Glen St. Mary, Canada
December 2010

Speaking words of wisdom

The curious thing about winter on the Island is that, while snow in New York or Halifax always tends to me more of a nuisance than anything else, I never much mind it when on PEI. Maybe it's because I am only ever here on holiday and never actively have to be anywhere at a specific time, or maybe it's just because the island landscape looks that much more enchanting when under a cover of snow. Regardless, I'm always up for a stroll through the snow when in the Glen, never mind how much I curse the winter when in the city.

Thus, as we all walk back from church in a loose procession, I lightly kick up some snow with my be-booted feet, absent-mindedly noting how prettily it glints in the winter sun.

Letting my gaze drift, I see Grandma Bertha who, having collected Walter to her right side and Di to her left, is talking a mile a minute, her hands moving as swiftly as her mouth is. Grandmother Marilla, on the other hand, walks on Dan's arm, both of them speaking much more quietly. (She's fond of Dan, Grandmother Marilla is. Almost fond enough to forgive him for putting Joy in the family way before putting a ring on her finger. Almost.) Further on, Mum is walking between the current and former Mrs Reverend Meredith, with the actual Reverend having stayed behind at the church for a while longer after the service.

From behind, an arm is looped through mine and as I turn my head, I look directly into the smiling face of one Carl Meredith.

"We didn't get a chance to talk yet," he states, not incorrectly. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine," I assure, because really, what else is there to say? "It's a lovely day, after all. And your father's sermon was very nice as well."

Immediately, Carl places a dramatic hand over his heart. "Have we really been reduced to this? Talking about the weather and my father's sermon? You wound me, Rilla!"

He does, at the very least, draw a genuine laugh from me. "You're right," I concede. "I apologise most profusely."

"Accepted," he nods. "I think. Now, tell me something else."

"How about you tell me something instead?" I suggest, raising both eyebrows. "You're the one traipsing all over the country, remember?"

Almost involuntarily, my gaze is drawn forwards, to where Nan and Jerry walk, arm-in-arm, next to a hand-holding Jem and Faith, all of them laughing at some amusing tale Jem is telling. Further along, I spy Una's dark head, as she's locked in conversation with Joy, no doubt over some weighty topic or another. They share a passion for saving the world, those two.

And while Carl might also happily sign up to saving the world, if in a different way, he is otherwise the odd one out in his family. Jerry, of course, does his finance thing and Faith is some months into her three-year residency training as a family doctor (arguing, quite rightly, that she prefers her patients to be awake and talking rather than chloroformed and cut up). Una did an undergraduate degree in something called 'Social Work and Women's Studies' over in Windsor (the Ontarian Windsor, though the name alone sends a little shiver through me) before moving to Vancouver for her Master of Divinity, which she should complete come next summer at around what will only be her twenty-fifth birthday. Carl's older siblings, therefore, are no less ambitious than mine are, which effectively singles him out as the unique one.

"I've actually been pretty settled these past months," he now relates. "I've found this amazing place out west where they try out different ways of organic farming. It's a great environment and I'm learning so much."

"Are you?" I ask, my voice sounding more interested than my mind actually is. I love Carl, but organic farming bores me to tears.

Funnily, Carl himself never much cared for farming until some years ago. When he came back from his world travels, he had made up his mind not to go to university but didn't really know what else he wanted to do. To make some money, he started doing odd jobs on a farm and somehow, stuck to it. That he then turned to organic farming was just consequential. Carl has never been able to stand seeing another being suffer even the slightest hardship.

"We've been experimenting with letting the hens live out on pasture, just like in the old days," he continues. "The trick is to give them as much freedom as possible without exposing them to the elements. I mean, we can't very well let them out in snow like this, and they're very put out at being stuck in the stable, but in summer, it's a lot of fun for them."

"Uh-huh," I respond, hoping it will count as encouraging. For while I find his enthusiasm for the well-being of hens to be endearing, it also baffles me a bit. I mean, they're hens, aren't they? It's not like they're real animals.

Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I let my gaze drift, only listening with half an ear to Carl and his continued tales about pasture-living hens. A bit to our right, Shirley is walking with Grandpa John, both deep in conversation. Grandpa used to work as an engineer in Charlottetown back in the day and he takes some professional interest in what Shirley gets up to with his computer. (Grandmother Marilla, meanwhile, was a secretary at the same company before they married, and you better believe she ruled that office with an iron fist! Not that I was there to witness it, of course, but Grandpa John tells the most hilarious tales of her glaring even the top boss into submission.)

Shirley, feeling my eyes on him, looks up and pulls a comical little grimace in my direction. Smiling, I tip my head to him, before letting my gaze move on, Carl's voice mixing with the sound of the snow crunching beneath our feet. Up at the front of the group, I can see Dad apparently assisting Izzie and Lily – really called Fire Lily and the Merediths' six-year-old half-sister on their mother's side – in a snowball fight against the duo of Jake and Bruce. The boys don't see each other often but, being only about a month apart in age and compatible in temperament, make quite fast friends.

With a firm movement, Carl shoves his elbow into my side, making me start and almost lose my footing on the frozen ground.

"You're not listening!" he accuses (quite rightly, too).

"And you're going to make me break a leg," I shoot back immediately.

"Which I would have no need to do if you had been listening in the first place," he points out and allows himself a self-satisfied smirk.

"But Carl," I whine, giving him my most pleading look. "They're birds. Birds are boring."

"Far from it!" he immediately counters, his expression brightening. "Just yesterday, I saw some loons out near the lighthouse. Most interesting, loons are. Excellent swimmers and decent fliers, but their legs are so oddly positioned that they need lots of space to get off from the ground. They also –"

But the rest of what he wanted to say is muffled by me slinging an arm around his neck and pulling his face into my shoulder, thus successfully cutting off his words.

"Birds, Carl!" I insist, laughing. "Spare me, please!"

He wriggles free from my grasp, a grin stretched across his face and his hair now tousled above a cold-reddened nose. "Fine," he relents, "no more birds. What else do you want to talk about then?"

I shrug elaborately. "I don't know. Tell me something not about birds maybe?"

Tapping his nose, he seems to consider that question for a moment. "Well, if you must know, there's another reason why I stayed on at that farm, and it's actually got fairly little to do with birds. I kind of – Oi, watch out!"

With quick reflexes, he pulls me out of the firing line of a wayward snowball. Turning my head, I see Jake raise a hand in apology. "Sorry, Aunt Rilla," he calls over, just as Dad lobs a particularly large snowball at his back.

Thus, decreeing my honour successfully defended, I look back at Carl. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, that I… well, I kind of… I mean, I might have…" he rummages in reply, his hands fidgeting slightly.

Laughing, I reach out to ruffle his hair even further. "Come on, spit it out. It's just me, remember?"

Carl smiles, though it looks a little stiff. When he finally does answer, the words come in one rush. "I kind of met someone."

"But that's great, Carl!" I beam at him. "What's her name?"

"Kara. She's… she's really great. Very clever. And she gets a lot of this, even better than I do. Listening to her, I really realised how much our nature is exploited by the corporate bigshots. It's totally eye-opening," he explains, his voice rising in enthusiasm with each word.

"That's lovely," I smile, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Because as bewildering as I think it is, if they want to do their sweet-talking by decrying capitalism, who am I to judge them? To each their own, and all that.

"It really is," Carl agrees with a wide smile. "And she also likes birds."

The last of which, clearly, is a friendly jibe at me, making me laugh. "All the better, then," I decide. "If she can stand your bird-talk, more's the power to her. I would have suffocated you with a plucked chicken long ago, but then, we all know that."

Because Carl and I might have worked as a couple back as teenagers, but the older we get, the more convinced I am it was very wise of us to revert back to friendship when real life knocked on the door.

