A lark was singing somewhere, the notes of its song echoing in the still, almost quivering air. Rat was running in the bluish wavering watery light, its little claws crunching, in the dark, soft soil of steep trenches, and suddenly the rat twitched its ears, and jumped aside, it ran meandering in the shadows. A shout went up "Rats, bayonets out, boys!"
And suddenly, rat felt a gentle, kind hand pick it up, the little black eyes scanned nervously around, as rat shivered in the rising morning light, and a good-natured voice said, half-whispering, "Well, little one, I've got some bread for you here. You must be a cosmopolite, when you are also adventuring on the side of the Germans. How do you feel about this wicked armageddon of ours, I wonder?" And soon, the rat felt the stable ground under its paws, and a small piece of bread was slipped in front of it, rat caught it its paws, and scurried away. Private T.C. Meredith, swept his hands over his stained kahki-uniform, and looked around with attentive, dark blue eyes that sparkled with something infectiously joyful, as if he considered every living thing he encountered, even bedbugs, to be friends in uniform.
A light mist did rise from No Man´s Land, it floated, land trampled by tanks was completely violated, raped. And then a voice came from behind him, "Meredith, is charming rats again, boys! We've got a future zoologist among us, if he makes it out of this shit alive, mark my words!" Carl brushed goldenbrown wave from his eyes and said cheerfully, winningly, "Say, Graeme, we're all friends here, and comrades in this endless mud, even though it's the dry season, thankfully, for now. And you can laugh, but that's my goal, so why shouldn't do observations of the behavior of rats when they are here, as are we all. Animals do not destroy each other as blindly as humans do, and it is because of people and ideals that we are here." Graeme, gave a barely perceptible nod, and then he let out a long spit, and said, "Well, I never went to much school, unlike you, Reverend's lad, but rats are cancerous, and so are the Germans over there."
The wind picked up, it brought the mist closer to their lines, and suddenly Graeme froze, and slipped on his gas mask, motioning for Carl to do the same. Everything looked distorted beneath it, as if underwater, as Carl surveyed the view before him. But no one began to shout, as the men did, howling, and cursing, God or loved ones' names, in an endless litany, as the times when the mustard gas attack had come, it burned the skin, and the eyes, and raised the blisters. Graeme removed his mask, and said curtly, "Just mist, thankfully." Carl nodded, and then, as if on one unspoken command, they went to their observation posts. The day began again, and in a faint way, Carl noticed that a short distance away, a morning dew spider's web glimmered in the rising sun, its threads glistening and vibrating, and then it broke when a soldier trampled it to pieces. Carl stifled a sigh, and focused on his duties, one endless day in the trenches was upon him, once more. Fortunately there had been no enemy movement lately, but one could never be absolutely sure. June was glowing, something might happen soon when the month changed to July.
That night, in the dimness of the dugout Carl thought about the package he had received from the Manse in the previous mail load, it had been nice, even pleasant to have memories and news from home, and Rosemary had used her special molds for his bisquits, each was in the shape of a different animal, that's what Rosemary had always done for him. Gently, with his fingertips, Carl touched his right breast pocket until he felt a small hard object through the khaki fabric, and carefully he fished it out. An elaborate yet unassuming Victorian Scarab pin fell into his palm, and out of old habit, Carl flicked his finger over the top of the scarab.
And with a slight smile, Carl remembered that moment in his father's study, when he had opened Cecilia's jewelry box and said, in a voice trembling with emotion, " Dear, dear Carl, I remember like it was yesterday when you sat by Cecilia's side and whispered in her ear your observations about the nature around Maywood Manse, and how Cecilia encouraged you to explore and she gave you a magnifying glass, with which you ran to the shadiest corners of our garden, and watched especially the ants, and the nesting birds, but also the smallest things of all that your other siblings just trampled on. The fluffy buzzing of bees, the buzzing of ladybugs, and wasps, and the internal hierarchy of horse ants are as familiar to you as the lifestyles of mice and frogs, or snakes, not to mention eels. So, encourage your mind, and take something from this jewelry box if you like, so that your mother's love will always be with you, as well as mine, when you leave us to do your duty and the call of the country."
Curious, but also a little wary, Carl had been looking at the shimmering pile in front of him, and then certain shape had caught his eye, and he'd picked up scarab beetles from under the creamy glimmering string of pearls. The sunlight glinted off its bluish shell, which was real, and it and its mate were embedded in brass-frame, and the two beetles were separated by a dark blue stone that was the same shade as Carl's eyes. Seeing what Carl was holding in his hand, John Meredith had smiled with a slightly trembling lip and said, "A wise choice, as its symbolic value is versatile, as you know." Carl had smiled openly and said, "I've always loved beetles, they're so interesting." With slightly shaky hands, John had attached narrow pin to the collar of Carl's blue striped shirt, and there it was glinting. And that night, just a couple of days before Carl left for war, Una had glanced at the pin and smiled brightly, not at all sadly, and said, "It suits you, stay safe, and write when you can."
The bluish stone of the pin was cool under his fingers as Carl carefully put his scarabs back into the pocket where it lived, and he took Rosemary's biscuit from the tin box, and taking a bite of it, opened Una's letter, his elder sister's handwriting was as calm as ever.
