Glen St. Mary, Canada
June 2016
Don't tell me of love everlasting
Ingleside feels bigger with just George and me in it.
Because it's a holiday home for the entire family, I've never been here on my own before. Sometimes, there were more people and sometimes fewer, but I've never had reason to come to the island alone – until now, I guess.
Mum was more than a little worried when, within days of my return to Halifax, I announced that I needed some alone time and asked permission to stay at Ingleside for a while. She prodded and probed to find out what was wrong with me, but the truth is, there was nothing wrong and there still isn't.
I'm fine.
I know it's probably one of the least truthful sentences in the English language, because when people usually claim to be fine, they are anything but. I, however, truly am fine. Mum didn't really believe me and I understand why she didn't, but I was completely honest with her. I'm okay. I'm good.
Granted, it's been a little weird to suddenly be on my own again, without having people around me every day. Physically, I haven't spent so much time with just myself (and George!) for company since before Ken returned from Cyprus. Mentally, however, I don't feel lonely. The quietness took some getting used to, but it wasn't unwelcome. In fact, I've come to cherish it.
No-one can deny, I think, that the past weeks were incredibly stressful and trying, but if I'm being honest with myself, I've been under strain since long before that. It's been apparent since Ken left for Cyprus, of course, but in a way, there was an undercurrent of tension before even that. I can't say for sure, but I wouldn't rule out it going back to when we first met or at least to when our relationship was revealed.
Ever since my face first appeared on the cover of that magazine, linking me to Ken, I've had to watch my back. I could never truly relax, always had to have my guard up, and though I didn't notice that at the time, it felt like it was weighing me down, subtly, but constantly. It's really only now that the pressure is gone that I notice how heavily it lay upon me.
Logically, of course, the pressure ought to have lifted back in December when Ken and I broke up, but it was replaced by heartbreak then and that was all-encompassing enough that I didn't really notice anything else. Once I began to work through it, the news about our parting broke and I learned that being a newly royal ex-girlfriend didn't make me in any way less interesting than being a royal girlfriend, which brought its own sort of strain.
Special interest in me only started to wane in spring, just when Owen fell ill and while I didn't have time to follow any media interest in my person (and there was some, once the press figured out I was back in London), I hardly had time to rest and think during those weeks. I was always moving, always handling some problem or dealing with some issue and what strength I had left to give, I used to prop up others.
When I finally came back to Canada, I knew intuitively that I needed a break.
I need silence, I need time, I need rest. Frankly, I just need to do nothing for a while. What I don't need is to worry, to fret or even just to think too much. I really try to switch off my mind as best as possible, to live in the moment and not to wonder about the past or the future. It's not always easy, but it feels… strangely liberating.
If nothing else, George loves this new, laid-back me who has lots and lots of time for him. It took a few days until he had forgiven me for basically deserting him in Halifax for the better part of four months, but I couldn't really fault him for it. This is the longest we've been separated since he appeared at the window of my Brooklyn Shoebox, just a thin, straggly kitten out to steal my heart.
Of course, I'm doing my best to make up for my prolonged absence and the lack of attention I paid to him so far this year. There are extended cuddle sessions, entire afternoons spent lying lazily in the garden and soaking up the sun and at night he graciously allows me to sleep in his bed (for all beds are, by definition, his). The only thing I can't do to reclaim his affection is to feed him lots of Dreamies, because there's no doubt that Mum and Dad spoiled him something rotten during his stay in Halifax.
George, naturally, denies any allegations of his weight gain most strenuously, but the proof is in the pudding – or, in this case, in the distinct roundness of his belly – so there's not much he can do to convince me. He's become a right little Garfield and unless he plans to make money as an impersonator of a comic cat, he needs to go on a – allow me to whisper the word – diet.
