Chapter 5: An Avonlea Family Christmas
It was a relief to go home to Avonlea for Christmas. The house on Marlborough Street was only a place; Gilbert was hardly ever there, and when he was, he still felt like a visitor. At night, after Mrs. Milligan had gone home, he would close every possible door in an attempt to make the empty space feel smaller. Perhaps he could do something to make the house feel more like his own. Gilbert wondered whether his parents still had the braided rug that Marilla had made and he had taken from Green Gables so long ago. He had a hearth now.
In Kingsport, Phil's rapturous greeting nearly knocked him off his feet.
"Gilbert Blythe!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "Let me get a look at you, honey. Just as handsome as ever! Boston agrees with you?"
"Let the man breathe, Phil," Jo admonished before pulling Gilbert into a hug of his own.
"It's wonderful to see you both," Gilbert smiled. "It's been . . ."
"Nearly four years!" Phil exclaimed, her crooked smile radiant. "Can you imagine? You'll never know the boys. Gordon! Olly! Come downstairs this instant! Your Uncle Gil is here!"
Gordon Blake —could this brown-curled schoolboy possibly be baby Gordon? — hurried down the stairs and accepted a hug from Gilbert. Seven-year-old Olly, attired in a cardboard breastplate and feather-duster Roman helmet, hung back.
"I know you probably don't remember me, Olly," Gilbert said, crouching down. "But I've brought you a Christmas gift. All the way from England."
Reaching into his satchel, Gilbert produced two brightly-wrapped parcels and handed one to each of the Rev. Jo's boys.
The diminutive centurion screeched with joy when the gift proved to be a rank of tiny tin soldiers, brilliant in the tartan and feather bonnets of a Highland regiment. Olly wasted no time on thanks, lifting each figure reverently and setting them on parade right in the middle of the hall.
"Thanks, Uncle Gil," said Gordon, clutching his own toy soldiers, as well as a new book from the States: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
Gilbert ruffled the boy's hair, feeling an odd mixture of joy and heartache in seeing him grown so tall and poised.
"Tea!" Phil exclaimed, dispelling any whiff of melancholy. "Oh, Gil, I'm wild to hear all your news. It's just like old times."
Gilbert was nowhere near done with euphoric reunions. On the night before Christmas Eve, he stepped off the train at Carmody and into a bear hug from Fred Wright.
"Finally remembered where we live, did you?" Fred asked, thumping Gilbert on the back.
"It's wonderful to see, you Fred," Gilbert said, beaming. "How's Diana? And the children?"
"In a frenzy," Fred chortled. "Even more than usual. You'll come have tea with us tomorrow? I don't think Di can wait for Christmas Day to see you."
"Sure. I'm here through the New Year, so I have plenty of time."
"Through the New Year?" Fred said, surprised. "That's a respectable holiday for once, my friend."
"Well, I am the boss now," Gilbert chuckled. "Though I shudder to think what I might find at the lab after leaving it unsupervised for ten days."
"Won't your staff have gone home for Christmas?"
"I hope so. If not, they might blow the place up. Or murder one another."
"It's going well, then?" Fred asked.
"It's . . . it's something else, that's for sure. But I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now, I just want to get home."
As Fred drove the sleigh down the lower Carmody Road and into Avonlea, Gilbert absorbed every detail of the snow-frosted landscape. Lights twinkled at the Harrisons' and Orchard Slope. On a willow-shaded hill, Green Gables glowed with firelight and candles in every window. As they passed the old Lynde place, now home to Dora and Ralph Andrews, Gilbert let himself relax into calm, deep breaths that filled his lungs with Island air. Avonlea was just a place, he knew. But it was a place that knew him, enfolded him in a way no other place did.
When the sleigh stopped at the gate to the Blythe homestead, Gilbert shook Fred's hand and retrieved his suitcase with promises of tea on the morrow. He let himself in through the gate and stood for a moment, staring at the small house, golden light shining through its windows and smoke puffing up from its chimney. Before he had taken a single step forward, the door opened and Cora Blythe stepped out into the gently-falling snow. Behind her, John stood in the doorway, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Cora said nothing, but met Gilbert on the path, engulfing him in an ardent embrace.