Dearest Carl! Here, wasps are swarming in the kitchen, and Rosemary tries to shake them off with a dishtowel, to no avail. The nature of Glen glows with the beauty of summer, and sleepy bees buzz and drink from the flowers, and everywhere there are light pools of pale yellow pollen, as it has collected in the reddish earth after the recent rain. The lilacs smell intoxicating, and in the evenings I sometimes go and sit in Rainbow Valley, for a few moments. I usually pass the anthill that is near the grove that you used to explore passionately as a child, it's become huge now.
The other day I saw Uncle Norman and his reddish-furred dog walking in the meadow. The dog's reddish, slightly curly coat glowed a bright orange in the sun, and its white paws pressed soundlessly into the grass as it happily picked up the stick Norman threw to it. This spring, Norman finally produced puppies for his bitch, and they have now found new homes, all but one, which Norman and Ellen kept for themselves. That puppy is very fond of Bruce, it always walks by his side, and bites Bruce's ankles with its needle-sharp teeth. As you can imagine, Bruce is not amused, because he is more partial to cats, if you were here, you would probably spend all your time at Norman's, and you would teach that puppy to do all kinds of things, because you always wanted a dog, and when Mom refused despite your request. You focused your whole interest to the various animal kingdom. Manse is not a place for dogs, as Great-Aunt Martha used to say to us. Do you remember how on summer mornings, before Sunday service, Mom and Father came to our rooms, and brought us a stalk of hay with ripe wild strawberries slipped into it, one for each of us, at strawberry time.
Morale is high here and the whole of the Glen is doing everything it can to support the home front, as is generally the case everywhere, or so I imagine, although following politics has always been Faith's business, not mine. Our sister is now in London, VAD-training, her last letter was a typically cheerful outburst, albeit almost full of VAD terms. On the letter paper, there was a pungently sweet smell of ether, but fortunately no bloodstains, from which I concluded that she handles her correspondence in her spare time, or perhaps after her rounds. Bruce has made amazing progress on the piano, so we play a lot of Elgar here. Father preaches as esotericly and enthusiastically as ever, and the living room is still shaded by the ivy, which is not yet as green as it will be later in July. My own time is taken up with daily chores, and occasionally with the Glen Red Cross Youth Department´s activities, which Rilla Blythe runs extremely efficiently as you can imagine. Every night I pray for all of you who are out there somewhere, in the midst of mud and horrors, and my Bible is almost tattered.
with love,
Una
Carefully, Carl folded his sister's letter back into its envelope, and leaning back until his back touched the wall of the dugout, he crossed his arms carelessly behind his neck, thinking about the images that Una's letter evoked in him. The already somewhat hazy days of Maywood, dominated by Cecilia's dark-haired queenly demeanor with her gently mischievous vivaciousness that Faith had inherited. Loving atmosphere of Glen's Presbyterian Manse, where the music always seemed to twinkle, courtesy of Rosemary, the light laughter of his sisters, who had often joined in the mirth of the Blythe twins. Grinning, fondly Carl remembered the promise he and Rilla had made, with Shirley as witness, that they would never marry each other. Rilla had lisped in her light trebel ""Thutan always says that an ounce of prevention is the cure of all ills, so we now make a solenm vow, like in books, right Carl?" And almost automatically he glanced at the letter Shirley had sent. It was as laconic as usual, but full of his characteristic quiet humour, and brushing golden brown hair from his forehead, Carl sank into Shirley's narrative, written in his strong hand, as he thought of Shirley, who perhaps even now might be flying, protecting the skies, as he held the line here.
Ellen Doulgas carefully placed heirloom teacup on the plate. Noon peace shone in the Manse drawing room, the only confusion was at Rosemary's piano, as several folders were in a messy pile on the top of it. Drawing room, was flooded with the smell of lovely fresh bisquits a light cloud of cinnamon and regulated sugar, and Ellen raised her eyebrows inquiringly. Rosemary replied in her quiet, dignified style, "Una got that recipe in a recent letter, and today she had time to bake." Door creaked open and Bruce came into the living room a little out of breath carrying a tin box which he placed in front of his aunt saying seriously, "Fairy bisquits, because Una's bisquits aren't ready yet, there must always be something to offer with tea or else we're breaking some great commandment?" Ellen's dark eyes twinkled and she said in her emphatic way, "Bruce, I don't care for sweets, so you take a few for yourself." Rosemary glanced with her heart in her eyes toward her young sturdy son, who cautiously opened the tin box, and looked at Rosemary questioningly, and after she nodded, took one of the pale jam-filled bisquits, and slipped out of the room, leaving the bisquit box open on the table.
Ellen looked at the bisquits in silence, and then remarked, " Tell me why these are fairy bisquits?" Rosemary laughed in her light girlish way, and that effortless laugh brought back a thousand memories to Ellen. Rosemary said with a fond smile on her lips, "That fairy reference has to do with Alice Parker, who also baked those for Bruce, before she left for Redmond, she is doing Red Cross work, with the Blythe girls, they are helping our boys, sewing their fingers numb, and doing all sorts of projects. Bruce has rationed the biscuits very severely."