Unfortunately, my feet are paying the price for George's involuntary weight-loss regime. Whenever I don't feed him as he considers appropriate (which is basically always), he retaliates by lying in wait behind corners to attack my poor, unsuspecting feet and swipe at them with his paws. I've taken to always peering around corners before I walk around them, but sometimes, he catches me by surprise anyway.
Other than that, though, we get along just fine. After all, a proper lazy days isn't really perfect unless you have a purring cat by your side and George has always been a master purrer. (Seriously, he claims to have won prizes for his purr.) Seeing as he has spent years trying to get me to adopt his philosophy of sleeping, eating and cuddling, George very much approves of my new relaxed approach to life (even if he disapproves of me ignoring the second part of his life plan).
We are, I'd say, about 87% in sync and we're both quite pleased with it.
"Aren't we, Georgie?" I ask loudly as I try to step over George without falling and breaking my shin.
George winds himself around my legs imploringly (he hasn't yet given up on convincing me of the evil of this – whisper it – diet) and looks up at me. "Meow," he insists.
"Quite right," I agree.
Luckily for George – and my poor feet – it's just past noon, which means it's lunchtime for him, if not quite for me.
"Shall we go see what's in the fridge for you?" I ask.
Obviously deeming the question to be rhetorical, George doesn't deign to answer it. Instead, he stalks ahead, tail pointing upright, and sporadically looks back over his shoulder to check whether I'm following. Being the good two-feeter that I am, I walk behind him to the kitchen without further detours and, once there, immediately make a beeline for the fridge.
"Meow!" George informs me as he wedges himself between my feet and tries to climb into the open fridge, standing on his hind legs and placing his front paws on the second-lowest shelf.
Laughing, I push a hand under his belly and hold him back. He shoots me a dirty look and tries to wiggle free, but I don't let him.
"Do you want to freeze to death?" I enquire and this time, it truly is meant as a rhetorical question. George, naturally, doesn't even react to it except to wiggle more fiercely.
Quickly, I grab an already opened tin of cat food and close the door of the fridge, pulling George free of it before I do. He looks like he briefly considers sulking at this roughest of treatments, but reconsiders when he discovers the tin in my hand. The moment I let him go, he rushes ahead to his food bowl standing in a corner.
"Meow!" he demands and who am I to resist that?
"Cod and zucchini today," I tell him as I bend down and empty the rest of the tin's content into his bowl. George doesn't even wait for me to finish before his head disappears into the bowl and he starts gobbling up the food.
"Enjoy." For a moment, I watch him fondly as he makes short shrift of the cod and zucchini in record time.
Before he is quite finished, the doorbell suddenly rings, making me jump.
"Who could that be?" I muse aloud.
From George, there's just a smacking, slurping sound in response.
Leaving the cat to his food, I wander over to the front door, all the while wondering who could be on the other side.
It's not that I have been completely unsocial since my arrival here, but I haven't exactly sought out human company either. I go grocery shopping every couple of days, I sometimes encounter people when I'm out for walks in Rainbow Valley or down by the shore and I've been to the socially required dinners at John and Rosemary's, who I think have secretly been roped into checking on me by Mum, which they really can't be faulted for. Mum is nothing if not persuasive when her brood is concerned.
In conclusion, I haven't been around many people in my time here and I have no reason to expect anyone to come visit me, making the ringing doorbell all the more puzzling.
Once near the door, I slide back the bolt and open it a fraction. Normally, Glen is the place where no-one locks their doors ever, but living in New York and London as a single female has made me a little paranoid and the locked door allows me sleep easier at night.
Peering through the gap, I try to determine who has come to disturb my solitude – only to wrench open the door completely when I recognise the person on the other side.
"Nan? What are you doing here?" I ask, confused.
My sister grins. "Hello to you, too. I'm also very happy to see you."
I wave her comment aside impatiently. "Yes, yes, that goes without saying. But what are you doing here?"
"Since you stood me up in April and didn't make good on your promise to come visit me after you've been to stay with basically all other family members, I figured I had to come to you instead," Nan informs me airily. "You know, the prophet and the mountain and all that."
