Glen St Mary, Canada
December 2014
All your dreams are on their way
"It's gorgeous, Di!" I proclaim and zoom in on the super elegant grey dress Di has chosen for her wedding.
Di shrugs, but I can see she's pleased.
"Let me see!" demands Joy and plucks the phone from my hand.
Nan, who's already seen the dress, inclines her head. "Are you sure you don't want to wear white?" she asks her twin.
"Absolutely positive!" Di nods firmly. "White washes me out and ivory makes me look jaundiced. Besides…" She pauses and looks at me pointedly. "Besides, the tradition to wear white to weddings goes back to Queen Victoria and I'm not the princess-to-be in our middle."
I stick out my tongue at her. Di grins.
To Nan, she adds, "If it makes you feel better, Nia is wearing white. Here." She takes the phone back from Joy, taps on it a few times and holds it up for us to see a picture of a white dress. While Di's dress is head-to-toe lace, this one is deceptively simple, only revealing its unusual, almost geometric cut at second glance. It's exactly Nia's taste just like the grey lace is right up Di's alley.
"No veils, I presume?" Joy wants to know and leans back against the headboard of Di's bed.
"Goodness, no!" Di grimaces. "A veil is just a sign of a man's authority over a woman. For one, there's no man involved in this. For another… ugh."
"Veils look pretty though," argues Nan. Her smile is sweet, but when I catch her eye, she winks conspiratorially. Clearly, she's trying to get a rise out of her twin.
Di, however, doesn't take the bait. Instead, she shakes her head mournfully and declares, "And here I was, hoping Rilla was the only one we lost to a world of superficiality and paternalism."
"I resent that," I tell her mildly and stretch my arms above my head. Nan reaches over to poke my side – just because, I think. I glare at her and wrap my arms protectively around myself. Nan grins.
"Who will be your witnesses?" Joy asks Di while rolling her eyes at Nan's and my antics.
"Oh!" I raise my hand. "I know that! Nan and Seraphina, right? Right?"
"Right," confirms Di and pats my head teasingly. "Well done, you."
I wrinkle my nose and smooth out my hair. "It was a no-brainer," I inform her.
"Know-it-all," mutters Joy, outwardly disapproving but with laughing eyes.
I pull a face at her. (What is this? Pick on Rilla-day?)
I'm saved from further digs by my assembled sisters when there's a knock on the door and Shirley sticks his head in.
"Shirley! Do come in, little brother!" invites Nan, before he's even had a chance to state his purpose.
Our littlest brother looks positively horrified at that suggestion. "Uh… no. I mean, thanks, but, um… Mum sent me. She finished her call to Jem and wanted me to remind you that it's time for church."
(Jem and Faith, it must be understood, are still in Uganda, saving lives. They profess to love the work, the country, the people and the adventure, but I think Mum is stilly quietly hoping they might return home soon. Judging from the last time I skyped them, I don't much fancy her chances.)
Shirley has apparently said his piece and withdraws without waiting for a reply, quickly walking backwards and letting the door fall shut behind him. We sisters exchange amused glances.
"You've got to wonder what he thought we'd do to him," remarks Di and raises both eyebrows.
"Girl talk," guesses Joy and shrugs. "As a Y chromosome carrier, he's genetically programmed to fear it."
"True," I agree and get up from the bed. "They like to pretend they can handle it, but they really can't."
Nan nods solemnly. "Amen." She swings her legs to the floor and grabs Di to drag her up as well. "Come on. Church."
Di grumbles, but eventually follows Nan to the door I hold open for them, with Joy making up the rear. Downstairs, we bundle into our coats and join the rest of the family for the annual walk to church.
I find myself walking with Grandpa John and Grandmother Marilla, trying to answer the latter's questions about the King and Queen in a way that doesn't give too much away but still satisfies her interest in first-hand knowledge about her royal family. Grandmother Marilla is no gossip, but her best friend Rachel Lynde is and unfortunately for me, Rachel has the rather unique talent of sniffing out exactly the one nugget of information someone is trying to hide. If I asked Grandmother Marilla to keep something secret, she'd surely find a way, but it's easier just to curate my answers and make them Rachel-friendly from the beginning.
