Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
September 1924
Jo,
Naomi arrived safely at Ingleside. We installed her in the twins' old room, because it has second-best desk in the house. (The first is in Anne's dressing room, where it continues in good use. I have long made do with an inferior specimen of Dad's.)
Everyone's delighted to have her, and I fear we made an occasion of her arrival. Susan didn't stop baking until I went to collect Naomi from the station. By the time we returned, you could have fed the 5,000. The feast quite dwarfed us. Among other things, there was a silver-and-gold cake Jims will be sorry to have missed but that we, the Merediths and your daughter attempted to do justice to. They, by the way, came armed with an early pumpkin pie (Rosemary) and a stack of much abused books (John). The latter now amicably clutter our coffee table while your daughter dips into them between lesson plans. I peeked gingerly into one – something on the nuances of Hagiography. Does that mean anything to you besides the obvious?
Luckily, Susan wouldn't recognize a hagiography if it bit her on the nose; It's one thing her little brown boy marrying a Catholic. It's quite another for her minister to be ecumenical enough to have ever been possessed of books on how to interpret saints lives. We should never hear the end of it. (Not, I venture, that anyone would actually be surprised by the revelation. I forget John's dissertation subject, but think it was comparative of assorted theologies.) I foresee lesson plans on St Cuthbert in the near future. Walter, were he with us, would approve. All those white animals and chivalric attitudes!
I'm thinking about Walter particularly, because it's September, and because I'm currently covering Lowbridge while Dick Parker delivers Alice's second baby.
You're wondering what that has to do with Walter. It hasn't, much. Except that Alice and Walter were chums, first as children, then as baby-faced Redmond freshers. I'll never forget how adrift he sounded until Alice cornered him after a lecture. His letters changed key completely after that. So did hers; Dick and I used to joke about merging the practices.
Typhoid and the war put paid to that fantasy. Now Dick's tending his baby and I find myself considering an alternate history where he and I embarked on that great adventure together.
It's not such an impossible daydream – or it wasn't. Walter loved golden rainbows and Alice of the quiet chivalric.
This is why I always discouraged Anne's matchmaking. It is a painful business when it goes awry.
All that belongs to another world; Before the war, and typhoid and Courcelette. We're here now; My children scattered to their disparate callings, and your daughter tucked up by the fire pouring over hagiography while her tea grows cold. (She's truly ours now; All good Inglesideans forget their tea at least twice per day.)
I trust this finds you and Phil well, if your house rather more big the day. Forgive this raincloud letter; It's a grey day and apparently catching.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
September, 1924
Gil,
There is nothing to forgive. The other day Phil went to confer with the calendar about the date of the Waterford secretariat elections and noticed the month. I fear Waterford fell rather by the wayside for thinking of you. You once said of Joy that God hadn't let her be a stranger to you. He won't let Walter be one, either. It's why you cherish those idle daydreams.
And it's true, September is your season for weeping, but it's also one of joy. I don't need to tell you I married you and Anne in September. How many years ago now? (Don't tell me. It is both a lifetime and yesterday. Isn't time strange?)
Thank you for the particulars of my daughter's arrival. Naomi sent us a thorough letter but was more concerned with St Winifred, who was not beheaded, than otherwise. She did acknowledge that you met her at the station and that the signal failure at Northallerton delayed her an hour and a quarter, but otherwise offered no specifics. Phil, as you'll appreciate, loves a detail, so this was no help whatever.
Thinking of you, and apologies for dashing off so soon; The Waterford secretariat elections are imminent.
Be well, do good work and keep in touch.
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
Nov. 1924
Jo,
Yesterday, while cleaning out the study, I re-discovered that half-finished circular to launch our branch of Food Ministry, do you remember? Since I was making no headway with the Year A lectionary for Advent, I completed and filed it. It goes before the secretariat next meeting.
Until then, your daughter has organised an appeal for the Anglo-Chinese School where Una teaches. She even charmed even Elder Clow into contributing. So far, the appeal's doing well, and has an unlikely champion in Mary Douglas. She told me after Sunday's service that she remembered the mortification of doing without, and in unlikely alliance, she and Anne have set the Ladies' Aid quilting for the school. (Bethlehem Star, Rosemary tells me.) Anne says it is good to be sewing for something cheerier than War Work again.
( I have observed with interest – I wonder if you have likewise – that no one but the fishermen knit socks these days. We now scandalise Sophia Crawford by buying ours in from Miller Douglas's store, and the Blythes do likewise.)
In related news, Carl's letters indicate he has found and befriended a local botanist, quite knowledgeable, he says, on the specimens he studies, and good for testing ideas against. Una sent a detailed letter about life at the Anglo-Chinese School. Rosemary took the risk of reading it with Cousin Sophia present, which is the reason all the Glen now knows the local children are teaching Una Chinese between Dictation and Composition class.