"I did not stand you up!" I insist, indignant. "And I haven't been to visit the entire family either. I only stayed with Walter, with Di and with Una, who technically isn't family."
"As good as," Nan amends (not wrongly).
"Still," I persist. "I didn't stand you up. I just had to –"
Nan interrupts me by raising both hands. "You just had to go save a kingdom. I know, I know."
"I did not –" I begin to protest.
Once more, Nan just talks across me. "You didn't save a kingdom? Okay, so what else would you call it?"
I open my mouth to explain, only to find that I have no way to describe what I did in London, so I end up closing my mouth again without having said a word.
"So, you saved a kingdom," Nan concludes, satisfied. "All in a day's work, right?"
"I wish," I mutter, as my mind flashes back to the weeks in London and how it never felt like the work was even close to being done at the end of the day.
Nan, sensing my shift in mood, steps over the threshold and draws me into a tight hug. "You did good," she whispers into my ear and for once, I don't protest.
When I step back from the hug, allowing Nan to enter and close the door behind her, I notice that George has joined us from the kitchen. Silently, he stalks closer, ears playing as he inches towards Nan to sniff at this weird-smelling newcomer and the small overnight bag she brought.
"Hello Georgie," my sister greets him and crouches down to hold out her hand for him to inspect.
George sniffs audibly at the proffered hand for several seconds, before finally deciding that Nan can be trusted and pushing his head against her fingers for scratches. Obligingly, Nan starts stroking him beneath his chin and he closes his eyes in bliss.
"He remembers you," I comment, because George would never be so personable with someone he considered a stranger.
"What can I say?" replies Nan as she straightens again, her arms now full of a loudly purring George. "I'm just very memorable."
Oh, ha ha.
Shifting George's weight slightly from one arm to the other, Nan remarks, "There appears to be more of him than there was last time we met."
"Dad's fault!" I immediately tell her, raising both hands to demonstrate my innocence.
"I can believe that," Nan agrees easily.
George, having sensed her treacherous comment about his figure (I've long suspected him of understanding more English than he lets on), wiggles free of her hold and elegantly jumps to the floor when she relinquishes it. Once he is safely down, he immediately stalks over to his favourite south-facing window sill, makes himself comfortable on the pillow I placed there and proceeds to thoroughly wash his left front paw.
Nan shakes her head amusedly. "Did I displease him?"
"It's not difficult to do," I assure her. "He is a very sensitive cat."
Upon hearing this, George glares at me briefly before switching his ministrations to his right paw.
I hook my arm through Nan's and pull her towards the living room. "Let's leave him to his washing," I suggest. "It's going to take a while and you still haven't told me what brings you here."
"Isn't it enough that I wanted to see you?" Nan asks, feigning innocence
"No, and nor is it enough that Mum pestered you to check in on me," I deadpan.
"She did do that!" Nan insists.
I nod briskly. "I am aware of it. In fact, she's pestering everyone this side of the St Lawrence River. She doesn't feel she can come herself without it looking like she's smothering me, but that doesn't stop her from trying to find out as much as she can from people I actually see."
"Mum has always had a nosy streak," Nan comments cheerfully. "And if you tell her I said that, I will be obligated to kill you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I mutter, sotto voce.
"Good Rilla." Nan actually reaches out to pat my head, before plopping down on one of the couches. Her overnight bag, which she took in with her from the hall, topples over as she drops it to the floor next to her and a rectangular package slides out of it and over the hardwood floor.
"Oh! I forgot! I collected this for you from the post office when I passed by it," Nan explains as she stretches out a leg to give the package a kick and push it in my direction.
I pick it up and sit down in a nearby armchair, while already examining the package to figure out what could be the matter with it. From the feel of it, it's clearly a book (which is further confirmed by the customs declaration pasted to its front), and when I glance at the handwriting on the heavy packing paper, my stomach lurches painfully.