Thus, I'm currently trying to navigate the thorny question of Leslie's regular disappearances, when Walter appears at my side. "Rilla?" he asks quietly.
Grateful for the distraction, I turn towards him. "Yes? Anything I can do?"
"Perhaps." Walter nods discreetly to a group of people standing by the side of the path. At first, I don't know what he means, but then I spot a young girl clutching a posy. She seems to be about Izzie's age. When she notices me looking, she blushes and squirms, but then squares her shoulders and looks back up.
"Miss Rilla?" she asks, her voice a little squeaky from nervousness.
Letting my gaze drift upwards, I look quizzically at the woman I perceive to be the girl's mother. When she inclines her head into a small nod, I leave my grandparents and brother behind to step closer towards the little girl.
My mind is already going a mile a minute.
There are photographers here, because of course they are. I already saw them earlier and put on a neutrally pleasant expression for them, so they could take their pictures and be done with it. Unfortunately, they haven't left yet, probably on the look-out for something more. Me accepting flowers from a little girl is, paradoxically, just the moment they've been waiting for. Because what would be an innocent gesture of friendliness will surely be spun into a story about how I have ideas above my statue and am already mirroring the real royal family. They, after all, are greeted by children bearing flowers everywhere they go, and if I'm photographed in a similar situation, there'll surely be someone suggesting I planned this.
All those thoughts and then some are running through my head while I cross the few meters between me and the girl with the posy. When I reach her, I have devised a plan.
"Hello," I greet her, smiling, and crouch down in front of her.
She smiles shyly, letting her hair fall forward to hide behind. A moment passes, before she wordlessly thrusts the posies at me.
"Are those for me?" I ask, trying to sound equally surprised and pleased. "How kind of you! Such beautiful flowers!"
The girl peers at me through her curtain of hair, her smile slowly growing bigger.
I pluck a single flower from the small bouquet and push it behind my ear. Gathering the others together, I appraise the length of their stems and find, to my relief, that they're long enough for a floral wreath. It'll have to be a small one, but it'll do.
"Do you want to tell me your name?" I ask the girl, as my fingers blindly start working on weaving the flowers into a wreath. I haven't done this in years, but I made many a flower crown in my youth and my fingers still know the movements.
"Madison," answers the girl quietly.
"Hello, Madison," I greet her formally. "I am very honoured to meet you."
She giggles, still somewhat shyly, but also visibly pleased. "Are you a real princess?" she blurts out, probably emboldened by the fact that I haven't bitten her.
The question, of course, is trickier than anything Grandmother Marilla has asked me all day. The easy answer, of course, would be, 'No, I'm not.' It would also be the truth. It would, however, disappoint little Madison and I find myself not wanting to disappoint her.
Briefly, my eyes flicker upwards to her mother, who answers with a lopsided smile and a mouthed, "Sorry."
Looks like I'm on my own.
"See, Madison," I begin slowly, still trying to order my thoughts. "The lovely thing about being a princess is that every girl can be one."
Madison stares at me, wide-eyes. "Really?"
"Yes, really," I confirm, even though I have literally no idea where I'm going with this. I'm making this up as I speak. "The thing is… the thing is that being a princess isn't about who your daddy is or who you marry. It's about what you do."
The curtain of hair lifts slightly as Madison raises her head to look at me curiously. "What do I have to do?" she asks, her voice a little breathless.
Ah, drat. I backed myself into that corner all on my own, didn't I?
"Behaving like a princess means you should be kind to others and that you should try to do your best, in school and out of it, and…" I pause for a moment. "And it means that you should never let anyone tell you that you can't be what you want to be. Even a princess."
Madison frowns in concentration as she considers my words, giving them much more sincerity than they're due, considering that I'm totally improvising here.
"Oh," I add, struck by a sudden thought, "and a princess always eats her vegetables."
In reply, Madison wrinkles her nose. "Really?" she grumbles. Above us, I hear her mother chuckling softly.
"Really," I answer, suppressing a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't make the rules."
With a heavy sigh, Madison nods. "Okay." She's not enthused, but apparently willing to face even spinach when it leads her further on the path of princessing.