Ellen glanced sharply at Rosemary and said, "I've heard stories about Dr. Parker's family, years ago, they did travel a lot in Central Europe, somewhere around Austria-Hungary, if I remember correctly. You know my opinion of German culture, and the dangerousness of their militarism and philosophy. There is an extremely tense atmosphere in Lowbridge, apparently, if Dick Parker wasn't respected as a doctor, his family would have been in trouble months ago, even though he isn't as innovative as Doctor Blythe. People get worried if a doctor, or priest, is not available when they have a physical or mental crisis, as you well know even in times like this. At Carter Flagg's store there are whispers between the shelves, luckily ration cards haven't been faked, yet. "
Rosemary, poured fresh tea for her sister, as she thought of what dear John had said in his dreamy way, of his encounter with the Parker lass at church, when the organist had really played "the enemy's music," as Ellen said. After Glen Concert, the organist had anxiously come to speak to John, and partly as a result of that conversation John had written a brilliant sermon. It had been profound, multi-faceted, not too patriotic, but still emotional. Rosemary looked up at her note folders, where there was a gap, for some notes had been removed from the shelf, they were at the bottom of one of the locked chests.
In the kitchen, Una had just lifted two trays full of small golden brown cookies to withdraw, and to cool, light lingering scent of roasted sugar and cinnamon smelled intoxicating. Una smiled in her wistful way, as she remembered Alice's breezy letter, that had come along with this recipe.
Darling Una!
We here in the peace of Primrose Hollow just sew, or at least it feels like it, of course we do more, we collect names on lists and sell Victory Bonds, as we hem sheets, we divide each corner into different continents, like in Alcott's famous novel Little Women. Only other day I was sewing Asia, and despite my thimble my fingers hurt, but you yourself know, how fingers start to ache, after sewing for a time. Few days ago I wrote to my elder brothers, Andy and Will, at the Western Front, and as you know it is a matter of honor to write only good things to give them something else to think about, but sometimes it is so very difficult, as I often want to howl, my fear, for them. They write relatively regularly, joking cheerfull missives, that is their style, with only sometimes only a touch of sombre shades, thank goodness. I have found that baking them treats is helping, in that way I can channel all my fear and fustration into different doughs.
Dear Una, you must also think about these things, how to develop an appropriate balance, and still be truthful, and not burden our brothers, or sister in my case as Cora is living in Ontario, and doing as well as can be, for a ministers wife, in these troubled times. You know that I've been called reserved for years, in Lowbrige and Glen talk, the same way you've been labeled as sweet Una Meredith, isn't it frustrating how other people's assumptions spread and we end up acting like the talk says we are, only because we don't want to break the bubble? You may be sweet, but you also have a quirkiness and a quiet humor in your nature that is extremely captivating, dear friend, unleash it a little more often. Soft wistfulness is the core of you, with an occasional hint of steel, just as I can give too much weight to "my regal airs, and graces," as Irene Howard has sometimes said in her honey-sweet pointed way. Sometimes I feel that Kingsport, though it is a town, is not so different from Glen or Lowbridge, for the multifaceted fabric of humanity is here too, and we are all hungry for news that at last this suffering, this war, will end. If one can't rage in this current world situation, then when? No one can assume that we will remain calm forever and ever?
And now for some musical news, I've been digging into Delius´s sheet music and Händel librettos lately. I'm extremely excited, because you yourself know how comprehensive performing and making music can be. And if I may, I want to ask you about one thing. Have you ever come across a situation where you feel that you are very visible to another person? As if this other person sees you, only you, in a certain way? Sorry for this certainly annoying vagueness, but at the moment I can't articulate my thoughts more clearly than this. But I think you'll get my point.I regret that I didn't have time to talk to you before I left for Redmond, because those last few days after Glen Concert were busy, I was doing errands all over Glen and I helped Mum quite a bit, well you know how it is all thousand small homely things, that just pile up. I'm attaching a bisquit recipe that Di got from a local friend of bisquits are downright sinfully good, and the recipe is very basic, nothing fancy, and the key is cinnamon, I think that Bruce might love them.
With love,
Alice
Something soft brushed Una's ankles lightly, and with a start, Una looked down, and she saw Stripey looking at her. Half-grown cat's whiskers were quivering, large celadon green eyes were shining, in the dimness of the kitchen. Silvery tabby yawned lazily, and then it ran away with silent velvety paws, like a shadow. And soon Bruce's steps were heard from the stairs, he inquired, "Una, have the bisquits cooled yet?" Una, looked at Bruce, and without a word she handed out, one still slightly soft biscuit, on a plate, to Bruce, saying, "Do not spoil your dinner, love." Bruce, smiled, and tasted the biscuit, carefully. Then he gave Una a light, shy embrace, and said, " I'll go find Stripey", softly humming last Sunday's hymn, Bruce ran out of the kitchen.