"If you open it, you'll know what's inside that much sooner," my sister suggests helpfully – and a little too eagerly, if you ask me.
Swallowing heavily, I carefully pry loose the sticky tape and unfold the paper. In it is indeed a book, but it's one I have never seen before, at least not like this.
"Is it a book?" Nan wants to know, craning her neck. "What kind of book?"
"Shakespeare," I answer, "of a sort."
My sister looks puzzled, so I raise the book for her to look at. It's bound in heavy, luxurious leather and the title is embossed on the front in golden letters.
Romeo and Juliet in Scotland
"In Scotland? But Shakespeare never intended for the story to be set in Scotland!" Nan protests. "He always had Verona in mind."
Cautiously, I open the book and turn the first few heavy cream pages. "It says here, 'In fair Edinburgh, where we lay our scene', so I must beg to differ."
"Edinburgh?" Nan almost screeches the name. "Romeo and Juliet never set foot in Edinburgh! What kind of blasphemic work are you even reading and who gave it to you?"
"Someone who wanted to remind me," I answer carefully as I flick through the book in search of a very specific scene.
"Of what?" Nan wants to know.
I've reached the scene and find myself smiling involuntarily when I read about Romeo busting out his bagpipes (and no, that's definitely not meant as suggestive as it sounds) and playing them while standing below Juliet's window. (Never a balcony, despite what Hollywood would have us believe!)
"Of bagpipes played under windows," I explain to Nan, though from her confused expression, it's apparent that to her, it's no explanation at all.
"Bagpipes?" she murmurs, horrified. "In Romeo and Juliet?"
"If it helps, I promise there's just this one copy of this particular version of the play and that Shakespeare is neither responsible for changing its setting to Edinburgh, nor for any bagpipes being played," I elaborate, as I stroke a finger over the book's leather-covered spine.
Nan wrinkles her nose. "You do realise that you're not making any sense, yes?"
"I realise that, yes." I laugh. "I swear that this book is perfectly harmless though, so how about we leave it be for now in favour of you telling me why you came here?"
I'm no fool and I know perfectly well that Nan has been evading the question (or at least its answer) ever since ringing the doorbell. That, of course, also means it's the perfect thing to ask to make her give up her questions about the book. I already know that if she were to ask and, in consequence, if I were to reveal who sent the book (and added the bagpipes), I wouldn't have good answers to the majority of her follow-up questions and I don't really care for being bombarded with them while lacking adequate defence.
As predicted, my question immediately throws Nan off the scent of the book. She suddenly looks a little uncomfortable and even squirms a bit on the sofa.
"Nan?" I ask, suspicious. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
"Ah, well, you see…" Nan begins, clearly still looking for a way out and finding none. "I came here to visit you, of course, but also to… toplanmywedding."
The last words are spoken so quickly that I barely understand them, but I get the gist of it and the gist is…
A wedding?
Nan is getting married?
"It won't be a big affair and I thought Glen would be the perfect place. Faith and Jem already did the Rainbow Valley thing, but I'd like it to be a little more traditional, so I thought about the ceremony being in John's church and the reception in the Ingleside garden. We only want to invite family and close friends, so the size should be just right and –" Here, Nan stops herself because I've started waving both hands in front of her face.
"Okay, wait a minute and rewind!" I demand once she has fallen silent. "First of all, who are you marrying?"
Nan looks uncertain at first, but then squares her shoulders and meets my gaze head-on. "Jerry."
Jerry?
Butbutbutbutbut –
"Meredith?" I ask stupidly.
Nan inclines her head into a silent nod.
"But –" I blink furiously as I try to process this. "But – how?"
My sister shrugs, raising her chin slightly. "We got talking again last Christmas and ran into each other a week or two later in Toronto and… it just happened from there. We both realised why we fell in love with each other in the first place and found that the feelings are still there. It felt… very easy, actually. I told the others back in April, but you were so busy in London that I didn't want to distract you, so… I guess I'm telling you now."
