Glen St. Mary, Canada
December 2010

Just like an old-time movie

To say that my mother likes Christmas would be doing her a grave injustice. Indeed, love would be a far more accurate term.

She is known to jump at any and every opportunity to gather her family and throw a good party, but Christmas is the season she adores most especially. That's not to say she won't happily chew some unfortunate person's ear off about the commercialisation of Christmas and what a right travesty it is, but such concerns aside, it's the one time of that year that brings out the best in her. Having been blessed with seven children and two decades of time, she is also by now in possession of more than enough home-made Christmas decorations to last her a lifetime, thus happily circumventing any reliance on commercially sold articles.

When Dan pulls up the rental car in front of Ingleside, we are therefore greeted by Mum's customary decorating, with the trees surrounding the house dressed up in fairy lights and colourful wooden baubles. The house itself is lit up brightly, shining out into the approaching dusk, reminding me once again why, of all the places I've called home so far, Ingleside has always been Home.

We pile out of the car, Izzie expertly slipping through her father's grasp and racing up the steps to the veranda, right into Mum's waiting arms.

"There's my favourite granddaughter!" Mum exclaims, smothering Izzie in kisses and causing the girl to giggle uncontrollably.

"She never lets me do that," Joy mutters drily, meaning her daughter and being right on all accounts. Kisses, as far as Izzie is concerned, are icky and only to be allowed sparingly – unless you're Mum of course, in which cases all rules are off.

On the veranda, Mum has hoisted Izzie onto her hip, stretching out her free arm towards Jake. "And my favourite grandson!"

"I'm your only grandson, Granny," Jake points out earnestly, but lets himself be engulfed in a hug anyway.

"Only because my children are all regrettably lazy in providing me with more grandchildren," remarks Mum, glancing pointedly towards Joy and me.

"Hey!" Joy protests immediately. "No looking at me, please. I'm the only one who did her dues, after all."

I nod. "And you wouldn't really want me to pop out a baby next summer with no daddy to show for it, would you?"

"Every baby has a daddy," corrects Izzie with a giggle. "Silly Rilla."

The blessed child.

"Technically speaking," murmurs Joy, but quiet enough so her daughter doesn't hear.

Stifling a laugh, I advise Mum, "Why don't you go and pester Nan instead? I'd put money on her being the next one to procreate."

"I do think Nan and Jerry want to get married first, so that might be a while," Mum declares with an air of regret, before shrugging it off by offering a hand for Jake to take. Turning, she leads him inside the house, Izzie still perched on her hip.

"Well, I suppose that's me in my place then," remarks Joy drily, raising both eyebrows comically.

"You were married when you had Jake," I remind her, though truthfully, her point doesn't fully escape me.

She shrugs. "Barely. I was huge at the wedding."

Which… yeah, she was.

Glancing over her shoulder at Dan, who is busy unloading the car, Joy asks, "Do you need any help, darling?"

Dan's head resurfaces from the depth of the car boot. "That would be nice," he confirms with a smile.

Joy nods briskly. "We'll be sure to send you a brother or two for assistance." This, while linking arms with me and pulling me towards the house, leaving me barely enough time for an apologetic shrug in Dan's direction.

To her credit, she has barely entered the house before grabbing the arm of a passing Jem – showing admirable reflexes, no doubt honed by years of running after Izzie – and announcing, "Brother dear! I have missed you, I love you and I am very glad to see you. Now do be a sweetheart and go help Dan with our luggage, will you?"

Jem turns with a grin. "Please?" he supplies pointedly.

Joy just inclines her head and raises an impatient eyebrow, causing Jem to look at me instead.

I raise both hands in defence. "Oh, no. I'm staying out of this."

"Isn't it your luggage as well?" asks Jem slyly.

In reply, I wave my hands around vaguely. "My luggage, your luggage. So complicated. Isn't the concept of individual possessions an outdated one anyway?" I ask breezily, tossing my head slightly.

"I don't know. You might want to ask Walt about how communism worked out for the Russians," Jem suggests and wiggles his eyebrows, making me laugh.

Thus satisfied (for by laughing first, I marked myself as the loser in our exchange – it's a bit like a blinking contest), Jem turns towards Joy again. "And speaking of outdated, don't modern women make a point of carrying their own luggage in this day and age?"

"They might. But luckily, I am only ever as modern as it suits me to be at any given point," Joy declares loftily. "Now, off you go." This accompanied by a shooing motion of her hand.