The hours of the afternoon rolled on calmly, and about half-past four, Rosemary came to doorway to Una´s room and said, " Mary Vance is asking for, you. She is waiting in the kitchen." Una suppressed a small smile as she thought of Mary Vance, for even though it had been years since she had lived at the Manse, every time she visited, she took immense, unspeakable pleasure in visiting the Manse's kitchen.
The wind could be heard through the half-open window the rustle of rustling leaves, that sound was very soothing, and with keen eyes Una glanced at her best friend. Mary Vance looked up, and said in her sassy way, "I happened to be in the Glen, on Cornelia's business, and thought I'd come say hello. You've been baking. I don't often think about certain phases of my life these days, but at least life has taught me to be economical, so the rationing restrictions don't cut as deep as they could. Those bisquits, probably have at least this week's rations of sugar, but sometimes an indulgence is nice, a little luxury in the middle of our everyday life. But we must stand firm against the Huns in every way."
The teapot whistled loudly, and soon Mary Vance and Una were sitting at the kitchen table, with Rosemary's pansy cups in front of them, in which the soft mahogany-colored tea was billowing. Mary Vance cast a careful look at Una and said, "Una, is it true that Clive Howard has been here?" Una deftly avoided Mary's gaze, looking down at her teacup, and she said with a strained murmur, "In the spring, he helped Bruce, and sometimes he comes here, and we talk and have tea at verandah." Mary Vance, said with the utmost caution, "It might seem like he's trying to court you. He's not even in uniform, sure he's doing all kinds of things for the home front, but. When Faith is in England and the boys in war, you must be exemplary, for you know how people talk, especially in these times!"
Una looked up from her teacup, Mary shuddered inwardly, for there was a look in Una's eyes the like of which Mary had never seen before. Una said quietly with a little cutting edge of steel in her voice, "I know my duties very well, it's no use for you to lecture me about them, and as for Mr. Howard, he's just a casual acquaintance, one person in this village, like many others, no more, no less. " The light glinted in Una's silver hair comb, and feeling little troubled Mary brushed her hair and said conciliatoryly, "I believe you. I got into a verbal altercation with Kitty Alec, Miller's aunt. I always find it fun tease her, as her style is just unbearable. Miller has always liked my snappy style."
"Have you had any letters from him lately, Mary?" Una inquired. Mary Vance, drank the rest of her teacup before replying, "Miller doesn't write very often, but enough. He hasn't been to much school, he's practical, like me, and if he can just get out of there in one piece, I've already got things planned, you are of course my Maid of Honor, don't look so wistful, as weddings are a happy thing. Our soldiers will do what they can, especially after Vimy Ridge." Una paled, and Mary bit her lip, and said regretfully, "Oh, Una, sometimes I still talk before I think, but Jerry's recovered now, isn't he?" Una sighed, and said briefly, "Come on Mary, let's go outside for a while."
Contrary to Mary Vance's assumption, Una did not take the path that led to Rainbow Valley, but they walked towards the Four Winds, and after about twenty minutes of walking they were on a small reddish promontory sheltered by tall fragrant fir trees. And they sat on the moss-covered rocks, and Una said thoughtfully, "If you ever feel the need to scream - come here. Nature doesn't judge, even if our community might. When we got that telegram about Jerry, I came here, and I screamed my pain and fear into the wind, and it eased a little, so that I could go to the Sunday service, because it was my turn to play the organ."
The soft light of early evening filtered through the branches of the fir tree as Mary Vance and Una walked, up the road to the Four Winds, and soon they were at the fork in the road that led to the Marshalls' green house. Mary Vance, waved her hand to Una, and with light steps, carrying her basket containing the purchases Cornelia demanded, she soon disappeared from view at a bend in the road where there was a handsome silver willow. Una Meredith looked up at the blue sky with a few puffy clouds drifting by, and the black telegraph wires that vibrated in the gentle breeze.
Clive Howard, swept a blond curl from his high brow, and suddenly a smile came to his lips, for he saw a figure walking down the dusty high street of the Glen. A slim, lithe figure dressed in dark blue cotton, her porcelain white face was shaded by a large straw hat with a narrow and glittering hat-pin. Clive Howard, raising his worn cap, and brushing his overalls carelessly, said in his pleasant voice, "Miss Meredith, isn't it a most charming evening." Una Meredith stopped, and glanced at Clive Howard out of the corner of her eye. A small gust of wind had dislodged one shiny black hair from her hairdo, it floated, as if teasingly near her face, and with quick movements, and with gloved fingers, Una slipped strand back into her hairdo, as she nodded briefly, and then she continued on her way to the Manse.
Clive Howard, chuckled to himself, for the message was clear, no more teatimes at the Manse, and shimmering music, watching the changes of color on Una's graceful features, or the occasional presence of golden Rosemary Meredith in that room. Clive Howard, recalled their last meeting, when Una had said unusually bluntly, as the nightingale sang in the bush, and the shadows danced on the verandah of the Manse, "Mr. Howard, please don't come here for any more visits, it's better for everyone." Clive had looked up at Una, and said quietly, "Is it because I'm in civilian clothes, because of my heart defect, and not at war like other young men my age?" Una's profile had been streaked with gold, as an errant sunbeam had struck her, and she had been silent, as Rosemary had played Elgar's Chanson du Nuit, in Andante, and in G major, and Clive had bowed and gone away with silent steps, disappointment in his heart, for these occasional moments at Manse had been a pleasant change.
