Chapter 5
"What is the matter, child?" Aunt Dora, standing on the small gangway leading up to the ferry, turns and looks impatiently at Rilla. "Come with me!"
Rilla eyes the gangway with trepidation but doesn't move.
"We don't have all day," urges Aunt Dora and waves for her to follow.
Still, Rilla hesitates. Her gaze moves from the gangway to the ferry, which seems impossibly big to her.
With a sigh, Aunt Dora walks a few steps towards her niece. "What is wrong?"
"I've never left the island before," Rilla admits haltingly.
There's a brief pause, before Aunt Dora crosses the remaining distance between them. "I didn't leave the island until I was already married," she relays after a moment of thought. "We lived with Ralph's parents at first, but then he received an offer to make a life for us in the west and we went there. I was older than you are when we made the crossing, but only by a few years."
"What is it like?" asks Rilla. "The mainland, I mean."
"Very different from here in some respects and not so different in others," replies Aunt Dora. "Now, come. If we miss the ferry, we have to stay the night and I want to avoid that. We have a long journey ahead of us and it's time I go home."
With which words she turns around and walks back along the gangway towards the ferry. Rilla stays behind and, watching her aunt's back, realises that there's no more comfort to be had here. She is to do as told and follow, despite the nerves fluttering within her at the prospect of leaving the only place she's ever lived.
She already had to leave Ingleside behind, her only home, and now they're asking her to leave the island, too. No, not just to leave it but to put a sea between her and home, making return if not impossible then at least cumbersome. Now, there's still the possibility to take a train back home, forbidden as it is, but once she crosses the straight lying ahead, she's put home behind herself for good.
"Come, child!" Aunt Dora calls out, her voice decidedly impatient now.
She has crossed the gangway to stand on deck of the ferry now and urgently waves for Rilla to join her. There are several feet between them and for a mad second, Rilla considers turning and running, just getting away from this ferry meant to bring her to places unknown. But she recognises, even as the idea enters her mind, that it's ridiculous. There's no place she could go to, after all, and nowhere she could hide. For her, there's none but the path forward, across the gangway and onto the ferry.
Slowly, she raises one foot and places it on the gangway. It feels like it's laden with lead, that one foot, and the other one is no better. She never considered it before, the saying of 'dragging one's feet', but she realises that it's exactly what she's doing now as she slowly walks up the gangway.
The ferry sways slightly beneath her feet and she's suddenly grateful that the nausea and dizziness of the previous months is mostly behind her. She's not sure she would otherwise be able to stand the unsteadiness of the ship for – for however long this crossing will take.
Frowning, Rilla tries to remember what her siblings told her about the trip to the mainland. Alone among them, she's never taken it before. The older four, of course, haven taken it regularly to go to university and, in case of her brothers, most recently to leave for a place much further away. Even Shirley, she remembers, went to Kingsport recently with their father, ostensibly just to show him around Redmond, but really, Rilla assumes, in an attempt to sway him towards studying and away from joining their brothers overseas. She doesn't think it worked very well.
Now though, she's the one on the ferry being taken to the mainland and her destination isn't the one her siblings went to. She could have gone to Redmond, like her sisters, but that wasn't something she was ever interested in and now she's being brought to a place much further west for much more shameful reasons.
Perhaps it's apt, she thinks with uncharacteristic wryness, that the family's fool leaves the island not to seek academic glory but to hide away the most foolish mistake of them all. Certainly, she can't picture Nan and Di getting themselves into this predicament.
"I'm going inside," announces Aunt Dora once Rilla comes to stand beside her. "The sea doesn't agree with me."
"I'll stay out here if it's alright," Rilla replies quickly, deciding in a split second. "It's my first crossing and I'd like to be able to watch what happens."
"Fair enough," agrees Aunt Dora.
Yet, as Rilla can't help noticing, her aunt stays on deck by her side until the gangway has been pulled up and the ferry has moved away from the pier. Not that she had any true plans to flee, knowing that she had no place to flee to, but it's apparent that Aunt Dora doesn't trust her to comply with their travel plans until they're well and truly underway and until there's at least a sea between them and home.