"I know you can do it," I assure her. "And because of that, I now declare you Princess Madison." Holding up the flower crown I've wrought, I carefully place it on Madison's head. Her expression is adorably solemn, her fingers flying upwards to touch the flowers.
For a moment, I'm not sure whether she might be sad that I repurposed the posy she wanted to offer me, but it doesn't even seem to register. Instead, she suddenly beams at me – and it looks exactly like a beam of sunlight, reminding me why the phrase is as it is in the first place.
"Thank you, Princess Rilla!" she declares, before suddenly turning on her heel and running off, loudly exclaiming, "Look what I got, Daddy!"
Looking after her, I slowly get back to my feet and come face to face with Madison's mother. "Was that alright?" I ask her.
"It was very kind of you," she replies, appearing sincere.
I shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable. "It was nothing."
"She saw someone give the Queen flowers on TV some weeks ago. When she learned that we'd be spending the holidays close to where you live, she started pestering us to get her a posy to give to you today," explains the mother.
"Your daughter is adorable," I tell her, both because it's true and because it's harmless.
"She is," agrees her mother, smiling. "And if she actually eats her vegetables from now on, you've done us a great favour."
I laugh. "Fingers crossed." The mother nods and joins in my laughter.
From behind me, I can hear Dad calling, "Rilla? The service is starting in a few minutes."
"Right, that's my cue," I remark apologetically. "Have a nice day and Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," she replies, raising her hand in a wave. Madison, I notice, is a good few meters further along the path and chattering a mile a minute at a man holding a toddler. As she talks, she clutches her flower wreath tightly.
When I turn, I find that most of my family has already entered the church. There's just Dad standing on the steps and smiling at me, Dog Monday sitting patiently next to him. Somewhere behind me, I know, are the photographers, having snapped dozens of pictures of my encounter with young Madison. I can only hope that they will interpret my improvised handling of the situation kindly and not as me pretending to be a princess when I'm not.
Children handing out posies of flowers is, after all, a tried and tested tradition of royal life, as I am again reminded when, a while later, we've all gathered back in the living room of Ingleside to watch the King's Speech. Preceding it is, as always, a report documenting the royal family's walk to church at Balmoral and of course it includes the inevitable children and their flowers. There's enough of them that Leslie and the other women have to hand them on to staff to have their hands free for the next bunch. Comparatively, I had it easy with just Madison and her small posy.
The TV camera pans from Leslie accepting some flowers (I couldn't begin to guess which type they are) to Ken, who's shaking the hand of an elderly man in a wheelchair. When he notices the camera, he looks up and suddenly flashes a brilliant smile, of the kind he wouldn't usually give a TV crew. It's gone as fast as it came and he turns back to greet a lady in a brown coat.
Shaking my head slightly, I smile to myself.
"What was that?" asks Mum, eyeing me with interest.
"Oh." I shrug, laughing softly. "He knows we're watching and said he'd find a way to say hello. I guess that was it."
"Hello, Ken," cries Izzie delightedly and waves at the screen. When the rest of us laugh at her antics, she grins, clearly pleased with herself.
"There's you, Aunt Rilla," remarks Jake without reacting to his sister and points at the TV.
Indeed, there's me. Specifically, there's a picture of me talking to Madison, followed by another one that shows me placing the flower wreath on her head.
"Prince Kenneth's girlfriend, Rilla Blythe, was also presented with flowers by a local girl on her walk to church in Canada today," comments the news presenter on TV.
"As we can see," adds her companion, "Miss Blythe created a flower crown for the young girl to wear. Sources who stood close enough to hear their conversation said that Miss Blythe told the girl that everyone could be a princess if they believed in themselves and ate their spinach."
(Close enough, I guess.)
Instinctively, I grimace, as I wait for the other shoe to drop. Surely, they will now accuse me of exhibiting airs and thinking myself more important than I am. I'm used to the accusation, so they're tiresome more than hurtful, but –
"Those witnessing the moment agree that Miss Blythe exhibited a lot of tact and kindness, making a young girl very happy on Christmas Day" continues the first news presenter.
I sit up straighter.
Did I hear right?