When Clive arrived home, to that lacy abode that he called, sometimes in jest, Golden Nest, notes of the piano shimmered, and clearly resonant supple, and silvery soprano, interpreted Elgar's well-known hit, Carillon, which had been quoted and hummed everywhere in August 1914, as that patriotic and supportive poem for the Belgians was written by Émile Cammaerts. After his sister had finished, Clive said, "Why such a patriotic song?"
Irene looked over to Clive and said shortly and a little wearily, "I've got to keep my spirits up somehow. I remembered that Elgar had composed some songs about the war, so I've looked them up just to be sure. This piece is excellent, and when it comes to getting the crowd in the mood and lifting it up, these things are important." Clive walked restlessly in the living room, and Irene said lightly, "The tea is still warm in the kitchen, go there and don't disturb me, my brother." Soon Elgar's notes shone again, and song after song changed, as Irene's voice shimmered like cool sunlight.
A little out of breath, Una leaned against the door frame of her own room, and carefully removed her hat. And as she sat up on her bed she thought of Alice's letter, her advice, that Una had already tried, for it was so that in the company of Clive Howard, teasing and mischievous, in curiously careless way, Una had found that she could, after all, respond to the attention directed at her, in her own way, and her shyness, which was still strong, and cutting was sometimes dissipated. Una knew very well that her heart was somewhere in France, buried in the mud of Courcelette, and Clive's sometimes very flattering attention had not changed that fact in any way.
There was a light clatter and Bruce's laugh and Stripey's purr echoed from the stairwell. Una glanced in the mirror, a little red tint glowed on her face, and with light fingers she stroked Walter's comb, and then she turned and looked at the window. Sky had darkened to an inky blue-black shade, first raindrops were dripping on the window pane. With a slight sound fierce summer rain pelted the reddish country road, and the verdant glow of nature darkened.
Dr. Parker's house in Lowbridge was shrouded in silence, the clock ticked quietly in the living room, and Dick Parker, with a sigh, closed his last patient file, for this week. It was a little past eight, in the evening, and suddenly he noticed his wife standing in the doorway. Therese Parker leaned against the door and said in an almost colorless voice, " Few days ago, I was kicked out of Laidies Aid. I've been thinking it would be easier for you if I wasn't here, maybe I could go to Ontario, to see Cora. Andy and Will are on the front lines but their latest letters said that the front is quiet, and they've been able to use their language skills to make war propaganda leaflets, which is a good thing, even if it causes Will a little mixed feelings, because he's always more sensitive than Andy. Alice is in Kingsport, she is working at the Red Cross, with the Ingelside twins, off-duty hours she practices her singing, as her most recent letter to me reported. Fortunately our Lowbridge storms do not touch our children."
Dick, glanced over his glasses at Therese, whose pale face had a determined expression, in this dim lighting, he could clearly see the lines of fatigue and stress on her features, unless he saw quite wrong there seemed to be a slight bluish tinge to her lips, as if she were struggling to breathe, or else it was only a shadow. Dick got up and walked around his desk with quick steps, and took his wife in his arms, and said in his gruff way, "It won't do. Cora has kept her distance from us since the beginning of the war. Although sometimes she writes little notes that are straight out of a good manners guide, and she is very patriotic, dutiful, as she should be, as she is all grown up now, as all our children are. And besides, you probably remember our wedding vows, for better or worse, I need you by my side, whatever happens, will happen." And with slightly rough fingers smelling of ether and ink, Dick Parker lifted Therese's chin, and looked at that dear face in the light, and pressed a light kiss to her lips. After a moment, Therese broke free of his gentle grip, which had turned into a waltz-hold, and she said a little breathlessly, "Shall I play you something?" Dick nodded, smiling, and soon the smell of his pipe filled the drawing room.
Therese went to the piano and selected the notes. Ravel's Valses nobles et sentimentales glowed, in the room, those bright, varied and gliding modernist notes with a clear romantic charge. And suddenly there was a demanding knock at the door, Dick kissed his wife's neck, and whispered, "Go on, it must be some sudden emergency, I'll be right back." Ravel's tunes blared into the hall as Dick checked that his collar was straight before opening the door.
It was a slightly overcast evening, and a small group of men well over conscripted age, in rather shabby clothes stood on his porch, and quizzically, Dick said, slightly exaggerating his local accent, to give it more twang, "Where's the emergency?" One of the men said, "Dr. Parker, we are patriots, and proper Canadians. We want to make sure there are no Huns in this house, hiding, so I ask you and your wife to come out, or we will drag you out by force." Dick Parker frowned, and said in a conciliatory authoritarian style, "Gentlemen, I am as proud a Canadian as you are, and my sons are fighting for their country on the Western Front, my wife is not at home."
One of the men glanced around and hissed between his teeth, "The doctor is lying Mitch, I saw that woman walking proudly down the main street a couple of hours ago, in this direction. It's at home, let's just drag it out!"
