Halifax, Canada
August 2011

Still time to change the road you're on

"So, have you already decided on a colour scheme?" asks Mollie as she plops down on the couch and folds her legs beneath her.

Betty carefully sets down a tray on the side table and starts pouring out tea. "Not really. The wedding date is set for July, so I thought something summery would be nice."

She hands me a cup of tea and adds, "Here. It's called 'Snow Crystal'. The tea, I mean."

Accepting the cup with a smile, I catch whiff of something decidedly citrus-y that does not much remind me of snow or crystals. A closer look at one of the paper tags still hanging out of the pot reveals the tea to be a mixture of lime and elderberry.

"Why would they name it that?" I wonder, scrunching up my nose in thought.

Betty smiles and shrugs. "No idea. It's sold as a winter tea, but I always liked it better for summer."

(And right she is, too. If we have to drink tea at all in the middle of August, at least make it a nice and light one.)

Blowing air over the hot surface, I take a careful sip, and yes, there's a vaguely lemony taste that reminds me of everything but winter. "That's some weird marketing," I decide, setting the cup down beside me to let it cool a little more.

"And now that we've established that, could we go back to more important topics?" comes a pointed remark from the couch, where Mollie is watching us with raised eyebrows.

Betty hurries to nod, handing a cup of tea to Mollie. "As I said, something summery would be nice. I would like it to be cheerful."

"It is a cheerful event," I agree amiably, watching Mollie refuse the cookies Betty offers her and taking one myself just on principle. (White chocolate and cranberries. It's not half bad.) With me settled in the armchair, Betty sits down next to Mollie on the couch.

Thing is, it's not that I dislike Mollie, but she can be a little full of herself at times. Back in school, Betty and I didn't have much to do with her, but the two of them grew closer after I left and anyway, Mollie is the sister of the groom. That alone predestines her to be one of the bridesmaids. Me, I probably got chosen for sentimental reasons, and the rest of the bridal party is to be made up of a cousin of Betty and a cousin of Liam (and Mollie) as well as two friends of Betty's from work. For today's planning session, it's just the three of us though.

Mollie inclines her head slightly. "Maybe a soft blue and a light peach?" she suggests.

Huh? Pastels? What's cheerful about those?

"Yellow," I immediately counter, taking a deliberate bite out of my cookie. "It's the most cheerful colour out there."

Looking from one to the other, Betty saves herself by taking a long sip of her tea. Which isn't really how this is supposed to go, is it? This is her wedding, after all.

I just want to remind her that she's the one who has to decide, but Mollie has no such scruples. "Yellow," she repeats slowly. "Could be a bit bright."

"Yellow is for the accents. The 'canvas' has to be something more muted," I explain, somewhat impatiently. (That I don't want to have to wear a yellow bridesmaid dress is, of course, not only peripherally related to this. Yellow does nothing for my complexion.)

"Such as?" asks Mollie, her eyebrows once again raised so high that the more snide-y part of me wants to inform her that doing that too often is just going to make her forehead become wrinkled that much sooner.

Instead, I pick up my teacup again and take a sip as I think about which hue to pair with yellow for a nice wedding colour scheme.

I don't come to a conclusion though, because Betty choses that moment to answer, "Blue would be nice. Blue like the sky in summer."

Mollie nods slowly at this, but I set down my teacup again and turn to face Betty more firmly. "You don't have to pick yellow and blue just because that's what we suggested," I remark carefully. "It's your wedding. You decide the colours."

"But I really do like yellow and blue," persist Betty, looking very much like she means it, too. "Don't you think it'd make for a good colour scheme?"

"Actually, yes," I answer with a shrug. "A nice sky blue as a background colour –"

"And yellow and a stronger blue for the accents," finishes Mollie, appearing quite taken by the idea. A second later, she accidentally looks my way and as our eyes meet, I know she's as flabbergasted at I am to suddenly find herself agreeing with me.

Betty though, is obviously very happy at this outcome. "That sounds lovely. What shade blue would you suggest?"

"Sapphire. Or else, a bright royal blue," replies Mollie immediately (and yes, I totally flinch when she says 'royal', much as I try to suppress it).

