Hi Dad


11 April 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Cruel Faith,

You know, some chaps come home from war to find their best girls waiting for them. And here I am, sitting pretty on a veranda in Glen St. Mary, pining for my brave and gallant lass overseas.

Jerry informs me that your most recent letter says that you might not be home until September. SEPTEMBER! A whole summer in the Glen, fit as a fiddle, watching every sweethearting couple strolling arm-in-arm . . . how you do torture me, Faith.

Everyone here is in a right state. I got home on Saturday, but wasn't able to phone up because I was hobbling through the streets of Charlottetown trying to catch the afternoon train. Thus, there was no one to meet me at the station — no one but good old Dog Monday. I can hardly believe he's been at the train station ever since I left! Of course everyone told me of it, but seeing is a different sort of believing. What a good, loyal little pup he is. He's been sleeping at the foot of my bed because no one can persuade him to do anything but follow me wherever I go. That includes church. Your father was very indulgent about that, even if Monday did lift his voice in song at odd moments.

After a rapturous greeting, at the station, Monday and I limped up the hill to Ingleside together (he being rather old by now and I having sat too long on the train — don't worry, the leg is getting stronger every day and was only stiff). I had great fun planning out how best to announce my arrival. I was afraid I might meet one of the family in the Glen street and lose my chance at a grand surprise, but luckily it was close to supper time and they were all at home. I considered knocking on the front door, but that seemed very formal. And I didn't particularly want to hulloo the hoose.

Then I got the idea of going round to the kitchen door and letting Monday in as quietly as I could and then just stepping back to see what happened.

It all depended on everyone being indoors (which is not a usual thing around Ingleside) and suppertime conspired to help me. I picked up Monday and crept round the side of the house and slipped him inside by the kitchen door. Now, this part of the plan would have worked much better if Monday had trotted happily into the dining room and announced my coming for me. But alas, he was quite put out by our separation and began to scratch at the door, barking to be let out.

You can be sure that that brought Susan into the kitchen in hurry. I heard her say, "What is the meaning of this?" and then, "Oh!" so loudly it must have alarmed everyone, for there was a great scraping of chairs and clatter as everyone rushed into the kitchen. I couldn't see what was going on, but in a few seconds, Dad opened the door and Monday rushed out and nearly tripped me by running through my legs.

All I said was, "Hi, Dad!" as if I'd only been away to Rainbow Valley for the afternoon. I can hardly tell what happened then, except to say that I got a hug that was like to crush the breath from my body and I was very soon surrounded. I will not admit to crying (even though I did). I will never forget the sight of Mother's face — I can't describe it. She was very pale and her eyes were very big and I don't know whether she was laughing or crying but there probably needs to be a new word invented to describe it.

Susan went flying around the pantry and the cellar — apparently she had planned a "pick up" supper because she'd been very busy all day, and she just kept apologizing and apologizing for the food. Well, I intended to eat a good meal the next day, but right at that moment I doubt I could have choked down anything, no matter how ambrosial, so she might have saved her breath and her trouble.

Rilla called up to the manse and all your family came over and there was another round of glad greetings. I hardly knew Jerry with his brow unfurrowed - he looked so much younger I nearly asked him how things were at Queen's! Carl wears a patch over his lost eye, but he is not much scarred and after you notice the patch the first time, it ceases to be anything but an accessory.

The long and the short of it is that everyone is quite as pleased to see me as I am to see them. And if only there were one more person over at the manse, I might be able to say that I'm the happiest man alive.

I went over to see Jerry and Carl yesterday. Or rather, I tried to see Jerry, but Nan has him now and won't let go in a hurry. Carl has no such distractions, so we walked and chatted a bit. He seems solemn. I think perhaps I still harbored a little hope that everyone would be back to the way they were when we all got home again. But who knows what Carl has seen or done, and the loss of an eye is no small matter. I asked whether he was excited to begin at Redmond in the fall and he waited a long time before answering that he was, but with none of his usual cheerfulness. Perhaps he and I can chum around a bit this summer, seeing as we neither of us have any fairer companions to occupy our time.

Speaking of which, I guess it is true that Rilla is going to marry Ken Ford? (! ! !) I'm sure someone must have hinted at that to me in a letter but I must have thought it was a joke. Apparently not! What is the world coming to, with baby sisters running off to get married (and to Ken Ford?!). I imagine he is in for a rather lengthy discussion with Dad whenever he deigns to grace us with his presence, but I'm sure Dad doesn't know the half of what Ken used to get up to over harbour! I may have to have a little chat with Dear Kenneth myself.

Now, this is a lovely long letter and you can look forward to receiving more like it in the future as I have nothing to do with my time between now and the new term at Redmond except loll around letting Susan fatten me up. I walk down to the light every day, just as I used to do with Walter when he was getting over the typhoid. Bruce comes with me most days — what a fine, sturdy boy he has become! I can't carry him on my shoulders anymore, but that's down to him being so big and not any infirmity on my part.

I'm off to ask Rilla how she managed to survive four years of this maddening waiting (other than writing to Ken Ford, apparently). I hope she'll have some useful tips to help me pass the time. Shall I adopt an orphan? Organize a Red Cross concert? Learn to knit? If you receive a pair of woolly stockings from me, you'll know I've gone spare.

All my love and then some,

Jem

XXX


5 April 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Shirley,

I was over at Ingleside this evening. Jem is home. You cannot begin to imagine your family's joy at having him there. Let me paint it for you:

Your mother sitting on the sofa, just staring at Jem as if she were afraid to take her eyes off him lest he vanish out of her sight.*

Your father joking and laughing and smiling like I've never seen him before.

Susan tearing around the kitchen, fussing and serving all sorts of delectable things that nobody was eating because no one had any attention for anything but Jem.

Rilla with her hands clasped in her lap, looking like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry and splitting the difference by trying to do both at once.

Nan and Jerry talking over one another and dissolving into giggles and then talking all at once again.

Do you think your own welcome would be any less joyous? If you do, you are a fool. They miss you terribly and are waiting anxiously to hear from you. Susan asks about you each and every time I see her, without fail, and I really and truly cannot stand it any longer. I really can't.

You must write to them. Come home; don't come home. But write to Susan. I never thought you could be so cruel to her, whatever else you might do.

Carl


20 April 1919

Paris

Carl,

I am glad to hear that Jem is home and that my family is happy to see him. Soon, Ingleside will be full of brides and babies and they'll all have more than enough to keep themselves occupied.

They might be happy to see me at first, but not for long. Everyone at home will get on fine without me.

I can't make my meaning plain in a letter.

Shirley


22 April 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Mr. Blythe,

I am writing to inform you that there has been a recurrence of influenza at St. Mary's and that your wife has taken ill. She weathered the first of it well enough, but I regret to inform you that pneumonia has set in and she is very ill indeed.*

I understand from previous conversations with Mrs. Blythe that you are a medical student, so I will tell you that there is involvement of both lungs, resulting in moderate hemoptysis, though no appearance of cyanosis as yet. We have no indication that her heart is affected at the present time.

Please be assured that your wife is receiving the best nursing care and I have every hope that she will pull through yet. Her friend Miss Cartwright was also ill, but is recovering and will soon be able to sit with her.

Your letter of the 11th arrived yesterday. I read it aloud to her and I believe it did her good to hear it. She is not well enough at the present time to dictate a response, which is why I am writing to you now.

If there is any change in her condition, I will write again.

Yours respectfully,

Sister Enid Marley, Matron


*RoI, chapter 35