Home.
Is it even still her home though?, Rilla wonders as she stands alone at the railing, Aunt Dora having finally gone inside. She watches as the Island draws further away from them, its red soil more evident than ever from the distance. It's unique to their beloved island, she was told, this red soil, but she can't imagine the earth having any other colour. Brown is normal everywhere else, they said, but to her, the only colour the earth should be is red, red, red.
The contrast is beautiful, she supposes, of the red soil and the green grass against the dark blue sea and the grey sky. There's a storm moving in and she wonders whether they'll reach land before the worst of it hits. The petty, uncharitable part of her wonders what it would mean for Aunt Dora and her sea sickness if they had to sail through a storm, but she's no vindictive person by nature and thus, can't find it in her to wish it onto her aunt, despite the role she plays in her having to leave home.
There it is again. That word. Home.
She was born in Ingleside and has, therefore, never known another home. She stayed at other places, of course, at Green Gables or the homes of friends, but that was only ever temporary and she knew that it was. Now though, she realises, she doesn't know how long her exile is expected to be or whether Ingleside will continue to be her home after it is done. Do her parents plan for her to return, once her problem has been taken care of? Is she to stay out of sight indefinitely, to make her life in the west from here on out?
It's a new thought, encroaching on her mind unbidden, and it gives her cause to tremble. Without truly considering it, she just expected her stay out west to be temporary, but as her home moves ever further away, it dawns on her that she never asked and her father never said. Will they let her return, once it's all over? Or is this a goodbye for years, possibly for ever?
Her hands gripping the railing so tightly her knuckled turn white, Rilla watches as the gulf between her and the island grows ever wider. The ferry picks up speed and she feels the sea spray hit her face. It tastes salty on her lips, though maybe that's just the taste of her own tears.
She's grateful, in the end, for Aunt Dora's sea sickness, because it gives her some much needed solitude to compose herself again. Having always been a social person, it's curious that, after spending two weeks in her room with very little respite, she isn't desperate for company, but maybe it's precisely those two weeks that showed her the comfort of being alone. At least when no-one's there with you, there's no need to put on a mask and smile through the pain.
She isn't alone on the ferry, of course, but it's a grey and blustery day, so the majority of passengers remains inside and the few people mingling outside barely glance her way. Thus, Rilla spends the crossing undisturbed, standing at the railing and looking at the island until it disappears into the mist – and for a long while after that.
With her face turned north, she doesn't see that the ferry is getting closer to its destination and would, in fact, have missed it if Aunt Dora hadn't suddenly appeared at her side. Rilla jumps when her aunt touches her elbow, thus taking her eyes from the horizon for the first time in minutes, perhaps as much as an hour.
"We'll arrive at Cape Tormentine shortly," Aunt Dora informs her.
"Good," replies Rilla, even though it doesn't feel good at all.
Aunt Dora considers her for a moment. "You're pale. Did you stay outside this entire time?"
Rilla shrugs, feeling a little defiant. "I was watching the sea."
"You must be frozen through." Aunt Dora clucks her tongue, obviously disapproving. "I hope you didn't catch a cold. I can't have you sniffling and sneezing throughout our entire journey!"
Not that she could admit to it, of course, but Rilla doesn't particularly want to get a cold on top of everything else either.
"Susan always says I have a strong constitution," she informs her aunt, turning up her nose slightly.
Aunt Dora tsks audibly. "There's no need to get haughty with me, young miss. You're in no position to be."
"I'm not haughty," Rilla defends herself, conveniently ignoring that she has been called that before, back in school, "and I won't get a cold."
She can see from her aunt's expression that the other woman isn't convinced, but instead of arguing the point, Aunt Dora merely turns and begins walking to the other side of the deck. "I hope you're correct," she remarks over her shoulder, her tone leaving little doubt that she considers the matter to be closed.
