Thompson, Canada
February 2016
Away and westward bound
"It's bloody too freezing cold," I grumble as stamp my boots on the ground to shake off the snow sticking to the soles.
"Language, Rilla," chides Una mildly and waves me inside, before closing the door firmly behind me.
"It is bloody too freezing cold though," I insist. "Why does it have to be so cold?"
Una smiles. "That's just the way it is here."
I shrug off my coat and frown at the snow that falls from it, making wet patches on Una's rug. "Are you sure we aren't in the Arctic?"
"Sub-Arctic," corrects Una patiently and takes my coat to hang it from the coatrack. I take off my scarf, gloves and woollen hat and deposit everything on the sideboard in the hall.
"It feels arctic," I mutter darkly.
"May I remind you that you chose to come here of your own free will?" Una replies. There's a teasing twinkle in her eyes, but her voice is kind.
"Only because I didn't know how bloody too freezing cold it would be here!" I protest. "If I had known, I would have gone to visit Shirley instead."
Una nods, seemingly amused by me. "Of course you would have."
"Just imagine! I could be lying on a beach in California right now!" I insist.
"Somehow, I don't think they spend much time lying on the beach in February, even in California," Una points out, smiling to herself and shaking her head at me.
I can't argue with that logic, so I'm left with nothing to do but to put on a displeased frown and follow Una into the living room.
At least in here, it's nice and cosy and, most importantly, toasty warm. I immediately walk over to the creaking radiator and hold my hands over it. Despite the gloves I wore, they're so cold that I can barely move them.
"Don't burn yourself," warns Una as she walks past me towards the kitchen. There's an enticing smell wafting through the door and once some feeling has returns into my hands, I pad after her.
"What are you cooking?" I enquire, sniffing audibly.
"I'm baking," Una replies and bends to check on something in the oven. (It is a most wilful contraption! I tried to heat a frozen pizza in it the other day and one half was burned to charcoal while the other one was still severely undercooked.)
"Cake?" I ask hopefully.
"Bread," she amends, placing a loaf on the counter in front of me. "Careful, it's hot."
I roll my eyes at her to indicate that I'm old enough to figure that out by myself.
"Why are you baking bread?" I want to know. Despite not being cake, I can't deny that the bread looks and smells mouth-wateringly good.
"It's nice," she answers. "I started doing it for communion and now like to bake my own when I have the time."
"Can't you just buy some for church? Or is that not holy enough?" I wrinkle my nose in confusion.
Una laughs. "The bread doesn't receive its meaning courtesy of where it was made."
I make a mhh-sound and try to poke at the bread in question. Una swats my hand away.
"Before I came here, they used Wonder Bread," she explains. "Of course, I had to change that."
That, I have to agree with. Wonder Bread is a type of sliced white bread that has the conspicuous habit of never going mouldy and tastes as one imagines it would. It has no business on a breakfast table and not in a church either.
"If nothing else, George made such fun of the Wonder Bread that I had no choice but to start baking my own," Una adds pensively.
I perk up at the mention of George – or Anglican George, as I prefer to call him. He's the pastor at the Anglican church that lies halfway between Una's depressingly uninspiring beige bungalow and her small, low, unchurchy-looking Presbyterian church down the road. He's also the one person in Thompson that Una talks about the most.
"Is he coming for dinner?" I want to know, raising both eyebrows.
Una bustles past me and busies herself with the kitchen shelves. "Who?" she asks, trying to feign ignorance and not doing a very good job.
"Anglican George," I clarify.
Seeing as her back is turned, I experimentally poke at the bread, but it turns out that Una has her eyes everywhere. Or maybe God has for her.
"Don't do that!" she chides without turning. "And you don't have to call him Anglican George."
"Oh, but I do," I insist. "See, the name George is already taken, so I have to name him something else. If you prefer, we could also call him Georgie?"
Una laughs. "Anglican George is fine." She comes back to the counter, holding a kitchen towel.
I nod, feeling pleased with myself. "Is he coming to dinner then?"
