Thank you, readers and reviewers alike, for your patience regarding this new chapter!
Chapter Four
'This song of soul I struggle to outbear'
Later, he would remember her eyes, as suddenly and startlingly green as the shade of her dress, and the recognition of her hand again shaking his, her mouth upturned in subtle mockery.
"Pleased to meet you… David."
"Very pleased to meet you, Anne."
It was a strange simpatico, to realise neither had divulged the previous discovery of the other; that the mystical meeting under a tree was indeed perhaps a fever; a haze; a trick of the light. He felt around for his own smile as he acknowledged hers, hoping for bemused rather than sly, and was not entirely sure he succeeded.
Seeing Anne again with a new awareness he perhaps inevitably noted the features that were familiar; the red hair which was perhaps Ford but also very Blythe; the otherworldly grey eyes that occasionally popped up in his own family; the wide, generous smile that was clearly her mother's.
The fetching freckles atop the pale, translucent skin were entirely all her.
His father was regarding the quite beautiful Tessa Ford as if he was a creature emerging from an endless winter hibernation; sniffing the air; wondering; admiring; coltishly enthusiastic; and David was struck, perhaps for the very first time, by an image of his father as he might have been when younger; the long limbs and the engaging awkwardness and the winning, sincere smile, competing with the Blythe self assurance that took longer to grow in him, and was never perhaps the complete fit it had been in his own father or indeed appeared to be in his son.
They ushered their guests through to the lounge, offering drinks, the very image of modern male urbanity instead of what they really were; understudies not entirely sure of their lines and hoping they remembered all the stage directions. David joined the underage Anne Ford in a Diet Coke; Tessa Ford cradled her wine glass elegantly and Rob Blythe occasionally remembered his beer. Their small talk wasn't as excruciating as may have been expected; there was much to comment on regarding the beauties of the Island and the extraordinary spell of weather; there was the ceilidh the Fords had attended in Summerside; there were the local attractions not yet explored; there were the embarrassingly inevitable proud parent dispatches regarding Anne's latest school results and poetry competition entries, and David's Bachelor of Science and medical aspirations.
"Would you like to see the garden?" Rob offered hopefully during a lull in conversation. "Dinner can keep awhile. It's such a lovely evening, and the views are fantastically clear this time of year."
David noticed that Tessa Ford brightened with enthusiasm whilst her daughter visibly blanched. Did Anne Ford not want to risk further exposure to the elements? Did she fear for her shoes out on the grass? Did she not want to risk another outdoor encounter with him?
Her mother and his father walked ahead, both tall and lithe, chatting amiably, her mother's tinkling laugh carrying on the air. David paced himself with Anne out of politeness until she paused altogether, clutching a railing of the verandah with one lily white hand whilst the other clutched her equally and distractingly pale throat.
"So this is your house, then," she offered redundantly, looking around her with an agonised expression. "It's very… nice."
He wondered whether the heat of the day had so taxed her that it had caused her to forfeit most of her vocabulary and a surprising amount of her spirit, which had seemed subdued, if not indeed shaken, since her arrival.
"Thank you," he answered blandly, and then thought to offer more, but knew not what. "It's been in my family a long time."
"Has it?" she offered distractedly, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. "Did you walk down that slope to the valley today?"
"Yes," he nodded. "It leads directly there. Infact, if you yourself had gone a little further you would have come to the pond, which is quite pretty."
"Oh." She made a tentative move forward off the steps and onto what she seemed to regard as the uneven quicksand of the grass. She stared down at the brick wall frowningly, as if it personally offended her.
"You had a gate or a door in your wall?"
David whipped his head towards her. "How did you know that?"
"I… just a guess," she answered, unconvincingly, and started her slow, almost mesmerised walk towards it.
"It used to be much taller. The wall enclosing the garden, that is. But it was tumbling down and the door wasn't needed, so when I was small Dad had it redone."
Anne Ford arrived at the exact point in the wall where the door had once been, but not where the gap now existed to allow passage through. She reached out a tentative hand to touch it, stroking the brickwork reverently.
"Do you have some strange affinity for walls then, Anne Ford? Most people would consider them to be obstacles or obstructions, you know."
She broke herself from her trance, flashing him the grin he had missed from their afternoon.
"Yes, but sometimes you're lucky… and they turn into portals…" she threw the challenge back over her shoulder as she dashed along the wall away from him, as quickly as her shoes and dress would allow her, and disappeared through the gap further along and into the twilight.
He was quick to follow, mostly because he was still uncertain whether she really wasn't some woodland nymph who would dart back into the shadows if he lost sight of her. He needn't have worried; she had stopped up short just at the entrance to the garden and he nearly barrelled into her.
"Oh, it's beautiful!" she breathed, looking around her with a wild, fevered sort of wonder. "It really is a secret garden!"
He smiled and his hazel eyes regarded her carefully as she trailed along the flower beds and the bushes, her fingers brushing the petals and stalks and leaves as if she wanted to retain sensory memory of them. Her long hair, freed from the humidity of the day, floated behind her; a straight red wave rippling gently, or even a kite hovering on the breeze, with a slight curl at the ends that made him want to reach out and twist a tendril around his finger, if only to see whether it retained its shape. In the fading light it gleamed auburn spun with copper and gold, and he stared at it with an unblinking intensity.
"There's… there's no roses?" her puzzlement made him pause; she almost seemed affronted.
He was brought back from his reverie with a jolt, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Really, were these the questions of a mildly curious guest or the cross-examination of the prosecution counsel?
"There used to be roses," he began tightly. "My… my mother loved roses. She was good with roses…" Why was he even telling her this? He didn't know her. He didn't owe her any explanations…
She had turned towards him, poised in long lines and gentle curves, her dress moulding to her delicate, narrow shoulders and waist before falling away to her knee. Her eyes on him were expectant; urging; he might have skittered from the story but something in her look to him made him lunge towards it instead.
"When she died… well, I knew that we wouldn't look after them properly… the roses, that is, and that they would likely die off too. Slowly… like she did."
He wished he could glance away, not wanting to decipher her wide-eyed look not of mere sympathy but of reluctant understanding.
"You pulled them all up?"
He shrugged, deliberately offhand. "It seemed the kindest pre-emptive measure. But my father was not very pleased with me."
"I can imagine." There was a soft smile to her voice, which felt a little like a caress.
He coughed, not wanting to remember the dull, disorienting pain of those first few days, but drawn now into confessing completely to her all the same.
"I did a fair bit of damage, because I was stupid. And roses have thorns, of course." He contemplated for a moment, looking down to the ground and then back to her, and she viewed him with that same quiet intensity from this afternoon. He took a step in approach, and then another; he offered her one long fingered, brown hand; his left hand, palm up.
She looked at him and then down to his hand in the gathering darkness, and then took it tentatively in both her own, peering carefully at whatever he meant her to see. And then she found it; the fine fissure; the thin, jagged white scar running from the base of the fleshy mound near his thumb almost to the pad of his fourth finger, as if pointing the way.
"You mangled your ring finger?"
"Heart finger. * That's what Ma always called it. Because traditionally people thought there was a vein that led directly to the heart. So therefore, it became the ring finger and symbolic and all sorts. Meanwhile I tore a gap in half my hand, actually. It was pretty impressive. Heaps of stitches. Though I guess that was karma at work for you, because my mother was a nurse."
Anne Ford stared down at his hand for an uncomfortably long time, and then, in a gesture as delicate as the brush of a feather, as intimate as a whisper, she traced her own ring finger over the scar, slowly, as if trying to absorb it. His breath hitched.
"Do you think it was the universe sending you a message, or your mom?"
David swallowed with difficulty, and then chuckled darkly to cover his frayed nerves, both at the conversation and the sensation of his hand still in hers, which he extracted quickly.
"You mean, my ma from the other side, warning me to stay the hell away from her roses? Well, I wouldn't put it past her, actually."
She smiled sadly at him. "I'm very sorry about your mother. How long ago?"
He took a breath, his hazel eyes on hers. "Two years."
