) again.

There Susan had to break off, as it occurred to her to wonder how Anthony was getting to Cass and 'That Other Place' to begin with. No one dared volunteer the information that Anthony had become an expert navigator of the Toronto Transit System lest she have an apoplexy on the spot. Rilla doesn't like it much either, if it comes to that, and Persis assures me that's the Islander in her. Cass meets Anthony off the tram, and Persis sticks him back on it after lunch, and Liam meets him off the other end, so all told, he couldn't be in safer hands.

Elswhere, as you must have heard, Alice Caldicote is holidaying with the Merediths, a circumstance which has proved exceedingly fortuitous. We are under what is now the annual summer wave of polio cases, and the more hands the better. I tried to apologise for pressing her into service over her break, but she gave me a smile like a moonbeam and said staunchly, 'Nonsense! Why do you think I came?'

And while we're on the subject of polio, do you remember back in the days of the 'flu how there were advertisements to keep boilers high and windows open? I want a similar slogan that will keep the children out of the water. Probably impossible in the current heat, but worth trying. By way of appeasing your daughter, I have suggested she leave off all mention of silk shading in her columns and instead contrive a suitably eye-catching motto. The look I got for my trouble! But then she laughed and said she hated headlines, was always handing them over to the subeditor to write. Apparently there is a special circle in hell where people do nothing but invent headlines. I'd ask Kitty for her opinion, but I won't have her 'phone number until the Kingsport Contingent put in an appearance, so you will have to wait on that one. Anyway, the odds favour her agreeing. Naomi and Kitty generally side together. So much so that Naomi tells me that when I do get in touch I can pass on that no one at The Glen St Mary Echo would be demanding cups of tea from Kitty, if she wrote for them. I will, but it won't bring Kitty to us. She's bound for greatness that one, and I give her all of ten years before she's running The Globe, I really do. Possibly five years.

Kitty aside, what children we can muster will be down shortly; this includes Nan and Jerry, who have made arrangements to stay up at the Old West House. Nan's idea, as this will enable them to visit without always being in the thick of things. Hector and Abby are wildly excited about the chance to see their cousins again, as is Di. As am I. We aren't likely to get them out this way for Christmas, but they mean to stay all through the summer so Jerry can touch up a still he started previously of the Old Byrant House with its new colours.

We're even getting the Fox Corner lot for the second summer in a row – all but unheard of – because in present circumstances a trip to Scotland is really out of the question. In another life travelling altogether would have been unheard of, but like so much else, that too has changed.

I am, as expected, glad. If you don't hear from me this side of autumn, you'll know why. But then, no doubt your hands will be full in any case, between visiting grandchildren and hospital visits, or what have you. Keep us updated, and I'll try my best to reciprocate.

Love ever,

Gil

Ingleside, July, 1933

Iain's latest ecclesiastical escaped is, and I quote, 'pastoring the hens.' He was supposed to be feeding our lot for Susan but got distracted, so that when Shirley finally went in search of him, Iain was standing on the lawn sermonizing to the hens. Shirley, proving himself more like Dad than he ever was like me, took this all very seriously and asked what exactly had the hens so fascinated.

'I'm making them like God,' said Iain, as if it were obvious. 'Because God is supposed to be like a hen with its chicks, isn't He? But He can't be like our hens if our hens don't believe in God, and they won't believe in God if no one tells them about Him. So, I have to pastor the hens.'

Shirley, drawing on reserves I should never have had, said that was all very good work, but perhaps now Iain could see if there were any eggs – godly or otherwise – to collect? How he did it without so much as smiling, I'll never know. But he had a good laugh about it with me in the study afterwards.

'I never did that, did I?' he asked.

'What,' I said, 'pastor hens? I should think not. We didn't keep any in those days.'

Shirley gave me the kind of look that made it clear I'd missed the point, but we ended by laughing again. I even relented to concede that no, none of my children had felt the need to make converts of our animals.

I suppose they have to do something to fill the time though, having been given strict orders to keep well away from the water. To that end, Mandy orchestrated a sand-castle building competition, which has shown up some interesting results. Surprising exactly no one, the Kingsport little ones grouped together, the Fords made up a separate team, and our Ingleside babies joined forces with your Joanie and Pip. Mandy, Miri and Jims were judges and it was declared a success second only to the church fete. We adults weren't called in until the end, to see the end results. There were some spectacular towers, and seaweed vines. I took in very little; I was too busy glorying in Hector and Abby out in the sun again. They've both got far too pale these last few months. It was good to see Joanie acting as Hector's hands, better still to see Abby running after Miri into the waves, hear her squeal when the surf leapt up to meet her.

There is talk among them now of a play, but with the Kingsport Contingent due back so soon, I doubt they will get to it. Though perhaps the remainder can give it a stab anyway. Certainly it has been a long time since we have been treated to armature theatrics.

Love ever,
Gil

New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
July, 1933

Jo,

You were asking about the church fete. It really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, to which end I rather wonder at Gil mentioning it. The paper made the usual fuss, but I'm inclined to think they're making up for all those years we were under the Lowbridge Newspaper Empire and being cheated of any relevant coverage.