"I asked him if he wanted to come," she replies. "That is, if you don't mind, of course. If you'd rather, we could also make it a quiet evening with just the two of us." She covers the bread with the towel, but her hands suddenly appear fluttery and she lowers her head to avoid my gaze.
"It's fine," I assure her, hiding my grin. "He can come. He's nice."
"You think so?" asks Una, looking at me beneath her lashes, her cheeks colouring slightly. Evidently, I'm not the only one who thinks Anglican George is a jolly nice fellow.
"Sure," I answer and mean it, too. From what I've seen of Anglican George so far, he is up there in terms of niceness. So is Una, come to think of it, so maybe it comes with being a minister. You've certainly have to have a lot of kindness in your soul to move to freezing too cold Thompson just because your church tells you to.
Alas, both Una and Anglican George did, in fact, move here and that's not the only thing they have in common. With Thompson mostly in the hands of Baptists and Catholics, both their congregations are somewhat on the small side and they've been known to team up for some of the extracurricular church-y stuff that goes on outside normal services. That, and they're both exceedingly well-liked by their parishioners, as I've seen with my very own eyes.
To show my gratefulness for her letting me stay, I've started assisting Una a little with her work. Of course, I'm utterly rubbish at the religious stuff, but when it comes to social matters, I'm a bit more adept. Work with the – admittedly rather few – teenagers is not overly different from what I did at the youth centre in Croydon (though it does always remind me painfully how I miss those kids), but spending time with the elderly parishioners is quite fun, too. I read out loud to them, sample whatever delicacies the women magic up on any normal weekday, listen to their life stories and have even become a dab hand at bingo!
Tonight, however, Una and Anglican George are planning an ecumenical service including a string quartet made up from members of both churches, which all goes over my head a little. (In my defence, I totally helped with planning the pet blessing service from last week!) Accordingly, I let their voices wash over me and concentrate on the perfectly delicious food instead. Una cooks really, really well!
She also lets us sample her freshly baked bread, which Anglican George comments on with a smile, "Ah, I see you're still resisting the lure of the Wonder Bread."
"As she should," I declare disdainfully. "It's… ugh."
Both Una and Anglican George laugh. I, however, have already put the Wonder Bread behind me (as one ought to) and now consider our Anglican guest with interest. "What type of bread do you use?"
"Wafers," he answers and the way his eyes crinkle up tells me he knows that this won't win my approval. (And rightly, too. I mean, wafers taste of nothing!) To meet his expectations, I look pointedly at Una, who smiles and shakes her head slightly.
"We also have a different take on the question of what, exactly, the bread is," continues Anglican George.
I cock my head to the side quizzically as I take a bite from Una's delicious bread. (It might be a heathenish thing to say, but it's almost too good for church-y business.)
"Presbyterians consider the bread to be merely a symbol for God," elaborates Una and I'm quite certain she's dumbing this down for my sake.
"And you?" I ask Anglican George, secretly hoping for an equally simple answer from him.
He takes a moment to sop up some oil from his plate with a piece of bread and chews it thoughtfully. "To us, God is present in the bread," he answers after having swallowed. "The bread is not, however, actually God. That's the Catholics who think that."
Huh?
I frown at him. "Surely, there's no difference there? I mean, you're making that up, right?"
Anglican George laughs. Una smiles and exchanges an amused glance with him.
"To put it plainly, to Catholics, bread becomes God, whereas to Anglican, the bread continues to exist alongside God," Una explains. (Definitely dumbing it down!)
I wrinkle my nose. "I still don't get it."
"It's been known to tie knots in the greatest of minds," assures Anglican George with a twinkle in his eyes. "But look at it this way. The Catholics have God as the main course. Us Anglicans have bread with a helping of God."
"George!" chastises Una. "You can't say it like that!" But she's not doing a very good job hiding her amusement.
Anglican George looks perfectly relaxed about it anyway, and even winks at me briefly. I laugh and nod. "Yes, I think I understand it better this way."
"Then my job is done," he declares dramatically.