Anne nodded and stepped away from him, her arms coming to hug herself, as if attempting to ward off her own memories. She flitted her gaze around the garden but didn't really appear to be seeing it now.
"My father has been dead for four," she offered in a flat voice. "Though no plants were harmed in the process."
David's dark brows flew up. "Your… your father died? Anne, I'm sorry. I had the impression that he was…"
"Still alive? Yes, well, I have trouble with my tenses when it comes to him."
She had begun to move around the garden again, agitatedly, her movements lacking her usual fluidity.
"So does this all mean we are actually related then?" she challenged, searching to change the subject.
He passed his left hand through his hair, ruffling his brown curls distractedly. "It would appear so. Sorry about that."
She gave her own laugh, deeper than her mother's and a little forced.
"Karma, I guess."
He smirked. "Well, don't worry. It's sure to be very distant. But my Dad will check it out for us."
Her expression changed. "Oh, really, don't bother him! He might think that I'm… well, fishing for something."
"It's no trouble. It's actually his thing, family history and all. He would have been an historian, I think, if there was any money in it. And, well, if he hadn't admired Great Uncle Jerry so much."
"Great Uncle Jerry?"
He was a lawyer and judge up in Charlottetown. * A great guy, or so I'm told. A war hero too- the First World War, that is. He died well before I was born, but he made a huge impression on Dad. That's where the Gerald is from, actually."
"So you have him to thank!" her tone laughed at him along with her eyes.
He rolled his own eyes. "There are plenty of dubious family names, believe me. Bertha. Walter. One poor guy was even given some girl's name. You got off easily with Anne, that's for sure. Although I'm pretty certain it's a family name, too."
"Really? I just thought my parents liked alliteration. I'm Anne Alexandra. Though, um, the Alexandra is after my father, Alexander… though he went by Alex."
Alex Ford… Alex Ford… Alex Ford…
David frowned, searching his memory. "Alex Ford was your dad? The playwright Alex Ford?"
"Yes," she answered shortly, flicking a pained glance at him and then looking away herself.
Damn. Alex Ford.
Damn.
"Well, a writer is going to like alliteration," he offered lamely, trying to steer their conversation away from the looming cliff face they were in danger of tumbling off.
"I guess so." He watched her walk in a distracted circle before perching herself on the edge of the bench his mother had so often reclined on.
"Well, plenty of alliteration our side too," he was clearly reaching now. "My mother was Melissa Meredith and her brother is Michael."
"Meredith?"
David looked at her curiously. "You've never heard that surname?"
"I don't think so."
"Or Blythe either, come to think of it. I figured that out today." He wondered how to chase away the haunted look that had come over her. Would he risk it? "Do you actually know anything about the family?" he challenged, making himself grin shamelessly, sitting down next to her.
She sniffed and tossed her head imperiously. Well, there, she's back again, he mused, a little relieved.
"I know plenty about the family, Gerald David Blythe! It all started with the great Owen Ford, of course! His grandfather was the schoolmaster, John Selwyn, with his romantic tale of waiting for his bride, Persis Leigh, to come across the sea to him. There was another Persis later on too… and our famed Captain Jim, naturally, who knew and befriended John Selwyn when he himself was a boy… And we have lots of war heroes, too! Captain Ford in the First War and in the Second World War his son was a great fighter pilot and…" her diatribe was rudely interrupted by David, who gave a loud, deliberate and extravagant yawn, and even stretched his long arms for good measure.
"That's fascinating, Anne. Pretty much all the Fords there. I'm glad you have them covered. And that's all great information you could find on the blurb of any edition of The Life-book of Captain Jim, too."
Her pale cheeks flushed to the hue of her hair; both were divertingly becoming.
"Are you sure we're related? Because I find the prospect very unlikely! Not to mention completely laughable!"
And now he was chuckling, because here she was, Anne Ford, as haughtily reminiscent of her branch of the family as it was possible to be; but there was also the Blythe pride on display and a fair measure of the Meredith argumentativeness to boot.
And she was very, annoyingly pretty.
"Well, we'll definitely have to confirm it with my dad now!" He was getting rather curious about the family connection himself. "You might be my long lost aunt or something."
This earned him an expected snort of derision, but at least he had avoided catastrophe.
Fortuitously, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, smiling.
Where on earth are you? Dinner's ready!"
He turned the screen around to her. "I think we've been summoned!"
Anne leapt up, brushing invisible lint from her dress. His gaze strayed inadvertently to the path her hands took. He perhaps wished he had taken the chance to tell her how nice the color was on her.
"Well, I wouldn't mind being related to your dad. He's quite charming and lovely!"
David muzzled a genuine grin this time, as they both made their way out of the garden and back up the slope.
"You know you have just defeated your own argument there, Anne Ford. You can't have my dad and not me. We're a package deal."
That earned him a groan and an admirably theatrical head toss.
As they arrived at the house there was another buzz on his phone.
David- forgot to say Anne's dad was Alex Ford. 'The Life Book' play Alex Ford.
Best not to mention him!
Yep, thanks for the heads-up there, Dad… David let out a long breath and ushered Anne back inside.
Anne was sure the meal was perfectly acceptable, if not exactly cordon bleu, but she could barely focus on the simple task of swallowing pasta and nodding politely when her name was mentioned in conversation.
The uneasiness pressed against her, like a corset slowly constricting her breathing, pushing her ribs, pulling in the trapped air tighter against her body, till it came in shallow, ineffective gasps.
"I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell…" **
The rooms were all wrong. The living room and the dining room had everything aligned incorrectly; furniture and appliances and even décor were positioned as off kilter as were her emotions. And probably her sanity. She saw the rooms as they were once, as they used to be, outlined as shadows; as a thin filmy material from the past draped over the present reality.
"I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell…" **
What was all that before about walls and doors? Stupid! And the roses? Idiot!
"The sighing sound, the lights around the shore." **
Really, it was just one meal. They had mere days left in Glen St Mary. Perhaps she could convince her mother to continue on a little earlier. Perhaps there was a pressing need for her to find a book for school in Charlottetown…
The Life-book of Captain Jim, perchance?
She closed her eyes against her sigh.
When she opened them, across the table a pair of long lashed hazel eyes were regarding her curiously, edged with concern. She had held his hand and traced his scar; had felt his pain call to her own. This tall, curly haired boy-man, with the "splendid chin" ***and "mouth twisted into a teasing smile"… *** Caught in his gaze, she returned it, unwaveringly; ensnared …
"You have been mine before –
How long ago I may not know…" **
The deep-rooted knowledge hit her as a blinding flash, and it took away her remaining breath and her reflexes too; her water glass, held aloft, came crashing down on the table, upsetting her cutlery, and all items sailed to the floor in glorious suspended animation. She lunged; she missed. The glass shattered with loud, resolute acclaim; the cutlery cluttered in jangling affront. Anne leapt in mortification in time not to offset but only to survey the damage.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"It's nothing, Anne," Rob Blythe was quick to soothe. "Happens once a day round here."
David was already on his feet and soon at hers, using his napkin to retrieve the pieces of glass, long fingers nimble and quick; his scar obviously only a cosmetic concern now. She bent to help him.
"I've got it, Anne. It's OK," he murmured.
It wasn't OK. It was very far from being OK.
"Thank you," she whispered, straightening slowly, to meet the open query in her mother's eyes.
"Anne, love?" Tessa ventured.
"I might just use the bathroom, if you don't mind," she addressed the room.
"Of course, Anne. There's one downstairs but the upstairs is bigger."
"I'll show you," David offered quickly, noting her flushed face.
She followed him up the long stairs, which might solve one problem but would undoubtedly lead to a host of others.
On the landing he paused. "Ah, the bathroom's – "
"Yes, I know, thank you," she was too desperate in her escape to be cautious, and went straight past him to the right room, though the many doors were all closed, and did not turn back to ascertain his dumbstruck expression.
She spent five minutes in a panicked pacing and a further five in rallying, righteous self talk along the lines of get your act together this is clearly ridiculous. She surveyed the stricken girl in the mirror with grim dissatisfaction; her hair too bright and her face too pale and her eyes too disturbing. And in the meantime on the other side of that door there was a stranger who wasn't.