And then, to Dick's horror, he heard the music stop and Therese's steps come slowly closer, and then he felt his wife's slender, warm, long-fingered hand wrap around his, their wedding rings clinking softly together. Therese stood behind Dick, looking coolly self-consciously at the crowd before her, and she said in her low, melodious voice, without the slightest foreign accent, not any more after decades of living in Lowbridge. "Yes, gentlemen, what exactly do you want?"
The group of men murmured among themselves, and then Mitch said in a sombre tone, "Sing our national anthem." Therese raised her eyebrows, there was a glint of dark humor in her eyes, as she remarked in a chillingly polite voice, "So this is how you test our loyalty, O Canada, or do you mean, perhaps, God Save the Queen, or Maple Leaf Forever, I can sing them all if you like, but only on condition that you disturb us no more, gentlemen."
There were angry grunts from the crowd, and then one man spat a long spit into Therese's skirts, saying "Don't be flippant with us, bitch." And at the same moment there was the sound of breaking glass, for one of the men had completely carelessly thrown a medium-sized stone through their kitchen window. Dick felt Therese totter, and then she sank white-faced on the threshold, and her pulse was extremely rapid, and she was scarcely conscious. And then out of the deepening gloom came a voice, "Well, there's no need for songs today, apparently."
A little later, Dick cautiously lifted Therese in his arms, and he locked the front door, and rushed into his study, laying his wife down carefully on the leather sofa, as he began furiously to search for digitalis, in wide glass-fronted cabinets. Kneeling beside his wife on the honey-yellow floor, holding her hands in his. Therese, breathed heavily. Dick said in an extremely tender voice, "Dearest, this is just one moment, you've been through them before. Here take a sip of water, and these pills." Therese, caressed Dick's hand weakly, and a small smile came to her lips, which now had a distinct blue tinge, and her pulse, fluttered, as she slowly swallowed pills. Hours passed as Dick Parker carefully observed his wifes conditon, and then after endless moments, her pulse and heartbeat slowly stedied, as pills did their job.
A couple of days later, Dick Parker stood in the doorway of their bedroom, and inquired in a gentle voice, "My love, shall I announce this turn of yours to the children, as it has been a while since the last one?" Therese glanced out of the corner of her eye at her spouse, she smiled weakly, and said "I don't think so, because they would just worry. I'm starting to carry a pill box in my handbag again." Dick planted a light kiss on Therese's forehead and he ran a hand through her tawny shaded curls, and then drew the curtains in front of the windows so that the room became pleasantly dim.
Distant hammering was heard upstairs as Dick covered the broken kitchen window. Crushed glass and a broken greenish-gold teapot lay in shards on the floor, the pieces glistening in the bright light. Dick glanced sadly at the ruins of the destroyed beauty, for he remembered exactly when and where that teapot had been acquired, from a small shop in the town of Opava, part of Upper and Lower Silesia, while Dick had attended a medical conference at the local hospital. Leaning against the door frame, Dick closed his eyes as the horror images flooded his consciousness, now that the crisis was over, countless what if situations. Wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, Dick went to his study. Looking up from his papers, he glanced at framed photograph of his entire family standing on the steps of this house, taken when they had returned to Island. From the open window echoed the bright laughter of a child from the streets of Lowbridge.
Curiously, Dick glanced out of his study window, and saw his colleague's youngest daughter walking with the handsome dark-haired schoolmistress of Lowbridge down the high street, and Rilla's reddish-brown curls glistened in the sun, and the ribbons of her white, blue-striped summer dress fluttered in the wind, and she carried in her arms a fair-haired, curly, ruddy-cheeked child in a sailor's shirt and dark knee pants.
Rilla noticed that her arms ached, because it was no easy thing to carry a child who didn't want to be carried. The afternoon light was bright, and the brightly colored wooden houses of Lowbridge looked quite homely, but not as homely as in the Glen, she noted as she looked around cautiously. Rilla said, softly but in a determined tone, "Jims, soon you'll have milk, and no I won't let you down, and I know there's a cat over there, you can't pet it, no do not pout."
Gertrude Olivier hid her smile and said in only a half-serious tone, "You're a natural with him. You wouldn't have believed it when you went to pick up Red Cross packages and donations with Craword's lazy old nag about four years ago, and ended up trying the Andersons' door, because you knew that Jim Andreson had sailed to England to be enlisted, and you found Jims about two weeks old, and Mrs. Anderson dead, who was still warm."
Rilla, glanced at the ruddy-cheeked and beaming Jims, who was now a far cry from the once pitiful but lively wretch that Rilla had brought in the heirloom soup bowl to Ingelside one afternoon in August, 1914. And Rilla pressed a little kiss to Jims curls and declared, "I did my duty. I still don't really like children, but Jims can be quite sweet sometimes, when he's not being mischievous."
On a small hill rose a light-colored house built in a somewhat romantic style, surrounded by a small garden and extremely carefully tended flower beds, but some chaos seemed to have befallen the house, because one of its windows had been broken, and the flower beds had also been vandalized.
