CHANGE of HEART

...

Anne didn't eat any of the food she packed for the journey, and when they arrived in Amherst she declined an invitation to tea at the railway teahouse while the train took on more fuel.

Priss' Aunt looked over her spectacles and tutted. "My dear, you look quite unwell."

"I did try to warn her about travelling in such a state," Roy said, feeling reproved. It was his fault for allowing Anne to travel. He would be more insistent from now on.

"Anne, you're coming home with me," said the Aunt.

"But I reserved a room at the Harbour Hotel, I'm crossing the Strait first thing in the–"

Anne sneezed again, and that settled the matter. There would be no crossing tomorrow, and certainly no overnight stay in that dreadful harbour town. Anne was coming back to Littledean with the girls. Mr Gardner would have to find lodgings elsewhere, and was given the name of a suitable guest house.

Roy was more interested in directions into town. He had an entire new wardrobe to purchase, a telegram to send to Mamma, to say nothing of the vast array of apparatus he would need for what sounded like a trek across the Arctic.

While Anne had been dozing under Roy's coat on the four-hour journey to Amherst, Priss and Stella regaled him with glorious tales of hardship and peril. One must be prepared for anything, he learned, when crossing the frozen Strait.

"There's a seat ticket and a strap ticket," Priss informed him as she offered Roy a slice of her cake.

"I shall take the strap ticket," Roy had said, choosing the smallest piece. "Going by the size of the boat you described, that sounds safer. Don't want to fall into the sea."

"No, don't take a strap ticket, that's the cheap one."

Roy looked confused.

"Fellows with strap tickets have to help pull the boat. Horribly dangerous. You're out in front, you see, every step you take has to be measured because you're never sure what's under your feet."

"And it isn't all flat either," Stella added, "not once you leave the shore ice."

"Shore ice?"

"That's the stuff around the harbour, miles thick, quite safe. Then if you're lucky, you get to open water and simply row across."

"And if you're unlucky?" Roy put down his cake. He was beginning to feel his lack of luck already.

"Drift ice, bergs, mountainous slabs…" Stella tented her fingers. "Imagine my hands were thirty feet long, that's how high the ice can get."

"And the boat is pulled over that–why it's impossible?"

"There's a skin of tin on the bottom of the boat, sometimes wooden runners. It slides easy providing you stay behind it, otherwise… whoosh!" Stella bashed one hand into another. "You want to stay clear of the boat then."

"But you said these fellows were strapped to it?" Roy was getting quite alarmed.

"Oh, the ones who do traversing are used to it," Priss assured him. "Every boat has at least two hired hands, including the captain, manning each trip across."

"Why on earth do they need to, surely the Island could be quite self-sufficient for the few months the Strait is frozen?"

"We certainly are," said Stella, who was as proud as Anne of her sturdy Island heritage. "The iceboats aren't for goods, not even for passengers really."

"I believe it," Roy muttered.

"The whole purpose of the journey is to carry the mail," Priss explained. "Not wind nor rain nor sleet nor snow shall stop Her Majesty's mail. They're very proud of their service. One time, five men were trapped out on the ice for two days with nothing to eat or drink, and even then they refused to burn the mail to keep warm."

"Well I shall be taking some supplies," said Roy, pleased that he had thought of this whilst seasoned professionals had not.

Priss then explained those men all took rations, too, but they couldn't eat or drink any of it.

"Frozen solid," Stella said. "Make sure you get a good meal in before you go," she advised the white-faced man sitting next to her, "it might very well be your last."

…

"You were piling it on a bit thick," Priss said to Stella later that evening. "Poor Roy didn't where to look."

"And you were being far too nice." Stella poked the fire in the Aunt's small parlour. "Don't you think it would be kinder all round, if we put Roy off?"

"Kinder to whom?"

"Anne, of course. It's perfectly obvious she doesn't want Roy going with her."

Priss looked into the fire and screwed up her face–even then she looked adorable. No one suited firelight so well as Priscilla Grant. In the bright daylight, her ivory skin and pale blonde hair tended to make her look washed out. But by the glow of a flame she was all-over golden, like a ripe apricot. Anne liked to say she could just about eat her.

"You think it's true, what Phil said, I mean? We never saw Gil on the train–"

"Knowing Gilbert Blythe, he'll probably skate home!"

Stella laughed as she said this. Priss laughed too.

"Yes, that's more like him!" She stopped laughing then and looked into the fire again. "All the same, Roy is trying. I've never seen anything so perfect as that tiny crystal box." Priss sighed once more, like a deflating balloon. "Poor thing," she said.

"Mmm," said Stella, looking at her friend. "Poor thing."

…

The next morning every occupant at Littledean agreed that Anne was looking much better. The sore throat never got past its feeble beginnings, and her nose while red had finally stopped exploding.