What was happening?
Her breathing was shuddering and uneven, and the light headedness buzzed and swarmed. The knocking at the door started politely but then after a moment, hearing her strangled reply, became more insistent.
"Anne? Anne?"
She swung on the door for support as she opened it. David took one look at her blanched face, sheened and waxy, and took her arm firmly.
"Steady, Anne," he instructed, his voice mesmeric and low. "You won't faint if you just breathe slowly."
It perhaps would have been romantic to faint; to swoon perilously and be swept up in his arms. It was to be sure the fabulous Fate that awaited Lady Cordelia; though her eager reunion with those characters seemed a lifetime ago – perhaps in every sense - and not just this afternoon. It was far more romantic to faint than to stagger, at any rate; his iron grip the only thing holding her upright, and David headed for the closest door, which of course happened to be his.
"Sit, Anne. And breathe," he commanded.
"Yes, doctor," she managed impertinently, just to see if she still could.
She perched on the edge of his double bed, and he crouched down before her, disconcertingly close, all eyes and curls and dark brows pulled together in consternation. Which wasn't really helping her.
He viewed her thus, quietly, for a moment, as her breathing slightly steadied. He then disappeared quickly, and returned with a glass of water.
"Let me know if you want to throw this one away, too," he commented dryly, a small smile hovering about his lips.
She rolled her eyes and drank, and began to feel marginally better. "Sorry," she croaked. "I guess… delayed sunstroke."
"I guess," he raised a derisive eyebrow.
"Dave? Everything all right up there?" Rob Blythe called, and David met her aghast expression, and she furiously shook her head.
"Yeah, we're fine, Dad," he shouted from his own door, in a very male method of communication. "I'm just showing Anne some of my college stuff! We'll be down in ten!"
"OK, son!"
He came back towards her, and then turned and fetched something off his desk, messily awash with textbooks and papers and notes and his laptop. He brought her a magazine, which he held up.
"This is my college yearbook," he announced, his look wry. "So now you've seen my college stuff."
He dumped it back on the desk and closed the bedroom door, leaving it enough ajar so that they had some privacy but not so closed she would feel threatened. She swallowed down her flutter of nervousness; not so much butterflies in her stomach as a caged bird bashing itself; scraping its wings against the lining.
David frowned. "Anne, I am not trying to be rude, but there is something very strange going on here."
She was recovering herself, slowly. "Surely the only thing strange is my clumsiness. I'm usually much more dextrous."
He gave a very faint smile at her weak joke, standing, hands in pockets.
"I'd say that actually you're usually much more composed than you have been since arriving here. You're…" he hesitated slightly, "you're not quite the same girl I met today."
Her face heated.
"Well, I'd hate to be boring. And anyway, you didn't much like that girl this afternoon."
He stopped his pacing before the door. "What do you mean? How can you say that?"
"I annoyed you. I challenged you. I called you inbred."
His widening smile was gently amused. "If I remember correctly, you called my family's attitudes inbred."
She sighed, lowering her gaze to her glass. This line of thought was a good way to divert him, but it was a painful diversion nonetheless.
"Is there a difference? I was ill mannered and unfair. And look at the joke on me, anyway. I have only been dissing my own relatives, it seems."
He regarded her with that laser-bright look; the one she feared might strip her soul away.
"Well, there are a few relatives I wouldn't mind dissing myself; the ones that hedge in paying my dad for his services and expertise, for a start."
"So never work with children or animals… or for relations?"
He gave the lightest chuckle. "Something like that."
She lowered the glass to the floor.
"Are you feeling any better?"
"Yes, thanks… a little."
"And … are you going to tell me what's been really going on with you?"
"No, not really."
He regarded her tacit acknowledgement carefully.
"My dad's a lawyer. I could use his tricks of the trade to get it out of you."
She shrugged. "My dad was a writer. I could use his tricks to imaginatively evade any line of questioning."
A full, knowing smirk now. "I think you already have."
They stared at one another in silent impasse.
"I guess… we should be heading back down…" she announced through dry lips. "I've interrupted the evening long enough. Thank you for… your help."
His smirk had faded quickly. "Don't mention it."
Anne rose slowly, testing her balance, too aware of his eyes upon her. She didn't dare glance around the room – she really didn't need any more mental images of this house – and instead walked slowly to the door. He was not barring the way but his not-inconsiderable bulk would make it difficult to push past him.
"Anne…" he seemed to grapple for the words. "I… don't find you annoying. I didn't today and I don't now. Just for the record. I find you unusual and intelligent and frustrating and…" his mouth seemed to fight for the remaining thought, "… intriguing."
She felt the slow heat rise to blanket her exposed skin; it reddened under his gaze as if his gaze was the midday sun they had both found themselves in today; she felt the prickle of it, and the tightness and discomfort of the burn, but also of the way it trapped the breath in her chest again and she thought the only relief from the burn and the breath would be if he might press his body against hers and obliterate both.
Her mouth fell open at the thought of these thoughts; strange and new and wondrous and terrifying.
His gaze dropped, fleetingly, to her mouth.
"Some veil did fall…
Has this been thus before?" **
All of the air had left the room. Gerald David Blythe, relative at large, stared at her in a way that was not, in her somewhat limited experience, strictly familial.
His hazel eyes, darkening as she stared into them, blinked rapidly, as if bringing himself back into consciousness. He inhaled sharply and then stepped away, snapping them both to attention.
"Come on, then, Auntie Anne. They have dessert waiting. And my dad will be just itching to get out his family tree speadsheets."
Right. The relatives thing. "Doesn't he know they have apps for that now?" she searched for a joke, her voice reedy.
He followed her out the door, and even attempted a chagrined eyeroll.
"Don't even go there."
David sat cradling his coffee, wishing it was anything even vaguely alcoholic, and watched his father, as they assembled in the lounge, unfurl his spreadsheets like a proud town crier unrolling his parchment to proclaim an important announcement.
Tessa and Anne Ford were clearly and appropriately admiring.
"Rob, I thought you said you dabbled in a little family history!" Tessa laughed in his ear, to his dad's faint flush of pleasure.
"This is amazingly detailed, Mr Blythe," Anne offered, quietly awed.
"Anne, please. It's Rob. Goodness knows it might be Uncle Rob," his dad continued cheesily, and David felt the dark scowl crawl across his face and lodge itself there.
His father was certainly in his element, both with the enormous set of papers in front of them, too big even for the coffee table, and it looked like with the female company as well. Anne and Tessa inclined their heads eagerly. David barely resisted the urge to vault over the low table and snatch the sheets from them.
Right, then," Rob began earnestly. "I won't pretend we are the only families here in the Glen, but we are the only ones that matter, obviously," he grinned. "So we have the three trees – The Blythes, The Fords and The Merediths." He drew the Ford tree on top of the others before him, and David bitterly lamented he was on the opposite side, deliberately withdrawing from any proximity to Anne (for his safety or for hers he didn't dare contemplate) but now unable to see a thing.
"So up the top we have John Selwyn and Persis Leigh, the Schoolmaster and his bride. I'm sure you're familiar with them," he smiled at the ladies, and Anne grinned broadly.
Yep, she sure is David pursed his lips.
"So John Selwyn built that beautiful old house over at Four Winds," Rob continued, "which is still in your family, of course. It's fully booked out at this time but I could ask the local estate agent if you could have a look through it while you're here."
"Oh, that's a lovely idea!" this from Tessa. "It's such a beautiful spot!"
"Done." Rob smiled to himself, and then regained focus. "So, we see here…" he pointed to the top of the tree, as if a crow's nest on a large and hulking ship, "John and Persis married and had several children, once of them being Alice, and there you have your Owen Ford's mother. He of course fell in love with and married Leslie Moore, who was a widow and a renowned local beauty, though her maiden name was West, and we are vaguely related to the Wests going way back… at least David is through his mother… anyway, in between falling in love Owen had met Captain Jim and was pretty involved in writing his life story…"
David rolled his eyes at the beam of delight that shot across Anne Ford's face.