Frowning, Rilla asked, "Gertrude, do you know who lives on that hill?" Gertrude glanced in the direction Rilla was pointing, and Rilla saw Gertrude stiffen a little, and she said in a calm but somewhat strange tone, "That's Dr. Parker's house."
And twenty minutes later Jims was drinking milk from a blue enamel mug, and Rilla was sitting at the kitchen nook table in Gertrude's little house, drinking tea from a dark cobalt blue flat tea mug with a thin gold rim. A large lilac bush waved its leaves almost in front of the window, and the narrow leaves trembled in the wind, and curiously Rilla examined the framed photograph of Gertrude's Robert. After some thought, she came to the conclusion that Robert looked a bit like Ken, for they seemed to share a similar confidence and brash charisma. And somewhat hesitantly Rilla raised her large hazel eyes and inquired, "Gertrude, how did you and Robert meet?"
A nostalgic smile shone brightly on Gertrude's narrow face, and a little dreamy gleam came into her dark eyes, as she swept her rich, bouncy black hair from her shoulders, and crossing her ankles, said, "I was browsing in a bookshop, and Robert happened to come in to catch the rain, and we started to talk, and then one thing led to another. After countless grey years a heavenly happiness opened to me, it seemed then and still sometimes seems too good to be true, but as I said to dear Anne, I do not doubt Robert's love at all, but fate, it is due to my mystical tendencies ." Rilla's eyes flashed, and she said, "Have you had another dream, perhaps?" Gertrude shook her head.
In Ingelside's peace, Gertrude knocked gently on the door of Gilbert's study, and entered that world of instruments and carbolic soap and medicine bottles and patient files. Gilbert raised his twinkling eyes, and said benevolently, "Ah, Gertrude. Do you want some headache powder, perhaps? Susan predicts that the low pressure is coming, for Hyde is Jekyll again." Gertrude smiled faintly, and in a few words described the atmosphere of Lowbridge, and what she and Rilla had seen. Gilbert's open face became pensive, and he said briefly but kindly, "Thank you for your information. After all, Dick is my colleague."
Later, in the bedroom, as Anne was brushing her hair, a dreamy look in her shining green-gray eyes, Gilbert suddenly said, "Anne-girl, how about we go a little visit in Lowbridge?" Anne's hand holding the silver hairbrush, stilled, as she turned to look at Gilbert. She said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "Glen's local storms aren't enough for you, are they?" Gilbert, stroked the rich red hair with soft fingers, it smelled like Lilies of the Valley, as always. He whispered, "It was just a thought, nothing more." On Anne's dressing table there was a thick pile of letters, and Gilbert distinguished the handwritings of Diana, Nan and Leslie, and Phil. The nightingale sang ecstatically in Ingelside's garden, when a little later, Gilbert pressed his lips to Anne's white shoulders, and Anne's silvery laugh rang in his ears, sweeter than any other sound in the world.
June turned into July, in the stillness of Primrose Hollow, Nan was eagerly reading a small packet of letters, the censors, or some entity had been withholding Jerry's letters, and now they had finally arrived. All the letters were dated, April, May, end of June. An almost painful happiness flooded her heart. And with a happy blissfull litte sigh, Nan opened the stained packet of letters, and absorbed in Jerry's loving, lively words, and the powerful wake of his pen.
Dear, dear Nan! Midsummer is glowing here, and I know you laugh at this, but there are seven wild flowers under my pillow, and I know I dream of you. Every evening and morning I look at your photo for a few moments before the day starts here. I can almost see the white midsummer roses, those enchanting double ones, growing in a profuse rush, somewhere in Redmond, and smell them, for you know I like them second best, except for the pink ones. Your delicate fingers must have hardened from sewing, and also from writing, as Di is not only twin who writes. Do you still have an ink stain on your index finger? You still recite Tennyson when you think about some complicated dilemma, or you solve the challenges of the Red Cross, and your eyes shine when you get new challenges. I love you so much Anne, for today you are Anne to me, though usually you are Nan, the queen of my heart, and I enjoy knowing that my ruby sparkles on your pale curved neck.
Always, with love,
GM
Queen of my life, I was recalling some of the Bard's verses today in the glowing green, you know, Oh well! it is an ever-fixed mark, and of course I thought of you, for I remember how we argued once on the lawn of Ingelside about this sonnet, number 116. Your neck was wonderfully narrow, and your satiny smooth nut-brown hair was half up, and your cheeks were flushed when you argued your case passionately, how your eyes twinkled, and your bright laughter sparkled in the garden, almost like those bells in Rainbow Valley, I carry that laugh, the memory of your laugh in my heart, just like we danced on the shore of the Lighthouse that last July evening, before the world broke and time sped up and I left here, where I've been now for almost four years,
with love, G.M.
Nan, I finally mustered up enough courage to look my scars from Verdun today. They are not pretty, but I can only hope that you don't mind them, because they prove one thing. I'm here, still, and I promise to be as careful as possible under the circumstances. I wov this now, I will return to you, and afterwards, we will find our own House of Dreams.
Always yours, J.