Una rolls her eyes at him as she gets up to start clearing the table. "Far from it. We haven't told Rilla about Benediction yet."
His expression suddenly looks decidedly mournful. "She's just doing this so she can tease me about putting Christ to bed," he tells me conspiratorially.
"Putting… Christ to bed?" I repeat, right back to being utterly confused.
"Oh yes," chimes in Una from the kitchen door. "Us Presbyterians are too sensible to do this, obviously, but the Anglicans have been known to take the leftover bread, put it in a monstrance, parade it around church with some singing before putting it on the special altar of repose."
"What is a monstrance?" I want to know. "Am I correct to assume it only sounds like monstrosity?"
"Depends," mutters Una under her breath while leaning over the table to pick up the plates. "Some look rather frightful."
Anglican George grins. "It's where we put Christ to bed. It's like his little house."
"By Christ we mean… the bread, yes?" I clarify.
"Indeed we do," confirms Anglican George. "Una considers it to be a rather ridiculous exercise. She's even been threatening to quilt a little blanket for Christ, so he can sleep better."
"On his special altar," I add slowly, still trying to wrap my head around this. "Why does he need a special altar to sleep on?"
"We actually have three in total," explains Anglican George. "Una, meanwhile, has a table."
Una clucks her tongue at him as she reaches over him to collect our glasses. "We're just not that excessive, thanks you very much. Though we're also very fond of the number three."
"Oh yes!" I perk up at this. "Because of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost!"
Both look at me with some surprise, obviously not having expected little old me to know that. (I don't even know why. I mean, I absolutely go to church once a year on Christmas Day!)
"I know about those three," I inform them proudly. "They caught the last train for the coast and all that."
Their expressions of surprise turn into twin looks of puzzlement and I have to hide a grin. I might be clueless on the religious aspects, but I could beat both of them in a trivia quiz on pop culture any day!
"Never mind," I assure them, smiling. "I'm just being silly. And because of that, why don't I do the dishes and let the two of you plan your church service in peace?"
Una, of course, protests at this, but I just wave her away. I resolved long ago to find a way to leave them alone for a while and if it can only be achieved by doing the dishes, that's a small price to pay. I am, after all, not blind and while talking about communion and sleeping Christ is an unusual way of flirting, I won't judge them. To each their own and all that.
Thus, once the dishes are done, I tiptoe from the kitchen to Una's guest room, pausing briefly in the hall to listen to their animated conversation and easy laughter. Those two are a match made in Heaven alright, and yes, the pun is absolutely intended.
Quietly closing the door of the guest room behind me, I pad over to the bed fully clothed and pull two of Una's quilts over me. Snuggled up thusly, I reach for my phone and do the thing that Una – and everyone else, really – definitely disapproves of me doing.
I google Ken.
I know I shouldn't be doing it. I know, I know, I know. And on some days, I even manage to resist the temptation, but today, with those two lovebirds-in-the-making just two doors down from me, it's more than I can manage.
What I do try is to steer clear off the tabloid articles ripping our relationship apart, because nothing good comes from reading those. In many ways, they're even the reason I'm here in Thompson in the first place.
I was still in Halifax, weighing my options and deciding which of my siblings to impose on first, when news broke about Ken and me parting ways – and the press went absolutely berserk. They infested Halifax overnight and even I, who I thought I'd seen it all, hadn't seen anything like this before. The sheer number of reporters camping out in front of Mum and Dad's home was disconcerting, not to speak of the aggressiveness they employed in trying to get the scoop. It was honestly downright scary.
They used long lenses, floodlights, ladders and even memorably a small crane to try and catch a glimpse into the flat. There were sound booms directed at the building and one time, someone even managed to shove a microphone under the kitchen window during the night. Dad had to disengage the landline when there were suddenly mysterious clicks to be heard during calls and after that, no-one felt quite comfortable using their mobile phones either.