Una attributes this to an afternoon in Wet Season when none of the students would comply with Dictation. Una doesn't blame them, though Cousin Sophia Crawford does. The rain keeps the children indoors and makes them tetchy. Una had to do something, so Chinese it was. Anne calls it innovative, and Sophia 'heathen.' Susan is beside herself because she cannot agree with Sophia, but can't approve of Una's method, either!
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
Feb. 1925
Jo,
What fun to see you at Christmas! I was sure Faith had sworn off hosting ever again, and bet Anne two dollars we'd never see another Kingsport Christmas. Chump that I am, I forgot to bank on Fox Corner. In my defence, anyone would have thought the cumulative demands of Sacred Heart and Pygmalion on Mara precluded the possibility of hosting. I forgot Shirley learned Occasions at Susan's knee, and married a woman who likewise insists on The Old Ways. I've since paid Anne her two dollars with a minimum of grumbling. Serves me right for being so un-Presbyterian as to take bets – Just ask Susan!
Or don't. She's still grumbling about Mara's refusal to cede the kitchen to her. That's not to say Susan didn't try; She tried valiantly. The men of Agincourt would be proud. Mara just wouldn't budge, that's all. Susan was reduced to armchair interference, and it was surprisingly good spectator sport. Anne kept kicking me to stop me laughing, and my ankles are now extremely sore. Jem found this ordeal similarly taxing, so for the sake of our shins, we got chatting over his latest case.
A world ago, in the before-the-war world, Jem and I could talk easily. This was before they snatched some vital piece of Jem from him and left him seeking of justice for all his dead. I couldn't have done it, Jo. Fought that war. I miss the camaraderie we had, but there are moments when I lie awake in the darkness of pre-dawn and wonder how little Jem survived it.
Shirley understands better, and much as I miss having my children on my doorstep, I'm grateful that they have each other. It's strange now to think how little their childhoods overlapped. Jem was at Queens by the time Shirley was out of Susan's hammock and integrated into the Rainbow Valley set. Yet, there were moments this holiday where they looked at one another across the fire and seemed closest of all my children, even the little girls.
Which reminds me – still no Nan and Jerry this Christmas, though not for want of trying. Crow Lake is under something like six feet under snow; The only way out was to fly and the pilot wouldn't do it in white-out conditions. Sensible chap. We made do with one of Nan's cards, and learned that her little girls are proficient tree-climbers, and Mandy the tamer of resident red squirrels.
It runs in the family; Liam Ford spent the visit pulling himself up on footstools and end-tables, Mara being excessively tolerant on this front. Thousands would not have been, as Leslie Ford kept saying. But she said it while running after her little prince, so take that with a sizeable pinch of salt. God Tuesday, not to be outdone, elevated himself to the lofty heights of the dining room table by way of Kitty Forster's lap, which place he then wandered about assisting those he deemed insufficiently appreciative of Teddy's mince pies in the consumption thereof. His long nose is greatly useful for rootling among dishware. Susan was horrified; We were bemused. This lasted until Pilgrim – you may remember the girls' shared cat from Swallowgate years – routed him from the table. Susan was in a quandary. She can't stand That Cat, but obviously approved of it removing the dog from the dining table.
Christopher nearly succeeded in overturning a soup tureen, and was prevented only by the intervention of Teddy Lovall. He took Christopher and the Helen to feed the resident fox scraps of goose, to Susan's horror. Shirley's explanation that this stopped the fox chasing the cat did not hold water, as Susan reasonably pointed out that Mara only tolerated the cat in the first place. (This is untrue. Mara says she only tolerates the cat, and then feeds it the best portion of fish.)
Owen and I competed covertly for the part of Santa Clause, and I won, Fox Corner being an extension of Ingleside. If Jims has caught on, he doesn't say. Helen didn't approve at all of a bearded stranger invading her auntie's home and kissing her grandmother over the presents. She dove into Jem's lap and stayed there until 'Santa' was gone. Christopher was unfazed. All he asked was why Susan and Mrs. Ford didn't get kisses, too, the little imp.
Helen got over her nerves later, when it turned out Santa of the awful red flannel had brought her a great, gothic doll-house. It's got columns and cornices, and a wrap-around veranda. The thing is taller than she is! Helen was mostly interested in gnawing the resident dolls. I couldn't think why Jem bought it for her, until his Inspector colleague dropped in, and they sat down in front of this monolith and discussed murder as comfortably as you and I swap gossip.
Pass on our love to any lingering children, and Phil. To Naomi though, the message is rather different; Haste ye back.
Gil
P.S. Can I, in good conscience take a raw herring to the head of one Kenneth Ford? When I demanded a two-years gap between little Liam and any future siblings I did not mean virtually to the day! Now I find winter shall take me to Toronto, probably to do battle for my daughter's life again. I have no stomach for it, Jo – and yet, I can't leave her to strangers.