"Permission to go aboard then, Sir?" said Anne, with a mock salute. "If we make the next train we might get to the Harbour in time for the nine o'clock crossing."

During the short walk to Amherst station, Priss wondered if she should bring up Roy. Anne never mentioned him once through breakfast, except to ask the best way to get squashed violets off his coat.

All thought of coats, stained or otherwise, became irrelevant when they met Roy at the station. He was dressed in a full-length reindeer fur, his knee-high rubber Wellington boots sticking out beneath it.

"If that fur gets wet–"

"Aha," said Roy, proudly. He opened the coat, revealing its stiff waxy lining. "It's reversible. If a storm blows up I can turn it inside out and still keep warm. The latest innovation."

Priss was suitably impressed, Anne was transfixed by the rest of his purchases. Trunks. Three of them. He would never get one of them in a boat.

"Thought of that too," said Roy, "I plan to hire another boat especially for my luggage. If a boat can carry people it can carry my hats and suits."

Anne did not know how to tell him that unlike hats and suits, people could get out and walk. But perhaps she wouldn't have to. There is every chance the crossing would be an easy one. Yes, Anne decided with a return to her usual optimism, she would think on that instead.

In fact, Priss was the only one who didn't share her enthusiasm. "You'll never get me on an iceboat," she vowed. She was perfectly happy to remain on this side of the Strait.

…

Anne and Roy arrived in Sealtooth Harbour to what Roy called a hullabaloo. They were at the small cabin by the pier where the tickets for the crossing were sold, when five men burst into the room and two of them fell to the floor.

They soon learned these two had been carrying mail from the Island to the Harbour and were blown far off course. Their boat was crushed between two bergs and they were wandering on foot, soaking wet and hypothermic, when a member of the Harbour crew spotted them on the shore ice.

"But we got the mail through, we got the mail," said one man, as he flopped on his back.

"A tot o' rum, please, there's a good lady," said the other. He smelled like he'd already had a good amount, and was looking straight up at Anne.

Roy stood in front of her protectively and tried to guide her away. But Anne wouldn't go until she had made them cups of coffee on the small stove in the corner, and sat with them as they drank it.

"No more rum, not one drop, at least until you've properly warmed up. I want you to promise me," she spoke to them like children. "Promise your good lady."

The Harbour crew who had brought them in unanimously decided they would not attempt the journey to the Island that day. The size and position of the icebergs had to be charted first before another crossing could be made.

Royal Gardner was appalled. It looked like he would have to spend the night at the Harbour's sole and very seedy-looking hotel, after all.

When Roy first learned that Anne had booked a room at the Harbour Hotel, he had been charmed by the notion and considered it sweet reward for forsaking Christmas at Cranborne–and infuriating his mother. While Anne stared out the window of the train in that adorable way of hers, Roy had entertained himself with visions of an intimate dinner and, now that Anne's cold had abated, an enthusiastic kiss outside the door to her room. He was very much wishing they would miss the crossing and tried to think of an excuse to delay. But that was before he saw the hovel they could expect to stay in. This was no cosy seaside inn with holly round the door, but a peeling edifice of smoke-stained brick attached to the excuse for a railway station.

There was nothing to be done but suggest–no, insist–that Anne forget the whole business of Christmas on the Island and accompany him back to Kingsport. It was far too dangerous to cross at this juncture, and Heaven knew how long they might have to wait until it was safe.

Roy had a while to wait before he was able to insist. Anne was ordering the three men to fetch a doctor, find some soup and some good thick blankets. The three men duly did what they were told and scuttled out of the office.

One of the men on the floor winked up at Roy. "Only if she gits in the blankets with me!"

Roy responded with a very sharp, "I say!"

"Yeah," the man drawled, eyeing the pristine reindeer coat. "And I bet that's all you do."

Roy pulled Anne toward the door. Anne pulled back.

"Take no notice," she said, grimly, "they're crazed with cold. Besides I can't leave them, they're likely to ransack the place looking for drink."

"That's the ticket vendor's problem," Roy was getting cross now, "where is the fellow anyway?"

"In a small town like this, he's likely to have more than one job," Anne said sensibly. "Oh look, Roy, the mail." She pointed to a sodden canvas bag that had been dropped near the doorway. "There's a small tear, some of the mail will be wet, we have to find a way of drying it–"

"But it's a felony to interfere with the mail," Roy objected.

"Aha," Anne grinned as she spotted a length of twine that had been strung up along the sloped ceiling. "I think I know what that washing line is for."

