New York City, USA
November 2010
To remain as friends
It is not exactly with apprehension that I buzz open the downstairs front door for Ken, it's more of a waiting feeling. Waiting to see what's going to happen.
At first, however, nothing happens at all.
For where I expect to hear his footsteps coming up the stairs not too long after pressing the buzzer, there's just silence. It's only after I've just resolved to close the door again that I hear the faint sound of steps from downstairs, making me pause.
Moment later, Ken appears in the hall. Instead of a motorcycle helmet, he wears a dark woollen hat pulled low over his forehead, and a grey scarf wrapped up to his nose, leaving only his eyes visible. It's a decent enough disguise, though to me, he is unmistakable.
"No motorcycle today?" I ask as I step back into the flat to let him enter.
He, I must give him that, pulls off his boots and places them next to the door before following me inside.
"Riding a motorcycle in that weather? I don't have a death wish," he answers as he winds the scarf free, the door pushed closed behind him.
He has a point. Winter came in his absence and predictably turned New York's streets into veritable minefields of icy patches and slushy puddles.
"Welcome to New York," I reply with a shrug. Because at this time of the year, ice and slush is quite a normal occurrence.
"Isn't it supposed to be on the same latitude as Italy?" he wonders, taking off his hat and frowning in thought.
I just stop myself from shrugging again. "Could be." Because really, what do I care?
His frown deepens. "But then, looking at latitudes, London is more northerly than Newfoundland as well and you wouldn't think that either," he muses.
I make a non-committal sound, causing him to pause in taking off his coat and look at me instead. For a second or two, I hold his gaze, then turn to fuss with the collar of a cardigan thrown over the back of the chair next to me.
"Your neighbour accosted me downstairs," Ken tells me after a moment, his voice measured. "She told me off for not calling you for three weeks."
Mrs Weisz.
I feel my treacherous face heat up.
"Don't mind her," I reply quickly, reaching out to take his coat from him and busying myself with hanging it from a hook at the back of the front door.
When, after a moment, he answers, his voice is thoughtful. "I should though. She isn't wrong."
That gets my attention. Turning, I consider him.
Since I haven't asked him to sit yet, he's still standing next to the kitchenette, absent-mindedly turning his scarf and woollen hat in his hands. "I… I stayed in London longer than I intended to," he finally adds and though that isn't an apology, it could be shaping up to be an explanation, which isn't something to snub at either.
Gesturing for him to take a seat on my make-shift sofa (Mrs Lynde's trusty quilt once more spread over it), I ask, "Was there any particular reason?"
He sits down beside me and sighs deeply. "My mother was… unwell. I had to stay and cover for her."
Something about the way he says 'unwell' makes me wonder if that's just British understatement or something more sinister is at work here, but I also know it's not my place to ask outright. "Is she recovered now?" I enquire instead.
He starts, as if roused from deep thought. "Hm?"
"Your mother. I asked if she is recovered," I repeat. (And it would be a lie to say I'm not burning with curiosity to learn more about all this, but I just about manage to hold my tongue.)
"She is… feeling better." And once more, there's something about the careful way with which he chooses his words that tells me there's more to it than he's telling. "When I left, she was starting to take over some of her duties again and the rest is nothing Father and Aunt Mary can't handle between them, especially if Persis and Teddy pitch in as well."
He's frowning now, his face etched with lines I don't think I ever saw before, and something about the sight of him makes a feeling of sympathy rise within me. Whatever is the matter here, he didn't go AWOL out of sheer carelessness.
And so, because I don't like to see him this despondent, I give him a playful nudge in the side. "What's with your parents and naming their sons for toys anyway?"
Whatever he expected me to say, it obviously wasn't that. Turning, he just stares at me for several seconds and only when I begin to fear that I might have offended him, does he lightly shake his head, smiling almost despite himself.
"In fairness, they are no more responsible for Teddy than they are for Ken," he explains. "He's really named Theodore, for my father's father."
Frowning, I rack my brain for information on Queen Alexandra's husband. I know he's dead, but…
"Died in a car crash when my father was a boy. As did his oldest daughter, my Aunt Margaret. My father was the only one who walked away from it," Ken supplies matter-of-factly.
Well. So much for lightening the mood.
"Your family sure made a habit out of dying young," I observe, wincing the next second as I realise how glib the words sound.
"Oh," Ken smiles wryly, "you have no idea."
So, there are more, are there?