Of course, I stopped venturing outside when they appeared, but my parents had obligations and the reporters were determined to get a quote, a picture, a reaction from them, no matter how. There was press waiting in front of their work places daily and security had to be called more than once to deter reporters snooping around. They also regularly jumped on the hood of Dad's car as he drove to work, and did the same for the taxis Mum had to resort to using after they actually chased her on her usual walk to the university on the third day.
Jem and Faith didn't escape unscathed either. Jem had to deal with an especially brazen reporter who pretended to be a patient to get close to him, while Faith had several of them jump out at her from behind shelves and trees when she was grocery shopping or taking walks with Zoe. My other siblings reported similar intrusions from where they lived, though thankfully of a slightly lesser scale. Still, it was an untenable situation and it wasn't going away.
In the end, it was Faith who suggested I hide out at Una's for a while, reasoning that this was the most unlikely place anyone would expect me. After all, Thompson is up there somewhere in the vast nothingness of Northern Manitoba and while it might not be the end of the world, it's surely halfway there. It's small, cold and it would be severely depressing even if not for its main claim to fame as Canada's capital of crime.
The press soon found out about me being here, of course, but only the most rabid of them followed me and even those didn't stick around for too long. I guess not even a picture of me is worth camping out on the street in -25°C for days on end. As they slowly disappeared, their colleagues in more temperate climates also started leaving my family alone, so all in all, Faith's plan proved to be successful, even if it does also mean that I will likely lose some toes to frostbite before venturing to somewhere more habitable again.
What Faith's plan couldn't achieve, however, was to stop them from writing nasty things about me. When the first batch of articles rolled in, Grandma Bertha had more than a few choice words for those who'd written them and while her calling it a character assassination sounded somewhat extreme at first, I've since come to agree with her. To call it bad would be an understatement and it's not helped by the fact that almost none of it is true.
In the absence of any real information but with a severe need to fill columns inches, reporters simply started making up stories that sound good to them and in the process, they've proven to have an exceptional imagination. Of course, it was only a matter of time, before one of them figured out the temporal proximity of Sam's music getting released and Ken and me breaking up, which meant the headlines about me having an affair practically wrote themselves.
In the beginning, I did read them, which I guess was the mental equivalent of picking scabs off an unhealed wound. The more painful they were, the quicker I gobbled them up, until Mum actually took away my phone for two days. I grumbled about that with all the maturity of a fourteen year old, but secretly had to concede her point, which is why I tried to wean myself off the tabloids after that. Not reading anything at all takes more strength than I currently have though and so, I'm lying here on Una's guest bed and scrolling through the new entries on the google news page for 'Prince Kenneth, Prince of Wales'. (Using his formal title is a good trick if your aim is to mostly find articles by the more reputable news outlets, I've found).
He looks… like himself, mostly. I don't know why that still surprises me, because it would have been most unusual if he had suddenly stopped looking like himself – even more so because I still look like myself as well, especially after having made a promise to Nan to leave my hair alone – but somehow, you always expect a life changing occurrence such as, well, this to have some sort of visible effect.
If I squint and look very closely, I sometimes think he looks a bit thinner than he used to and that there are darkish circles under his eyes, but if I'm truly honest with myself, that's not something that began in December. He came back thinner and more tired from Cyprus and the truth is that that never really went away.
He still looks good in a uniform, I have to admit that, and it's with a pang of wistfulness that I scroll through the pictures of him meeting with the families of deployed soldiers. There's even a little video of him talking about the importance of a strong support network for those left behind and I watch it with the sound turned down low, just to hear his voice again. (And while the more soppy part of me laps it up, the cynical part can't help marvelling at the irony of it all.)
After the video and after hearing his oh so familiar voice, I need a moment to compose myself and blink away my tears before I can turn to the photos of him in a tuxedo at an evening engagement. (He also wears a tuxedo incredibly well.) I rarely bother with the text, so I just scroll through in search of more pictures – until something catches my attention and makes me stop.
There's another article advertised in the margins of this one and its title is enough to make me sit up straighter in my burrow of quilts.
The girl who won't be queen – and why we might all come to regret it
This is… new.