"Merry Christmas, Mama," Gilbert whispered, kissing her on the cheek.
On Christmas Eve, Gilbert made a solitary pilgrimage. He had several hours before he was due at the Wrights', and he meant to use them well. He dressed warmly against the December chill, wrapping a dove gray scarf snugly around his neck. Packing a flask of hot tea, a thick woolen blanket, and a posy of holly, he set out to climb the hill overlooking the Lake of Shining Waters.
He had not been back to the Avonlea graveyard since the day he said farewell and left for Glen St. Mary more than thirteen years before. In the early years, he would always arrange his visits home to be as short as possible, leaving little time for any sort of rambles; later, when he began staying a bit longer, he had merely avoided the place.
Now, Gilbert walked with purpose. It was foolish, perhaps, to visit a graveyard. She wasn't there any more or less than she was everywhere. Surely the place could not matter so much. But he had long ago stopped questioning the odd imperatives of grief.
Reaching the gate, Gilbert was pleased to see that no footprints marred the thin layer of snow. Good. He was alone, and likely to stay that way. The day was cold enough to deter any casual visitors.
He let himself in and traced his way among the headstones to the correct spot as if he had visited a thousand times, rather than once. It was there, beside Matthew's grave, white marble under whiter snow. No, even in winter, he didn't like those carved flowers.
Gilbert was surprised to find an empty space next to the marble monument. He had expected that Marilla would be buried on her other side, but no; Marilla's memorial, as plain and unadorned as her brother's, stood beside Matthew's headstone instead. Who had done that and why?
Gilbert unfolded his blanket and laid it over the snowy grave. Sitting down, he felt suddenly shy.
Ridiculous. Just talk.
"Hello," he began, stopping to clear his throat when the word came out more faintly than he had intended. "I brought you some holly. Merry Christmas. It's been . . . a while. I'm sorry I stayed away so long. At first, I just couldn't come back, and then, well, I've been away. In England. There's a lab there, where the British Army is developing a vaccine for typhoid. It works, it really does. I've been helping Dr. Almroth Wright — he's one of the researchers who came up with the vaccine — and I really think our work will save lives. Lots of lives. You would hate him. Dr. Wright, I mean. I'm not really that fond of him myself, but I guess I don't have to worry too much about him anymore. I've moved to Boston now. I have my own lab . . ."
Gilbert talked on and on, saying everything he could think to say. Surely, she would not have cared about the details of his work, whether an oxygen bath or a treatment with dilute carbolic acid was more effective at attenuating typhoid bacteria, but it somehow seemed important to relate every possible bit of information.
There was less to say about his life outside of the lab. He spoke of Mrs. Milligan, of Harvard's bombast, of the ducks in the Public Garden.
"I imagine Diana keeps you informed of the Avonlea news, and Phil's news, too. They're great friends still, Diana and Phil. They don't see one another often, but Fred says they write at least once a week, just as they promised long ago."
When Gilbert ran out of things to say, he sat in silence. The ground was cold, the winter wind biting. He felt that he should take his leave, go home to warm up before heading over to Lone Willow Farm. If he had known how to say farewell, he would have. Instead, he only sat, the snow falling in cold, silent flurries around him.
Christmas Day dawned bright and clear, the new-fallen snow sparkling on the winter fields and crusting the firs with frosty splendor. Gilbert let the crisp air fill him as he drove the sleigh toward Orchard Slope. His parents sat bundled in the back, draped in blankets and an old bearskin to keep out the chill. The landscape around them had not changed much since the old days, a decidedly mixed blessing.
But for all the appearance of sameness, life had not stood still here.
Gilbert had always thought of the area surrounding Green Gables as a quiet corner of Avonlea. The younger Lyndes were all grown up by the time he had been old enough to notice, and there were no other large families in the neighborhood. It had been possible, once upon a time, to walk through the Haunted Wood or down Lover's Lane without the prospect of ambush from roving packs of children.