Nan lifted her tear-stained eyes, and with her finger she softly touched all of Jerry's signatures, then she craned her neck, in her proud way, and plucked three soft cream-colored pages from Di's notebook, and began to outline replies, to think of words and verbs, pure, clear loving, even the dynamics of a semi-erotic sentence. As Nan did so, she thought of the pages of her diary into which she had poured out all the uncertainty and pain which she carried every moment in her heart. The war threated her personal future life, her dreams, and joys, because without Jerry by her side, everything would be different. The world would be dust and ashes, that option was completely unsustainable, but possible, because in the Verdun attack over Easter, where Jerry had come close to death, the slaughter bill had been high. But now with Jerry's words in front of her, Nan read the letters in a daze, over and over again, her beloved's words lighting her up to believe that someday this horror would end, and they could spend the rest of their lives together. Maybe a little house somewhere, their own House of Dreams, a roaring fire on fall evenings, laughter, arguments, books, flowers, and kittens, and in time, children who would have Jerry's dark eyes, the same almond-shaped way as his siblings, also had, that was an inheritance from Cecilia. Hours passed, as light faded, at last Nan closed the envelopes contentedly.
Nan crept carefully upstairs, and out of old habit she glanced in the direction of Alice's room, but as usual the door was not shut, but wide open, and the window likewise. Alice hummed some bright shimmering note that was unknown to Nan and apparently to Di too, as she looked from her note-book with curious flashing greygreen eyes. And then the melody changed, and Nan found her eyes glistening with tears, for she recognized the Bard's moody and poignant poem, "Come, away, Death," from the play Twelfth Night, which Alice quoted and half-sung, in a barely audible voice, as the song ended, light wind ruffled the curtains, and Nan, saw Di read something aloud, to Alice in a low voice.
Then Alice looked up and smiled a little, at Nan. And Nan nodded back, inclining her head, in a smooth and friendly way, that she was known for. That night, and many other nights, Nan slept with Jerry's packet of letters under her pillow, and sometimes Di's breathing and a little snore could be heard beside her, as the twins slept side by side like two kittens.
A day later, after all Red Cross errands had been dealt with, Di said with an intent voice, "Nanlet, would you perhaps like to read one of my manuscripts, or glance it at least. I find myself stuck, you know me better than anyone." Delighted beyond measure, Nan said in her lively way, "You didn't even have to ask, but I´ḿ glad that you did, as it lends certain romantic flair to this small occasion."
Nan delved with a smile into the sheets and pages written in the ink-blue folder, and the narrative that emerged from them was light and delightfully romantic, like a gold-edged cloud that shimmered over Rainbow Valley on summer evenings. After reading the last page, Nan glanced at Di, and said, "How many have seen this?" Di, smiled a little mischievously and said, "Only you. That was an old text I found in Ingelside, but I've rewritten it, and cleaned up the form. I asked Dorian and Alice for their opinion on another text, and I've spent a lot of time on it."
Nan, looked into the fresh face of her beloved twin and said quietly, "Di, that story of yours gives me hope that life can still be beautiful, because sometimes it feels like we hear and read so much horror that the beauty that was our brother's guiding star is forgotten, even that shouldn't happen. A sudden strong blush rose on Di's slightly freckled cheeks as she nodded silently. Nan looked at Di with loving eyes, for Di never quite really knew how to accept compliments.
Airplanes circled the skies of the Glen more often than usual, that summer of 1917, and often small groups gathered in the gardens and lawns in the evenings to admire them. The Merediths and Blythes sometimes spent bright evenings like this. Susan's opinions were sharp as always. Rilla once teasingly asked with dimples on her cheeks, "Susan, when Dad gets his new car, will you come with us for a cavorting ride in it?"
Susan briskly knitted a few stitches into an army gray stocking and then she remarked, "I don't trust my old bones to a car, but I'm not as suspicious of innovation and technology as some are. Dear, as you know, Whiskers on the Moon, in his own right hates cars, and all kinds of traveling salesmen, and spies, of all sorts, so couple of days ago, this happened in the direction of Lowbridge, as my little niece Ella Baker told me this. Whiskers drove a car and its driver with a pitchfork, shouting and raining loudly, and threatening, waving a probably rusty pitchfork at him, nearly half mile towards Lowbridge road. Well, life on our island is not the same as it was in my youth, that you can tie to."
Rilla laughed merrily and said "Miranda Milgrave is bossing Mr. Pryor around quite effectively these days, and her married woman airs are very sweet, for it is my credit that the wedding took place. For Miranda was almost a wet rag, and Joe Milgrave was not much better, but he still remembered to get a marriage license. Sometimes I still dream about that wedding, it wasn't romantic enough at all. I blame Miranda's dog, Wilfy, who had that horrible fit in the middle of it all."
Gertrude and Anne Blythe glanced at each other, and only with difficulty could they hide their laughter, for Rilla's voice was full of italics. Susan waved ivory-knitting sticks in her lap and said succinctly, "Things are all catawmpus on the Eastern Front. I do not trust those Russians, ever since February that country has been shimmering like a cattle that has been left unattended. Newspapers are predicting that Russian line will fall, although the attack is led by that Brusilov, somewhere in Galicia, in Austria-Hungary, or some such place, it is not Western Front, and our boys are not there, praise the Lord."