"And I'm sure glad I escaped that fate," Carl agrees amiably. (Meaning, I hope, the act of being suffocated with a plucked chicken, rather than a relationship with me. We're better off as friends, but I am allowed a bit of vanity, am I not?)

Bumping slightly into me, Carl wiggles his eyebrows. "What about you? Any news on the love front?"

Oh, I only slept with the future King of England. No biggie. Now, tell me more about those hens of yours?

Not that I actually say that. Indeed, the mere thought of speaking it out loud makes a slightly hysterical laugh bubble up inside me. I only just manage to force it down again, but my face must have betrayed me, for Carl looks at me a little strangely. "Rilla?" he asks, knitting his brows into a frown.

I attempt my most unconcerned smile. "Oh, nothing. You know how it is. I have been dating, but there hasn't really been anyone since Tristan. Not long-term, I mean."

And even as I say it, I hate how true it is.

Carl nods understandingly. "He of the ridiculous name."

Even through my gloom, I can't help but smile at this. "Believe it or not, but he got off lightly, all things considered. He has a sister named Yseult – because of course he does – and his younger twin brothers are called Castor and Pollux."

"Sounds vaguely familiar," Carl remarks, cocking his head to the side and looking to me for a more concrete explanation.

I answer with a shrug, because really – I neither know nor care, particularly. "Greek mythology, I think. But if you want anything more definite, I'm going to have to point you to Walter. The Greeks aren't his beloved Russians, but he gave them some attention back in the day."

"I'll pass," Carl decides. (Smart cookie.) Then, frowning, "Though it shows once again that having money makes people become weird. I mean –"

But thankfully, I'm spared a lecture on the character-destroying effect of money by a large snowball being thrown against Carl's back. (Because seriously, I never got all this vilifying of money on principle. I wouldn't much mind being rich, thanks a lot.) Turning, both Carl and I see little Lily standing a few steps away from us, eyes twinkling beneath her bangs and a gap-toothed grin on her face.

"Hey, you little monster!" Carl cries in mock-indignation. "Did you just attack me? Intolerable! Just you wait!"

With a delighted shriek, Lily sets off into the other direction, Carl hot on her heels. He makes a little show of struggling to reach her, but when he does, he engulfs her in a bear hug and starts tickling her, in the manner of all big brothers, anywhere, ever.

Thus deserted, I draw closer to Shirley and Grandpa John, still faintly smiling at Carl and Lily's antics.

Grandpa smiles at me in greeting, though without interrupting whatever he is telling Shirley. "…NASA didn't call it the most successful manned flight for nothing! It was considered very successful on account of…"

"Which mission is he at?" I ask Shirley under my breath, even as Grandpa speaks on.

"Apollo 15," he mutters back.

Only two more to go, then. Provided we reach Ingleside before he can launch into the Space Shuttle program.

Grandpa John, as one must understand, might have been a grown man when the NASA undertook their manned space program, but it still didn't fail to utterly fascinate him. I have no doubt that 'becoming an astronaut' would have been his greatest childhood wish, had 'becoming an astronaut' meant anything to anyone when Grandpa John was a child. As it stands, not becoming an astronaut remains one of the not so secret regrets of his life.

Some well-gauged questions by Shirley ensure that when Ingleside comes into view, Grandpa is still stuck on Apollo 17, thus bringing the topic to a natural halt before he can get any further into the American space program. (Or, God forbid, start on the Russians.) He's nothing if not thorough, Grandpa is.

Once inside the house and individually greeted by an excited puppy, we're all herded into the living-room for the King's annual Christmas speech. Having dreaded the moment for some days now (because it's just weird, alright?), I stop at the door and try to come up with an excuse or another, when Di beats me to it.

"Really?" she asks, a picture of scepticism. "We're still doing this?"

But she evidently hasn't reckoned with Grandmother Marilla. Turning to give Di a look, she coolly informs her, "It is tradition, Diana, and you will show some proper respect for our monarch." Says it and sweeps past both of us into the room.

