Chapter 12 - Picnics and Revelations

"I think it was five orphanages and four families," Anne was saying, her face scrunched up as she tried to produce an accurate count of the number of places she had lived at before coming to Avonlea. She sat on the ground under the sheltering branches of the wide maple tree, her arms wrapped around her knees brought up before her. "Or maybe it was four orphanages and five families," she amended the count, tilting her head as she tried to draw upon the memories. "I can't remember exactly," she said slowly. "There's probably some places I don't even remember," she said, turning to look at Gilbert with that statement.

Gilbert met Anne's glance with his own carefully blank one. He too sat beneath the tree, his back against the trunk and his legs stretched out before him. A picnic napkin lay draped casually across his lap and an empty canning jar was propped against his thigh as he listened to Anne's story. He and Anne had been sharing another noon-time picnic across from the Barry potato field and on this day, like many others before it, Anne had been recounting some of her childhood remembrances. Although the stories weren't always happy ones, for Anne had spent much of her early years in orphanages, Gilbert was careful to always present an unruffled face no matter the depressing tale that Anne revealed. He somehow sensed that she wanted...no needed...to talk about her past and that an un-pitying ear was the best thing he could offer her.

The picnics had developed rather informally, first with Anne's offer to bring Gilbert his lunch on that first day. She had only meant to drop the basket off but when Gilbert had invited her to stay and join him while he ate she had agreed. And now it was their daily habit to seek out the refreshing shelter of a nearby tree as they partook of the lunch together. Sometimes Anne ate as well, sometimes she just kept Gilbert company while he ate. The wicker basket Anne brought was filled with goodies from the Green Gables kitchen. She was always mindful to bring a canning jar filled with a cool drink, for Gilbert worked hard in the fields and was sure to be thirsty, and on days when Marilla had baked her famous plum puffs Anne squired away a few, knowing they were always a favourite. And after she had noted Gil's pleasure over her cold fried chicken one time she went to lengths to try to arrange that repast as often as she could. There was usually potato salad, and sandwiches, and all variety of gastronomic pleasures to be found and Anne took secret delight in making the selection as appealing as possible.

When all was readied in the Green Gables kitchen, Anne would hook the basket over her arm near her elbow and set off towards Orchard Slope, to the spot where Gilbert worked in Mr. Barry's potato field. It wasn't a particularly romantic destination, a potato field. Certainly nothing to compare to an elegant dinner at the White Sands, or at any of the refined marble-halled hotels that Anne had read about in books or had conjured in her imagination. But then there was nothing romantic intended about these visits, Anne reminded herself. She was merely helping a friend, a friend who had done her many a kindness and for which she only sought to repay in some small measure. It was strange though. She had sought to repay Gilbert's kindness, and yet in the back of her mind was an awareness that he again was serving a kindness towards her. For upon the return from each encounter Anne marvelled that for some reason she felt lighter inside, as if some unknown weight was slowly being lifted from her shoulders.

It was not until several visits had passed that Anne began to understand the reasons each visit was a boon to her spirits. Over their companionable lunchtime picnics Anne had begun to recount some of her childhood experiences to Gilbert. Ones from before she had come to Avonlea. Stories she had never told anyone, and had kept bottled inside her for a long time. It had really started that day in the forest, when she'd told him her fear about Lizzy and Henry going to an orphanage. He'd asked her then what living in an orphanage was like. That was the first time anyone had ever asked ther that and it was a relief to speak about it then, as it was proving to be now. That she should find relief in unburdening herself in this way was perhaps not a surprise. What was a surprise was that it was Gilbert with whom she found herself most comfortable in the revelations. It had never occured to Anne to recount her stories to Marilla...after all, Marilla--and Matthew--had been the ones to rescue her from her life as a perpetual orphan and Anne recognized and respected Marilla's no-nonsense attitude to life. That practicality determined there was little point in recounting what was already past, like spilled milk on the kitchen floor. And then there was her bosom friend, Diana Barry. Diana was almost too sympathetic. Anne had once begun to relate a little story to her and had met with such a mournful expression on her friend's face that she couldn't continue for fear of causing her most bosomest of friends unnecessary grief. No, unburdening herself to Diana hadn't been an option either.

And that left....Gilbert. Gilbert had neither rescued her from her lonely life, nor presented her with an expression of unbearable sadness upon receipt of her tales. He merely listened with neither remarkable nor un-remarkable interest, his matter-of-fact countenance the perfect garden upon which Anne could plant her memories. And such was the situation today, an unexceptional Thursday by any standards as the pair sat in their favourite spot beneath the large maple tree. An unexceptional day, except that maybe the sky blazed a little bluer, the breeze wafted a light lighter.