Now laughing himself, Jem tips his temple in a mock-salute, before slipping past us and out the door, towards a waiting Dan.

Watching him leave as she takes off her coat, Joy gives an exaggerated sigh. "I used to have him better-trained," she remarks. "Faith must have been lax with him."

"I heard that," comes the bright voice of Faith Meredith, right before the woman herself floats out of the kitchen to bestow a kiss upon each of us.

"And I ask you to please ignore it," I interject quickly from the depth of my own coat, before Joy can start doling out tips on how to keep our brother suitably domesticated.

"Already forgotten," agrees Faith cheerfully and smiles one of her dazzling smiles. (Faith is so blinding a person that she makes you want to squint. It's good that she's also nice, for otherwise, I'm sure I'd find reasons to detest her. On principle.)

"Aren't you staying for dinner?" I ask as Faith takes her coat from the rack I just hung mine from. I know that she and Jem came with Mum and Dad from Halifax a few days ago, but that Faith is staying with her own family over at the Manse.

Faith shakes her head. "No, I just popped over to bring you some of Rosemary's dessert. She cooked up a storm today. She always does when Cecilia comes to visit. God knows why. It's not like Cecilia actually cares."

I might wager a guess as to the why of that, actually. For Faith, Cecilia is primarily her mother (though none of her children actually call her that), but she is also… a lot. In every possible sense. And if cooking calms Rosemary, I can definitely see why she turns to cooking every time she has to host her predecessor.

A quick glance at Joy tells me that she, too, is swallowing a reply. Seconds later, we're thankfully saved by Jem and Dan bustling in from the cold, both of them laden with luggage. Jem immediately proceeds to drop everything at Joy's feet, staying bend down with his hands on the suitcase handles and muttering darkly about women and too many clothes.

Faith, laughing brightly at this, merely leans down to drop a kiss on Jem's red curls, before declaring, "That's my cue. See you tomorrow, everyone!" A cheerful wave and she exists through the door that Dan is holding open for her with a foot.

He is doing a rather sorry job of keeping himself and his load balanced upright with only one leg to stand on, so I quickly reach out to take the door from him, closing it behind Faith's retreating form.

Dan takes the opportunity to nudge Jem with the bag he's holding. "Come on. Let's take these upstairs."

Jem casts a less than enthused look in Joy's general direction (which she summarily ignores), but does straighten again, hoisting up the suitcases as he does. "If I throw out my back over your luggage, I'm invoicing you for all health-related costs, Joy-Joy," he informs her.

Joy grins. "Oh, I'd like to see you try," she challenges. "You'd need to prove that it was the singular event of luggage carrying that hurt your back and I'm fairly certain I could shed reasonable doubt on that."

For a moment, Jem seems to mull this over, but when a questioning glance at Dan only garners him nodded confirmation of this legal obstacle, he accepts it with a harrumphing sound and starts stomping up the stairs without further discussion. Dan follows him, shaking his head in amusement, and Joy looks after them both with a pleased little smile.

(He should have known better anyway. It's not like any of us ever won an argument against Joy, once she made up her mind to be victorious.)

"See? Five minutes with me and he's already back to being a good boy," Joy announces with great satisfaction.

"If only your daughter would listen to you half as well." My voice is an innocent sing-song, but that was never going to fool my sister. (Nor was it meant to.)

And indeed, Joy's head whips around with admirable speed. "Quiet on the peanut gallery, if you please!" she demands. Then, brushing of my impetuous comment with typical briskness, "Now, let's see who else is around to say hello to."

"You might start with your old dad," comes the amused suggestion from behind us, causing us to turn as one.

"Dad!" exclaims Joy, her face immediately brightening.

"Hello Daddy," I add, beaming at him.

He extends both arms, one for each of us to step into, and holds us close for a long moment. For while Mum truly starts to shine whenever she has her family around her, there's a quiet sort of satisfaction within Dad as well that is equally heartfelt.

"I was just saying to Rilla that Jem is lacking in proper manners," Joy informs Dad with a mischievous smile as she takes a step back again. "You really ought to have taught him better."

"Ah, but that's why we had you first. To keep all your younger siblings in line," Dad replies without missing a beat, his eyes twinkling at her.

Joy purses her lips. "Oh, har har. Very funny, Dad," she answers sarcastically.

"Who says I was joking?" asks Dad, winking at me and giving my shoulder a squeeze when I laugh.

