CHAPTER XXXV

Patty's Place, January 8th 1887

Priscilla Reports #6

Anne is getting published! And it's a truly delightful story – which is something of a relief. After Averil I wasn't sure if she could take another disappointment. But this! I laughed, I sighed, I repeated whole phrases out loud. So funny, so true, and so very, very Anne. That is the best part of all. Every line sings of the girl I love. To think she kept the entire enterprise to herself. None of us had the slightest notion she had been writing. When I heard her talking to herself I assumed she was trying to commit a monologue to heart for her English final.

After passing around the publisher's letter, then leaping about the room like fools, we demanded Anne find a copy of her work to read to us. We sat by the fire expectantly but Anne couldn't sit for long. She was brimming with excitement – blooming out as Phil would say – and stood before us, eyes aglow, while we clapped and cheered and vowed to celebrate with the sort of unruly abandon that involves a ten dollar cheque from Youth's Friend and the top shelf of the Rosewood Inn.

It's a simple story – not even that, more of a moment – about a wild canary with the wit and cheek of Puck himself, who Anne has named Bright Bell. Also featured are these jolly little flower spirits, four of them, just like the girls of Patty's Place. Phil is convinced she is the Aster maiden – she always believes herself the heroine. Then there is a good sweet Lilac, a shy little Violet, and an untamed Lily, who declared at the end that she would rather marry herself than take a husband. Best of all, like a warm and benevolent breeze was a Guardian Spirit, who breathed epithets of wisdom all through the tale, and made me want to run to Anne, kiss her cheeks and tell her how clever she is.

Little wonder Youth's Friend has asked for more. Not Yet Bright Bell by Miss A. Shirley is to come out next month. They have even engaged an illustrator to make a few sketches to accompany her work. We all promised to buy at least twenty copies each. I am so elated for her, and for us. There is genuine cheer in our house again. January has been so bleak – inside and out. We are in that peculiar place where we long for exams to be over, whilst dreading our time at Patty's Place coming to an end.

The more time passes the more I know I am not ready to leave Redmond. I thought I was. With Stella and I no longer – well simply no longer, it seemed sensible us moving on. But lately I have been thinking about Jimsie's daughter, who went on to do her Master's degree. Father says he won't consider my pursuing it unless I take top in Greek. "And not just girls' Greek, Prissy, but men's Greek too!" As though there were two kinds. I am quietly grateful Phil is focused on Mathematics. She could take the prize in Ancient Studies if she chose. Now it feels within in my grasp it terrifies and thrills me. There was a time when I was sure that I would never come to Redmond. Now, after seeing what Anne has done, I yearn for the chance to add to the sum of knowledge in the world.

I sound like Gil. I am looking forward to seeing him this afternoon. It's the first clear day we've had for weeks and we all mean to spend it outdoors. I don't know Jennie Cooper that well, but the moment I heard of her walking party I began to wish like everyone else that the sun might make an appearance today. As I look out the window I see my wish has been granted. I'm sure Gilbert will be needing its cheer more than most. It used to be he was always outside playing football, wandering the night, or adding to our woodpile (Roy never did get around to helping me move into the dining room.) Now Gil's become such a fixture in the Redmond library I've heard they've given him a key.

I've also heard his folks had to sell their orchard in order to pay for his Senior year. Those rumours about his attachment to Christine Stuart are surely unfounded. As handsome as Gil is, he's not moneyed enough for her. I doubt Miss Stuart will be content to swap cello recitals at Belgrave Hall for prayer meetings in the old blue one. Of course, no one thinks of a man giving up his home. He may do what he likes, and Gilbert will certainly return to the Island. Anne thinks so too, but saying so to Phil only results in her calling us parochial, narrow minded, countrified potato-heads.

"If Gilbert takes the Cooper," she told us," he'll have his pick of Medical schools and Hospitals. And the same applies to you," she said to Anne. "Why you would settle for being the principal of some hokey old Island high school once you graduate? Bolingbroke Ladies Academy is one of the most prestigious schools in Canada."

"You may find she chooses neither," Jimsie said, giving Anne a significant look.