"I don't see what's there to respect. It's an outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society," mutters Di rebelliously, though so quiet that Grandmother doesn't hear.

I make a non-committal sound (the words sound vaguely familiar, without me being able to place them), mentally gauging the distance to the stairs and trying to decide how good my chances are at slipping away undetected. Di, noticing this, has other ideas though.

"Oh, no, you don't! If I'm subjected to this, then so are you!" she declares, grabbing my shoulder and dragging me inside the room. There are no more spaces to sit, so both Di and I line up at the back wall, making me feel a momentary flutter of relief at being able to lurk in the background.

But because the universe apparently hates me, the actual speech is preceded by a report on the royal family's arrival at their own Christmas service, up in some quaint little church near their castle in Scotland.

First, the camera zooms in on the King, looking very much like himself, and smiling kindly at the people who came to wish him and his family a Merry Christmas. On his arm is the Queen, whose beauty is in no way diminished by my parents' slightly outdated TV set, though her smile looks much more studied and far less approachable than that of her husband.

"Very Jackie O," Di mutters beside me, indicating the Queen's deliciously purple coat and matching pillbox hat. (And, I mean, I'm glad she can appreciate this for the fashion, at least.)

Following their parents are the two younger children, as golden-headed as their mother, but in a much livelier mood. "The Duke of Kendal and The Princess Royal," drones a disembodied voice from the TV.

"She's pretty, granted, but her mother's dress sense clearly passed her by," Di murmurs, meaning Princess Persis, and even if my jittery nerves had allowed me to form a coherent sentence in the princess's defence, I probably wouldn't have come up with a good one anyway. Whatever the… the thing on her head is correctly called, the only accurate description for it is wacky.

The camera moves on from the cheerfully waving royal siblings to pan over a collection of people that look vaguely familiar without being famous enough to be instantly recognisable on their own. There's a portly middle-aged man with a much younger woman next to him, both trailed by a shy-looking girl not much older than Fire Lily (but hopefully with a more traditional name). Next, a slightly pinched, very regal woman walks in the midst of four men looking so alike that the apparent father in this situation is only identifiable by his receding hairline.

And then, there he is.

"The Prince of Wales, accompanied by Prince Christopher and Princess Katherine of Hereford," announces the droning narrator.

He looks… different somehow. Still Ken, of course, but somehow… somehow, it's hard to believe that this is the same man who sat on Mrs Lynde's quilt, eating mac 'n' cheese and making fun of some God-awful C movie playing on my laptop. Not to speak of… other things.

"Nice coat," Di remarks appreciatively, and it takes me a moment to realise that she's not speaking of Princess Katherine (whose marine coat is as inoffensive as it's unremarkable) but of Ken. And she's right, too. Even his coat is different, looking both more expensive and better fitted than anything I've seen him wear since that fateful UN reception.

TV Ken is working the crowds lined up on both sides of the path, shaking hands and greeting people, his smile striking the perfect balance between approachable and too familiar. He looks calm, assured, utterly in control of what is really a very odd situation. He looks like he belongs there.

This, I realise with a jolt, is his life. Has always been his life. A life in which I and my crummy apartment have no apparent part.

Abruptly, I push away from the wall.

Di looks up. "Rilla?" she asks, surprise turning to confusion as she sees my face.

"I'm going upstairs," I murmur. "I'm… not feeling well."

I can't stand any more of this.

Slipping from the room as quietly as possible, I make my way up the stairs and into my small gable room. Once there, I let myself fall down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, as if there is any chance of the solution to my predicament appearing as if written by magic hand.

But the ceiling remains resolutely white.

Minutes pass with me lying motionless and trying to calm my confused mind, until the rising commotion downstairs tells me that the King has apparently finished his message. And I know I should go downstairs if I don't want someone to come looking for me soon, but I can't even seem to gather the will to get out of bed.