"That could be a good colour for the bridesmaid dresses," Betty remarks thoughtfully, as I take a sip of tea to compose myself again.

Mollie nods, even forgetting to look blasé in her eagerness. "And a yellow sash as an accent."

Having recovered, I set down the cup again. "How about yellow shoes instead? And yellow posies to tie them in. The bridal bouquet could be yellow and different shades of blue."

"Good idea!" commends Mollie. (Seriously, the last time we agreed on this much was when we both upbraided Liam for dancing with Cherry at our graduation. I got to him first, but my telling off had nothing on Mollie's.)

"I like sunflowers," Betty chimes in. "We could use sunflowers, couldn't we?"

"Sure," I nod. "Sunflowers are lovely, especially for a summer wedding."

"Adds a bit of a bohemian touch," agrees Mollie with a pleased expression.

Lightly tapping my fingers against the armrest of my chair, I add, "And while we're thinking outside the box a little… how about blue shoes for the bride?"

"A built-in 'something blue'. Yes, I like it," declares Mollie after a moment of thought, having apparently resigned herself to mysteriously agreeing with me today.

We both turn to look at Betty, who does, it must be said, look quite happy. Calling in Mollie and me, there was always going to be a danger of Betty adapting to please us (she's a wonder of tact, which sometimes works against her), but she looks very taken with the picture we've painted together, so I guess that's alright then.

And yes, she nods quite firmly. "So do I. It sounds very beautiful. Thank you for helping me with this."

"Anytime," replies Mollie and toasts Betty with her teacup. I just smile her way while pulling a notepad closer to jot down what we've decided on. Going about this in an organised fashion has never hurt anyone.

Quite how true that statement is, I learn as the afternoon wears on and we collectively come up with ever more subjects that need to be discussed and decisions that need to be made. Who knew planning a wedding could be so stressful?

It takes us the better part of three hours and another pot of tea ('Angel magic' this one, a blend of raspberry and vanilla that doesn't taste very vanilla-y at all) to get even a rough outline of everything written down on that notepad. When I finally make it home, I feel more than a little knackered, and genuinely consider taking a little nap before supper.

Unfortunately, Grandma Bertha has other ideas.

She returned from her latest trip (which involved camping, which is just… ugh) just in time to accompany us up to the Island next week. And while she got her own place in Halifax back when Mum and Dad moved the last time, she can often be found at their flat anyway. That is true today as well, for when I step in the hallway, I immediately see her standing in the doorway to the living room. It's clear that she has been waiting for me.

"Hey Gran," I greet cheerfully, hoping that I might yet slip past her and take that nap after all.

But no such luck.

"No need to take off your shoes. We're taking a walk," announces Grandma Bertha. That's when I see that she, too, is wearing shoes, and know that I have lost. She clearly planned this and since she did, she won't let me wiggle out of it either.

Alas, nothing for it but to comply and hope it will be over soon. If I can make her settle on a short walk, I might be able to catch a shortened nap afterwards at least.

Walking past me briskly, Grandma Bertha is out of the door without waiting for me to actually agree to her proposal. (Possibly, my agreement is regarded superfluous anyway.) I hurry to follow, pulling the door shut behind me without locking it in the knowledge that for a couple of weeks longer, we can still trust in Shirley to be home. Grandma Bertha has already started on the stairs at such a pace that I struggle a little to follow. (My exercise regime was the first thing to fall by the wayside when Ken happened, even before my study. Though, having said that, when it came to general fitness, Grandma Bertha always had me beat.)

"How was your afternoon?" asks Grandma once we're out on the street. She's thankfully walking a little slower now, presumably so that we can actually talk.

"It was nice. We started planning Betty's wedding," I answer while watching her out of the corner of my eye to determine quite what she wants to talk to me about.

Grandma makes a sound that tells me she has opinions on this. "How old is your Betty now?"

"Twenty-two. Same as me," I reply, switching my handbag from one shoulder to the other. I have a feeling that Grandma actually knows quite well that Betty is around my age. Which means that she's asking primarily to prove a point. Thus, I quickly add, "But they won't be married for almost another year."

