Maple St,
Toronto,
June 1929
John,
Rilla got her girl, after a fashion. I'll spare you the details. None of them were good. I took one look at Rilla and handed her over to the hospital. It still wasn't enough for the baby. He was beautiful, frail, and blue. Cord around the neck. Classic presentation.
I've lost you. There was a baby down the hall that survived her delivery, but lost her mother. And there was Rilla having complications with the afterbirth. There often are, if you can't hand the mother a baby to nurse – medically speaking, I mean, not just emotionally.
Ken didn't ask. He grabbed the unsuspecting infant, Ford-like from her cot and handed her to Rilla. Once everyone got over being horrified, they realized he'd solved the problem. They could hardly separate mother and baby after that. So, Rilla kept nursing, and she and Anne had a good long cry over the whole thing. There won't be any more children after this. Doctor's orders – not mine.
Since I wasn't with Rilla, I was able to anchor Anne and reassure the little boys. That's no small thing. Were Walter here, he'd agree. He once walked six miles from Lowbridge in the dark to ensure his mother wasn't dead. I thought of Rilla's impossible birth while telling exactly that story to Jims as we sat in the waiting room of Women's College Hospital. The chairs were stiff, and eventually we abandoned them to sit on the floor and play Eights, not Jims' first choice of game, but one even Anthony could join in. As the evening wore on, Anne and Leslie joined too, and we swapped Eights to teach the boys Beggar My Neighbour. Susan would have called it gambling, but Susan was, at least theoretically, back at Ingleside, under Di's thumb, recovering from the latest of her attacks.
By then, the sterile hospital smell of carbolic-and-ether was grating on us. Everyone wanted their own beds, a home-cooked meal and non-canteen tea. You'd think they'd get that right at least; It's the least a place can do if it's going to hold one's family hostage indefinitely. The tarry taste of stewed tea adds insult to injury, frankly, and as this stuff was tepid, I'm incredulous that anyone had the nerve to call it tea in the first place. Probably I'm snobbish. All the women in my life are proud of their ability to make up an irresistible tea tray. I'd say canteen priorities lie elsewhere, but after watching Anthony build a gelatinous fort of what I make Ditto Mark II, I'm unconvinced.
Finally, the little boys fell asleep. That's how I wound up telling Jims about Walter and how it was perfectly acceptable to be worried for one's mother at any age. When it was over, I wanted to weep gratitude, but couldn't confronted by Jims' scrutiny.
No chance of mother and baby heading home for the foreseeable future, so Persis and I ran the others back to Maple St. Their housekeeper was there, and Miss Hargreave. They waited the whole thing out by baking the groaning cake Rilla couldn't make.
As we reached Maple St, Anthony woke up enough to miss his aunt. The honorary one, not Persis. He sort of barrelled at her. A strange thing happened, then. She caught him and apologized – but not to him. He took it that way, because he's at an age where the world turns around his whims. And, all right, Miss Hargreave said it to the crown of his head. But she was looking at his aunt proper. Persis knew it, too.
It struck me, watching this byplay, that the women have shorthand. Not the way you and I do, though I'm sure we have a version of it. It was like watching the kind of wordless conversation Anne and I share. As I watched, I realized that because she wasn't stunned or amazed, Leslie Ford knew. Well naturally. She's not stupid. It seems incredible, because surely if she did she wouldn't let the children spend so much time at St George St. So, then I thought I'd imagined it. But I haven't, because you noticed too, didn't you? You took me aside way back, before Rilla's wedding, and said anyone who didn't know would suppose Persis' connection to the young accompanist Ken enlisted went deeper than collegial interaction.
Just as I was thinking sleeplessness had made me delusional, Jims said they'd named the baby. Elizabeth Alice, for Jims' late stepmother Elizabeth Anderson, but also for Elizabeth Russell and Alice Selwyn. Ken said something about how Anthony couldn't get his mouth around some of the letters.
Miss Hargreave, still holding Anthony, said something like, 'Sissy's a family name, isn't it? Call her that. His sibilants are fine.'
It is a family name – it's what Ken called his sister when he was Anthony's age. And he wasn't all that surprised this woman holding his child knew it. Or if he was, he covered neatly.
Consensus all round, and she and Persis put the children to bed. I stood there like a lemming thinking, They must know. Surely Owen and Leslie know, but not wanting to be the one to call attention to the elephant perambulating around Maple St. I talked it over with Anne later at a half-murmur, and then fell badly asleep and dreamed of all the things that could have but didn't happen to my daughter. I must have dreamed of Joy too. Anne woke me to say it was all right. Rilla's girl was neither white nor dead.