Roy objected again, more sternly this time. He was not going to risk his freedom, to say nothing of his reputation, by saving the mail for these rascals. That was until Anne pointed out that if he didn't, he would have to take over the care of those rascals while she strung it up herself. Anne was entirely concerned with them falling asleep and the danger that might bring. While she continued to encourage them to sit up and get nearer the stove, Roy picked through the mail bag and took out the sodden letters. There was only a dozen that looked a little worse for wear. By the end, he was rather proud of the neat job he had made.

"Like a Christmas banner, look," he smiled and waited for Anne to admire it.

Anne was becoming too exasperated to notice. The men in her care kept rambling that redheads were lots warmer than an old stove.

"Sorry Roy, what was that?" she said at last, when the soup and what she hoped was a doctor and was probably a vet, arrived.

"My banner," Roy said proudly.

Anne made sure to give it a long look of appreciation, and gave him a doting smile. The smile faded quickly when she noticed one of the envelopes. It was a letter for her, but the address was in Fred's hand. Why would Fred send her a letter–what if something was wrong?

Her fingers twitched to get to it. If only there weren't so many others about she might have nabbed it, and now it was too late. Roy was right, she was forbidden to touch any mail even if it was addressed to her until it was delivered to her door.

"Are you sure we can't make a crossing now? You said these men were blown off course. If we kept to the proper route I'm sure we could make it," Anne begged the man doling out the soup, "We're packed and ready to go."

"We'll pay you extra," Roy added, certain that that would clinch it.

Every man, down to the ones on the floor shook their head. They would run out of light before they reached the Island if they set out now, even if the route was safe.

"But don't you worry, little lady, we'll git you thar. Tho' if your little brother wants to tip a mite extra, it sartainly wouldn't hurt."

…

The Harbour Hotel was a dingy, two storied building and smelt of fish and beer. Roy was informed there was no morning tea, but the bar was open all day.

Anne found them some pies from a pie cart and invited Roy for a stroll along the pier. The wind sang along the shore ice, it seemed to stretch out for miles and miles, and a pale sun glinted whitely on it, lighting up little flurries of snow.

Roy's pie got two bites before he gave it away to the gulls. The whole thing had been gristle and fat. Anne nibbled on the pastry and looked out to where the sea should be, and wondered and worried about Diana.

"Can you believe it?" Roy said, braving the chill to lift his face from the depths of his reindeer coat. "Those fellows thought I was your brother, your little brother at that."

He had a fair idea why; it was the way Anne had bossed him about. It was hardly his fault he didn't know what to do in such rough surroundings. If he met those same men in Kingsport they would see a different man: a scholar and a captain of industry. He wondered pointlessly how he might arrange such a thing.

Anne gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, the coat-lining cracking under her fingers. "I'm sure that was their way of being polite–"

"Polite?"

"A young woman and a young man travelling alone… It might look like the wild west out here, but folks in these parts are very old fashioned."

"We don't even look alike."

"Not on the outside," Anne admitted. "But on the inside… on the inside we're the same, aren't we, Roy? We want the same things, don't we? Isn't that why you decided to come to the Island?"

"Oh, I would follow you to the gates of Hell," Roy asserted, determined to exert the proper show of manliness now. "But first, my little robin, do you happen to know where the telegraph office is? I'm expecting a reply from Mamma."

…

Dinner was a grizzly affair. The same bits of gristle and fat inside the pies were now doused over some grey looking potatoes.

"I didn't know fish had gristle, I was sure I ordered the chowder."

Anne peered into Roy's bowl from the across the table. "I think that may be flipper."

Roy poured himself another glass of wine. The dusty old bottle proved an excellent vintage, and he had got it for a song.

"I'm not very good at all this," he said suddenly, "roughing it, I mean."

Anne looked up from his bowl. She was all ready to tell him that wasn't true; look how well he had done with the mail, when she caught the gloom in his long-lashed eyes. Roy was looking very lost.

"It's not that you're no good at it, it's just that you're not used to it."

"And you are? Don't tell me this is normal for you?"

She didn't need to, Roy knew it the moment Anne had taken control of two men whom he would have considered uncontrollable. The way she knew they wanted rum, the way she talked them out of it. It was obvious she had dealt with such behavior before.

Anne did not answer, she was trying to cut a boiled bit of meat.

"Forgive me, dearest, I'm not judging, it's just that I had no idea. I never dreamed this place would be so wretched. I can't understand how your family can allow you to travel here alone."

"But I'm not alone, am I? I'm with you."

"All the same, you'd think another of your Island kind might have had the courtesy to accompany you. That Stella, for instance, or the Sloane boy–or Gilbert."

Anne stabbed the roof of her mouth with her fork. Roy never called him Gilbert.

"Gilbert Blythe?" she murmured, struggling to get her mouthful down.

"Is there another?" Roy said, pouring himself a third glass. "I'm not unaware of the candle he holds for you, you know. When I saw you in his arms at the Christmas concert I was wild with jealousy."

