Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
Sept. 1925
Jo,
The children have been and gone in their usual hurricane. Jem's furlough wasn't until August, and occasioned many tears, as Christopher refused to leave the Carlisles or Teddy Lovall. He took his holiday earlier in the year, so couldn't join the family as normal, though Kitty could and did. The way she tells it, the Chronicle editor was glad to be shot of her. Di hugged her and said he was probably enjoying the respite from Kitty's whirlwind nature. They want to box her neatly into a safe, sanitised section of the paper, and Kitty won't be boxed. She won that police beat with great reluctance on their part. I can't decide if the editor deserves a slate to the head for sheer idiocy or a medal for bloody-minded pluck. What say you?
Since neither Jem nor Faith understands how to sit still, they pitched in with my rounds and freed me up to visit with the grandchildren. I took Christopher and Jims fishing. Jims was a bit nonplussed at this cousinly interloper, but brightened when Bruce Meredith joined us. Jims admires Bruce greatly, and has done ever since he took Anne those mayflowers. In the book of Jims that is the height of grown-up activity.
Susan got a holiday too, albeit an enforced one. Di and Mara verily routed her from the kitchen for the duration of their stay. I can't profess I understand our children, Jo. I always loved a good holiday myself; They don't seem to want to stop. Was it the war, do you think? Are they afraid that if they relax, someone will stamp a headline across the Lowbridge Herald (Glen edition) declaring us at war with somewhere-or-other?
Thinking about it, it must be something in the Kingsport water. It's only them it's true of – and you! Nan and Jerry are perfectly happy to lounge on the verandah talking of shoes and ships and sealing wax/ and cabbages and kings when they visit. So, perhaps it is only city life, after all. Because I now recall you mending that chancel roof for your daughter's wedding, and if that wasn't supposed to be a holiday, I don't know what was!
You mustn't think I never saw them at all. Jem made his ritual apology – he does this every visit – for not coming home after medical school and taking over the practice. Usually I wave it away. I do understand how we move on from the foundations our parents laid. But this time, I let him finish, and told him about a letter I got when he was four. It was from Dr. Lawson of Avonlea; He wanted me to move back to the old farm and take over his practice.
My mother was unwell, and Marilla declining. We would have been back on Diana and Fred's doorstep, the children would have known Lovers' Lane and The White Way of Delight. To say it was tempting doesn't do that letter justice. Of course we didn't go; We couldn't. To leave Ingleside and our friends…Anne once likened it to repotting a plant. If you don't make a habit of it, the roots become stifled. I couldn't do what Jem does, as I've often said to you, Jo; But when I look at Jem arguing with Geordie Carlisle, and how he makes Investigateers of all around him, I know in my bones he could no more leave Kingsport than we could the Glen. My father had the grace not to ask it of me, even when he was dying. How can I do less?
They missed Rilla and Ken, who spent July in the House of Dreams, city papers allowing of longer holidays than the Kingsport Station House, Shirley's veterinary offices or The Chronicle cumulatively, apparently. Nan and Jerry talked of coming, but decided they wanted one last summer on Crow Lake. I don't blame them wanting a few memories of it in sunshine to take with them up to Morrisburg. They've earned their summer, after months of snow. And of course, Poppy is guarding them rather jealously. Next year.
Shirley did not persuade Susan to let me examine her. She says stubbornly that she isn't like some people – she means Olive Kirk-Drew – always fancying herself ill, and means to go on exactly as God intended. Shirley argued that I was about as fanciful as Irene Howard was sane and reasonable, but no luck.
They're gone now, and we're grateful to have Naomi safely back. She arrived this morning, and took some of the sting out of the Kingsport Contingent's departure. I met her off the 10:00 from Charlottetown, which for a novelty, ran to time. I suppose you miss her already; I know I tried shamelessly to persuade mine to stay longer. No luck, so we spoil your daughter instead.
Susan saw fit to bake no less than two dozen Monkey Faces, her fudge, a Bishop's Bread with marzipan top, several pounds of gingerbread and a Victoria Sponge. I don't know what kind of reception she anticipated our giving Miss Blake, but we did our best, summoning the Merediths and Miss Cornelia, who came armed with one of Mary's shop cakes. (Cornelia purports to disavow the shop cakes, but is secretly too arthritic to bake as regularly as she used to. I'm not supposed to know, and pretend not to.)
How they got on I'm unsure, because the telephone rang and I left to treat Ron Crawford, who had fallen from a hayloft. When I returned, I caught Fred Arnold departing. A shame. I should have liked to have seen him go toe-to-toe with Cornelia. I keep trying to get the details from Anne, and patients keep interrupting. Look for an update in my next letter. Or perhaps John knows more. You must ask him about Carl's tame elephants.