Looking at me, Ken seems to realise that I've run out of things to say, for he circles the conversation back to the beginning. "So, Teddy was named for our grandfather. When he turned eighteen, he was given the same title. Duke of Kendal."
I wrinkle my nose. "Isn't that the teeniest bit creepy?"
At least that gets a laugh out of him. "It really is, isn't it? But I don't think my parents thought of anything but honouring my grandfather. There are several other titles they could have chosen for Teddy, after all. Uncle Al has Hereford and both York and St. Andrews passed out of the immediate family when the descendants of the original holders lost their royal titles along with their proximity to the crown. But there are at least five vacant ducal titles with royal connections they could have picked. Kendal, therefore, was deliberate."
"What about your sister? She's got a special title as well, doesn't she?" I enquire, relieved to have found a relatively safe subject.
"Persis is Princess Royal," Ken answers readily. "The title can only be given to the eldest daughter of the current monarch and is awarded for life. Or – eldest living daughter, I should say. Aunt Mary would have been eligible after her older sister died, but for some reason my grandmother never gave her the title. Thus, when Persis turned eighteen, it was still free to be given to her."
"Persis is also a pretty unusual name," I observe. "In whose honour was she named?"
Ken smiles. "Detected a pattern, did you? But yes, she was named for my mother's grandmother, even though she didn't die until a couple of years after Persis was born."
"What does it mean? Persis?" I wonder, inclining my head slightly.
"Persian woman. Her father – of the original Persis, that is – was an explorer back at the turn of the last century. He was travelling through what was then Persia when his daughter was born and thus named her Persis Susiana, the latter being the name of part of Persia back in ancient times. We still have some of crates of from those expeditions, full of notes and drawings and the odd artefacts."
"He sounds like an interesting man," I remark, though my own interest in dusty old artefacts remains, admittedly, limited.
"He certainly seems to have been driven," Ken agrees. "He caught some exotic illness and died before his time though – there's that pattern again – and left his only daughter in the trusted hands of his old friend and benefactor, the Earl of Holderness."
Anticipating where this is heading, I groan audibly. "Please don't tell me that he married her?"
"Precisely that," nods Ken. "She was twenty and he in his forties. But before you feel too bad for her – she outlived him for almost five decades and, escaping the curse of the early death, saw her great-granddaughter christened with the same unusual name she had."
"Unusual it might be, but there are no toy-related connections attached to it," I point out. "Tell, did your brother's classmates also leave teddy bears lying around for him to find at Eton?"
He looks up, surprised. "Teddy didn't go to Eton. Not to any boarding school, actually," he replies. "I was shuffled off to Cheam at age eight and Eton thereafter, and Persis threatened to shave her head if not allowed to attend Roedean – though her understanding of boarding school was, at the time, mostly informed by Enid Blyton books – but my parents kept Teddy close by in London. He was at Sussex House, followed by Westminster School."
Not that any of those names – save Eton – actually mean anything to me, but then, that's not the important thing in this anyway. More important is how, once again, his posture stiffens as he talks, informing me that not even the schools attended by the royal siblings make for a safe subject.
Seriously. Talking about his family is worse than a game of sodding minesweeper.
At loss as to what else to say, I supply, "St. Clare's."
Ken raises an eyebrow in question.
"St. Clare's. The boarding school in those Enid Blyton books," I elaborate. "One of my sisters went through quite a phase as a child. She even went so far as to try to get my parents to send her to an English boarding school."
"She has that in common with my sister, then," Ken remarks, his body slowly relaxing again. Then – "Tell me about your sisters?"
Which at least has the advantage of not making me feel as if I'm stepping on a metaphorical mine every time I so much as open my mouth.
Getting up from the bed, I quickly take a framed picture from the window sill before sitting back down, cross-legged and facing him.
"Look here," I hold the picture out for him to see. "This is Joy, then Di, then me – obviously – and Nan's last."
He takes a long moment to peruse the four faces smiling up at him. "Are you lined up by age?"
I shake my head. "No. We'd have to move Nan between Joy and Di to get the age line-up correct. She and Di are twins, but Nan was born first. But have another guess."
"Well, it's not height either," Ken determines and that's quite obvious, for to get the organ pipe-visual right, Joy would have to be slotted in between Nan and me.
Lightly drumming my fingers against my knee, I watch him trying to puzzle it out. It takes another second or three, but finally, his face brightens, and he raises his head. "I've got it! It's hair colour, isn't it?"
