CHAPTER XXXIII

October 19th, 1886, Mayberry Avenue, Kingsport, N.S.

Weather: thick cloud cover but no rain as yet

Time: 11:57pm

Ate: Porridge with stewed pears and cream; two lamb chops, baked potato and creamed corn; devilled kidneys and bacon, mashed swede, creamed corn, and cold apple pie for afters. Also sundry apples, hot biscuits and one slice cold ham.

Good evening Diary,

Have taken Gilbert Blythe in for the night. We met on the Redmond campus as I was escorting Miss Selvidge's cousin to the Lady Yardley Halls of Residence. He was lying on his back on the south quad – which has multiple signs declaring students keep off the grass, I don't know how he missed them.

I was unable to ignore Blythe, however, as he was singing (badly) a sentimental tune that my Pandora is especially fond of. Was forced to pretend I had no idea who he was until Miss Lewis was safely returned indoors. I then attempted to gain Blythe's attention. A difficult endeavour when I was unable to raise my voice or step onto the lawns, and only met with success upon emitting the long low whistle we once used to signal that Mr. Philips was heading back to the school house. On hearing it Blythe hastened over, hissing, "Where is he! Did we make it back in time?" before embracing me for an overly long period during which three co-eds took especial notice (we were at least off the grass.) The phrase, "Good old Charlie Sloane" was then repeated six times before I managed to coax him to my dwelling.

He began telling me without any encouragement, that he had recently attended a birthday celebration held in his honour, which was hosted by the tenants of 'Patty's Place'. Apparently, there had been a large bowl of punch at the party that the shameless Miss Gordon had the making of, and got the measurements spectacularly wrong. This from a supposed mathematics expert.

Thereafter, an incident followed (Blythe's voice became highly irregular at this point) which as far as I could ascertain involved nothing more dramatic than he and Anne fingering the notes of a song at the piano. Having failed to make headway with the piece (I note with satisfaction that Anne Shirley has still to grasp the basics in feminine arts. Pandora can play Für Elise) they were assisted by Miss Stuart. Who, as well as having a figure to rival my Pandora, is a qualified musician.

If I remember rightly it was Gardner who offered his services next, with a heartfelt rendition of 'In the dear dead days beyond recall'. The two of them provided an impromptu concert of an hour's duration whilst Anne and Blythe looked on, drank too much punch, and I can only presume were highly entertained by the whole spectacle. I am half sorry to have missed it.

Blythe is currently snoring upon my bed after a shocking exhibition which included:

1) Bellowing parlour songs down the streets of Kingsport

2) Disrobing on the stairs, beginning with his boots and socks on the second floor, jacket, shirt and tie on the third, and ending (only after my insistence) with his trouser bottoms on the fourth. Concerning which I duly noted:

a) he has yet to break unseemly habit of sleeping in underwear

b) he still has less hair upon his person than myself

3) Regurgitating into my waste paper basket

4) Lamenting Anne Shirley's engagement to Royal Gardner.

I foolishly debated this news with him, being under the impression that Mr. Gardner had yet to formally propose. Mother insists he has not spoken and Mother would know. My room-mate, Biddlesford, however, would insist that Gardner proposed to Anne last month at the Rossetti Retrospective, after which the entire gallery broke into spontaneous applause. This induced Blythe to heave into Biddlesford's waste paper basket. (Was further shocked when Biddlesford insisted I should be the one to clean it up!) I relocated both receptacles into the hallway but refused to do more.

Am of the strongest opinion that since parting company, Blythe has fallen into unsavoury habits. Attempted to discover source of his moral decline. Intoxication prevented sensible discussion, however, which proceeded as follows and demonstrates nonsensical state of mind.

C.S. "This won't do Blythe. What in heaven's name has come over you of late?"

G.B. "I love her, Charlie. I love her!"

C.S. "Who man, be more specific."

G.B. "Anne! Anne! It's always been Anne!"