Frowning in confusion, I click to open the articles and am greeted by a picture of myself. I don't immediately recognise it, but it's a casual setting, with me smiling at the camera in an open, relaxed way. It's certainly not how I'd smile at a reporter, not even a reputable one. Something about the picture is odd, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is, so I set it aside for a moment and scroll on.
Quickly, I skim through the text beneath the picture – before catching myself halfway through and starting to read again from the beginning, making sure not to miss anything this time. It looks like this article, for once, might be worth my time.
Much has been written about the breakup of The Prince of Wales and Miss Rilla Blythe, yet not much is actually known about it – or about her. In five years of dating a prince, Miss Blythe has remained a mostly elusive presence, retaining a dignified silence even in the face of outrageous and unfounded attacks on her person. Behind the scenes though, her quiet impact for good should not be underestimated. We have spoken exclusively to sources close to the royal family to get a better picture of the young woman who we believed would one day be our queen – and found out why her departure could end up being a cause for regret for the people of this country.
I stare at the entry, barely resisting the urge to rub my eyes to see if I'm only imagining this. After years of mostly unkind articles and weeks of downright nasty reports, this is suitably different to make me feel thrown.
Still, the words are still there even after I blinked, so it truly looks like someone not only wrote this but posted it on the website of a respected newspaper for the world to read. Unusually, I can't even find one fault in what is written. After the intro, it proceeds to give a broad and accurate overview of my life and my relationship with Ken without dipping into details. It's all common knowledge that the writer could have found out about anywhere, but it's not what this article is about anyway.
In truth, it's all about the quotes.
'Rilla is a lovely girl,' assures a high-ranking member of the aristocracy. 'She's very kind and generous and a true pleasure to have around.'
'The King and Queen just adore her,' confirms a source close to the monarchs. 'I know they will be deeply sorry that the relationship didn't work out and will most definitely miss her.'
'The relationship was definitely good for Ken. She totally grounded him,' an old friend of his told us. 'He's become much calmer and more focused since meeting her and he was happier, too. She brought out his lighter side.'
'Everyone knows Ken hasn't always had the very easiest of relationships with his parents, but Rilla brought them closer together again. She's been their bridge,' reports a close associate of the royal family.
'No-one knows why they broke up, but I can categorically say that no cheating went on,' guarantees a mutual friend of the prince and Miss Blythe. 'Sometimes, things don't work out and it's incredibly sad that they didn't, but no-one cheated on anyone.'
'Think what you want about her, but you have to give her this – no-one's heard even a single word from her,' points out an acquaintance with access to Buckingham Palace. 'She could ask almost any price for her story, but instead, she's given him the greatest parting gift possible – her silence.'
I lower my phone and frown at the darkness of the room. I could have a guess at who most of these people are, but… just like I didn't speak to the press, they don't either. Discretion is non-negotiable in these circles and while I'm incredibly grateful that someone stood up to defend me, they revealed things the royal family would rather have kept under wraps. There's no way these people would just go renegade and expose all that to a newspaper. Except…
Quickly, I scroll back up to the picture of me and look at it closely, the phone mere inches from my face. The photo is licensed to AP, but there was something about it that already puzzled me the first time around and as I scrutinise me, I suddenly realise what it is.
The armchair that photo-me is sitting in is covered in tartan. So are the wall hangings behind her and the pillow poking out from behind her back. There's only one place I've ever been where there's this much tartan and thus, only one place where this picture could have been taken – a place, where no reporter ever ventures and where only a handful of very special people are allowed to take photographs at all.
This photo was taken at Balmoral Castle, which means it could have come from one source and one source only. And that, in turns, means all kinds of things that are too much to wrap my head around right now, but that leave me with just one very obvious conclusion.
The entire article has but one purpose. It's them sticking up for me.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Early Morning Rain' (written by Gordon Lightfoot, released by him in 1966).
A/N: This chapter comes with special thanks to Alinyaalethia, who helped me navigate all the church-y stuff, seeing as I'm about as clueless about it as Rilla is.