"Bingo!" I can't help smiling at how pleased he looks with himself, though it wasn't even that hard to puzzle out. In the picture, it's strawberry-blonde Joy next to Di with her flaming-red curls, then me and my much darker, auburn-y hair, providing the bridge from the two brighter redheads to Nan and her "nut-brown tresses" (Mum's words, not mine) at the end of the line.
"Are you close?" asks Ken, looking genuinely curious.
"Definitely," I nod. "I mean, the twins are built-in best friends, whereas Joy spent much of my childhood lugging me around like some kind of life-size doll, so we also split into pairs, but on the whole, we're all close. It's not hard, with a childhood such as ours."
"Tell me about it?" he asks, shuffling to sit more comfortably on Mrs Lynde's quilt.
I take a moment to think before answering, "Well, we all grew up in Halifax because my parents needed to be there for work and Halifax is a lovely place to live in, but my Dad is an Island boy – Prince Edward Island, that is – so we have a home there as well. Whenever school and work and other responsibilities allowed it, Mum and Dad packed us up and drove us out to Ingleside."
"Ingleside?" he queries.
"Our house on the Island," I explain. "It's in this totally quaint little village called Glen St. Mary. You know these places that look like they haven't changed at all in the last century? Glen's like that. They – reluctantly! – allowed in such new-fangled contraptions as refrigerators and washing machines, but only under duress. Shirley regularly gets heart palpations because of the slow internet connection."
"Who's Shirley? Another sister?" Ken asks. When I start giggling in response, his expression turns to one of confusion.
"No," I manage through laughs. "No, Shirley is a brother. One of three."
He blinks, nonplussed. "And you're ribbing me over my parents' choice of names? I mean, what are those other two brothers called? Judy and Loretta?"
"Mary-Kate and Ashley," I shoot back. "Obviously."
He rolls his eyes, but I can see the corners of his mouth lift in a smile anyway.
Relenting, I answer more earnestly, "They're Jem and Walter."
"With Jem also being a perfectly good nickname for Jemima," Ken points out, and you know what? I can't even deny that. If Shirley's got a girl's name, Jem's is at least ambiguous.
"True," I concede. "And I'd argue that Walter got the better end of the stick, but…"
"But Walter," he finishes when I break off, nodding knowingly.
Precisely.
"Now, I can explain away Jem as being short for James or Jeremiah, but how did your other brother end up with a Shirley Temple tribute name?" Ken wonders, raising both eyebrows to almost comical heights.
"It's James," I clarify. "And you'd do well never to mention Shirley Temple in Shirley's presence. Unless you want to tick him off, of course. If so, feel free to discuss her as often as possible. I remember that Jem and Di once made a game out of mentioning at least one Shirley Temple movie a day for an entire summer. Shirley was so mad that he – what?"
He's looking at me rather curiously, making me hesitate. He's not angry or annoyed though. More amused, with the slightest of smiles, and something else, something I can't quite put a finger on.
"Nothing. Carry on," he replies, though the smile stays in place.
Still a little confused, I throw him another quick glance, but when he only nods encouragingly, I do, as asked, carry on. "For all that, Shirley Temple doesn't enter into the naming of Shirley. He got my Mum's maiden name for a given name."
"Why's that?" Ken wants to know.
"When he was born, my Mum was very ill," I explain. "So ill that they didn't know whether she'd pull through. I wasn't even three years old, so I have no recollection of those days, but I know how Joy and Jem and even Walter clam up whenever someone so much as mentions that time, so it must have been bad."
"I can imagine," he remarks and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face, briefly but distinctly.
(What's it now, I wonder?)
To distract him, I quickly continue talking. "Anyway. Dad named Shirley in honour of Mum, back when he didn't know whether she would live. Since he was a boy, Dad could hardly use Anne – and besides, they already used up that one on Nan – so Shirley was the next best thing. When Mum was better, she tacked on Dad's name for a middle name, but by then, Shirley had already started to stick. At least it's also a boy's name in theory, if not in practice."
"Not even really in theory, I'd say," Ken opinions, his expression clear once more.
"No, probably not even in theory," I agree. For while no-one can argue with the sentiment of Shirley's name, it probably garnered him enough teasing to match Ken and his Barbie dolls at least. (Nan thinks that's part of why he likes to spend so much time in the anonymity of the internet, but Nan is also known to interpret childhood traumata into the way someone eats their sandwich, so I'm taking that with a grain of salt.)