"Neither of those schools have chosen me," Anne said. "I have simply been informed of possible openings."

"Oh, they want you alright," Phil winked, "and they aren't the only ones."

"Minister wives aren't supposed to wink!" Jimsie fumed.

"And what about Royal Gardner's wife, what is she supposed to do?" Stella wondered.

Strange to say, none of us could think of one thing.

…

Friday 13th January, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue

The Rose Notebook

If I had any niggles about Anne's future I can finally put them to bed. Such a lot of them been tucked up to sleep now. I only hope my own babies will be so obliging. That little boy we met on Sunday, what a racket he made! After day upon day of misery-inducing rain it seemed half of Kingsport decided to join the walking party. I had been hoping for the tiniest slice of quiet (I need to practice how to contemplate) but these people who insist on edifying their offspring at every opportunity!

"I say Barnaby, what sort of cloud is that? See here, Barnaby, that plant is called arbutus. Ar-but-us!"

To which little Barney whined, "I want my train, I want to go home!"

I think I prefer droney Charlie Sloane.

When I have babies and they want to play train I shall lie upon the floor and be a track for them, or a bridge – and not use it as an excuse to inculcate good engineering techniques! Jo says if you want to grow a good strong soul then let a child be three when he is three and ten when he is ten; don't try and make a ten-year old of a three-year old. That way when he is a man he will know exactly who he is. If such an upbringing made my Jo who he is, then I can only agree. His papa did a miraculous job raising his baby boy. Those Blakey ears of his, however, and that nose! I shall be grateful if our kiddies take after Mother after all.

Roy must have taken after his father too. I'm surprised Mrs. Gardner allowed him to – what a force of nature she is! I hope she and Mother are never introduced, there isn't a building constructed that could hold them both together. I'm half sorry I will never use my supreme mathematics skills to discover how it could be done. After divine Miss Shirley went and got herself published (that tale becomes funnier every time I read it, I do love a story like that) we Patty's Place girls are simply bursting with ambition. Prissy wants to do her Masters. Stella wants to travel, though she lacks the funds for that and means to become a secretary for some hotel-hopping millionaire. Clever Miss Maynard. Papa could name two or three likely fellows who would suit. I was almost jealous. Until I remembered that I would never be content taking short-hand in a train compartment with some oil magnate, when I could be cosying up with Jonas Blake in a big ol' bed!

"Don't you want to do something after college?" Prissy asked me.

"I will be doing something," I told her, "and I'll be doing it with Jo by my side. Who could possibly want for more?"

I admit my simple wishes did waver when I saw what the Gardners were wearing when they turned up today. Yards and yards of Duchesse satin! On a Friday afternoon! To visit the house of some 'upstart orphan'! Queen Anne won them over eventually. Is there anyone who hasn't been won over by my honey? Granted Aline will always be prickly, we all saw that. Sitting there with that haughty look on her face, as though our silly china dogs were the only thing of value in the room. But her younger sister is a dear. So easy to adore and so ready to adore others. It fills me with hope for Anne's future. If Dorothy Gardner has managed to keep stay so sweet around those two sour pusses, then I know Anne can do the same!

Lucky Dorothy to have a brother like Roy. How many times did I wish for a sympathetic brother? I suppose Alec and Alonzo did their best to make up for it. Ugh! Has it really come to that? Have I come to think of the ghosts of future-husbands-past as the brotherly sort? Suddenly, the way Anne sees Gilbert makes the world of sense to me. How wrong it would have been for them to settle on each other. Imagine Anne never knowing Roy! Never knowing all the precious things her little heart longed for. As for Gilbert Blythe, he is the veritable dark horse these days. So grave and ambitious. Prissy seems to think Christine would never marry a poor but perfectly formed Island boy. But then she hasn't considered exactly why Gilbert Blythe has taken it upon himself to work as ludicrously hard as he is. To better himself for Christine, of course! Yes, Anne's refusal really was the best thing for both of them. What a wise little thing she is.