Which is why, as predicted, it doesn't take long for there to be a soft knock on my door.

"Yes?" I call out, trying to sound less reluctant than I feel.

When the door opens, it's Mum sticking her head in and I feel slightly relieved. If I have to deal with anyone at all, Mum's still one of my top choices.

"May I apply for asylum?" she asks with a smile.

I crane my head to better look at her without moving too much. "What are you fleeing from?"

"Very many opinionated people in my house," answers Mum, making a funny face. "Just now, Walter is moderating a staring contest between Joy and Marilla to decide who gets supreme control of the kitchen. My kitchen."

Which is certainly very brave of him.

"Asylum granted," I decide and roll myself on my stomach to make some space for her on the bed.

Softly closing the door behind her, Mum comes to sit beside me, stretching out a hand to rub my back soothingly.

"Does this grant of asylum also allow me to ask questions?" she queries.

I make a hmpf-ing sound, before clarifying, "Depends on the questions."

"It's just one, actually," Mum replies. "Do you want to tell me what's the matter with you? Your father and I are a little worried."

Of all the questions she could possibly have asked…

But her hand feels comforting on my back and her very voice calms me and she's so very Mum, that I feel my resistance slipping away. Maybe I've been keeping this inside of me for too long anyway.

A moment passes as I collect my thoughts.

When I speak, I don't quite look at her. "I've met a man. I like him. I have no idea whether he likes me back."

Mum hums thoughtfully. "No idea at all?" she asks.

"Well… I thought he did. Now, I'm not so sure," I admit reluctantly.

"What makes you feel unsure about it?" she wonders.

What, indeed?

"I… we… we met back in October, and initially, we were just friends. And it was… nice, being friends with him. We were good friends." (Listening to myself, I'm not even sure, who I'm trying to convince. Mum, or myself.)

"But you didn't stop at being friends," Mum deduces.

With a groan, I drop my head to hide my face in the pillow. Mum laughs quietly.

"No. We slept together, the night before I came here," I admit, my voice muffled against the pillow.

"Was it good?" Mum asks curiously. "I remember when your father and I –"

"Mum!" I screech, shooting upright and glaring at her.

Mum laughs brightly. "Don't be so prudish, sweetheart."

Why is everyone always calling me a prude?

"I'm not prudish," I protest. "I just prefer to be comfortable in the belief that all of us were brought by the stork."

"Not prudish at all," smiles Mum and reaches out to pat my cheek. I dodge the touch, making her smile widen.

"Storks notwithstanding, if you spent the night together, I should think that there's not much doubt about him liking you back," Mum points out reasonably, thankfully dropping the topic of what she and Dad get up to at night.

"It's complicated," I persist stubbornly, letting myself flop backwards, so that I'm back to facing the ceiling again.

Even in face of my mulishness, however, Mum keeps her cool. It's admirable, really. She rarely ever gets impatient with one of us, even though otherwise, no-one would ever accuse Mum of lacking temper. (Back when she met Dad at that rally, he called her 'Carrots' and she memorably proceeded to hit him over the head with her "End Violence" sign. After which he pointed out to her that she was hardly practicing what she preached, making her laugh. And that's basically my parents in a nutshell.)

"I'm afraid you're going to have to explain that to me, sweetheart," she remarks calmly, reaching out to take one of my hands between both of hers.

Sighing, I turn my head to look at her. "Some weeks back, he asked me whether we were friends. And I said yes. So, I don't know how this… well, the night we spent together, fits. Was it just a one-time thing and we'll go back to being friends after Christmas? Is this some kind of 'friends with benefits'-situation? Or did it destroy everything and I'm never going to see him again?"

"Or did you simply go from being friends to being something more?" Mum suggests gently.

I grimace slightly. Because let's face it – how unlikely is that?

Apparently deciding on a different approach, Mum changes tactics. "Have you thought of asking him?"