"Wasn't our ancestor named after Captain Jim?" he reminded pointedly, resisting crossing his arms in belligerence. "And didn't our ancestors the Blythes introduce Owen Ford and Captain Jim?"
"Glad you've been paying attention all this time, son," Rob directed a proud look over towards him. 'That is very true. And that leads us to the link between the Fords and the Blythes, when the families intersect."
Anne had been following this new information avidly, but now she colored at the mention of intersect, as if it was something illicit, and flicked a glance at him before concentrating again on the large pages of so many boughs and branches they resembled not so much a single large tree but rather a small, dense forest.
"So, Anne… Tessa… Owen Ford and Captain Jim were introduced by another Anne… right up the top of the other tree here… so you definitely have a Blythe family name there… she was Anne Shirley, but became Anne Blythe… she had a daughter, Anne, as well, though the daughter was known as Nan. But Anne Blythe had lots of children – seven in all. The eldest son was James Matthew, known as Jem, and he is our Blythe ancestor…" his long Blythe hand, itself a living representation, brushed over the Blythes reverently," and the youngest of the seven was a girl, Betha Marilla, but everyone called her Rilla. And Rilla Blythe married Owen and Leslie's son, Kenneth, and so Rilla Blythe became Rilla Ford. And there is your connection."
Rob sat back on the couch, looking eminently pleased with himself, believing he had just shared some precious secrets of the universe, though David was still bamboozled and he looked over to Anne, who seemed hardly comprehending either, touching the paper on which rested the names, auburn brow furrowed, as if she was trying to understand through osmosis.
"So, Dad, you're saying that Anne and I… are related?"
Again, those grey eyes flashed to him, quick as the beat of a nightingale's wings, and he visualised trees and roses and sun and heat and heavy air and then, upstairs, too much heat and no air.
"Why yes, David, of course."
"Ah… exactly how, again? So Jem and Rilla were brother and sister?" he persisted.
"Yes, that's right."
"And the only link is those two siblings?"
"Yes, sure."
"How long ago was this?"
He tried for a studied nonchalance, which may have fooled his father and perhaps even Tessa Ford, but certainly did not fool Anne. Her cheeks had taken on the hue of an overripe tomato, and she chewed on her lower lip anxiously, unable to look at him.
"Well, then… we're talking generations ago…" Rob waved a dismissive hand, which returned to his precious papers, on which were emblazoned the names of their pasts but would also, disconcertingly, seem to hold the secrets of their futures. "You can actually see the male line in both families, down on through, nice and clearly…" Rob's finger traced the names along with his explanation. "All the firstborn children are male, which certainly makes things easier, regarding not only identification but also the passing on of property… So you have Jem Blythe, and his brother-in-law Kenneth Ford, Rilla's husband… goodness they were an unlucky generation. Young men in their prime in the First World War, and then lived through the Great Depression, just in time to see their own children of age to fight in the Second World War. Just cruel, really. And we can't forget the Merediths, either – they had the same problem…" Rob dug out the third large sheet, scanned it, and pointed with a long finger. "There's Jerry Meredith, Jem's best friend, who married his sister Nan Blythe… such a very devoted couple. We would stay with them whenever we went up to Charlottetown – do you remember some of the stories, Rob? The bats in the belfry story and all? Jerry and Nan had daughters, so they didn't have the worry of children in the war themselves, but certainly Jerry's brother Carl fought in the First World War and…"
"Dad…" David pleaded in growing desperation, "perhaps this is too much information? I just wanted to know whether – "
"Do you mean Jerry Meredith is Great Uncle Jerry?" Anne piped up, tone admirably innocent.
"Why yes, Anne, that's right. Did David tell you? Jerry Meredith was my inspiration for going into law. Just the most terrific, wonderful man, so learned, but so kind. David's mother loved him too – both he and especially his brother Carl, though she was descended from another half brother, Bruce, who followed his own father into the ministry… Did you know that David's name is actually…"
"Yes, I told her!" David groaned, perhaps more dramatically than the moment called for.
"…Gerald," Rob finished with a flourish, in a startling moment of paternal disloyalty.
"David – you're actually a Gerald?" Tessa turned to him with a disconcertingly lovely smile. "After this Great Uncle Jerry? I think that is just gorgeous!"
"We thought so, too," Rob shrugged gravely, his tone all mock sadness.
Anne remained wisely quiet, all gleaming eyes, her mouth twitching at the corners.
He felt himself flush stupidly. "Yes, well, moving on…"
"All right, then…" Rob chuckled, and adjusted his spreadsheets. "So the Fords and the Blythes – and the Merediths for that matter – have their children and their children have children in the same general timeframe, almost keeping pace with one another. This wasn't uncommon after both wars… lots of children born in 1919 and 1920, and likewise after the Second World War. So Jem Blythe's eldest son and Rilla Ford's eldest son, Gilbert Ford, were first cousins, both born in 1919 and 1920, respectively."
"Gilbert Ford the fighter pilot in World War Two?" Anne remembered sweetly.
"Yes, Anne – you certainly know a bit about your Ford history."
Beam me up whispered David to himself, feeling like he might drag his hands down his face like that Scream painting by Munch.
"Now their sons - Blythe and Ford –" Rob's tone grew excited as he warmed to his theme, "were both born after the war, in 1946. There you have your Thomas Ford, Anne. Thomas Carlyle Ford, actually, obviously named after Great Uncle Carl, brother to Great Uncle Jerry and second cousin to our James Blythe. His mother was English, I believe. He'd be your grandfather, then?"
Anne nodded, quietly reverent. "Yes, Grandad Tom."
"He's still going well?"
"Yes, thank you. Fit as a fiddle. He plays a lot of golf and has lunch with mom and I back in Toronto once a month."
"He's quite a force to be reckoned with," Tessa noted, somewhat dryly.
"Ah, well he should get together with my Dad, then. As I noted here on the tree…" he leant over, as Tessa and Anne did and David himself tried to do, "James my dad and your Grandad are second cousins."
"Which made… you and my dad third cousins, Rob?" Anne's question was tentative, still figuring relationships and removes as she went.
"Yes, indeed," Rob's reply was careful. "I saw quite a bit of your dad, growing up, Anne. I have some fun stories about him if you'd like to hear them sometime."
"Yes, I would, thank you," Anne's equally careful, measured response made something in David's chest tug.
"David's mother, Melissa, knew him vaguely, as well. She was his and my third cousin, too."
Here we go… David moaned to himself. He could hardly sit still in his seat anymore.
"You married your cousin?" Anne's smile to Rob was a little arch but mostly bemused.
"Well… distantly. Guess we wanted to keep all the good looks in the family," Rob chuckled.
"Three pairs of eyes swung back his way, making David want to dive under the lounge. He wondered, errantly, if Anne would agree with any of that sentiment.
"So this means…" David had done his calculations, but really just wanted to have the matter confirmed once and for all, "that…"
"Did any of the Blythes write for the local paper?" Anne interrupted out of nowhere, the question earning her a sharp look from Tessa.
Rob laughed in surprise. "Hardly, Anne. I'm afraid we modern day Blythes are a bit too prosaic for that. There was a Meredith cousin, I remember… this is years ago. She edited the paper for a while. She's been in Charlottetown for a good decade, though."
Anne's lips pursed, and Tessa gave her a warning glare he was too tormented to try to decipher.
"Fourth cousins…" David announced wearily. "Anne and I are fourth cousins, right, Dad?"
Rob looked up as if just remembering what had actually brought them all here.
"Oh, yes, David. Fourth cousins. Well done."
He thought he needed another coffee and a good lie down after all that. He watched as Anne and Tessa perused the charts for another few minutes, asking the occasional question. He'd only had the one question himself, and now that it had been answered he felt strangely calm. Fourth cousins was indeed pretty distant. More distant than his own parents. Too distant, really, to explain this weird connection he felt, then, this strange knot of knowing tied up inside him, when he was with Anne Ford.