It's pretty funny, to see Joy's face change as her mind works to come up with a killing reply. She's so used to being wittier than everyone around here that she tends to forget that, compared to Mum and Dad, she is but a novice.

Obviously giving the conversation with Dad up as a battle lost, she turns to me for easier prey. "Be that was it may," she remarks (which is just about the most passive-aggressive thing to say, isn't it?), "it really is quite useful to have a man around the house to do the lugging, Rilla. That Tristan of yours was a wimp, but you might consider getting yourself an improved model instead."

We-ell…

I am saved from replying by Dad laughing loudly. "Even if we have failed in teaching our sons proper manners, we obviously succeeded in installing in our daughters every possible feminist virtue," he points out.

Joy narrows her eyes at him slightly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"At least it's not something that was ever in question," decrees Walter, coming in from the kitchen and munching on a cookie. "And it extended to us boys as well, didn't it? I still remember holding a presentation on Edith Archibald back when I was ten or so, and no-one in my class knowing who she was."

"Which reveals a worrying lack of education on their part," remarks Joy with a click of her tongue.

Dad turns his head very slightly and gives me a conspiratorial smile, making me laugh.

"Oh, come off your high horse, will you, Joy?" I chastise my sister. "You can hardly fault a bunch of ten-year-olds for not knowing every feminist icon under the sun."

Joy looks like she does very much fault Walter's old classmates for this black hole in their childhood knowledge but is prevented from arguing her point further by her son barrelling into the hall from wherever he had disappeared to earlier.

To have Jake barrel anywhere with such speed is an unusual occurrence in itself, thus reliably reclaiming Joy's attention. Usually, it's far more likely to be Izzie doing the grand entrances.

Jake skids to a halt in front of his mother, looking up at her beseechingly. "Mum, can I have a puppy?"

Before Joy has a chance to answer (though, given her nonplussed expression, I'm not sure she had an answer at the ready anyway), an excited puppy comes following Jake, yapping loudly as it squirrels around everyone's legs, leaping up to surprising heights intermittently.

Joy's expression turns slightly alarmed. "You didn't…" she chokes out, looking at Dad with slightly crazed eyes.

"Not to worry," interjects Walter while calmly finishing off the last bite of his cookie. "He's Jem's."

It's almost possible to physically grasp the relief radiating from Joy's form.

"But he's so sweet, Mum," argues Jake. "Isn't he so sweet?" He has kneeled down next to the puppy and put an arm around it, trying to make it look up at Joy, though this is complicated by the fact that the dog obviously much rather wants to wash Jake's face with a very rosy and very wet tongue.

"He is… certainly almost canine-looking," Joy answers carefully, causing Walter to snort with laughter and Dad to chuckle quietly. I, too, can't help laughing at the aptness of her words.

The puppy is, admittedly, cute in the way almost all juvenile beings are (save for human babies, that is – those just mostly tend to be strangely hairless), but it is otherwise a unique looking dog. It's of no discernible breed, that is for certain. Its base colour seems to be yellow, with random black dots all over, one of them sitting rather unbecomingly on of its brown eyes, out of which he is now looking up at Joy with a look beseechingly enough to rival Jake's.

"Where did Jem get him anyway?" I direct the question at Walter, but the answer comes from Jem himself, currently descending the stairs after having obviously relieved himself of our luggage.

"Faith found him," he explains. "He was out in the snow, all wet and shivering. She took him home with a view to bring him to an animal shelter the next day but…"

But not a chance in hell. Clearly.

"You always did want a dog," Walter remarks amiably.

Beside me, Dad groans softly as he undoubtedly remembers the many discussions he had with a boy Jem over his wish for a dog. My parents – probably rightfully – argued that with an already chaotic household such as ours, it would hardly do to add a dog, but that never prevented Jem from trying to change their minds. He once memorably went three days without speaking to either of them, though not even that helped in furthering his cause.

Truly, how Faith could ever think there was any chance of her handing the dog over to a shelter after it spent a night next to (or maybe inside) Jem's bed is quite beyond me. Though, knowing her and knowing him, she probably never really expected him to relinquish it.

"What's it called?" I ask with a nod towards the puppy, which has wriggled free from Jake's grasp and has ambled over to Jem, making a rather sorry-looking attempt at climbing up his leg.

"We haven't really figured out a name yet," Jem answers, picking up the puppy and immediately getting his own face washed for his effort.

(Feeling my slight shudder at the sight, Dad squeezes my shoulder in solidarity.)