This was no longer the case. Between the Keiths, Andrewses, Bells, and Wrights, there were nearly a dozen children already and often one or two more on the way. In springtime, Violet Vale rang with their laughter; in summer, the Dryad's Bubble grew cloudy with the stomping, splashing merriment of sunburned feet. Fred Wright, Jr., at thirteen, had recently begun to consider himself far too old to participate in the wild escapades of the young mob, but Small Anne Cordelia, newly twelve, and Jack Wright, ten, gloried in leading their adoring flock in all manner of misadventure.
"It's not so bad when the weather is fine," Diana had assured Gilbert. "Then they just roam all our old haunts out of doors and all you have to do is call them in for tea. But in winter, they take over one house on one day and another the next. It's lovely when Mother or Mrs. Harrison has them all over for an afternoon, but when they're here, it's like a visitation of locusts."
The Barrys and the Harrisons reveled in their somewhat unexpected roles as grandparents-to-many. Both Diana and Minnie May would take any opportunity to complain that their parents must have used up all their strictness on them, as they certainly had little enough left over for the current batch of small fry. Neither the Barrys nor the Harrisons made much distinction among the grandchildren, claiming and loving them all.
Indeed, every house in the neighborhood had been brought into the orbit of this unusual extended family in one way or another. It would have been uncharitable to Minnie May to suggest that she had finally chosen to marry Frank Bell over Ned Clay merely because the former stood to inherit his father's farm. Still, the fact that Mr. William Bell's land stood so close to both Orchard Slope and Lone Willow Farm certainly did not count against Frank in that fair maiden's calculations.
And, of course, the Barrys regarded Dora as one of their girls as well. When she had married Ralph Andrews eight years ago, Dora had despaired at the thought of leaving Davy and the Barrys, even for another farm in Avonlea. Davy had given over much of his share of the inheritance from their uncle to help Ralph buy the old Lynde place for her, but the previous owner had been a quarrelsome sort and reluctant to sell. Fred had confided to Gilbert that a certain delicately-worded request from Diana to Mrs. Harry Inglis, née Jane Andrews, had decided the matter, allowing Ralph to offer a price that the previous occupant simply could not refuse.
Today, the lot of them packed into Orchard Slope for the merriest Christmas dinner Avonlea had seen in many years. The house was stuffed to bursting, everyone shouting, laughing, and getting in one another's way. The Andrews boys had a jolly time sliding down the banister until Mr. Harrison threatened to throw them out into the snow. Ralph Andrews and Frank Bell spent the better part of an hour attempting to devise some geometry that would allow everyone to sit together in the dining room before giving up and setting a table for the children in the sitting room. After the third broken dish, Mrs. Barry declared that there were entirely too many cooks in her kitchen and expelled everyone but Diana and Cora.
Uncle Gil was hailed as the hero of the hour when he quelled some of the chaos by producing a satchelful of exquisite paper dolls and more of the tin soldiers that had so enthralled Olly Blake. The children were immediately hypnotized, settling down before the sitting room fire to cut out dolls or set up intricate military drills, according to preference.
"What, no more whistles?" Fred Wright asked, jabbing Gilbert in the ribs.
"Well, not when I have to be cooped up inside with them, that's for sure," Gilbert shrugged.
Dinner was delightful; pudding was jolly. Sitting near the middle of the long table, a cup of tea before him, Gilbert took another opportunity to breathe deeply. As unobtrusively as possible, he slipped a finger into his waistcoat pocket, feeling the familiar brush of linen there. Around him, chatter and laughter filled air thick with the scents of woodsmoke and gingerbread. Dora danced baby Nan before the hearth; Millie and Minnie May bustled about clearing dishes; Fred and Davy were deep in conversation about spring plans for the lower field at Green Gables. Amid the tumult, Gilbert sat perfectly still, drinking them all in, storing them away in his heart.
On Christmas night, Cora went to bed early, worn out by the day's excitement. Gilbert and John lingered over cups of tea in the sitting room, watching a thick log of apple wood burn in the fireplace.
"There's something I wanted to ask you, Gil," John said between sips of tea.
Gilbert sat up straighter, put on alert by his father's unusually formal tone.