Love always,
Gil
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
September, 1925
Jo,
There's nothing very notable about the elephants. They haven't joined the menagerie at Evelyn Road. The latest acquisition there was a Bengal cat with leopard spots. Una named her Nenni, after the Kipling, presumably.
I told you Carl and some of the Raffles lecturers wanted to organize a Jungle excursion for the ACS pupils as part of their geography course. Obviously, it isn't practical to take a class of ten-year-olds into the wild and keep track of them among the snakes and tigers. The school compromised on an excursion to Kedah, which Carl makes sound quite wild enough. They camped at a lodge on the edge of the jungle, and every morning an elephant and her calf walked by. Carl being Carl, he started feeding them bananas and sugarcane. This delighted the elephants, as well as their owner, who offered the children (and Puck) free rides on the animals. I don't believe Carl saw it as anything unusual at all. There were animals; He fed them. That hasn't stopped the jungle explorers boasting about their elephant rides – their peers are extremely envious.
As for the first visit of Fred Arnold to Ingleside, there's nothing to tell, there, either. Cornelia has substantial Opinions, it's true, but also the compassion to go with them. On this occasion, she let Naomi have what amounted to a homecoming.
Only Bruce is sorry about this development, and only because it means another school term. After a long talk, he's participating in the high school curriculum instead of applying to Queens. It seemed a better use of time and money. So, it's all applications all the time. To universities, for scholarships…Eventually, he wants to become a doctor. I never thought his admiration of Jem would stretch that far, but Bruce talks about it with the look of one who has swallowed the light of the world. I remember that look and that feeling; I'm grateful he does, too.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Maple St.,
Toronto,
Nov. 1925
John,
Your prayers and Jo's brought Rilla through. I'm convinced.
As predicted, it was a bad delivery. The particulars were different – they always are – and you don't want them. All I could think of was the birth of Shirley, and how close it came to going wrong – and then I made the awful mistake of looking at Anne, and knew she was thinking it too. The look those limpid grey eyes gave me said, Keep my child safe. I had to try.
Once, years ago, I lost our girl, all wee and white; Later I was helpless to give Anne back her darling boy. I couldn't let this be the same. I got the slippery mass of a baby by the shoulders and hauled him forcibly into the world. He didn't like that at all, but Rilla isn't dead and neither is one Anthony Aloysius Ford, 8lb 9oz. He was blue and clutching the cord in his hands. I got it off him before he could strangle himself, handed him to the terrified grandmother, and turned my attention to Rilla.
I lost all track of time. I knew that she was as white as her wee white sister ever was, that she was exhausted, and the copper tang of blood on my hands. The afterbirth was a nightmare. It fractured into several pieces, and hours later I lay awake worrying I'd missed some. God – sorry – you can't say that, can you, except to fellow doctors? I'm writing while watching for signs of fever. Jims lost one mother to puerperal fever. I won't let him lose this one, too.
The worst was that Jims knew it was bad. Persis tried to distract him; She took him and Liam to the museum. It wasn't a bad idea in theory. In practice, Persis turned around to find Jims no longer on the tram. I don't think she was ever worried; Persis Ford can no more do hysterics than the average elephant can fly. She reappeared on Maple St shortly after Jims, just exactly as thrilled as you'd expect after trekking cross-city with a squalling toddler after a single-minded eleven-year-old.
Before anyone could fantasize about the merits of an old-fashioned Baker spanking, Jims poked his head around the bedroom door and asked, 'Is Willa dying?'
Jims hadn't called Rilla that in years. I told him no and hoped I was right.
Now, I know I am. I can breath and focus on the grandson I haven't met, doomed to suffer alliteration forever. Poor, wee lad. At least no newspaper moguls were involved this time. Anthony Aloysius. May he be the baby of the House of Ford, world without end.
If I had my way, Maple St. would be content with its army of boys. I fear I will not have my way, but I won't borrow trouble unduly. The baby is well, Rilla is not dead, and Ken has escaped the whole ordeal without any encounters with a wet herring. (I thought about it. It was exceedingly tempting.)
I mustn't be morbid. Rilla says Gertrude, Robert and family are moving to Toronto. To down the road and around the corner, in fact, on Glen Road. It's not where I would chose to raise my family - the road is fearsomely busy - but I think we established years ago that I was not Gertrude Grant. Not one psychic dream to my name. Anyway, some firm by the name of McCarthy Tetraut (sp?) want Robert for a partner. I foresee long years of taking tea together while the boys make a Rainbow Valley of the Rosedale Ravine. That's a vision I don't mind indulging. Especially because Gertrude is under no medical oath and will have no qualms about the administering of herring when suitable.
Rilla says she just needs to get Betty Meade to Toronto to complete the set. Scratch that, Betty Morris, now. I think that's unlikely; The Lowbridge Herald has Betty's husband pretty thoroughly on their payroll. Isn't he Chief Photographer these days? Never mind they are both Islanders to the bone. Mind you, so was Leslie, and so was Rilla, and look how that turned out.