"But he needs a name, Uncle Jem!" protests Jake while he is being pulled to his feet by his mother, who looks by all accounts as if she'd prefer the puppy subject to be dropped as quickly as possible.

I, though, feel I can't really argue with Jake's logic. Think of the puppy what you will, but if it's staying (and it very much looks like it will) it does, clearly, need a name.

"What have you been calling it then?" I enquire of Jem.

Jem frowns. "Oh, well. We mostly just call him Dog, really."

"But that's not a proper name for it. Seriously, Jem!" I argue, shaking my head in disbelief.

"It is a dog though," Jem points out.

"Arguably," mutters Joy under her breath, causing both Walter and Dad to grin.

"Still," I persist, "we're not going around and calling you Human either, are we?"

Jake perks up at this. "We might call Uncle Jem homo sapiens sapiens," he adds helpfully. "And the puppy would be canis lupus familiaris."

"For one, Jakey, that's not a proper name for a dog either," I inform him earnestly, "and for another, I do think Uncle Jem would be much more aptly called an ape. Help me out – what are those big orange ones called?"

Jake stares at me, obviously both slightly scandalised and utterly amazed at what I just said. But when the three men all start laughing – Jem, to his credit, laughing loudest of them all – he, too, allows himself to be overcome by giggles. Even Joy, though she obviously can't decide whether to see the funny side or be disapproving of me corrupting her son's manners, has trouble fighting a smile.

"I do think you mean an orang-utan, Rilla," Dad finally answers my question, still chuckling to himself.

"They're also called pongos," Jake adds eagerly.

Walter makes a thoughtful sound. "Might be a name for the puppy?" he suggests.

But Joy shakes her head. "It may be many things – and I'm still not wholly convinced it is really a dog – but I think we can rule out 'great ape' as a possible species," she decides firmly and nods towards the puppy, which is currently trying to clamber onto Jem's shoulders.

"True," concedes Walter. "Any other suggestions?"

"Rilla?" asks Dad and turns his head to look down at me. "You insisted it be named, I think?"

But I haven't even so much as opened my mouth when Jem already protests. "I don't think so! If Rilla names him, he will just end up with some silly prince's name."

Within a fraction of a second, I feel myself going cold. How could he possibly – ?

But Jem isn't finished yet. "I mean, what's that cat of yours called? King Something-Or-Another?" he asks, raising both eyebrows sceptically.

I, however, feel the breath coming back to my lungs. For a moment there I really thought… but no matter.

"He is called George, which is a perfectly serviceable name, thank you very much," I inform Jem haughtily, though my heart is still beating at twice its normal speed.

Dad, who still has an arm comfortably around my shoulders, looks at me questionably, but luckily, my siblings don't give him much of a chance to enquire what's the matter with me.

"Alright, then we'll do it this way," Walter remarks firmly. "When did Faith find him?"

Jem blinks in confusion, but answers anyway. "The sixth, I think."

Walter nods. "Which was a…?"

"Monday!" Jake pipes up immediately.

"Monday it is then," decides Walter.

Jem blinks again. "For a name?" he asks, clearly unconvinced.

"Like in Robinson Crusoe, Uncle Jem. Like Friday, only Monday," explains Jake helpfully, though that he sees the need for an explanation at all is only because he wasn't around during Jem's boyhood. No-one loved a good adventure story quite like Jem did – except, maybe, Jake himself.

"I like it," Dad remarks thoughtfully. Then, calling out quietly, "Monday!"

The puppy raises its head from where it has rested against Jem's neck, pricks up its ear and yaps in answer.

"I guess that settles that, then," Joy points out drily, though there's a small smile playing on her lips as well.

"Monday!" calls out Jake, to the same effect as Dad. Even more, the puppy starts squirming, demanding to be set down again. When Jem does so, dog Monday immediately skitters over to Jake, who beams happily.

"Come on, Monday! Race you!" he exclaims, causing the puppy to leap up excitedly. Moments later, both have sprinted from the hall, disappearing further into the house, until only the puppy's faint yapping can be heard.

We all look after them for a moment, before Joy sighs, her eyes seeking out Jem's. "If he's going to spend the rest of this vacation badgering me for his own puppy, I will kill you," she informs him politely.

"But isn't that illegal?" asks Jem with a smirk.

"It might count as self-defence," I counter earnestly.

Joy smiles in my direction. "Thank you. Yes, I do think the right jury would see why I had to do it," she argues.

"I would acquit you," agrees Dad kindly, causing Joy's smile to widen and Jem to splutter in indignation.