Happily for them both, Rilla turns out to be correct indeed, about her health if not her haughtiness. She might only have noticed how cold it was on the deck of the ferry when they're in the heated waiting room at the train station, but Susan proves to be right about her constitution, because no cold sets in as a result of it. In fact, Rilla spends their journey being perfectly healthy, if increasingly anxious about what waits her at their destination.
This curious thing is that if it weren't for the anxiety and the special circumstances she's in, Rilla probably would have enjoyed their journey. She was wary to leave the island initially, of course, but once that first step is done, the other steps feel increasingly easier. The more she sees of the hitherto unknown parts of the country, the curiouser she is to see even more of it.
She left behind the gently rolling fields and pastures of her island with its occasional colourful dots of houses and farms in-between and the endless sky spanning above. Even with the widening distance, she only has to close her eyes to see the landscape of greens and reds and the ever-present blue of sky and sea, coming together to paint a tranquil picture that holds all the comfort of familiarity.
Opening her eyes though, she sees all the other landscapes that the country is made of and at times, finds herself staring at them in wonder. Having thought Charlottetown to be a big town, she is wide-eyed at the sheer size and luxury of Montreal and Toronto, just as she is fascinated by the old-time buildings of Quebec City. They stand high above St. Lawrence River, which itself is wider than she thought a river could possibly be, just like Lake Ontario is more reminiscent of the sea than of a mere lake. Understanding little of laws and law-making, she nevertheless realises the importance of Ottawa, where the fates of her country are decided, despite the parliament buildings being reduced to no more than rubble and ruin by the recent fire.
Further west, she is amazed to watch the change in scenery. The green, leafy landscape of the east with its many towns and villages gives way to the vast, deserted prairies of the western provinces, where cities like Winnipeg and Calgary prove to be rare places of urbanity in the midst of the wide-open land. Finally, having left Calgary behind them, mountains begin rising in the west, higher mountains than Rilla thought imaginable, covered in snow and contrasting sharply against the sky. The sight alone is enough to make her press her face against the train's window, almost child-like, and there are times when the sights flying past them momentarily make her forget why she is here at all.
The nights, however, spent in uncomfortable beds in various guesthouses, with Aunt Dora's too warm form too close by her side and her aunt's soft snores in her ear, provide little comfort to Rilla. When the realisation of her circumstance and the memories of her leaving all come together under the cover of darkness to create a situation that she sometimes doesn't know how to bear, she doesn't always succeed in holding back tears. In fact, crying herself to sleep becomes custom in these unfamiliar rooms, but quietly, so that this seemingly unfeeling aunt doesn't wake and notice.
For, despite spending days sitting opposite each other in different train compartments and nights sleeping in shared guesthouse beds, their communication remains restricted to the bare minimum. Most of the time, Aunt Dora has neither eyes for the scenery outside the train window nor her niece opposite her, instead focusing firmly on knitting an increasingly growing pile of woollen socks for the war effort. To Rilla's tentative attempts at conversation, she reacts with clipped answers that rarely stray beyond the strictly necessary, causing Rilla to fall silent by the second or third day as well.
Only when Calgary lies behind them and they're drawing closer to the Rocky Mountains ahead, does Aunt Dora finally directly address Rilla. After days of silence, it seemingly comes out of nowhere, causing the latter to nearly jump in surprise.
"We need to settle on a name," Aunt Dora states plainly.
Rilla frowns in confusion. "A name?"
"We can't tell anyone your real name," her aunt elaborates, her tone leaving little doubt that she thinks it's something Rilla should have figured out on her own. "We're far away from the island, but we still can't risk anyone tracing you back to it and spreading information we don't want people to know."
It does, Rilla has to admit reluctantly, make sense. After all, the main reason for having her leave home is to prevent anyone finding out what sort of predicament she got herself into, so there'd be little sense in putting that at risk.
"My first name is Bertha," she thus volunteers.
Aunt Dora nods briskly. "You'll be Bertha, then."
There's a sort of irony, Rilla thinks, to someone finally calling her Bertha just when her life is unravelling. Didn't she, as a child, fervently wish for people to call her by that name, which sounded so much more refined and elegant to her ears than plain old 'Rilla'? If her younger self had known under which circumstances that wish would come true, surely, she would never have hoped for it so.