"But he cheated on you!" I protest. "How… how could you forgive him?"
"What does it even mean, forgiveness?" Nan asks philosophically. "What he did wasn't okay and never will be, but I guess I… I moved past it."
Moved past it?
"How?" I want to know, feeling genuinely befuddled.
"I decided to," answers Nan, very matter-of-fact. "I chose to get back together with him so we could both work to get it right this time. Life is no fairy tale and it's foolish to expect it to be. Happiness needs work, too."
"You don't need to do the work," I point out. "What happened wasn't your fault. No matter what happened before, him cheating wasn't your fault."
"No, it wasn't," agrees Nan. "But so what? He was wrong, but what do I have to gain from that knowledge? The thing is… being right can be awfully lonely, I've found."
I stare at her, trying to process what she just told me. "Why him, Nan? Why still?"
"Because in all those years of dating other men, I never felt about any of them the way I felt about him," she replies, her voice steady. "When we met again and started talking, it all came back and… I just realised that I wanted this. Him, me, together. We needed to work on it and we still do, but we're in this together now and that feels good."
Hmmm…
"But… marriage? Isn't it a bit, you know, quick?" I ask, mentally doing the maths in my head. Christmas was barely half a year ago.
"It's not like we just met," Nan argues. "We had years to get to know each other before and neither of us changed fundamentally since then. We both grew, but we're still the same people underneath. I guess we could have waited longer, but we don't want to. It just feels right – more right than the last time, even."
Go figure.
I lean back in my armchair, absent-mindedly stroking the soft cover of the book I'm still holding. Nan sits opposite me and while I can feel her watching me, I realise she's neither nervous nor defensive, at least not anymore. She told me about her plans, but she's not afraid of my opinion because my opinion doesn't matter in this. She's sure of what she wants and while she answered my question out of courtesy, she doesn't have to justify it to anyone.
"Nanny," I begin slowly, ignoring the George-like glare the nickname evokes. "You're either secretly very wise or secretly very drunk."
There's a beat as she processes this, before she bursts out laughing. "Well, you know what they say about people looking for wisdom at the bottom of a bottle."
"But only looking for it," I stress, because God knows being drunk only leads to stupid decisions, like messaging ex-boyfriends or cutting yourself a fringe.
"We've all been there," agrees Nan pensively, as if reading my thoughts.
Then, without giving me time to reply, she suddenly jumps to her feet and reaches out to pull me up as well. "Come on, enough heavy talk now! I'm hungry and I bet the only proper meals you've been eating were those cooked by Rosemary."
I grumble a little, but can't really argue the point, so I allow her to drag me to the kitchen. George, sensing the possibility of some scraps being thrown his way, immediately jumps down from his window sill in the hall and follows after us.
The meal Nan puts together with my help (and with George as a very willing food taster) is quite delicious and it marks the start of what turns out to be a fun weekend. After having overcome my surprise about her marriage plans, I gladly help her plan her wedding (which indeed looks to be a small, simple affair very unlike the big hoopla she had planned the first time around) and in turn, she doesn't bug me about my book – or else, it might be her horror at the desecration of Shakespeare that stops her from asking any more questions.
When Nan leaves again on Sunday – armed with the information for Mum that I am, indeed, fine – I wave her off contentedly. I enjoyed having her with me, but I also won't mind settling back into my quiet routine, especially now that Nan has given me new food for thought to mull over.
Thus, the following week or two pass uneventful, with George and me spending our time mostly as we did before Nan came, only that now, I have new reading material for the evenings (and reflect, once more, that Romeo is really a dunce). It could continue like that, for all I care, because while not much is objectively happening, I'm not unhappy. On the contrary, I feel… content. And it is in that calm state of mind that I watch the days stretch into weeks until –
Until one morning, that is, when I'm awoken by the most horrible sound imaginable coming from the window.