"And in every family I lived with it seems like the father was always into the drink. I don't know why that was," Anne wondered aloud. "You wouldn't think the orphanage would deliberately seek out such a family in which to place a child, but then again, maybe it was the family that sought out a home child. Home children made good workers you know, and there was a bit of monetary compensation for taking one in. Maybe that was the incentive. A family with an intoxicated father could probably have used the extra money," Anne nodded to herself, pleased with her own summation. "It's my opinion, Gilbert Blythe, that an intoxicated man does little good to himself or anyone else," Anne relayed a bit of her own Marilla-like practicality. A natural talker, Anne barely paused for breath before she continued on, "Of course some of the families were worse than others, even considering the intoxication. Take the Parkers. Now Mr. Parker was a mean drunk. There was a lot of broken glasses and bruised faces in that house. Anything and anyone that got in his way during one of his 'spells', well, he wasn't one for patience, I can tell you that."

"And did you, Anne?" Gilbert interrupted with the question.

"Hmm?" Anne looked over, pulled from her memories. "Did I what?"

"Did you get in his way?" Gilbert asked, understanding the subtext of Anne's story.

Anne shrugged lightly in apparent nonchalance. "Yes, I did, a lot of times at first. But after a while I learned how to stay clear," Anne said and then paused. "Well, mostly clear," she amended, as Gilbert swallowed hard at her words, his resolve to remain neutral and unpitying put severely to the test at this latest revelation.

"About a year later the Parkers moved to Halifax to live with the wife's sister and I went back to the orphanage. I was sorry to go," Anne said.

"Sorry to go?" Gilbert sputtered in disbelief. Sorry to leave a family where the father was a drunk who apparently beat his wife and children? Who apparently had beaten Anne herself, and by the sounds of it more than once?

"Why yes, Gilbert," Anne stated matter-of-factly. "The orphanage was always worse than any family I lived with."

"How so Anne?" Gilbert asked the question quietly, trying to comprehend, trying to understand in what way an orphanage could be worse that what Anne had already described to him.

"Because....," Anne paused, her brow wrinkling as she tried to figure out the best way to articulate her meaning. "Because in the orphanage I was always invisible," she finally said, in a tone that implied that that cross had been harder to bear than any ill a family had thrust upon her.

"Invisible?" Gilbert queried, surprised at Anne's strange answer.

Anne nodded. Oh, she knew often complained her red hair made her stand out, but that was in a negative way, especially in the orphanages when a prospective family came to select a child. Seeing her red hair and scrawny frame they usually passed her by. But this was something different. Alone within the walls of the orphanages, Anne had often felt invisible. Trying to explain it now, to explain it to Gilbert so he would understand, Anne reached into her memories and drew out a story to illustrate her point.

"One time all the children in the orphanage went on a special outing to the park. You need to understand Gilbert, this wasn't an everyday occurence," Anne drew on the importance of that fact. "Mostly we just played in the small lot behind the orphanage but this was a special trip, a once-a-year trip. They had wagons to take us there as the park was quite a distance from the asylum. It was beautiful day Gilbert and we children got to play in wide open spaces. I've always loved trees and flowers and....," Anne trailed off, waving her hand about, her eyes softening over the pastoral view. "Well you know me," she admitted her faults wryly, "my mind got to wandering as the day wore on and I don't know quite what happened but suddenly I was alone, Gil. All the others, they were gone. I guess maybe they'd been called back when it was time to leave but I hadn't heard them, or maybe I just hadn't noticed," Anne reflected, confessing a second flaw, that of tuning out the activity around her when she was absorbed in something. "At first I just waited. I thought they'd realize I was missing and come back for me, come looking for me. I waited a long time, Gil. No one came," Anne said, her voice growing quieter, a note of undeniable pain behind her words. "So after a while I just started walking, trying to find my way back. But it was a long way. Remember we had taken a wagon there. After a while, when it had been dark for a long time, I finally came to a street I recognized. I was never so relieved in all my life. I had to pound on the orphanage door to get them to open up for me. It was already locked for the night." Anne met Gilbert's eyes, unconsciously emploring his understanding. "Don't you see, Gil? No one had missed me. I was invisible. No child wants to be invisible," Anne shook her head, acknowledging the universal truth. "When the head mistress heard of what happened and came out to see me, she was angry. She sent me to bed without supper. There was no relief that I'd come back safely, only anger because my dress was soaked through," Anne related softly, looking down as she began to pluck sprouts of grass gently from the ground beside her.

"Your dress was soaked through?" Gilbert repeated, saddened by her story but confounded by the detail, wondering if he had missed something. "How did that happen?"

"It had started to rain while I was out," Anne said, still plucking. "A thunderstorm," she elaborated.

Gilbert inhaled sharply, something emanating from the depths of his eyes in spite of his efforts to appear unmoved. "How old were you? How old were you when this happened?" he asked, almost a demand to know.

Anne shrugged. "I dunno, pretty young I think, five maybe six," she replied.