As if proving his point, she looked back to him, her eyes as unreadable as ever. He raised his dark eyebrows in silent question, with a small tug to his lips and giving an almost indecipherable shrug of his shoulders, as if asking, well, is this all right, then, this business of being linked in this way?
Her tentative smile grew and flourished under his gaze. Which was the best answer she could have possibly given.
A lull descends over the house once their guests depart. The creeping quiet is not unexpected but the ache of emptiness is. David assembles the dishes in the dishwasher whilst his father tidies up the living room, and he's observed him sit before the family trees, and knows he is thinking both of branches rediscovered and what feels like a whole tree lost; overturned in a storm, the roots wrenched from the earth, dirty and tangled and exposed.
He takes two beers out to the lounge.
"Cheers, son. For this evening. I really appreciate it. I even think the cheesecake was edible."
"Don't mention it, Dad. It was a nice night…" what a bland, ineffective description of the past twelve hours, he frowned internally. "I had fun."
"Glad to hear it."
"But I suspect not…" he turned mischievous eyes on his father, "quite as much fun as you did."
David might have expected a knowing chuckle or a chagrined smile, or that long arm waving in dismissal of such cheek, but instead there was a pained smile.
"That's the trouble, son. I enjoyed myself too much. In the company of a woman I brought to your mother's house. Our house. I don't know quite how to feel about that now."
"Dad, you know Ma would want you to – "
"Oh, David, I know. I know all the platitudes. She wouldn't want me to mourn forever. She'd want me to get on with my life. She'd want me to eventually… to find…" he shook his head as if to chase the thought way.
"Just because those are the things people always say, doesn't mean they're not still true."
A shuddering sigh. Rob rubs his signet ring; both comfort and habit. "Perhaps."
They contemplate life and their beer.
"So how about you, son?" Rob queries after a time. "How did you like Anne Ford?"
David also splutters his answer. "She's… she's nice. Interesting…" he falters. Intelligent. Intriguing. And WHAT was that moment back in his room? "Pretty much a Ford through and through, I'd say."
His father can't help his grin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
David rolls his eyes. "Not necessarily…"
"She was a smart young thing. Pretty, too," he gives a sly sidelong look.
"Watch how you talk about my fourth cousin there, Dad. And her mother was passably pretty, as well. Although what's that word I'm looking for…? Was it, ah, ravishing?"
"Yes, all right, Mr Wise Guy. I'll let that one go through."
"She was, though, Tessa Ford. Your powers of observation weren't wrong there."
"Watch how you talk about my…er…third cousin by marriage," Rob parries. 'If that's even a thing."
"Well, there was some sort of thing there, Dad. I think she likes you, you know."
"Yes, well…" now Rob does wave a dismissive hand in embarrassed acknowledgement. "I think she is well used to tolerating interest from bumbling tongue tied idiots."
"Well, if I see any such characters I'll warn her. All I saw was this friendly, handsome, debonair older dude dipping his toe back in the water – quite successfully, I may add."
Now the slow, warm chuckle comes, too. "Honestly, David. Where do you get your chutzpah from?"
"I hear it's a Blythe thing," he grins. "Though sometimes it skips a generation."
Rob Blythe's chuckle merges into a groan. "Tell me about it."
Interlude: ROB BLYTHE
Glen St Mary, PEI, July 1986
Around the time Little Robbie Blythe ceases being either little or desiring of being known as Robbie, he realises a sad and inescapable truth; he is hopelessly in love with Melissa Meredith.
There are some inherent problems with this realisation; firstly, she is his cousin, in the way that most everyone in the Glen are his cousins generally and she happens to be his third cousin specifically; she is unaffectedly beautiful and self-awarely smart and has quite enough admirers as it is; and she is finally, in a way that is both wonderful and simultaneously, frequently torturous, also his best friend.
By the night of his eighteenth birthday party, Rob has almost resigned himself to his wilderness years on the sidelines; watching from afar, as the parade of undeserving swains passes by her, in all their inglorious mullet haired, pastel shirted, thin leather tie-ness. It is really his final, eleventh-hour opportunity; after the summer they will both be heading to Redmond, and then just see the nerds and the jocks and every cliche in between throw themselves at her. The thought makes his stomach lurch. Or perhaps that's just the rum and coke.
"So, buddy, who's it gonna be?" A strong arm claps him on the back, and the tall, rangy, glazed-eyed personage of Michael Meredith leers over his shoulder, breathing fumes that might fell an ox, or quite possibly the entire herd.
"Hiya, Mike."
"Howdy, birthday boy."
"Having fun?"
"More fun than you, obviously." Michael gives a cocky grin, black Meredith eyes flashing in his handsome, pale face, and pulls at his collar to proudly display his latest trophy; already the reddened patch of skin on his neck, amongst the swarthy stubble, is bruising magnificently.
"That's pretty disgusting. You look like a vampire attacked you."
He flicks aside jet black hair. "I'll have to check. She did have very sharp teeth."
Rob's grimace is comically exaggerated. "Really, too much information. Don't tell me you were in my room, either."
"I dunno. I wasn't really noting the décor. And there are so many rooms in this place of yours upstairs who's to know where you end up?"
Rob shakes his head in despair. "I weep for your future, Meredith."
"And I weep for your present, Blythe." Michael scans the room with practised insolence, sharply assessing. "Honestly, V-Man, it's sad. You're eighteen now. You can't be going to Kingsport all clueless with those college girls. So I ask again – who's it gonna be?"
"Who's it gonna be what?" a clear, firm – and decidedly feminine – voice interrupts in answer.
"Jesus, Mel, this is a private conversation!" Michael turns to lambast his sister.
Discomfited hazel eyes meet cool dark blue ones, intelligent and assessing and uncompromising, but as he colors they soften, and her features relax into a wry smile.
"Far be it from me to interfere with your important guy talk; I just came to wish Goose here a happy birthday."
Rob sighs, passing a hand through the straight, dark brown hair that flops into his eyes, and Michael chuckles knowingly and with a glee completely disproportionate to the already tired joke. The three of them have seen Top Gun at the commencement of the summer several weeks ago; Melissa has started to refer to Mike as Maverick and himself as offsider and best friend Goose from virtually the time they have left the cinema. It would have been an insider endearment he wouldn't have minded (last summer's viewing of The Princess Bride had brought about a rash of romantically edged exchanges) but it perhaps isn't the most desirable thing to be associated with the friendly but feckless friend who dies halfway through the film.
He tries to retain his frown but can't resist her quirk in challenge; and breaks out into a smile.
'Thanks, Mel."
"I have a present for you."
"I might have a present for him too," Michael grumbles, with characteristic lack of subtlety.
"Yours can wait, I'm sure," she arches a brow, the artful applique of hot pink lipstick and shadow, uncannily echoing the exact hue of her top, giving an older, knowing air to her declaration, and Rob worries momentarily what exactly she has overheard. "Think you can ditch your own party for a minute?"
Rob glances around the room, littered with half the teenage population of the Glen in various states of inebriation, even as she has his sleeve already dragging him away.
His heart is pulsating in time to the music; a loud and louder drum solo, rhythmic and rising. Melissa is beckoning him. Or perhaps it is Billy Idol.
"In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more…
With a rebel yell, she cried more, more, more…"
"Sure." He is breathless; heady. "I hardly think anyone will miss me."
There is almost a full moon,**** and the light is bright enough to see right down to the garden of Ingleside and the brick wall embracing it. They use the stepladder requisitioned long ago to haul themselves up to sit atop, with the expanse of the harbour falling away beneath them and the garden perfuming the breeze. Melissa Meredith is tawny hair which floats towards him and a distractingly short tiered shirt from which he tries not to notice long lithe pale legs emerge to tap out a gentle beat against the brick. When she was fifteen she had all the accruements of awkward adolescence; braces, hormonal hair; and a boyish figure requiring more imagination than perhaps even she had been able to muster; and he was the one to love her. At eighteen, three months older than he – and a one-upmanship timing quirk she has never let him forget – she is beautiful beyond belief and he is still the one to love her, though too many admire her, and for all the wrong reasons. He hates this and then hates himself for hating it, because he is then no better than any of the others; wanting to hoard her jealously to himself; a miser not wanting to share a penny of her person.