She's right, too. Truth told, I suspect Sissy will be spoiled, between Rilla's satisfaction at her existence, and everyone else's collective relief. I am, after all, among the number of relieved worshippers.
We'll be home soon. I want your ear, and an honest talk about things Fordian.
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
June, 1929
Gil,
I thought long and hard about writing this. But you wanted an honest opinion, and here's what I think. Candidly, we're never going to agree. What you describe in the St George St women you see as a medical issue.
I don't. I see two people who loved – and still love – your grandchildren unconditionally when Rilla and Ken were too emotionally wrung out to do it themselves. Of course Leslie didn't intervene; She knows what emotional starvation feels like. She lived it for years.
That's not an indictment of Rilla. You've talked yourself about mothers who can't connect with their babies. It happens. We are mortal, and we are fallible. But it's not an indictment of the children's aunts, either. Maybe it should be. But Gil, I can't. All those children ever caught of Persis or Miss Hargreave was love. What's to fault? Love is many things if you read Corinthians, but never dangerous. Just this once, Gil – leave it be.
All my love.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
August, 1929
John,
Arrived in Ipoh; Joanna Louisa Arnold. They call her Joanie; Apparently, it's the best answer my daughter could find to my name. I never expected that gesture. The children rarely tread in family names. There are some exceptions; Jake's Andrew gets his name from the uncle he'll never meet, and Ruthie's Hetta from her Gordon predecessor. Hetta's legacy makes sense. She was the type of grand personage one expects to have namesakes. I manage more rural churches than is always sane or manageable, and make a hobby of mission outreach. Hardly the stuff legacies are made of.
It's hard to judge who she looks like from photos. Joanie's age, as much as the medium. Her nose is the exception, and Phil apologizes profusely. I don't see why she should, but no one asked me.
I'm afraid I don't understand Heritage Trusts, either. Ours informs me that, and I quote, Notwithstanding the designation of Holy Trinity Church, Waterford, as a Heritage Listed Building (Grade A), we are unable to contribute financially towards its restoration at this time. It then gives a list of reasons for withholding funding in prose so convoluted and dense as to be unintelligible. I'll spare you those. So, now I have to appeal the application in the faint hope they revise their decision. Alastair offered to look the paperwork over before resubmission, and Sam is re-evaluating the funding request, Phil being too incensed to do so with any equanimity. As she says, why take the trouble of listing a building as Heritage, Grade A or otherwise, if not interested in its preservation?
I'd love to know what the money will go to. Kingsport can't have so many Heritage Listed Buildings as all that!
Is Gil home? The last we heard, he and Anne planned to detour through Kippewa and visit your Wandering Merediths. I look forward to a reprise of Jerry's Kippewa art, if so. He may be famous for landscapes, but my favourite will always be The Red Canoe. Tell him, next time you write.
Be well, do good work and keep in touch.
Jo
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
September, 1929
Jo,
I take your point about baby photos. Gil returned from his travels with a glut of them, of Sissy Ford, and of our little girls in the Kippewa, and it was very difficult to glean anything from them. Nan's letters and Jerry's watercolour cards give a clearer impression. Mandy's too – she's becoming quite the artist, mostly animal watercolours of the local rabbit community. She has a veritable rabbit empire from feeding them lettuces, and assures me the fact that this gets her out of eating salads is (apparently) a perk of the exercise, not the point. Gil even returned with a report of a tame mouse. Miri was scandalised, Nan exasperated. Carl sent a short note full of dietary advice for the survival of rodents and Una a much longer treatise on the best way to protect one's bed from unwanted animal intruders. Jerry reckoned that since it wasn't a patch on the time Carl took a frog to Sunday School, everyone should be grateful.
Una, were she closer, would second him, I'm sure. I feel I can be, because Carl's latest addition to the menagerie is a buffalo. Have you heard?
Una and Li were having tea on the veranda at the time. Li was sketching some mynas and Una meditating on life and the universe. She stopped when a great commotion startled the mynas. They flew off, and Li couldn't see why, but Una could, because she was staring out at the garden, and now there was a buffalo taking up most of it. Una gave what Carl termed a 'yelp' of indignation, which I can't picture. Rosemary can, and doesn't blame Una at all.
The yelp got Li's attention and she looked up to see Carl coming up the walk, calm as you please, with a buffalo on a lead.
You can imagine the scene that caused. Una reports the conversation as follows.