"So, seven children. Quite a lot, isn't it?" Ken asks.
I shrug. "I suppose it is. And I'm not saying a family of that size is without its own set of problems – you always need two cars to get anywhere, for one –, but it also has some advantages. Most importantly, you're never alone and thus, rarely lonely either. I mean, even when you're fighting with one sibling, there are still five others to turn to. More often than not, one of them is willing to see your side of the argument, too."
"Built-in allies," Ken concludes with a nod.
"And built-in opponents," I add with a comical little grimace. "It works both ways."
He laughs. "Very probably. I will bow to your superior expertise on the matter."
I bend my head in a mock-bow. "Too generous of you, kind Sir."
His laughter mellows into a smile and I feel myself returning it without thinking. And for a moment, we both just sit there, his eyes holding mine, and just when I think he might say something –
"Meow."
Turning, I see George sitting at my feet, eyeing me accusingly, something grey and furry between his paws.
Well. I suppose there's nothing to kill the moment like a decapitated mouse.
"I'm sorry," I apologise to Ken. "Let me just take care of this."
"No problem," he assures, sitting back on the sofa/bed. "I didn't even see him before. Has he been inside all along?"
Getting up to move over to the kitchenette, I explain, "No, he probably came in through the bathroom window. It's too high up for him to get out of, but he can just about sneak in from the outside, which is why I sometimes leave it open for him when he's out and I'm home. Saves me from having to get up when he returns. When I'm away, I keep a proper window open for him, so he can come and go as he pleases."
I rip off a wad of paper towels and just want to return to take care of the headless rodent, when I see George patting over to me, mouse between his teeth. He carefully places his offering at my feet and looks up beseechingly. I sigh.
"This is very kind of you, Georgie, but you know I don't like mouse for dinner," I tell him. I know I have no reason to feel bad for not wanting to eat the mouse and yet, I totally do.
George just blinks.
Bending down, I scratch his ears in thanks, causing him to purr appreciatively. "Could you call him over to you?" I ask Ken, craning my neck to look at him. "I don't want him to see me throw out the mouse. He might feel bad."
Ken looks very much like he's fighting laughter, but he just manages to keep himself together, instead nodding solemnly. "Come here, George," he calls out.
George doesn't move, merely pressing his head into my hand, eyes closed in bliss. I stop my scratching, straightening again, earning myself a look of utter betrayal in response.
Over in the other side of the room, Ken loudly clears his throat. "If it would please His Majesty to take himself over to the royal bedstead?" he asks, his posh accent more pronounced than I've ever heard before.
George pauses for a moment, before slowly turning his head to look at Ken. And then, after another second of deliberation, he does indeed walk over to him, ears playing alertly, tail swishing from side to side.
Ken, obviously not having expected his calls to be actually successful, moves his legs in, so that instead of stretched out in front of him, they are now closer to the bedpost. "He isn't going to bite me, is he?" he wants to know, voice wary.
I laugh. "More of a dog person, are you?" (Because really, there are two kinds of people on earth, aren't there?)
"Uh-huh," he confirms, his eyes firmly fixed on George, who has now settled in front of him, considering this new intruder thoughtfully.
"If it helps any, I don't think he's going to bite," I assure as I use the paper towels to pick up what's left of the mouse and move to throw it out of the window. "He didn't last time, did he?"
"He didn't even look at me last time," Ken points out, "and he's certainly looking at me now."
"George makes a point of ignoring anyone he sees for the first time. It takes effort to take note of someone and he can't be expected to exert effort on someone who might never even come back," I explain. "But you are back, so now you obviously have to be assessed."
Closing the window again and disposing off the paper towels, I finally walk back to where the two are sitting, still locked in a staring contest.
"What do you think, Georgie? Can he stay?" I ask, nudging him slightly with my foot as I reach him (and then quickly moving said foot to dodge the swipe he directs at it with his left paw).
George doesn't answer, but when I sit back down on the bed, he quickly jumps up after me, padding over to the head end and swirling himself into a furry blob on the pillow, eyes closed, and nose tucked beneath a paw.
"Oh," I remark in surprise. "He likes you."
Ken blinks. "He… he does?" he asks, disbelief lacing his words.
I nod. "Sure. He's willing to sleep in your presence, isn't he? That's a high honour. Not quite up there with giving you gifts, but it's still early days after all."
"If the 'gifts' consist of dead animals, I might not be so keen on them anyway," Ken replies, but there's a twinkle in his eyes, telling me his joking.