C.S. "Why on earth do you persist on such a course when she certainly does not return the sentiment?"

G.B. "I know that. She's marrying that prince and there's nothing I can do and I love her!"

Ad nauseam.

Blythe's confusion is certainly alarming. Mr. Gardner's name may be Royal but he is not royalty. He does, however, hark from a prestigious Kingsport family and while I am much justified in harbouring bitter feelings against Anne for refusing me without sensible reason, I am not so unchristian as to wish Gilbert Blythe upon her.

His snoring quickly chafed upon Biddlesford's tiresome sensitivities. (The latest being he cannot have anyone in the room between 7 and 7:15 am, which is when I like to take my morning motions.) The fellow proceeded to stomp out declaring he would take the basement room Vickers vacated two days ago, before stepping into both wastepaper baskets – and breaking mine!

Am now considering having Blythe move back with me. The fellow cannot manage without my guidance. Have decided I shall model the manner befitting a son of the Island and a Redmond scholar. In return he can tutor me in:

a) Applied and pure mathematics,

b) Ancient and modern literature,

c) Ancient and modern languages

d) Ancient and modern history.

(He can also introduce me to comely Miss Stuart and entertain Pandora's tiresome chaperone.)

Respectfully, C. Sloane

…

20th October, Sharpe's Lane, Kingsport

Well things have come to a pretty pass if I am moving back with Charlie Sloane. I'm even eating ham. He woke me this morning with a thick slice that had been fried in lard till it was sizzling and crisp, and I wolfed it down and asked for more. There wasn't any. Charlie had given me his portion. He has measured it out to the ounce and calculated he can make it last till the end of November. I wish he'd been given the task of making the punch last night. A tipsy Anne leaning hard on my shoulder, mumbling, "Look here, Gil, can't we go back to being good friends? I think you're awfully smart and being smart is better than being pretty" is a memory I do not need.

But I was in need of Charlie, and he soon filled me up with a batch of biscuits and some thick black coffee to dunk them in. I haven't eaten so much since Diana's wedding. I didn't mention that to Charlie as he hadn't been invited. But I did say I'd be happy to take him up on his offer. The place I'm in at the moment is worse than Glenaeon Street. And while he may be an odd egg, old Charlie Sloane, inside him lurks a surprisingly golden heart.

"You're to stop these shameful capers!" he barked at me. "I mightn't expect better of you but your folks certainly do! I thought you meant to be a doctor! I suppose you only said that to impress Anne Shirley."

He kept on at me (clearly he savoured the opportunity) but I stopped listening. I was recalling a day when I sat on the Green Gables porch steps with Anne and we shared the dreams we had for ourselves. She said she wanted to add to people's happiness, give them joy where was none before. I told her I wanted to give something too; to find a way to protect others from ignorance and harm.

I remembered how hopeful I used to be. How I truly believed that each piece of knowledge I might add to the world could build a path for all those who came after. I could feel that excitement rush through me again. Turns out it wasn't excitement, it was ham. But the thought stayed with me. It lodged in my chest and filled this almighty hole I've been living with for more than a year. I don't know why it was that I suddenly felt ready. But I know it now, know it as if I was holding it in my hands. Whatever else I might lose the Cooper Prize is mine.

…

1st November ~ Patty's Place

Dearest Diary,

Why does the world of Octobers become a world of Novembers? It's like watching a merry blaze burn down into ash. At least November birthdays are easier to buy for. I could name a dozen things Roy would adore, whereas Gilbert's present ~ I'm sure I spent more time thinking about what I could give him than I did my last essay.

This whole year will be measured with words. Only eight weeks into the new term and already I am filled to bursting with everyone else's opinions and wisdom. My head like my own little closet, and me filing through it hour after hour seeking Johnson's theory or Blackwell's treatise. Who said what about who, on what page, about which battle, and in which declension. Everything sharp, exacting, and unforgiving.