"What's with the sucking up?" asks Shirley, voicing my very thoughts.
I look over at him and shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it's just that the media works in mysterious ways?
"No, it makes sense," disagrees Joy, inclining her head thoughtfully.
It does?
My confusion must have shown on my face, because Dan takes it upon himself to explain his wife's train of thought. "What Joy means is that they're trying to curry favour. They've recognised that in the long run, being nice to you will be worth more to them than a quick headline."
Huh.
Fancy that.
"Be that as it may, if they hope that I'll be nice to them in return, they're sorely mistaken," I declare, folding my arms in front of my chest.
"Nor should you be nice to them." Grandma Bertha catches my eye and nods firmly to back me up. "They are an insult to any self-respecting journalist."
Trust her to know.
"I think we can all agree on that," remarks Mum and smiles kindly. "But I'm not sorry to see them being a little nicer to Rilla, no matter the reason for it."
"No kidding," I mutter, pulling a face at the memory of everything they wrote before they decided that there might be a benefit to no longer calling me a slag and a gold digger.
"Do we think –" begins Nan, but we never find out what she wanted to ask, because in that moment, the TV program switches over to the King's Speech and Nan is shushed into silence by Grandmother Marilla.
As befitting the year, the first topic that Owen addresses after the last notes of God Save the King have faded away, is the Great War.
"On this day, exactly a century ago, soldiers from two warring nations came together in No Man's Land to celebrate Christmas," he says solemnly. "It was a short truce in a war that was thought to be over by Christmas, but raged for more than four years and cost millions of lives."
Several black-and-white photographs of soldiers appear on the screen. Some photos look mildly familiar and given the context, I imagine they were probably taken during that same Christmas Truce, all the way back in 1914.
"This year, many people from all over the world came together to remember the men and women who served in the Great War," Owen continues. "All over the country and all throughout the Commonwealth, remembrance events were held, bringing people together to honour those who served and those who died."
Another montage flashes over the screen, this one showing all kinds of different remembrance events. Most of the pictures show normal people, a lot of them soldiers, but mixed in with the others are also photographs of the royal family. There's a very nice one of Owen and Leslie walking among the poppy installation at the Tower (Ken and I went to see it one evening and it gives you shivers), one of Ken at an army base meeting veterans, another one showing Persis opening an exhibition focusing on Animals in War and one depicting Teddy's visit to a primary school that had won a competition about how to best honour local war heroes (he told me what they did, but it was in spring and I'm afraid I forgot the details). Finally, there's a short video of Remembrance Day in November, with all the royals out in full force.
With the wreathes placed, the camera cuts away and back to Owen. "We remember and we honour these men and women for their bravery, their sacrifice and the futures they gave up. We must, however, be careful not to turn them into symbols of the glory of war. They were soldiers and they fought a war more horrendous than the world had seen before, but they longed for peace. These were great men and women and I know we stand together in admiration of them, but to us, their sacrifice must be a stark reminder of not only the futility of war but the importance of peace."
Frowning in thought, I watch TV Owen's insistent face as he delivers his message. It's… curiously direct, even political, for a king who generally steers clear from voicing potentially controversial opinions. For him to speak so plainly here means that this is something close to his heart.
"We must never forget the fragility of peace, how easily it is lost and how hard it is won," implores Owen. "We will not forget the sacrifice of those who served and we will not forget that during their struggles, they strove not for war but for peace. I firmly believe that the best, maybe the only way to honour them is to do everything we can to preserve peace and ensure that there will never again be a generation called up to sacrifice what they did. "
The image of Owen gives way to a series of pictures, all in black and white, all of them close-ups of Great War soldiers. It could have been cheesy (and it would have been, had someone given in to the obvious urge of underlaying it with kitschy music), but the stark silence that accompanies the pictures somehow drives the message across and drives it straight to the heart.
"My father fought in the Great War," Grandpa John remarks quietly. "He never spoke about it, not until I myself returned from Europe many years later. His older brother also fought and he didn't come back."
"I never knew that," replies Di. She looks at the rest of us siblings, but we mostly just shrug and shake our heads. We know about Grandmother Marilla's brother Matthew dying in the 1940s, but that Grandpa John's uncle was killed in the previous war is apparently news to most of us.