At this, I actually laugh. "Like that's easy!"

"It doesn't seem very complicated to me. Or do you have no way to reach him?" Mum asks, arching up one eyebrow.

"No, I can reach him alright," I answer with a sigh. "It's just that… he's not the most talkative person, long-distance."

He hasn't gone on total radio silence like the last time he went back to England, but if I was hoping for calls good morning and texts good night, my expectations were quickly dashed. He answered my texts about whether he landed safely and whether he had a good journey up to Scotland and he did wish me a Merry Christmas today, but that's about it. There's preciously little in his correspondence to squash the ambiguity of all this.

Mum makes a thoughtful sound. "Alright, then let's try this: How did he say goodbye to you when he left?" She pauses, eyes me for a moment. "He did say goodbye to you, didn't he?"

"He did," I assure quickly.

It's true, too. He kept his promise of being there in the morning and I never even came close to wanting to chew my arm off. In that sense, our shared night might be considered a success.

"But?" prompts Mum.

"No but," I answer slowly as I pull myself into a sitting position, replaying our farewell in my head. "It was… I mean, it was nice. Pretty clear-cut, too, or so I thought in the moment. He… he kissed me goodbye –" (And what a kiss it was!) "– and smiled and said I'd better not kiss anybody else until he comes back."

I can still remember his playful smile when he said it, and the fluttering feeling in my stomach. It didn't seem so complicated then.

"What did you answer?" Mum asks, a smile playing on her lips.

"Told him not to go kissing other people either," I reply with a shrug. "I mean, equality and all that, right?"

"Quite," agrees Mum. She seems to mull it over for a moment before deciding, "Not kissing others sounds a lot like exclusivity in my book, you know."

Groaning, I let myself fall backwards again. "It's not that easy!"

"But why not?" Mum persists, looking genuinely confused. "What makes it be not easy?"

And there it is. The moment of truth.

Taking a deep breath, I let go of it slowly before finally answering. "He's… somewhat well-known."

"Well-known," repeats Mum, her voice carefully devoid of emotion.

"Famous," I amend reluctantly. "Very, very famous. Aggressively famous. 'The entire world knows his name'-kind of famous."

Now Mum's the one taking a deep breath. "Very few people are that famous."

"He is," I reply quietly.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I know the truth is already dawning on her.

When she opens her eyes again, her voice is carefully measured. "I'm fully aware that my next question will sound somewhat crazy. I'm only asking it because Joy told me about that reception you went to with Dan in October, and because you left the room so quickly before the King's message, but… Rilla, the man we're talking about here, is he…?"

"Yes," I answer, my voice suddenly sounding very small.

"Is he a certain… prince?" Her voice catches at the last word and I can't blame her.

At this, I can only nod.

For a moment, neither of us even moves. And then Mum does something so very Mum that all my jumbled feelings finally turn into a lump in my throat. Because there are so many ways she could react and not all of them would be welcome, but instead, she just wordlessly gathers me up in her arms and holds me very close and rubs my back, and it's only when she does it that I realise how much I needed this.

For a long while, we just sit there, me in her arms, not making a sound. When she does speak, her voice is little more than a whisper next to my ear. "I still think that saving kisses means exclusivity, even for a prince."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Let It Be' (written by Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1970).


To AnneShirley:
Ah, sorry to hear the site gave you such trouble. But thanks for persisting anyway! (If it happens again, you might try copying your text into a word document or similar before hitting 'send'. That way, if the site eats your text, you have a backup.)
I'm very glad you enjoyed this chapter and my attempt at writing a family gathering. I figured they would be a loving but chaotic bunch - never a dull moment with those Blythes!
Actually, I didn't deliberately reference anything with Jake and Izzie's names, but now that you mention it... I pledge here and now that if I give Joy a third child (haven't decided yet), it'll be an Edward. How does that sound? ;
I, too, wish you a Happy New Year and all the best for 2019 and thank you for your continued support of my stories! :)