For what it's worth, Naomi's Victoria Sponge took third place at the cakes stall, for which achievement Fred and the children were triumphant. I am, therefore, inclined to think you know this already. Mary's roses took no place at all, and her nose is very out of joint. She shows this chiefly by declining to talk to me after service, although I had nothing whatever to do with the judging of the flower and produce stall. That was all Cornelia, Susan and Ellen, and the miracle there is really that the three of them agreed on anything. Anyway, the first prize went to the Mable Forbes for her Delphiniums. It was a five dollar prize, and I really do not see how anyone can grudge the Forbes family that. Especially when the flowers were very nice to look at. The headlines say the banks are looking up, but I don't believe them. Does Sam? I might trust him.

Even so, I have since been told that Olive Kirk is defecting to the Lowbridge church, where her botany will be suitably appreciated, that Irene Howard has changed her mind about the donation she was planning. Irene Howard has been planning that donation for years, and never making it. As Rosemary says, we can hardly miss what we don't have.

Oh, and they've introduced a jewelry stall, which is presided over by Florrie Clow, whose father used to work for the Lowbridge jeweler. There were some very fine offerings, as people tried their hand at crafting homemade ornaments. Amy Crawford – McAllister as was – took first in that one with a pair of earings she had fashioned out of some of her mother's old jewlerry. The surprise though, was Jo Milgrave taking second place for an enamel brooch in peacock feather shape; no one had any idea he had that sort of talent. There were several offers for it, but he was resolute in his insistence it was a gift for Miranda. Rilla thought this quite a lovely gesture, and assures me the blues in it will suit Miranda's eyes.

You were also asking after the play. I think there was some talk of the children putting on Midsummer Night's Dream, but Miri couldn't abridge it sufficiently, and once we'd seen off Faith, Shirley and families, it left a sparse cast to work with and an impossible degree of doubling. Alice and Bruce were game to join in if the children would have them, but apparently they are 'much too grown up for games' (this verdict from Liam by way of an indignant Burce) and anyway, they really hadn't the time, between polio cases and the garden variety childhood scrapes and mundanities.

Instead, we got what the children call 'Performance', which is a kind of presentation of mixed talents. Miri gave us one of Helena's speeches, Liam extemporised a lecture on kinship tables, and Anthony began by playing us a version of Midnight Special which metamorphed along the way into a proper sing-song. Selections included There's Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, where all but the Kingsport wee ones and the McNeillys tripped over the words, Road to the Isles, where again, all but the same forgot to snap the rhythm, and a lusty rendition of Oh, When the Saints.

I know that Rilla doesn't much care for the banjo, but it's portable, and Anthony is remarkably good at it. Better still at getting even the most reluctant person to join in the singing, which is a skill in itself. Years of trying to corral reluctant congregations into unwieldy hymns has taught me this. Somehow though, it didn't matter about the botched words or wayward rhythms. We all came away whistling, singing, buoyed by the shared experience of the music. I couldn't say why, exactly, but there's something heart-lifting in music that I can't put my finger on. Rosemary might be able to do it, or even little Anthony, but it eludes me quite as if it were a foreign language.

Be sure you tell Iain when you next see him that the Ingleside hens miss their daily dose of theology, or Golden Verse, or whatever he was teaching them. They are, according to Carl, very social animals, and I don't suppose Susan, or anyone else, had cared to spend whole mornings in their company before.

He also tells me that Iris is beginning to be at Rilla once dubbed the 'creeping stage' back in the days of Jims's infancy. She slithers along the floor on her stomach, occasionally stealing peanuts from a disgruntled Puck, or ambushing Akela and Nenni, and reminds Carl of nothing so much as a benign snake. They are considerably more tolerant than Puck, which is not unreasonable, when one considers God never intended peanuts for infants not yet teething. Li has a terrible time chasing after her and staging strategic interventions. Li tells me that they make frequent trips to the botanic gardens for the sake of Puck's nerves, and hers also. Apparently Iris is quite taken with the way the grass feels on her stomach as she propels herself through it. A good sign, apparently. Neither Una nor I knows what either parent would do with a daughter that had no appreciation for botany. They'd love her just the same, I'm sure, but this is really her inheritance from them, as much as any language or devotion to animals.

I have heard nothing further of Money Lending or similar scrapes. Shall I rightly take it that none have been forthcoming? If so, I can only express my perplexity at the general placidity of children of Faith and Jem especially. I had anticipated at least one corralled pig by now – but perhaps that is a village prank. At any rate, I have every confidence in Evie and company to inspire chaos. Here's hoping she, they, and you are all well.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

50 years after his death, this Torontonian couldn't resist the shout-out to James Healey-Wilan, who from St Mary Magdalene, Toronto, massively altered the Anglican choral landscape. His organ is still in good working order, as is the church, and the settings he wrote. Go have a listen; they are gloriously singable (and more ambitious than Oldroyd!).