Gilbert was silent a moment, taking it all in. A little girl lost in a thunderstorm, left on her own to find her way home. She must have been frightened, he realized. Although she hadn't said so, Gilbert realized she must have been frightened. A small child lost in a thunderstorm. It was a heart-breaking tale, all the more so because it had happened to Anne, his Anne. And then he remembered something. He remembered that day in Ruby Gillis's parlour, the day of the garden party when he and Anne had run into the house to escape the storm outside. He'd known then that she was frightened, her visible tremors telling him that the storm outside was upsetting her, but he hadn't known why. With a pit forming in his stomach at the knowledge, Gilbert realized he knew why now.

"So you see, being in the orphanage was always worse than with a family," Anne concluded her story. "Although....," Anne looked up and wrinkled a brow in remembrance. "Although there was one time I felt invisible in a family too," she acknowledged.

"When was that?"

Anne pinkened, suddenly realizing the tales of her youth had monopolized the conversation for quite a while. "Gilbert, are you sure you want to hear all this?" she looked over to ask.

"Of course I do, Anne," Gilbert pretended polite interest. Anne's stories were tearing at his gut but he knew Anne needed to tell them, so he put aside his own feelings and encouraged her on.

"Well, it's not important, really," Anne began. "It was when I lived with the Thompsons, this was after the Parkers and before the Hammonds," Anne placed the story in it's proper chronological context. "It was Christmastime and I had seen a wooden toy figure in one of the store windows. It was a toy Nutcracker, from the ballet. You know the one I mean?" Anne asked. At Gilbert's nod, she continued, "Of course I didn't know it was from a ballet back then. I just knew I liked the little red man, that something about him caught my imagination. So I let it slip to Mrs. Thompson how much I liked the figure, you know, just in case anyone was wondering what to get me for Christmas....," Anne trailed off.

"But you didn't get it," Gilbert made the statement, guessing where Anne's story might be headed.

Anne shook her head. "No, I didn't. But it's not so much I minded not getting the nutcracker, Gil," Anne tried to explain. "It's that I didn't get anything. All the children had something to open on Christmas morning, but not me. I was invisible again Gil, just like in the orphanage. I wasn't one of them. I was just the hired help so-to-speak. After that, I learned not to wish for ordinary everyday things. If I ever imagined something it was always something impossibly out of my reach. It was just easier that way. It was easier to wish for things I knew I never would have, than to hope for something that might have been possible, only to be disappointed."

Gilbert took in Anne's latest revelation. So much about her now suddenly made sense. The girl whose mind was filled with flights of imaginative fancy, whose imaginings had begun early on in her life as a way to cope with her unhappy surroundings.

"That's why I'm so grateful to Matthew and Marilla. For all they did for me. I had my first real Christmases with them. My first real presents," Anne smiled at the happy memories, remembering the puffed-sleeved dress Matthew had given her one year.

"Your childhood didn't begin until you came to Avonlea," Gilbert observed.

"What?" Anne turned to him in surprise.

"That's what you said that day in the forest," Gilbert reminded her. "That your childhood only began when you were eleven."

"Yes, yes I guess that's one way to look at it," Anne conceded and then turned to take in a sweep of the view about her. "Oh Gil, I don't want any of this to end! Avonlea is the most wonderful place on earth and I don't want anyone or anything to change!" she rhapsodized her content with the status quo.

Gilbert remained silent at Anne's ferverent proclamation, for he somehow guessed that it indirectly affected him. He remembered his proposal to Anne and her reply that she wanted things to continue on just as they always had. She was happy with things as they were. He supposed that anyone who had only begun their childhood at eleven would not be so anxious to give it up for more adult pursuits at eighteen, including an engagement to marry. It only made sense, he realized, mulling on the snippets of stories he had heard and the small illuminations they gave into Anne's mind and character. Suddenly Gilbert thought of something else and he brightened almost immediately. If Anne Shirley had had a late start on her childhood he could understand her reluctance to accept the proposal of marriage he had made to her just a few short months ago. But all childhoods, even those begun out of their normal sequence, eventually ended. With the first faint flicker of hope he had had in months, Gilbert Blythe suddenly re-evaluated his situation. It was really quite simple, he thought with almost giddy delight. He would wait. He would wait for her. He was nothing if not a patient man, and maybe, in a few years time when she was ready, he would ask his question again.

"Well Anne, I had better get back to work," Gilbert suddenly announced, rising swiftly and reaching his hands to pull a surprised Anne to her feet. As was usual, Anne felt better for the afternoon's unburdening and if she had doubted for a second that her stories were too unsavoury for Gilbert to bear, that they were better kept to herself, this moment removed all doubt. For Gilbert Blythe stood before her, relaxed and untroubled, and grinning from ear to ear.

Author's Note: thanks so much for all the encouraging comments so far. It really motivates me to keep plugging along! :)