And besides… that's just the opening I have been waiting for, isn't it?
"Speaking of gifts… I might have something for you," I admit, not quite able to look at him.
A pause.
"A gift? For me?" His voice, now, is definitely incredulous. But not in a bad way.
"Well, it's your birthday, isn't it?" I defend myself quickly. "And with you being relatively new here and everyone celebrating Thanksgiving today anyway, I wasn't sure… I mean, I thought… alas, it's not much anyway."
Getting up again – and ignoring his amused remark of "who's looking up whom now?" (in fairness, his Wikipedia page was positively boring, with nothing about what Di would call 'the juicy bits') – I walk back over to the kitchen, open the fridge and carefully take out a platter.
I know he has followed me, so upon turning, I offer it to him. He, however, doesn't move, just stares down at the platter in my hands.
Then –
"You baked me a cake." There's a strange quality to his voice.
I nod nervously. "Uh, yes. I did. Obviously. I mean, it's really not much. Just a baking mix, so nothing to get excited about. I'm no Barefoot Contessa for sure. Baking mix… it's hard to mess up, I mean. Even for me.
His eyes remain fixed on the cake.
"You baked me a cake," he repeats, incredulous.
And I'm beginning to think that was a bad idea.
"Izzie helped. Izzie is my niece," I point out quickly, though quite what that information is supposed to mean to him, I don't know. Truth is, I'm babbling and I know it. "This is also why there's a slice missing here at the end. Izzie is a right little capitalist – she demands payment for her work, see? I thought you wouldn't mind, but if you do –"
I get no further.
"Are those rainbow sprinkles?" he asks, leaning forward to inspect the cake more closely.
"Uh, yes," I confirm. "They were supposed to form a 26, but I'm afraid Izzie got a little overboard. She claims everything is improved by rainbow sprinkles. She also insisted on double chocolate. I hope you don't… I mean, do you even like chocolate?"
Finally, he raises his head to look at me, a brilliant smile on his face. "I love chocolate," he assures. "Who doesn't?"
Indeed.
I feel myself breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders relaxing. When he arrived today, I wasn't even sure whether I'd give the cake to him, but once I did, I also wanted him to like it.
"Do you want a slice?" I ask, already placing the cake back on the counter and allowing my hands to busy themselves with getting out a knife to cut it.
Ken's hand, lightly placed on my wrist, makes me freeze.
Feeling shy, I look up at him to find him watching me pensively. "Rilla… we are friends, right?" he asks, his voice very composed, and I have no idea what he's thinking.
"I… yes, sure. We're friends," I quickly agree. "Friends is good. I like that."
But even as I speak, I can feel the way my skin tingles beneath his touch, belying the words.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Restless Farewell' (written by Bob Dylan released by him in 1964).
To AnneShirley:
I don't know whether I ever specified it, but Rilla attends NYU. I don't think she'd be too interested in an Ivy League college, nor would she go for a women's college, so that counted out both Columbia and Barnard - hence, NYU it was.
Actually, I don't think Ken made the MATH wear a bumblebee costume, he just told them to come dressed up as something. However, that doesn't mean he didn't get a good laugh out of the grumpy bumblebee as well ;). (And you better believe that another of the MATHs was dressed as a sexy Eyeore!)
Well, of course Ken irritates you. To say that he's acting impolitely is putting it mildly! I mean, he had a sort-of explanation for it, but it's not actually a proper excuse. He behaved like an idiot and that's a problem. Rilla forgave him now, but she won't forgive him forever. It's definitely something he needs to work on.
I wanted to show the four sisters as being there for each other and propping each other up, so I'm glad that worked. The other three are focusing on Rilla here, but when it's another sister in need of support, she gets it just the same. I'm having fun creating friends for Rilla, but I think that her family will be her most reliable support system, especially going forward and especially considering she will have to lead a life where every new acquaintance must be distrusted on principle.
Mrs Weisz gives excellent advise! She saw that Rilla cares, just like you did, and she doesn't believe in pretending not to feel something when you actually do. But, as evident in this chapter, she also doesn't believe in not calling for three weeks, so Ken probably got more of a tongue lashing than Rilla did ;).
To MarillaCBlythe:
Hello and thanks for being in touch! I'm glad you're enjoying this story and I can promise you that Rilla's family will feature plenty over the course of it. In fact, we'll get to meet most of them pretty soon.