Both Grandma and Mum were in their mid-twenties when they married, so it's not like she can comment on Betty's age. Though I'm fairly certain this has got nothing to do with Betty anyway.

For a moment, we both lapse into silence as we walk along leafy Bloomingdale Terrace. Grandma seems to consider what to ask next and I have resolved not to speak too much until I've figured out what this is about.

"And how long has she known her groom?" comes the next question, just as we cross Parkwood Place.

I give an airy wave. "Oh, ages. They started dating about the same time Carl and I did. Only that they stuck to it. Obviously."

"He's a lovely boy, Carl Meredith," Grandma remarks pensively.

"Of course he is," I agree. "And I adore him six ways from Sunday. We never would have worked out as a couple though. I mean, he spent the spring living with his mother at her commune!"

Cecilia Meredith, always a free spirits by all accounts, tried to turn herself into a good and proper minister's wife for almost a decade back in the eighties, before giving up on it and hightailing it out west, where she found a new home in one of those hippie communes that time forgot. John Meredith was left to raise the children (getting added help from Rosemary four years later) and though I guess their lives were more well-adjusted for it, Carl has always been pining after his mother. Just a toddler when his parents divorced, he turned Cecilia into his golden role model in a way that Freud (and Nan) would surely have a field day with.

Grandma makes a thoughtful sound. "Did he, now?"

"Yes," I confirm. "And now tell me, could you picture me living in a commune? Even for a month? Even for a day?"

That gets her to laugh and I feel quite pleased with myself. "No, darling," she agrees. "You wouldn't last an hour."

Yeah. Probably not.

"Having said that," Grandma continues, now serious again, "those hippies might have it wrong with their stance on personal hygiene, but they do have some worthy ideas."

"Free love?" I suggest innocently. "Liberal use of certain 'herbs'?"

As predicted, this garners me a withering look from Grandma. "Be serious," she chides. "I was talking about equality and respect and basic human rights."

Equality? So that's what this is about?

"Gran," I whine. "Can we not discuss that right now? It's such a lovely day. Why spoil it?"

"Because I have thought about what you told me yesterday and I would like to talk about it," Grandma answers immediately, her voice firm.

Yesterday, I told her about Ken and me. She 'hmm'-ed and nodded a lot, then declared that she had to think on it. Which she has apparently now done.

I sigh heavily, but Grandma won't be rushed. It's only after we have turned left on Jubilee Road that she carefully remarks, "I must admit to feeling a little uneasy at the thought of one of my granddaughters potentially becoming a broodmare for an institution as archaic as… that one."

"A… a… a broodmare?" I splutter. "Gran!"

She purses her lips. "Alright, that might not have been the most delicate way of putting it. But my point still stands."

Taking a deep breath, I try to line up my thoughts to form a coherent argument. "Look. Okay. First thing, I'm not breeding anything. Remember, I couldn't even keep those fruit flies alive for a week back during eighth year biology. No one would trust me with breeding even a hamster, much less… anything bigger. And second of all, I'm much too young to –"

I break off just when I realise what she did there.

"To get married?" Grandma finishes with a fine little smile.

"What works for Betty doesn't have to work for me," I grumble, feeling irritated.

"Fair enough," agrees Grandma and nods briskly.

With a motion of her hand, she indicates for me to turn right on the footpath leading to Conrose Park. It's also commonly called 'The Horsefield', which is a much more fitting name, as it's really just a somewhat sorry looking stretch of grass. Its dubious claim to fame is that it's a place where teenagers like to convene to get wasted at night. (It was, incidentally, also where Nan and Di gave me my first beer, but I suppose that's neither here nor there.)

"Why does everyone always want to talk to me about marriage anyway?" I ask, because I already had that talk with Mrs Weisz, didn't I? "I'm not getting married. I'm not having children. I'm barely twenty-two, I'm still at college and I haven't even known him for a year!"

Grandma raises a single eyebrow. "So you're breaking up with him?"

I stop. "What? No!"