That soft place, Diary, where is it now? There are more people than me who must yearn for it, who refuse to give up their tender-hearted selves. We may have outgrown Fairy stories but we can still visit them, can't we? Go back to those places inside us and nestle into their October-ish spirit. Even in November.

There's another place I sometimes visit. A battered trunk that sits at the end of my bed. There are days when that box seems to throb and I can't bear to go near it. Other times it calls to me and I rush to its side, anxious to rediscover all the beloved things inside. Memories in the shape of little crocheted dishcloths from Marilla, too beautiful and fine to be plunged into greasy water ~ though I shan't tell her that. Nor Diana that I will never manage to make up the delicate doilies from the patterns she sent. There is a broken snow-globe that is Davy. A worn leather glove that is Matthew. An old green scarf that is home. Letters from Mother and Father, from Green Gables and Orchard Slope. Lengthy epistles from Miss Lavendar with her unfailing nudges about Gilbert. Gilbert's last of any meaning ~ from as far back as '84. Miss Stacey's letters, Phil's, Priss', Stella's, Jane's, and of course Roy's. I almost need another trunk for his perfect words.

I made a foolish joke the other evening. We had returned from another recital ~ this one was Handel I think ~ and I said to Roy that he wrote with such well-considered finesse he could publish his letters to great success when I am gone. He was so wounded by the thought of my funeral it was some time before I could calm him again.

"I would like to think I had the strength to attend but if I don't, my dear, will you grant me your forgiveness now? I could not live with myself knowing you were looking down and at me in sorrow. Every drop of rain would be as tears upon my head."

I told him there was nothing to forgive and he took my hand and caressed it lightly. I was wishing he would caress more than that, though I did receive a luminous smile.

"You cannot die, Anne," he said. "You are already an angel."

When we returned to Patty's Place he asked for a pen and paper in order to jot down his line about tears in the rain. Soon after he wanted to know which of his letters had moved me most. I am embarrassed to admit I couldn't think of one, and hoped he would be satisfied with, "All, all!"

Luckily Diary, he was.

But I have other words inside my old trunk besides those. I have mine. Old stories, old dreams that stirred in me so strongly I had to kill some off in order to make space for more. They used to pour from me once. I couldn't look at a brook or see a branch stir without hearing their histories being whispered on the wind. How I laboured over Averil. Weighed and worried over every word. And it showed, oh it showed! Because I had been imagining what I would write if I was Mrs. Morgan, or Margaret Burton, or the great Canadian authoress. I never believed that anyone would care what plain Anne Shirley would write.

I was lying in a perfect drift of white paper this afternoon, devouring my stories like hot soup on a cold day. Stella came in while I was making snow angels on my rag-rug, and huddled close beside me. Had she done so a week ago I might have shooed her away and swept up those pages in shame. I don't know why I felt differently ~ I suppose October glowed in me too strongly ~ but I began to read them out to her, just like in Story Club days.

Why do I call them Story Club days as though those days have to end? To see Stella's face as she listened to my nonsense, it meant more to be than all the gushing comments Dr Kent scrawls at the end of my essays.

She is so very November-ish right now. Priss too. I am not wholly certain what has undone them. Phil has a notion, but then so do I. That my darling Miss Maynard loves Priss the way Gilbert once loved me. I never get smiles from him anymore, at least not with his eyes. But I made Stella smile ~ Diary, I made her laugh! The sound was so rare a thing that Priss and Jimsie popped their heads round the door to see what had happened. Jimsie began tutting about the unsightly mess on my floor. But I wasn't listening, I was remembering the golden day when Gilbert and I sat on the kitchen steps and talked about our dreams. He told me he wanted to add to the sum of knowledge in the world. "A man has got to fight for something," he said, "it's the only way he can square what he owes to all those who have come before him."

Well, I mean to take up the fight too, with the pen not the sword. There are people, I know there are, who need magic in their lives, who believe in Faery and know how to speak it. And if I do nothing else with my fine B.A. feathers I can at least fly to that country and bring back news just for them.

...