"Oh, yes." Grandpa John nods. "My father didn't start speaking of him and their shared childhood until he himself was getting elderly – just like we are now, aren't we, darling?" He looks at Grandmother Marilla with that twinkle in his eyes that he passed on to Dad and from him, to Jem.
Grandmother Marilla, who looked a little melancholy just moments earlier – likely remembering her own brother – now frowns and tuts at him. "Really, John!"
Grandpa John grins and winks. His apparent goal was to distract his wife and it looks like he achieved it.
On the TV screen, Owen now segues into a segment focusing on Ebola, which has all of us thinking of Jem and Faith. They might be on the other side of the continent from the unfolding crisis, but they're still closer than anyone else is and frankly, this virus is as scary as any war is, maybe particularly so because it's invisible. (I know Mum made Jem promise that they'd steer clear. It's not like her to intervene in our lives like that, but in this case, I wholly approve.)
Following the Ebola segment, Owen's speech returns closer to home as he talks about his historical visit to Ireland this spring – apparently, the first time a British monarch visited the Green Isle since their independence. (I'm not sure my Irish ancestors would have been pleased.) Next, he goes over some political developments and cultural events in the UK and the Commonwealth, before finally focusing on his family. (I don't think it's a surprise to anyone to learn that this is the bit I look forward to the most.)
"As a family, we experienced several milestones this year that we're very grateful for, chief of them the wedding of my niece Katie and her Adam", he tells his audience (subjects?) and as he speaks, pictures of the events he mentions appear on the screen. "My wife and I were also very proud to see our eldest son successfully finish his pilot training in May, which we all know is a matter close to his heart. In the summer, we felt equal pride and joy when we watched our younger son gain a master's degree in Advanced Sustainable Design, which we know he will use well for the benefit of all. Last, but certainly not least, we were excited to share in our daughter's success at this year's World Equestrian Games, where we watched the British team win a silver medal. Important matters kept me in London, but I can assure you I was glued to the screen, like any proud father would have been." He smiles conspiratorially at the camera and garners some chuckles in our living-room – and probably not only there.
"The year concluded with the milestone birthdays of my beloved wife and son," Owen continues. "Personally, I was very grateful for this opportunity to celebrate two of the people closest to my heart who, together, have made my life many times brighter since the days I first laid eyes on them."
Owen's image fades from the screen, to be replaced by a video montage of that birthday party in November. I find that I recognise most of the guests and even spot both myself and my parents several times. There's a particularly nice shot of me dancing with Owen, with Mum and Dad mere feet away from us. (Dancing with Owen, it turned out, was much easier than dancing with Ken. Ken claimed it was because I was getting to be more practiced, but I strongly suspect it was mostly because Owen is the better dancer.)
"That was a fun evening," Mum pipes up. "Even though Rilla deserted us for most of it." She grins at me, clearly teasing.
"You said it was fine!" I insist, feeling a bit defensive.
"It was fine," Dad assures me, eye a-twinkle. "But it was also an unusual experience to go looking for your daughter and find her chatting to the Queen of Holland."
That raises eyebrows all around the room.
"She was nice," I mutter.
"Hardly the point," remarks Joy, barely hiding her amusement.
I glare at her and pointedly turn back to the TV, ignoring my family's good-natured laughter.
On the screen, there's an aerial shot of the Buckingham Palace ballroom. The guests line the walls, while a small Owen and Leslie sweep over the dancefloor, as easy and graceful as could possibly be. Ken and I are much more static in our dancing, mostly swaying on the spot with our heads close together, while his parents dance circles around us. As I watch, TV-me raises her head and beams up at Ken, to be rewarded by a brilliant smile from him.
Sitting in front of the TV and remembering that dance, I feel as myself smiling as well. To say it was a fun evening is a bit of an understatement. In truth, it felt… very, very meaningful.
"So… are you still going to scratch out the eyes of anyone who dares ask whether you're going to marry the man?" asks Di conversationally, wriggling her eyebrows.