"One or the other will have to happen," Grandma reminds, her voice gentler now. "I merely want to check whether you're prepared either way."

"Oh, you just want for me to break up with him and be done with it, don't you?" I ask somewhat sullenly, as I reluctantly start walking again.

"I can't deny that I am not a fan of… the institution, nor of the family behind it," Grandma intones, clearly mindful that out here, anyone could listen.

I roll my eyes at her. "Yes, equality, democracy, yadda, yadda. Nothing I haven't heard before." (In fact, I'm a little bit surprised Joy has so far refrained from given me that particular 'talk'.)

"Doesn't make it any less true," points out Grandma. Then, leaning closer to me, "You can't deny there's something inherently wrong about distributing power and riches on someone just for the accident of their birth."

"And you can't deny that elections can't be the be all and end all either. I mean, we voted and got Harper," I argue back.

Grandma clucks her tongue. "Not an ideal situation, granted. But elections are based on the will of the people, and the people elected him."

"Some of the people," I amend.

"24 per cent of the people, to be exact," Grandma concedes. "But that wasn't my point."

No, I bet it wasn't.

We step on the grassy field of the park that, at this hour, with the families mostly gone and the teenagers not yet arrived, is fairly empty. Which is just as well, I guess, given the nature of our conversation.

"As you know, I do not believe, on principle, in hereditary transmission of power, even if it's a limited amount of power," Grandma remarks. "I feel uneasy at the thought of you supporting such a system."

"I'm not supporting anything!" I cry, exasperated. (Causing a woman with a pram to turn and look at us, immediately reminding me to keep my voice lowered.) "This isn't about politics. This is just me being with a man I care for. A lot."

Grandma looks like she wants to argue, but I tilt my chin forward stubbornly and after a moment of thought, she changes tracks. "Look at it this way, darling: While I can't deny that so far, our monarchy hasn't made much of a difference to my life either way, it's shaping up to be something that will make a difference to yours. I think we should talk about it."

"I did talk about it," I mutter darkly. "I talked about it with Mum and with Dad and with Joy and even with the twins. No-one seems to be able to leave well enough alone about it, so you might just have to get in line."

Because Mum, especially, always comes back to whether I have an idea where this is leading or how this will end and whether I'm prepared for what might come. And while I appreciate her concern, it's also getting old. Fast.

Grandma, alas, has apparently no plans to get in line. "This is a deeply archaic institution we're talking about," she notes instead. "One that has been known to throw individuals to the wolves to supposedly protect 'the family'. And one that counts both class prejudice and misogyny among its foundation stones."

"And that concerns me how?" I ask, doing little to mask my annoyance.

"Because you're an outsider, a foreigner, a woman and middle-class to boot," Grandma immediately retorts. "Your… boyfriend might love you all he wants, but there are people in that organisation who won't be pleased about it. People who could easily eat you for breakfast."

And just like that, my mind flashes back to Pilkington and how entitled he acted about taking over my apartment, and to Beckett and how he never really manages to hide his annoyance at having to deal with me at all.

"He would never allow it," I persist. And it's only when the words have left my lips that I realise it's precisely not what I should have said. Because it makes me appear like I depend on a man – worse, a prince – to defend me, and while Disney has done a lot to romanticise that notion, Grandma Bertha is not in agreement.

"Are you so sure about that?" she asks, arching an eyebrow upwards. "Your mother said he doesn't have the best track record when it comes to keeping in touch, much less keeping his minions in rein."

Mum said what?

I dig my feet into the ground, refusing to go forward. "You talked about me? Behind my back?"

"I was in need of some further information to make up my mind about this situation," Grandma answers primly. "As I did not think you'd be forthcoming, I instead decided to ask Anne last night. She was reluctant, but eventually provided me with what I needed to know."

Yes, and I can't even really blame her, much as I'd like to. Mum is great about keeping secrets (further proven by how well she kept mine even from Dad for half a year), but Grandma is even better at eliciting any and all information she feels she has a right or a need to know. It's what made her such a great journalist back in the day, but it's also what makes her somewhat irritating to debate with.