"Doctor or not, you've probably noticed that I'm getting on in years. Not as sprightly as I once was. I couldn't even go up the ladders at harvest this year."
"Diana said you hired her boys to help," Gilbert said. "Was that enough? We could hire another hand next year . . ."
"The harvest was fine. That's not it. I'm not going to be around forever, Gil."
"Dad . . ."
John waved a hand. "It's only true. I'm not. I've lived my threescore and ten and some more besides. The way I see it, I've been living on borrowed time for thirty years. And I'm grateful. I've lived a full life. I've worked hard, I've loved your mother, I even got to see you grow up. Don't be sorry for me."
"But, Dad. There's no need to talk like this. You're in good health for your age, especially given your history. You could have years left."
John chortled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I'm closer to eighty than to seventy, Gilbert. At this age, things could turn pretty quickly. I might have years left, but I could also pick up a bad cold or have another fall at any time. There's no way of knowing. But that isn't what troubles me."
Gilbert waited.
"It's your mother," John sighed. " She's quite a bit younger than I am. You see her, still baking and gardening and running all over the countryside trying to fix everyone's problems. She's the one with years left. And I can't rest easy until I know she's going to be cared for."
"What can I do, Dad?"
John met the hazel eyes that were so like his own. "Would you consider bringing her to Boston with you? After I'm gone."
Perhaps Gilbert should not have been surprised, but he was. He had thought his father might wish him to move back home, or to make arrangements for his mother to move in with the Fletchers, but he had never envisioned Cora Blythe in Boston. Gilbert thought of all his empty, echoing bedrooms, tried to imagine his mother in one of them.
"Of course, Dad. If she wants to come. Do you think she would want to? Boston is . . . it's not like here. It's a . . . a lonelier life."
John Blythe studied his son, unsure just how much to ask.
"I think she'd rather be with you than anywhere else. See that you're looked after."
Gilbert snorted. "I thought you wanted me to look after her."
"That, too."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching yuletide flames dance on the hearth.
"How are you, Gilbert?" John asked. "Really. Your mother's not here; you can tell me."
Gilbert blew out a breath. "I'm fine, Dad. Everything is fine. I work six days a week. Sometimes seven. The lab is sort of a mess, but I think we have the potential to do good work if I can actually get everyone working together. And I'm fine. Mrs. Milligan feeds me well."
John regarded his son narrowly. "Can you go on like that forever?"
"I don't know," Gilbert sighed. "I don't really think too much about the future. I'm getting along fine right now, focusing on the lab. And that's enough."
"Have you considered doing anything more . . . social? Joining a church, maybe?"
"No. Look, Dad, I know you're trying to help. And I appreciate it. But I'm fine."
John did not know how to say what was in his heart, how much it troubled him to think that his bright, funny, laughing boy would walk all his life in this sort of stupor. Work was well and good. A man needed work. And work was enough for some, John reflected, thinking of Matthew Cuthbert. But even Matthew had come alive in his last five years. John gritted his teeth against the possibility that Gilbert would work and wait his life away, never becoming the man he should have been.
"Just . . ." John began, faltering. "Just take care of yourself. And your mother. Put my mind at ease."
Gilbert nodded. "Of course, Dad. Don't worry about either of us."
Author's Note:
I have heard your wishes, o faithful reviewers. I have been extremely anxious to put these chapters in front of you, but it seems that I am posting too fast for optimal enjoyment.
So I'm going to try to slow down. If I can. It's going to be a struggle — I generally love reading all the angsty, drawn-out stories on this site, but am rather desperate to drag Gilbert out of purgatory here. But I have heard you and will try going to an every-other-day posting schedule.
Thanks for the feedback — let me know what else is working and what is not! Every review makes my day because it means that someone is actually reading what I'm writing, which is still astonishing and miraculous. Thanks especially to LizzyEastwood and the guest posters who are catching up and joining in! I'm so grateful to hear that this story has touched you in some way. And as always, thanks to Catiegirl, Kim Blythe, AnneNGil, and the others who have encouraged me all along.
-elizasky