In the first fraction of a second, instinct tries to kick in, honed as it was in year of fielding questions I had no answers for and didn't care to answer either. The natural reaction would be to wave off the question or return a barb of my own to throw my sister off the scent, but… to be honest, the question that once terrified me now feels ludicrously harmless.
Looking at Di, I shrug and smile.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Bridge over Troubled Water' (written by Paul Simon, released by Simon & Garfunkel in 1970).
To Mammu:
Hello! I'm glad to hear from you again, because I was a little concerned there. It's a relief to hear that the situation is tentatively getting back to normal for you and that work is slowing down as well. That second wave seems to be a real possibility, but for now, we all need a breather, so I'm doubly glad you're getting those holidays. I absolutely understand your worry for your parents, too. Mine aren't part of the high risk group (yet), but my grandparents certainly are and I'm very concerned about them as well. My grandpa seems to be dealing with the restrictions relatively fine, but my grandma (the more active of the two) is definitely struggling with having to stay at home and no-one coming to see her. It's sensible, but it still sucks.
Maternity leave? Yay! Congratulations! :D I'm absolutely chuffed for you and I wish you all the very best for this exciting time! I bet you can't wait to meet the little one! (There really must be something in the water at the moment. So many women around me are having babies!)
P.S. Patrick Dempsey as Gilbert? Now, there's a thought... ;)
To Rilla (who reviewed over on Through the Dark Clouds shining):
Wrong story, I know, but you mentioned in your review that you're folliwing this one as well, so I hope you see this :). I wanted to say a huge thank you for your lovely review. I adore each and every review I get, but it's always an extra treat when a comment on an old story pops up, so yours was very special. I'm really happy you enjoyed Dark Clouds so. I did a lot of research for that story, because I wanted to capture the horror of war as best as possible, without glorifying or trivializing what war truly meant (and means). For you to say that the story brought this alive for you really means a lot to me and I'm grateful you took the time to write your comment. Thank you for your kind words - and, though very different, I do hope you enjoy this new Twist chapter as well :).
To Guest:
Your all time favourites? Wow, that's very high praise. Thank you! I'm very happy to hear you enjoyed both stories so much and do hope the next couple of chapters will meet with your approval as well. I have quite some twists up my sleeve in the forseeable future, which should hopefully make things interesting. Do let me know what you think!
To Anne Shirley:
I'm sorry to hear you're having a Brian Situation and I hope you find a way to resolve it soon! In happier news, your brooch sounds lovely and I'm glad Rilla inspired you to wear it a new way. (If you want a glimpse at Rilla's brooch, google "Empress Alexandra Yellow Diamond Rose Brooch" and something should come up.) Those old saris are, I'm sure, scrumptious and I imagine it was a real experience to wear them! (Though like you, I would have been absolutely terrified of one tearing.)
Technically, Leslie counts as a commoner, because as the daughter of a peer, she only had a courtsey before her marriage and not a title of her own. The same goes for Uncle Al's first wife Caroline and Ken's grandfather Theodore. All three of them were born into aristocratic families though, so not totally "normal". If we're looking at royal spouses with a non-aristocratic background, we have Uncle Al's second wife Kim and Katie's husband Adam (with only Kim gaining a title through marriage, because the royals are misogynistic like that). Plus, I imagine one of Great-Aunt Tanya's many husbands was probably a real commoner who started out as her chaffeur or something ;).
(In Germany, when one gains a PhD, the title of "Dr" gets added to your passport and it's regarded as a sign of politeness to always address someone as "Dr Whatever" until said person specifically asks you not to. It is common among two PhD holders to leave out the title, but only then. Some people think it's ridiculous to use the title, but being in the last phase of my own PhD and knowing how much work it is, I don't think it's wrong to acknowledge all that hard work.)
Ah, you're sweet! You're absolutely right that the fairy tale isn't what makes the romance, it's mutual respect and working together to achieve shared happiness. I feel that respect is key to any relationship, not just a romance, and I try to infuse that idea into my stories. To use your example, I think the trick is to find a partner who doesn't laugh at your bad dancing, but dances badly with you. Oh, and if you find yourself someone who looks at you with the same my awe my two year old nephew looks at a tractor, you should be fine ;).