"So, before you hear it from anyone else, I actually have just broken up with Tony Tennyson Drew."
He looks to her with surprise lit with the quick flare of hope. "That's my birthday present?"
"No, idiot! Just for your information."
He frowns into the darkness. "Any especial reason?"
"No, not really…" she lifts a delicate shoulder in a shrug. "He was nice enough, but I don't think a long distance thing would do anyone any favours."
Rob hesitates at the edge, and then plunges in. "Just as well I'm going to Redmond with you, then," he deadpans.
"Well, of course I'd better hang onto you," she offers fondly, her smile wide. She flicks back her hair; changes tack. "So you've definitely decided on law, then?"
"Yeah…" he follows along with her new tangent, reluctantly. "Dad knew that medical school was never on the cards. He's probably a little relieved I won't be majoring in history after all and sitting there for four years contemplating my navel."
"Well, I've seen you in your speedos and it's a very nice navel. But I digress. We may not have another Dr Blythe for a while but the law thing will make a few Merediths happy."
He flushes unseen, both regarding the law and the speedos. He contemplates Great Uncle Jerry for a moment, but then decides its probably best not to invoke meaningful dead mentors when your general current outlook is desperately trying to be a romantic one.
"And no Dr Merediths either?"
She snorts indelicately. "I had enough trouble convincing them of me leaving for the scary big city to study to be Nurse Meredith, quite frankly. Though you'd think they'd be more encouraging considering Michael wants to become a used car salesman."
"I think the term you're looking for is Insurance Agent, Mel," he grins good naturedly. "And he'll be scarily good at it too, so you'll have to let it go. We need some people back here to keep the home fires burning."
"I hardly know if I'd trust my brother with the matches."
He shakes his head again, laughing softly, always bemused by the incessant sibling rivalry. But he is not here wanting to talk about her brother, and he shifts his long body impatiently.
"Well, at any rate… your present, birthday boy."
She fishes around in her little shoulder bag for a small box, and offers it with gleaming eyes.
He weighs it in the palm of his large, long fingered hand.
"Oh, well, I guess the answer's yes then!" he jokes in his nervousness, and then screws his eyes tight at his own idiocy.
Luckily she gives her golden laugh in rescue. "Shut up, Goose! Just open it. We need to get you back to your party."
He does as bidden; he is not far wrong. It is a ring, a signet ring; gold band catching dull shafts of light as he turns it in his fingers; a wide black face which could be onyx, with his initials in gold; RJB.
"You said how you were worried, it you ever got to a courtroom, that you wouldn't know what to do with your hands… Well I saw some crime drama on TV, and the lawyer was giving his closing arguments, and he was completely still, very commanding… he just fiddled with the ring when he had to collect his thoughts. And it gave me the idea. I went in halves with Michael. I hope that doesn't make it too weird."
"No…" he gulps. "It… this is great, Mel. Thank you. I love it… it's really great."
He slides it over his right pinky finger. It feels a little like he has made a vow. He wishes he had gifted her a ring for her own birthday, and damn the consequences, instead of the delicate gold chain she now twists in her own fingers, with the gold heart punctuated by a tiny, infinitesimal diamond, which now winks at him in encouragement. Or perhaps in challenge.
He embraces her swiftly and a little awkwardly, given their perch on the wall, and murmurs his thanks into her honeyed hair. And once he starts he just can't stop himself; a mixture of too long longing and heedless desperation and unaccustomed alcohol.
"I love it… I love you… I love you, Mel…"
He has recited the words in his head so many times he thinks they are still part of his regular daydream. But he feels her stiffen and, no, he has just remade his own daydream as nightmare and the words so long unsaid leap away from him and he can't catch them and gather them back.
"Don't be a goose, Goose," she offers a little shakily, and shimmies neatly off the wall, landing in the garden.
He scrambles after her, his heart paining in his chest.
"Mel…"
"Rob… damn it! I knew I should have gotten you a monogrammed flask or something."
"Mel…"
"Let's not ruin your birthday with all this. Let's just go back inside, OK?"
He backtracks in panic. "Nothing is ruined! At least I hope it isn't. I'm… I'm not expecting the words back, Mel. But I just needed to say them. At least once."
There. There. He is crazed with thirst and has broken the drought of years in one gushing torrent.
Her eyes look up at him; tortured, broken.
"That's why, Rob! I don't deserve you to be saying them!"
"Don't be ridiculous! Guys tell you they love you every day, I'm pretty sure. Why can't I?"
"Because… because I know that you mean it."
Of course he means it. Doesn't she want him to? She is close to tears, and this from a girl who doesn't cry easily. His throat is raw and parched still, and nothing might alleviate the ache of it. It is closing around the words he wants to say to convince her, as if he might outline the case for his own defence. He grabs for her hands, holding them in his own, the weight of the ring already heavy against his skin.
"Do you not think that… we might be good together?" he rasps, more pleading than he means it to be. "We could go across to Redmond together… really together… if not Tony Drew… then why not me?"
He is aware that the ring felt like a vow and this sounds like a proposal. He can see in her eyes that the symbolism is not lost on her.
"Do you not think…" there is a catch to her voice, "that it wouldn't be better to let the world open up to us, rather than close ourselves off from it…?
He scowls at the allusion, taking a step backwards. "Would being with me be such a death sentence, Mel?" his disappointment and his hurt give an edge of bitterness that makes her wince, and he drops her hands. "I'm just asking you to think about going out with me, not elope to Vegas."
The tilt of her head, the questioning of her raised brows, indicate she believes that, for him, there is not much difference.
"I have thought about it…" she offers quietly. "Many times."
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and releases a pained, pent up breath. He wants to say so much more but has already said too much as it is.
He looks away… to the garden, to the roses, to the bench seat, to anywhere but her.
"I guess I've spoiled everything now…" he remarks in a low voice, gravelly with regret.
"No, Rob!" she protests, stepping back to him. "No… we must – we MUST go on being friends." *****
She takes his own hand, the one with the ring, and tugs him back to look at her. There is something in his face that makes hers crumple, and in a rush of movement and air and breath, she leans up and in and toward and her lips are there on his, pressed on his and with his and joining his and enveloped by his. He grasps at her mouth, drowning in her, plummeting and losing sight of the surface. When they finally come apart it is like breaking a suction.
There is silence. Or there would be, but for the distant music from the house and the sound of his own mind disassembling. How can she kiss him like that and not love him?
Her eyes are dark in the already dark but her glow of surprise is a new knowledge, lighting his way.
He raises an eyebrow, though his voice shakes. "You thought all this time it would be like kissing your brother, Mel?" the Blythe in him bursts forth, triumphant.
"I don't make it a habit of close personal contact with Michael if I can help it," she covers herself with the arch line and a look to match it. She turns away from him and folds her arms, not quite so resolute as before.
"So you're saying it doesn't make a difference," he sighs, puffed pride deflating instantly.
"I'm saying we would go out and eventually break up, and then you would hate me and I'd lose you."
"You wouldn't lose me, Mel. Ever."
She inclines her face back to him, imploringly. "You say that now…"
"You won't."
He knows she believes him, but it won't change her course. She is nothing if not a Meredith. But then, he is realising, perhaps truly for the first time, he is nothing if not a Blythe.
He watches her walk slowly around, drifting towards the seat, bobbing away again.
"I'm pretty patient, you know," he finally offers.
She gives an uneasy little laugh.
"Job himself wouldn't be patient enough for this."
"Well, I guess we'll see, Melissa Una Meredith."
He only ever uses her full name sparingly, and only then when he doesn't think he is in imminent danger of attack. He still receives her industrial strength mock glare, but it is his birthday, for one, and she's broken his heart a little all the same, for another.
They stand, swaying, formless, spent.
"Come on, Goose," she finally manages, sounding exhausted. "You're very rude to abandon your guests like this."