She didn't give that impression this afternoon. At least not at first. Really Roy! He's such a sappy fool for Anne he can't be trusted with what comes out of his mouth. Fancy confusing Saturday elevenses with Friday afternoon tea! Poor Anne. You could see how flustered she was when the Gardners arrived on our doorstep, and she wasn't the only one. All the Island girls were flipping about the house like fish in a basket. Luckily, I know how to keep my head. I think it was the first time Jimsie found something in me she approves of. Well, someone had to show them how it was done.

Anne will learn – she'll have to – that a true lady is never seen to flap. If she is discovered in her tired flannel shirtwaist and her hair all mussy, then that is precisely how she means to appear. The same goes for a lady's home. If her room should be scattered with paper and cats, and the air smells like a patisserie, then it is because she wishes it that way. The proper way to behave in a crisis is to appear as if there is no crisis at all.

Anne being Anne, was not content to mend the situation, but turn it around completely. Not only was she able to keep up a steady line of chatter as though Aline hadn't just killed the cake, she dared to disagree with the Gardner matriarch – about cats of all things! Mrs. Gardner appeared to reconsider her opinion of Anne after that. She tried to hide it, of course, but the Bluenose in me recognised the unmistakable sign of begrudging tolerance.

A life with Roy will not be the fireside dream Anne always goes on about. They'll be no gay times round the Christmas table, no one to make up for the mother she has missed. But in their highfalutin way the Gardners need Anne Shirley just like I did. Besides, what are cosy comforts to Anne, when she has a prince like Roy? Soon I shall never again know the feel of Duchesse silk, but I shall always have my Jo.

Even better, he shall have me.

…

Friday 13th January, Patty's Place – 1054 days without you

Dear Mags,

Such a day, such a day! Unexpected visitors, a squashed cake – chocolate fudge made with three pounds of butter – I could have wept real tears if I wasn't so busy trying to stop myself howling with laughter. Then there were the crazed cats, who looked as if they wanted to use Roy's mama's silks as a scratching post. Then there was Aline, an ice-maiden if ever there was one. Then there was Dorothy, with her tilted hat, and her golden eyes like a tiny owl. Then just as I returned to my room, and looked at the place where a bed used to be (now taken up by racks of Phil's clothing) Priscilla Grant came looking for me.

The conversation started simply enough. Anne's grand visitors had given us so much to talk about it was easy to think of a way to begin. As always it was the end that proved trickier.

"What was that you ran over to tell Dorothy Gardner?" Priscilla asked, pretending to find the bib of her apron wholly absorbing.

"Where I remembered her from," I told her.

I should have been helping Anne with my share of the conversation. Instead I spent almost the entire hour of the Gardner's visit trying to place Dorothy's face. Dorothy too, I noticed, was trying to put a name to mine.

"She seems lovely," Priss said – she would say quietly, I would say sulkily. It was too much, Mags, and I told her so.

"She is lovely! You saw that yourself. I'm not looking to replace you, Priscilla. I remember once, and it was an age ago so I'll forgive you if you don't, but I remember you told me to never run away from you again."

I looked pointedly at the place where her bed once stood, in what you would call Maynard fashion and what Priss would call like a kestrel, when suddenly she began cry. Well, I've cried so many times before. I'm afraid I've become that hard sort who forgets what it's like to be in the midst of desolation when they have already fought their way to the other side. As Mr. Royal Gardner, himself, likes to say: Tears are as rain. And so they are, Mags. Neither good nor bad, just wet.

I waited for Priss to finish bawling, then I said, "That cake you baked…"

"Your favourite," she sniffed.

"But what did you mean," I continued, "when you peeled the cushion off it and said the saddest things are might have beens?"

I was expecting Priss to tell me she was speaking of the chocolate-coated disaster. But she didn't. Dear Mags, she didn't!

She took my face in her rose scented hands and said, "I was talking about us, you know very well I was, Stella Maynard. I came up here to tell you that I made another cake. And you and I are going to go downstairs and eat the whole thing, while you read me that paper you are working on and I listen enthusiastically, and we learn to be friends again."

She's down there now, Mags, icing my cake and waiting for me. And I shall let her wait. But not too long.

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