"You could have come to me," I argue anyway, throwing her a dark look. "I might have told you."

"No, you wouldn't have," is her brisk reply. "You would have tried to convince me that everything is fine. However, I'm here to help you, so I need to know the truth."

The more petulant part of me wants to snap that I never asked for her help, so she can stick it where the sun doesn't shine, but there's a voice – sounding suspiciously like Grandmother Marilla – reminding me that that's no way to speak to your elders, so I swallow the words down. Instead, I try an amended, "If I need help, I will say so. But thanks for offering anyway."

Not that it has any effect on Grandma. She just waves my remark aside impatiently while asking, "Has he gotten better about keeping in touch?"

Deep breath, Rilla.

We've walked around the baseball diamond, now heading towards the small playground at the other end of the park. (It's really not very big.) I can feel Grandma watching me alertly, but take my time to answer anyway, if only to prove a point.

"Yes, he has. We're having phone dates," I explain finally, though somewhat reluctantly.

Grandma frowns. "Phone dates?"

"Like an appointment of sorts. On Sundays, we both get our schedules out and work out at which time we can talk on any day of the week. It's not romantic, but it works out fine." My voice, I notice, has become a little defensive, though I don't even have any reason for it. It is working out fine.

Mostly, we try to talk just before Ken goes to bed, which is usually in the early evening for me. Sometimes, when he has an hour or two during the day, our 'dates' happen a little earlier, and if nothing else works, I just go to bed a little later and he gets up a little earlier. We don't manage to speak every day, but most of the time. And if not, there's always messages. (He's also trying to get someone to set up a secure channel for video calls, but apparently, they're still looking into it.)

"Hmm," makes Grandma. "And am I right in saying that it's mostly him presenting you with his schedule and you arranging yours to fit around that?"

I give an exasperated sigh in return. "So what? He has obligations and I don't. Take away that he is… well, who he is, and it's the same as if he had a normal job. What's the problem with me fitting my time around his when it's no trouble for me? It doesn't matter whether I go see Betty at noon or an hour later, but he can't very well leave some unfortunate little orphans waiting for him!"

"That might very well be," nods Grandma. "But I'm talking about –"

"Equality," I interrupt, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. The problem that you and Mum and Joy and Di have, always with your principles, is that principles aren't very practical. I could refuse to adapt my plans, sure, but that would just mean I'd get to hear from him much less than I do. I don't want that, so why should I do it? Just to prove a point?"

"Maybe not," Grandma answers slowly. "But you've got to ask yourself where this is heading. It's just phone calls today, but what happens when you're still together next year? He won't be moving to Canada for you. He won't be switching 'jobs' or changing his life for you. Maybe he would, who knows, but he's not going to. I am just worried that you will find yourself adapting completely to his life, without him giving you much in return."

She looks at me, but I turn my head away, pressing my lips together, staring ahead at the now deserted playground.

Grandma sighs. "The question is, my darling – where does it end?"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Stairway to Heaven' (written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, released by Led Zeppelin in 1971).


To Aoggfan:
I'm really very glad to hear that Gilbert fulfilled expectations! With him and Anne, there's always extra pressure to get the right, because people have opinions on how they're supposed to be. But no-one seems to want to pelt me with rotten eggs yet, so I take that as a good sign ;).
As for posting, I'm pretty good about keeping a schedule. Baring any unforeseen catastrophes, I usually post at roughly the same time, which is Wednesday midday to afternoon for Americans, Wednesday evening for Europeans, Wednesday to Thursday night for anyone in Asia and finally, Thursday morning for my readers in Upside Down Land (read: Australia). I don't know where you hail from, but I hope that this gives you a general idea :).