His smile tries not to be too sad in answer, and she links her arm in his, casting away from the garden and the moon and the kiss and heading with him back up the slope.
David climbed the stairs to bed, pleasantly tired but not wearied, pausing as he had before to ponder imponderables, such as how someone new to the house was able to distinguish between virtually identical doors.
Or, even, how so much could change in a day.
In his room the echoes of Anne reverberated; where she had sat on the bed; the used water glass; the wall she had leaned against and looked up at him as if wanting him to kiss her.
Had he wanted to?
He rationalised his response; certainly she was attractive, but she was much too young; certainly she was whip-smart and intriguing but also was already driving him a little crazy; certainly it was great to have met her but he had literally only just met her and she would soon be leaving, probably to never be seen again, knowing her family's fondness for keeping their own counsel; certainly they were related, but too distantly to be of any consequence.
And yet…
He sighed. There really wasn't an as yet. Almost… certainly.
In bed he scrolled through messages on his phone, then hesitated before a google search.
On Alex Ford.
This information was there out in the public domain. It wasn't anything she couldn't have, and possibly would have, told him herself. Almost certainly.
Toronto-born playwright of the famous Ford family… Gemini-winning writer-director of the adaptation 'The Life Book', based on the famous 'The Life Book of Captain Jim' by relative and late nineteenth century writer Owen Ford… active in the arts and culture scene in Toronto and wider Ontario and in various business and philanthropic interests… known for exacting, perfectionist nature and behind-the-scenes dalliances… death by misadventure… survived by wife and 'Life Book' leading lady Tessa Ford and daughter Anne Ford…
David sighed, chest tight. This was the mercurial girl he had met; the girl without a father, and in such a way. If she had been brittle at times… if she had been defensive and haughty… well, who could blame her? And yet, that wasn't all there was to her, not at all. There was a sweetness and gentleness too, and a stillness that quietened the restlessness in him. He could hardly bear to look at a link, to a photo from the memorial service; Tessa, beautiful as ever, with the added fragility of the recently bereaved; and Anne… he swallowed. Younger Anne, early teens, with her grave eyes and pinched, pale face and…
For a second, disgusted with himself, he threw the phone down.
She had looked at him, had traced his scar with her finger, had taken his pain for her own.
Maybe… maybe… he HAD wanted to kiss her.
He retrieved his phone. Saw another link.
Anne Ford on Facebook.
It wouldn't be her. There were a hundred Anne Fords in the world; and Ann without the e and Annies and perhaps she went by Alexandra for anonymity. Perhaps she was morally against the idea of social media. She would definitely be against the idea of him now scrolling quickly through the other very many women and girls with her name; Facebook was not good for those who held onto the fragile idea that their identity was unique and special. He scrolled and scrolled through all the Anne Fords he was absolutely in no way related to. And then he paused. He clicked; it was her. A profile shot of a face partially hidden by a large hardcover book; a flash of red.
Unmistakably, irrefutably her. He would know her even after a day.
How should he feel he knew her after only a day?
He would stay well away from thoughts about kissing, but perhaps they could be friends. Cousins, you know.
He sent the request through to her, that girl behind the book, before he thought better of it.
He was too keyed up to sleep now, and so he unpacked the MCAT texts from his backpack; arranged them on his desk, shuffled piles of papers, mentally ran down a study schedule. Seriously, he would have to start work tomorrow, or he might as well front up now to one of the little local cafés and offer his permanent services.
He glanced back at his phone; saw the message; saw the request accepted.
His surprised intake of breath was sharp.
Well, friends. It was official.
And she was awake right now.
He realised he would be able to access her information; the photos and posts and snippets from her life; her soul laid bare. But he was rather laid bare himself in turn. It was a weird sort of intimacy to be flicking now through her profile and information, knowing she was likely doing the same.
He crossed to his own account, and saw that she was there already.
He swallowed.
What had he posted lately?
Well, whatever there was, she was liking it and laughing at it and occasionally loving it. It was a very shallow sort of validation, but he accepted it gladly; she was not an easy person to please. He was likewise doing the same, even adding the occasionally hopefully witty remark; she liked these too, and he wondered at this fragmented correspondence and whether he should just have a proper conversation with her; even a virtual one. He paced the room, cradling his phone, contemplating. He launched his PM, like a sailboat pulling away from the harbour.
David: 12.03am Hi there.
Anne: 12.04am Hi!
David: 12.04am Well this is a new one for me. I hadn't even met you this morning.
Anne: 12.05am Yesterday morning! This is your second day having met some of the extended family.
David: 12.06am You are quite the stickler for detail.
So this is not too weird?
Anne: 12.06am No more so than anything else that has happened to me today.
Anne: 12.07am Well, yesterday.
David: 12.07am What was so weird about yesterday? LOL
Anne: 12.07am Exactly!
David: 12.08am So… you really, really DO like English Victorian poets, then.
Anne: 12.08am Did you ever doubt it?
David: 12.08am Even the films you like are old.
Anne: 12.09am If you start saying 'old' in relation to the 1980's, I believe I'll have to inform your father.
David: 12.09am OK, OK! Retro, then.
Anne: 12.09am Marginally better.
Anne: 12.10am And as for YOU… The X Files? Really?
David: 12.10am Well, the Truth is STILL out there, it seems. Someone has to find it.
Anne: 12.10am If you say so, Mr Science Nerd.
David: 12.11am Excuse me. Hopeful Med Student Nerd.
Anne: 12.11am My apologies.
David: 12.12am Not that I'm getting ANY studying done.
Anne: 12.12am That's a shame. You might have to look at some time management strategies.
David: 12.13am Yes. They involve locking myself in my room for approximately 8 hours tomorrow.
David: 12.13am Er, today.
Anne: 12.13am It's Saturday!
David: 12.14am I KNOW
Anne: 12.14am I guess that's exciting… possibly all the way out here you don't have many options…
David: 12.15am Funny.
Anne: 12.15am So… you wouldn't be coming, then? Tomorrow? Um, today?
David: 12.15am What's happening today? Did I miss something?
Anne: 12.16am I think… the summer house at Four Winds. If your dad can get access.
David: 12.16am Really?
Anne: 12.17am Well, it's not set in concrete…
David: 12.17am Damn.
David: 12.17am Sorry. I mean… that's a shame.
Anne: 12.18am Have you ever seen it?
David: 12.18am The house? No. At least not that I can remember. But the views up that way are amazing.
Anne: 12.18am We can put it off…
David: 12.19am No! Of course not! Don't put it off. You need to go. It's your house.
Anne: 12.19am Hardly. Grandad Tom's house.
David: 12.20am The FORDS' house. GO. Have a great day! Take some photos and put them on here.
Anne: 12.20am Wait a sec.
David: 12.20am Anne?
Anne: 12.21am Just a minute! I need to ask my mom something.
David: 12.21am Anne, if you're going to postpone it because of me…
David: 12.23am Anne, don't postpone it! Really. It's your holiday.
David: 12.25am I'll feel awful if your day is stuffed around just because…
Anne: 12.25am Done! Changed to Sunday! My mum is about to ring your dad…
David: 12.26am Anne – you didn't need to do that!
David: 12.26am Hang on… they swapped numbers?!
Anne: 12.27am Must have.
David: 12.27am This is unprecedented. My dad I mean. He's never… that is –
David: 12.27am That's the phone! The landline…
Anne: 12.28am Aren't you going to answer it?!
David: 12.28am And ruin another chance for him to talk to your mom?
David: 12.29am He's picked it up anyway.
Anne: 12.29am Are you both downstairs?
David: 12.30am Dad's downstairs. I'm up in my room. You know, what's behind door number two…
Anne: 12.30am Oh, right. Of course.
David: 12.31am You?!
Anne: 12.31am Well, we have a fairly big suite here. At the hotel. There's two bedrooms and a kitchenette and a living area. I'm in my room but mom's on her mobile in the lounge.
David: 12.32am Got it.
He's still on the phone you know. That's SEVERAL minutes.
Anne: 12.32am I just hear laughter from my end.