'I don't like it.' Li.
'I don't want it here,' Una.
'It's a buffalo.' This from Carl, apparently thinking they had misunderstood.
'I see that.' This from Una.
'I won't feed it.' Li again.
'What does it eat?' Una, genuinely curious, I think.
'Grass. It can live in the garage. We don't use it.' Three guesses who said that.
They named it Papatee, which means butterfly – can you imagine?!
Strangest of all, Nenni – the opinionated cat! – is devoted to it. She climbs up onto its back and grooms it – and the buffalo lets her! Puck is horrified. But of course Puck is horrified; He patently dislikes anyone who stands between Carl and himself.
Faith isn't all that thrilled herself, because although she neither feeds nor lives with a buffalo, her children are obsessed. It's all Christopher and the Carlisle children can talk about. They're engineering a garden shed to house one, and Faith is terrified of telling them there are none to be had in Kingsport lest they refocus their efforts on a cow. Much too readily available, especially with a vet for an uncle!
Best of luck in your reapplication to the Heritage Trust. Add my name to the list of people happy to read it over, if it helps. I don't remember how I got us our grant (I think I blocked it from memory), and as I said, we were only a Grade B listed building.
In return, please explain Alice Caldicote. She's a feature in Bruce's correspondence, and you promised to tell me if he ever looked serious about romance. I thought I knew his set; Everard Hartley and Mark Gregory are well-worn household names these days. This is a new one, with no particulars attached. Enlightenment would be welcome.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
October, 1929
John,
Young Gregory didn't wash out of the program after all then? Well done Bruce on getting him through exams – I knew he would. I'm afraid I don't know much about Alice Caldicote, because she's University Chapel, not Patterson St. But I think she and Bruce chemistry lab partners, not romantic ones.
It's difficult to be sure, because no one can give me a straight answer as to quite what she and Bruce are and whether it's romantic. Phil says yes, Faith says no. Mara says Faith's an unreliable witness because she's got Bruce stuck perpetually at age eight in her mind's eye. Ellie agrees with Mara. That, by the way, is a truly terrifying alliance. I forget how Sam's wife and Shirley's ever met, but it was manifestly the basis of a firm, fast friendship.
Bruce is even less help than the women, because he dodges all inquiries amazingly. Jem says he gets that from you. Something about your sermon segues. Having heard you preach, I suspect that's more Jem espousing the Gospel of Cheek to his children. He takes Phil's side (another terrifying dyad!) and says Alice isn't going anywhere soon. Parse the lot at your leisure.
Also going nowhere; This Heritage Trust application. I enclose it for your consideration. You'll notice I've appended pictures. Shirley snapped those between veterinary call-outs. We hope they convince the Trust where the paperwork failed.
Split flagstones, warped choir loft, and leaky chancel notwithstanding, my congregants and I take comfort in a lack of buffalo. Your daughter and Li have the patience of saints. A monkey is one thing – But a buffalo!
Speaking of flagstones, I must go lay new ones. Apologies. Before I go, did Dulce really steal an entire chicken out from under Susan's nose? Tell all! God Tuesday wants lessons!
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
November, 1929
Jo,
The chicken was Di's, not Susan's. As Susan tells anyone and everyone who will listen, that would never have happened in her kitchen. This makes it sound as if Ingleside is one of those stately homes with two or more kitchens, and not a decently capacious farmhouse-style design. I may or may not have reminded Susan of the day Dr-Jekyll-and-Mr-Hyde got into her pantry. Susan said that was different, because there was a War On and she had to teach Woodrow Wilson how to write a letter worth reading. Then she 'forgot' to leave out pudding for me.
Here's what happened. Di fetched the bird in question from the cold room, and left it out to thaw. Dulce, seeing an opportunity, stood up on her hind legs, put her forepaws on the countertop, and hooked a chicken thigh under her jaw. Then she pulled it deliberately, and with cunning aforethought, onto the kitchen floor, where she fell upon it in such canine ecstasies as cannot be imagined.
Susan, who was supposed to be laid up in bed, came running, and said Dog Monday would never have done such a thing. Alastair said Dulce wouldn't either if Susan would let him install a modern refrigerator. He's been trying for years and Susan resisting about as long.
The funniest thing, Jo, is that Susan and Dog Monday weren't chums. She tolerated him uneasily because of his dedication to Jem during the war. That was all. Now he's dead, and Dulce has run of the house, you'd think Dog Monday second to God in Susan's book.
Love ever,
Gil