"Very kind of you, Dad," Joy acknowledges, looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "Now, what about you, Rilla? Walter?"

I shrug. "Sure. I'm going to sit with Dad on that one."

"Good girl," Joy smiles. Then, raising her eyebrows at Walter, "Walt?"

"Ah, well…" he rummages. "It might be a tad drastic?"

Making a disapproving sound at such traitorous thoughts, Joy quickly waves a hand to silence him. "No matter. Where is everyone else?"

"Are you taking a vote on whether you get to kill me?" asks an incredulous Jem, just as Dad answers, "Your sisters won't arrive until tomorrow. Shirley should be upstairs."

"Probably hacking the CIA," mutters Walter.

Dad shifts uneasily beside me. "He wouldn't really attempt to hack the CIA," he protests. A beat, then, quieter, "Would he?"

All five of us exchange glances, no-one quite ready to definitely assert that no, he wouldn't.

Finally, Joy clears her throat. "Right," she remarks, her expression still slightly doubtfully. "Be that as it may… Does anyone know where the other half of my family ran off to?"

"Dan wanted to start on unpacking all that stuff you brought," replies Jem meaningfully, rubbing his shoulder to emphasise his point.

"And Izzie is with Mum in the kitchen, sampling Christmas cookies," knows Walter.

Uh-uh.

And, indeed – with an anguished groan, Joy throws her head back, staring at the ceiling as if hoping for some support from up on high.

"You!" she then exclaims with a finger pointed at Jem, her expression leaving little doubt that she's past letting the family vote on his violent demise. "First, you make my son want a puppy. And now Mum goes and gives Izzie –," she breaks off with a shudder, grappling for words, "gives her – gives her – sugar!"

And even as Joy wails and Dad smiles indulgently and both Jem and Walter laugh with little apparent mercy, I can't help a secret little smile. For no matter how surreal my life might otherwise be at the moment – I can always count on life in Ingleside to remain forever unchanged.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'If You Could Read My Mind' (written by Gordon Lightfoot, released by him in 1970).


A/N: My lovely beta-reader specifically asked me to inform you that she is to blame for all remaining mistakes in this chapter. She was drunk on champagne when reading it. (Living the good life, apparently.)


To AnneShirley:
School's important, no argument there! Here's hoping matriculation works out well for you and they give you a moment to breathe once in a while. Tell me when it's D-Day, so I can cross my fingers for you, yes? :)
If, however, you should ever find yourself with one or two minutes of free time after reading a new chapter, do spare the tiniest thought for me, yes? Reviews are the only currency us writers are dealing with on this site, after all, and yours are always most welcome, even if truncated in length by time constraints. (Which is not to say that I don't really enjoy reading your long reviews. I totally do! I just mean to say that I prefer shorter ones over not hearing anything from you at all.)
I love that you picked up on the bit with Tracy, because I don't think very many people did. In fairness, it's pushed aside a bit by things happening afterwards, but I like to think it tells you rather a bit about both Ken and Rilla. A somewhat important bit, actually.
Ha, you and me both!
My Dad's about ten years too young for Woodstock as well, but he had older brothers to influence him and, in turn, passed that influence on. I could sing you Yellow Submarine, start to finish, long before knowing what a submarine even was. (And I still don't know the text to our national anthem. Just bits and pieces.)
You might be pleased to hear that Anne and Gilbert's first encounter, even in this universe, involves some head whacking. More on this in two chapters' time. And yes, the royal family is fundamentally dysfunctional. That's half the fun in writing them, see? As for Aunt
Mary, she's the sensible one in the family who keeps things together, but I wouldn't exactly call her 'normal'. Ken doesn't notice, because he's up on par with her in rank, but Aunt Mary is very aware that she's a princess of the realm. She takes great care that other people are aware of this as well.
Oh, no worries, Gilbert likes Joni Mitchell's music plenty. So does Rilla. Ken might lean more towards rock and a little less towards folk though (Rilla is the other way 'round). And 'Love Song to a Stranger' is a very confusing situation indeed. I think the one I quoted is the first part, but I wouldn't bet money on it.
That iPod is prescient, of course. (I mean, "You're talking about the Falkland War? Have yourself a little 'Brothers in Arms'.") That's why it handed them 'Nights in White Satins' at just the right moment. And I'm glad that Rilla being a bit bold and making her move felt realistic and in character for her. I mean, I finally had to get them moving, right?