David: 12.33am That's encouraging at least.
David: 12.33am Hang on Anne…
David: 12.38am OK, sorry about that. My dad just came up. Apologising for all the mix ups. And now he says you won't go on a picnic with them tomorrow either?
Anne: 12.39am David, if it was just ME with THEM… well, I'd feel about five.
David: 12.39am This is all my fault. What are you going to DO tomorrow now?
Anne: 12.40am It's not! Anyway I can hang out on my own you know. And I thought I'd maybe check out the library, do a little local history research.
David: 12.40am Local history research? Are you KIDDING?!
Anne:12.41am OK, FAMILY research then.
David: 12.41am Oh…
Anne: 12.42am It's OK. I really want to do this. I mean it!
David: 12.42am Seriously?
Anne: 12.43am Yes, absolutely.
David: 12.44am Well, you know, my dad has more local history books than the library does. And heaps of family stuff. You have no idea – it's all here up in the attic. Boxes and boxes of it. War stuff, letters, photos…
Anne: 12.44am Photos?
David: 12.44am Yeah.
Anne: 12.45am But… you need to study!
David: 12.45am I'll be fine. I will demonstrate excellent time management skills, I promise.
Anne: 12.46am Um, are you sure?
David: 12.46am Positive.
Anne: 12.46am Well, OK, thank you.
David: 12.47am Come round any time.
Anne: 12.47am I think my mom mentioned 10am?
David: 12.48am Perfect. You'll easily recognise me. I'll be the one in the 'I Want to Believe' t shirt.
Anne: 12.48am I don't doubt it for a second.
David: 12.49am I think they're STILL talking!
Anne: 12.49am Kids these days…
Anne: 12.50am Actually… What does this MEAN?!
David: 12.50am Er… it means what you think it means…
Anne: 12.51am As in? After only a day?!
David: 12.51am Excuse me, WE have only known each other a day.
Anne: 12.51am Two days.
David: 12.51am Two days!
Anne: 12.52am Snap
David: 12.52am Jinx
Anne: 12.53am It is very R and J of them…
Anne: 12.53am Sorry, I mean –
David: 12.53am Romeo and Juliet?!
Anne: 12.54am Yes…
David: 12.54am Well, that was Day One. They have three more left.
Anne: 12.55am You remember the timeframe?
David: 12.55am Of course. Doesn't everyone?
Anne: 12.55am No! Guys never do!
David: 12.56am What can I say?!
Anne: 12.56am Keats AND Shakespeare…
David: 12.56am Yes…?
Anne: 12.57am I guess it's reluctantly impressive. For a Pre Med Nerd.
David: 12.57am You should see me quote entire episodes of 'Star Trek.'
Anne: 12.57am Oh, now, see, that's where you lose me.
David: 12.58am NOOOOOOOOO!
David: 12.59am COME BAAAACCCCKKKK!
Anne: 12.59am Who's retro now?!
David: 1am Fine. You win!
Anne: 1am :)
David: 1.01am My dad has JUST GOTTEN OFF THE PHONE! That was completely half an hour.
Anne: 1.02am Well, your dad IS very sweet. And charming. I can't really blame her.
David: 1.02am Cough, cough!
Anne: 1.02am ?
David: 1.03am What about me? You know. The sweet and the charming et cetera.
Anne: 1.03am My understanding is that some traits can skip a generation.
David: 1.03am Harsh!
Anne: 1.04am ;)
David: 1.04am I guess that… reluctantly… it's goodnight, cuz.
Anne: 1.05am That DOES sound Shakespearean!
David: 1.05am Well, you know… come for the looks, stay for the banter
Anne: 1.05am I cannot BELIEVE we are related!
David: 1.06am Goodnight, Anne Ford. See you tomorrow.
David: 1.06am Today.
Anne: 1.06am Goodnight, Gerald 'that's adorable' Blythe.
David: 1.07am :)
Long, long after the twinkling harbour lights through her open window might have lulled her to sleep, and when her mother had eventually relinquished her phone and retired to bed, Anne lay, staring into the darkness, reflecting on a remarkable day that felt like a year.
She had come to the Island to perhaps find some answers about her father, and dared not think she was beginning to find them with regards to herself. Though each answer posed another, different question; she could sit there until forever, endlessly "weav(ing) night and day" ****** trying to separate and unknot the skeins of yarn that were gathered in front of her, the separate hues twisting and turning and joining in multicolored madness; the start and end indistinguishable.
Was her start and end indistinguishable? Was her life begun long ago, and this in itself was just another chapter?
Was his the same?
She had looked to him and she had known him, and she wondered both how on earth and between the stars that was possible and yet how it could be otherwise.
"Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone
But as the meaning of all things that are…" *******
And now she found herself amongst the trees, light winged, ********flitting here and there, landing on each leaf and then each branch, testing each name on her lips. Ford… Meredith… Blythe.
The link between the Fords and the Blythes… where the families intersect.
Was she Rilla? Had she been the youngest girl growing up in Ingleside? To meet and marry the handsome Ford son?
Was he… that handsome son? "A rose by any other name….?" *********
Kenneth… Ken. She tried to conjure him; she repeated his name, whispered, reverent, into the darkness.
She tried to dream him, the tall curly haired boy; across the dining room table; across the gate. To call to him from up the lane.
But he would not hear. He would not turn. He would not come.
Chapter Notes
My chapter title is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 'The Soul's Expression'.
*This is a loving tribute to elizasky's Digitus Cordis from her 'Glen Notes'; one of my favourite of all my many favourites of her writings. In establishing that my modern David/Gerald has links to our Gilbert Blythe of long ago, I tried to insert the not-at-all subtle homage here. Obviously this is not a canon incident but of what I like to refer to – and what most of us would probably acknowledge as - elizasky's New Canon. So in short, it didn't actually happen, but of course it did x
Whilst we are on this subject, I need to acknowledge my indebtedness to elizasky in every single respect for what will become of this story going forward. When I first envisioned modern day Fords and Blythes and Merediths – oh my! – I knew that I wanted to hearken back to their ancestors too, and to tell of some of their stories and links to their future generations. When I considered which branches of the family tree Anne and David would spring from it soon became clear that some iterations of these Blerediths were so vivid in my mind, and so precious and sufficient as they were, that I could not tamper with them. So in this universe of mine we have some New Canon truths – Shirley and Carl are gay; Kenneth Ford is in every way obnoxious and annoying (sorry, kslchen!) and everything that has happened in Glen Notes, Dispatches and everything that will happen in the upcoming The Happiness We Must Win - all from elizasky - I take, beg, borrow and steal for my own, with elizasky's kind and typically humorous, generous and indulgent blessing. So there will be stories and incidents and talismans from her universe that find their way into mine, and I hope you enjoy discovering them. Though one thing is certain – there will absolutely be Whitman 😊
A further thank you to elizasky in helping me unravel the many twisted branches of the Ford-Blythe-Meredith family trees, and also to Rebecca the Historian for her enthusiastic response to this same endeavour.
**Dante Gabriel Rossetti 'Sudden Light'
Although Rossetti helped found the Pre-Raphaelite movement, he also wrote over 300 poems. He and his fellow Pre-Raphaelites took much inspiration from the works of Keats and Tennyson, whom they considered chief amongst their 'Immortals' – writers and artists they admired above all others. When Moxon's 1857 edition of Tennyson's works was published, it was illustrated by Rossetti and fellow Pre-Raphaelite William Holman Hunt.
***Anne of Green Gables Ch. 34 and Ch. 15 respectively
****For anyone desiring to know these things, there was a full moon on Sunday 20th July 1986, though I am positive Glen St Mary would save its birthday celebrations for the Saturday night, when I am sure the light would still be sufficient here 😊
*****Anne of the Island Ch. 20 'Gilbert Speaks'. Naturally.
******Alfred, Lord Tennyson 'The Lady of Shalott'
*******Rossetti Sonnet XXVII 'Heart's Compass'
********John Keats 'Ode to a Nightingale'
*********William Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet Act 2 Sc 2