Anne coughed, and when Roy offered her his glass she quaffed the lot.

"Oh, that's delicious," she said. "You really must eat, dear, would you like to share my plate? There's no one else in here so no one would know."

The blush that began at the mention of Gilbert's name was now complete. Roy swirled the contents of his freshly filled cup, pretending to examine it, and said, so lightly he might have been talking about the weather:

"You looked very good together."

Anne turned her attention to her carrot, sawing at it till the knife squeaked over her plate. "If you admired our dancing it's only because we know each other so well. I practically learned every dance step with him."

"And that's all?"

"Yes, that's all," Anne said, stabbing some peas. "Gilbert is… well he's–it's the comfort of the familiar, isn't it?" she went on, trying to remember what Phil had said. "It's easy with Gilbert, instead of it being such hard work."

Roy finished the glass, and when he went to pour another he found the bottle was empty. Just like his stomach. He was beginning to feel quite sloshed.

"Hard work being me, I suppose."

"No, I didn't mean that, of course you're not." Anne went to stroke his arm, give him that reassuring squeeze, and saw his hands were now under the table. "I mean being away from the Island," she said, feeling like she was on surer ground now, "I miss it, that's all. Why do you think I took all the trouble to go home?"

"I never knew you were so homesick. You revel in college, I know that you do. You said it was your life's dream to get to Redmond, now all you seem to talk about is going home."

The waitress came in then, she had also sold them the pies earlier that day.

"You wanting dessert?"

Anne said no, and Roy said yes. The girl shrugged and reached up to a small blackboard that was hooked behind Anne's head.

"Apple pie, apple Charlotte, apple crisp," she said.

"How do you make them?" Roy asked, thinking of the seal in his soup.

The girl sighed. "You really want to know? The apple pie is squashed apple Charlotte, and the crisp has the top pulled off and a bit o' sugar on top. Custard's extra."

"I'll take the custard," said Roy, biting his lip.

She had barely left the room before Anne and Roy burst out laughing. They still hadn't stopped when a bowl of the stuff, it must have been a gallon, was plopped onto the table.

"One spoon or two?" she said, grumpily.

Anne smiled at Roy and nodded.

"Two," she said, decidedly. "He'll never make it through alone."

…

They went up the stairs and along the hall, Roy singing shanties along the way. When they stopped outside her door, it was all Roy ever imagined it would be–though he could have done without the smell of beer.

"So," he said, placing his hand on the door Anne was leaning against. He was feeling a little dizzy, she was giggling. He hoped that second bottle of wine hadn't been a mistake. They were in for a big day tomorrow.

"What's so funny?" he asked when Anne wouldn't stop giggling.

"I just realized. It's Sunday."

"So, it is."

"Don't you remember what you said about me missing church and being in a café and drinking red wine on a Sunday?"

Roy's face went all queer as if he was trying to remember. "Wait on," he muttered thickly, "you never missed church that day. In fact, you went to a proper one."

"I'd like to see you say that in Avonlea, we're all good stern Presbyterians there…" Anne slumped as she said this. It was thinking of Avonlea that did it. Her thoughts turned, churned even, as she recalled the letter from Fred. Something had to be wrong, there was no other reason for Fred to write. She vowed to herself she would try to get that letter, felony be damned.

"Roy, you have to help me…"

"You'll have to help me too." He was looking even more queer.

"Why, what is it?"

"Anne, open the door."

"But Roy–darling, this is my room."

"Yes, yes, I know." A sheen of sweat gleamed on his top lip, and he leant his other hand on the wall. "Open it, please Anne."

"Do you want to lie down, I'll walk you across to your room if you like?"

The waitress had given them rooms very far apart.

"No, dearest, I won't make it," he was sounding desperate. "Anne, please let me in."

"I-I don't think I should Roy, I think we both need a good night's sleep–"

"No, Anne, you don't understand–"

Anne tried to shift away, but his arms had pinned her to the spot. "So help me understand, Roy–"

Being the well brought up gentleman he was, Royal Gardner did as he was bid. He apologised profusely, bent his head, and vomited a curdled mix of red wine and custard all over Anne's black boots.

…

Yep, that just happened.

Thank you again for your excellent comments, you're all so cool. I thought over the thrice weekly posting plan and you know what? I decided I am going to post EVERY DAY instead. I know this will affect the number of comments I get, and maybe a lot of you will wait till the whole thing is up before you read it. Personally I think this story reads better as whole rather than a serial. It never came out as chapters, but scenes, one feeding into the next. It has been weird trying to divide them up. I've done it, however and they are ready to go. There are eleven more chapters after this one, ending at chapter fifteen. I really hope they add a little smile to your face and some happiness to your day.

love kwak