To wow:
I love that you enjoy my image of Gilbert. When I started out writing this chapter, I immediately pictured him, all relaxed in his study, feet up, listening to music instead of doing what he should be doing. He's certainly driven and ambitious, but he does know to relax, our Gilbert ;). (And you might be pleased to know that all children regularly return to see their parents, just that some of them come to Ingleside, rather than Halifax. Di, for example, comes for the bi-yearly Ingleside family reunions, but doesn't have the time to come to Halifax in addition to that.)
I'm also glad that you agree with my take on Rilla here. She is part of a scarily clever family, but she herself is a) not academically ambitious and b) just not that brilliant. She isn't stupid, just normal. But in a family of near geniuses, "normal" can easily make you feel inadequate. And on top of that, she lacks something to strive for, so in many ways, she's just drifting through life right now, while those around her all have a goal to work towards. It makes her feel a bit left out and it's something that will definitely come up again in the course of the story. She will never be brilliant, but I hope to be able to give her something that she is both very good at and actually enjoys. Gilbert, as you said, doesn't know what it feels like to
not have ambitions in life, but he tries his best to be kind and supportive anyway. He doesn't want to judge or make her feel bad, he just wants her to be happy and be her best. She feels it, too, because otherwise, she would have clammed up and stopped talking to him. Which really speaks to how well he knows her and knows how to talk to her!
I swear on my cat's left hind paw (the most sacred thing I know) that no-one if going broke over tuition ;). Not Anne, not Gilbert, not anyone else. It's being paid, but there's no going broke over it. Promise! (I also think Shirley might have secured a merit-based scholarship of sorts? He's enough
of a computer whizz kid and Georgia Tech isn't as obvious as some other colleges, so I think it might be a possibility.)

To AnneShirley:
I typed out a long reply to this and then my cat threw the keyboard to the floor and pressed the back key and now it's gone. I shall try to replicate it, but forgive me if the second endeavour isn't as good as the first.
First of all, I totally know what you mean about holidays. I had some days off last week and I didn't get anything productive done. I did nice things, but nothing meaningful. Must be a rule of life ;). But I'm glad that you managed to squeeze in this review anyway, because it's certainly a
very good one. I can vouch for this!
Did you really secure a place to a school by singing rebellious songs
about school? That is glorious! Don't let anyone ever say a working knowledge of old rock songs isn't helpful in life ;). I'm also glad to hear that exams went well and feel you about having to wait so long for results. That's awful! However, it's very good to know that your friend is feeling better. I hope she improves even further and does so very soon!
You're right in saying that Rilla realising she neglected her NY friends somewhat also made her make more of an effort with her Halifax friends here. Though I think it's also natural that when you move away, old friendships loosen with time and space. It's normal to regroup whenever you're all back home, but it's never quite the same again and that's true here. Betty was once her best friend and while they still care for one another, they aren't as close as they used to be. (As, I think, is also evident in this chapter.) But they're both making an effort and that counts for a lot.
As you said, the last chapter was also meant to show us more about the Blythe family and especially how Rilla sees herself and her place in it. She isn't as clever as most of the others and that stings, and she also doesn't have anything to really strive for, which really sets her apart a bit and possibly not in a good way. She knows it, too, and I think it bothers her more than she lets on. She also does need to grow up, but that was never an easy thing to do and it isn't for her. She's very much wafting around right now, trying to figure things out and, yes, making mistakes while she does. And she's sure lucky she has such understanding and supporting parents! I mean, I wanted Gilbert to be more angry as well, but he just refused to be. He wanted to be a cool dad, I think ;). (As for Di, she does come home, just not to Halifax. She comes to the Ingleside family reunions over Christmas and in the summer, but is very busy with her studies, so doesn't have time to come to Halifax as well. But she sees her parents at least during those two occasions a year and keeps in phone contact with them throughout.)
Music is really a way for Rilla and Gilbert to connect here, and also communicate to a certain extent. It's also what gives them back their "normal" after she dropped her bombshell. In a way, them joking about Hendrix and Santana is like saying "look, this is weird, but most things are still the same". It's what Rilla needed from her father, so Gilbert very much delivered. He has, above everything, her happiness in mind. (Which is maybe why he refused to be more angry?) Oh, and while I didn't consciously think of the scene with canon Gilbert in his study while writing this one, I might easily have been unconsciously inspired by it. Whereas Gilbert's aversion to having his vinyls re-ordered comes straight from my own father. He detests anyone so much as touching his ;).