Am I right in thinking we are missing Nan and Jerry again this Christmas? I should have gone with you at Easter. It's ages since I have seen the little girls! I hardly knew them from your photos. They change so much so quickly at that age.
At least Bruce and the Kingsport Contingent will keep us company. Anne's planning already, devising and revising menus, haunting Eaton's for presents, decreeing who gets what bedroom and how many leaves for the table. More than ever, the way things are going. It won't be long before there's a baby at Fox Corner. All the money in the world says Susan travels there on purpose. No dizzy spell in the world could keep her from her little brown boy's offspring. She's even said with Susan-like vim, that she will brave Sacred Heart should the baptism occur there. But I'm getting ahead. God willing, that is an easier job than this. Well, it can't very well be harder.
I defer Christmas greetings until I see you. Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
Dec. 1925
Gil,
Further to your last letter, Ruthie had her baby. Miss Matilda Frances Watson will be christened at St Andrews, Bolingbroke in February. If you aren't otherwise preoccupied (entirely possible, the way things at Fox Corner stand), you're more than welcome. Hetta still tells us what good company you were at Ruthie's wedding, and would love to see you again. The new parents are predictably tired but happy, and well pleased with little Mattie (this would be colloquial parlance for that mouthful of name).
They visited us for Christmas, and delighted though we are, having a baby in the house brings those early days with young children back to Phil and I with a vengeance. Jake's lads are rather disappointed in their new cousin, having, quite naturally, hoped for a boy. I don't know why; Evie makes them a tearaway and often imperious playmate. I foresee many years of raucous rounds of Red Rover and Blind Man's Bluff in our future.
Speaking of holidays, I've spent most of this one running between churches. All three of them have concert appeals, which is good for the ACS, if rather awkward time-wise. So far, I have contrived that the social events occupy different Advent Sundays but there are still Food Ministries, chancel leak-proofing (why Gil, do chancel roofs always wear out at the same time?), secretariat elections, and what must be a village-worth of roofs to mend. You may recall there was a bad ice storm back in November. On top of felling many of our birches and lombardies, it wrought havoc on my parishioners' homes. Simon Hazelhurst and I organized a team to re-shingle everything, but the jury's still out on whether we can get it done by Christmas. The weather's appalling. The Martyrs' bell tower suffered similarly, but as no one actually lives in the bell tower, the problem is more aesthetic than otherwise, and will keep until the new year.
Happy Christmas, Gil.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
25 Dec. 1925
Jo,
The children are snowshoeing and their children asleep, so I snatched a quiet interval to reciprocate your Christmas greetings. I missed the Christmas Eve service because of Cousin Sophia's flu, but today is mercifully quiet. Christmas Day generally is. No one wants to admit they are sick at Christmas (except Sophia Crawford).
Ingleside was gloriously full for the occasion, and Susan rushed off her feet with preparations. Consequently, she too is now lying down. It took the collective insistence of Jem, Shirley and myself to persuade her. We're short the Wandering Merediths, but that is as much weather (they are under an ice storm the cousin to the one you lately had) as Jerry's horror of trains. There is a lovely card from them sitting on the mantel in lieu; Jerry's watercolour, Nan's Christmas letter. If this is to become a tradition, there are worse ones I can think of. (Sophia Crawford's flu comes uncharitably to mind.)
Despite the absences, we had fun. Though I say it myself, I made an excellent Father Christmas; Actually, Anne said that and I'm quoting. She was very…thorough… making her point. There were clementines all round, and peppermint rock for the grandchildren that were old enough. It left our furniture sticky with fingerprints in spite of the best efforts of multiple women to lift the residue.
Carl and Una sent unexpected bounty from Singapore; The usual Christmas cake, but also spinning tops for the children. Jims and Christopher are especially taken with these and commenced battling them immediately. Di's Hector prefers chewing on his, and Abby just wanted the wrapping paper.
Before I forget, wonderful news about Miss Mattie (I do hope she forgives me the liberty; Tell her I remember her mother from a baby). If we can get to the baptism in Bolingbroke, we will. But you know what babies are – no sense of timing. Either they're early, late or wait until the last minute to slip into the world unannounced. I refuse to lay guesses as to which route this one chooses; I would almost certainly be wrong. Especially because it's a first baby. First babies are woefully unpredictable.
Much love from all here, and tell Naomi to haste ye back. John keeps trying to wrangle lectionary with me in her absence, and I know exactly nothing about Micah (incredible I know!) and still less about Church Year C!
Love ever,
Gil
P.S. Anthony Aloysius, who travelled from Toronto with his mother – against this doctor's express wishes – insists Miss Mattie be informed her name is positively ordinary. One can even shorten it nicely. Even Anne is defeated by Alliterative Anthony's name.