"Your father's mother, what was her maiden name?" Aunt Dora wants to know.
Rilla blinks. Of course, her paternal grandparents were both dead by the time she was born and her father never talked about them much. She thinks her grandfather's name was John, but as for her grandmother, she can't even recall her given name, much less the name of her family.
"I don't know," she admits a little sheepishly, because she feels it's something she should know, despite having never met the grandmother in question.
Aunt Dora, obviously, shares that sentiment, as evidenced by her raised eyebrows. "No matter," she replies anyway. "We'll call you Keith. I can't say you've earned the name, but I suppose it must do."
Bertha Keith.
Silently, Rilla forms the name with her lips. It feels foreign, like the name of a stranger. It feels nothing like her.
"You're a distant relative of mine," Aunt Dora continues, unperturbed. "The wife of a cousin, I think."
Rilla nods, because it sounds close enough to the truth. Certainly, it will be easier to remember than the new name she just received.
She watches as Aunt Dora starts digging through her handbag, unsure whether to be curious or apprehensive about what her aunt might pull out of the bag for her. In the end, it's a small satchel that she holds out to Rilla. Opening it, the younger woman sees a thin golden ring fall into her palm.
"This will be your wedding ring," Aunt Dora informs her. "You are to wear it at all times."
Staring down at the ring, Rilla states, "I'm not married." Even as she says the words, alas, she realises how dumb they are. If she were married, none of them would have to be dealing with the problem they're trying to hide right now.
"We'll pretend that you are, of course," Aunt Dora replies impatiently. "We can't have anyone asking questions and for everyone to think you're married will make matters much easier."
It's a lie, Rilla realises, but she supposes that at this point, it hardly makes a difference anymore. Her life feels like an entire cumulation of lies and half-truths by now, so what does it matters if there's one more lie on top of it?
"Your husband is overseas," continues her aunt. "You married him by special license just before he left for the front. It's happening everywhere these days, young people getting married too quickly because of the war, so I don't expect anyone will bat an eyelash at it."
Instinctively, Rilla thinks of the wedding of Miranda Pryor and Joe Milgrave not long ago, which was one of the last occasions she attended before everything was turned upside down, and which was certainly more romantic on paper than in real life. She resolves, in a sudden show of the vanity not unknown to her, not to model her own fictional wedding on theirs. Certainly, if anyone asks, her wedding tale won't including a smelly dog having a howling fit in the corner!
"You have no family of your own left, so when you found out about your delicate condition, you asked to stay with me in absence of your husband," adds Aunt Dora. "If anyone asks, carefully hint at not getting along too well with your mother-in-law. It's so common that everyone will understand, certainly the married women."
Aunt Dora looks at Rilla, narrowing her eyes slightly. "It's imperative that you stick to this story if anyone asks you, though of course, it's preferable that you say as little as possible. I can't allow anyone to find out the truth about your situation and about what you did. I agreed to help you because your parents asked me to, but the truth will reflect badly on me and my family, and I can't allow your actions to impact the reputation of my own children. What is more," and here, Aunt Dora's eyes narrow even further, so much so that they're barely more than slits, "I won't allow you to be a bad influence on them, so your interaction with my children will be limited to the absolutely necessary. Is that understood?"
Her voice, suddenly, is sharp and her eyes almost piercing, which is a disconcerting change from her hitherto composed and almost detached demeanour. Despite nodding quickly, Rilla shifts uncomfortably under her aunt's gaze as it dawns on her, perhaps for the first time, that her stay out west will be a very lonely one.
To Guest:
She most certainly will be changed by what's ahead! I truly think it didn't dawn on her that she might not even come back until she was on the train platform. Up until then, she thought she was coming home once her 'problem' was taken care of, but since no-one ever actually said so, she can't be sure whether its a banishment for much longer, perhaps forever. Even if it isn't though, she certainly won't return the same girl she was when she left!