George jumps up, hisses and disappears under the bed with flattened ears. I, on the other hand, remain lying there, listening closely to the sound, horrible as it might be. It's the sound of bagpipes being played (badly) and I find myself smiling at the ceiling.
Because I know it's him.
Because I've been waiting for him.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Love Song to a Stranger' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1972).
To AnneShirley:
Don't worry, your first line was taken just as intended =). It was very nice of you to think of me and message to check in on me! And I'm also glad I'm not stuck on a giant pumpkin dress, so we definitely agree about that ;). I'm sorry to hear that your current situation hangs so much in the balance though and very much hope that one way or another, you will hear soon how things can proceed. What happens if you can't sit your higher secondary exams? Will they figure out an alternative way to grade you and if so, it this a good or a bad thing?
I've had a sort-of real life example for writing Owen's illness and his recovery, so while that was very emotional, the one good thing to come out of it is that I'm fairly positive that I'm writing him realistically right now. I'm glad the chapter didn't feel heavy despite its setting. Persis is a useful character when it comes to infusing a bit of lightness and with her dad being better, she's back to her old self (if still very concerned about him). I see her as a daddy's girl who is very close to her father, which is part of why I always enjoy writing those two together.
I didn't put a diagnosis to all of Owen's symptoms before, but since you mentioned it, let us discuss it and together flaunt our knowledge ;). Me, I'm not sure whether it's Broca's aphasia he's suffering from, because that one often shows itself in short, fragmental and grammatically unusual sentences, plus an aphasia would likely also affect his ability to express himself in writing. He might have a form of cognitive dysphasia that shows itself more in verbal speech and less so in writing because writing allows him to concentrate differently and go back to correct mistakes. He could also be suffering from dysarthria, which is a speech disorder rather than a language disorder, though that often shows itself in slurred speech, which he doesn't have. I do lean towards him having a motor speech disorder though, because he mostly understands language like he used to (maybe with some trouble finding words occasionally), he's just unable to speak normally. That's why, overall, I'm leaning towards him having an apraxia of speech, the symptoms of which best fit with the way I wrote Owen. And having said all that, it's now over to you. Do you agree or do you know another weirdly named disorder affecting speech that I missed? ;)
I'm afraid I have absolutely no defence for how often Rilla flies from one continent to the other except to say that the plot requites her to. Luckily, it's all fictional flights, so no environmental damage done! I am glad that overall, you agree that it was better for Rilla to have left than to have stayed. Like you said, she drew a lot of confidence from helping the royals and she learned a lot about herself, but she didn't get time to figure out what all of that means with regards to her future. Staying in England might have moved that goal further out of reach again and that wouldn't be good. Plus, I also really like your assessment of them being friends signifying a start, because I think so, too. That's not to say they will go through months of friendship now, but they needed a fresh start and establishing that, no matter what happens, they will always be friends isn't a bad way to do that. More on that, of course, in the next chapter ;).
To Guest:
Your description captures Owen pretty well. He won't be fully recovered for a long time (if ever) and it'll be a long and hard road to get there, but he's taken the pivotal first steps. The recovery will be frustrating and at times difficult, but Owen is determined to get better, for his family, his country and for himself. That's an important motivator! With him being awake, I think they will forego a regency. He's doing well mentally and cognitively, so he can fulfil his constitutional duties even during his recovery. His family will continue to take over a lot of his more visible duties, so they should be fine without a formal regency, which could send out the wrong signals.
Persis draws a lot of her strength from her horses and her riding, because she sees it as a fundamental part of herself. I'm glad you like this portrayal of her. I agree that her offer probably isn't the best idea, but it shows her desire to keep Rilla close to the family and her trust in Rilla's abilities, so yes, it's a sweet offer, even if she likely didn't think it through to the end. In this case, I think it's the thought that counts.
As for Ken... allow the guy to make some romantic gestures first. He hasn't had much of a chance to make any recently ;).
