Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
October, 1932
Jo,
Nan and Jerry leave at the end of the month. It's Di's idea. She's clever, and she knows her twin. It's not lost on her that Nan and Jerry whisper behind doors for the comforts of their own home.
'You have a life to get on with,' said Di when Nan hesitated.
I suppose we all do. The trick is picking up where we left off. I tested Di again yesterday, and she still can't feel anything. If something doesn't change soon, crutches won't be an option. Ingleside isn't designed for an invalid chair. I don't know what we'll do if it comes to that. Never mind Di would hate that almost as much as the enforced inactivity.
You can tell she's bored and frustrated. But she keeps her hand in by photographing Dulce and the children. It reminds me of her Redmond letters, just bursting with her early photographic efforts. It's less exciting than a newsroom, but it's something.
No wonder Dulce has adopted her. She sits on Di's lap and Miss Abby snuggles against them like a much younger child.
Alastair copes by modernizing Ingleside. Susan's cross, because she never wanted (and doesn't trust) the Frigidaire. She thinks if God meant us to have machines full of cold, he'd have invented them for us. She wasn't impressed when I reminded her she once said the same about aeroplanes. But installing one means Alastair can convert the cold room into a bedroom. I can't decide if I'm hurt he has no faith in my ability to heal Di, or relieved one of us can think ahead.
Susan can see the necessity of that at least, so she doesn't rebel, just mutters dark things about elec-trickery and the absurdity of sleeping in a cold room. Alastair retaliates with detailed plans full of proper glazing and insulation. All Greek to me, but it sounds sound.
Thank you Jo, a thousand thousand times over. I don't say it enough, but I do mean it.
Love ever,
Gil
New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
Oct 1932
Jo,
I hear Bruce is helping you organize one final Harvest Festival. His letters are as full of its vexations as they are of his collaborations with Alice Caldicote. We're deep into festival arrangements, too. Mostly potatoes. We're up to our eyes in them and no one – not me, not Rosemary, not Anne, Cornelia, Susan or Mary – has an intelligent idea about how to arrange them in a suitably festive manner.
Then there's usual grousing from Rosemary about the hymnody. Apparently Bringing In The Sheaves belongs in a revival tent, and Fair Waved the Golden Corn proves Arthur Sullivan should have stuck to collaborating with that Gilbert chap. Amazingly snobbish about music – unapologetically so. I sort of hinted that we weren't an Episcopal church, so wouldn't be bothered by that stuff, and got swatted with a harmony hymnal for my trouble. I probably earned it.
In unrelated news, I'm glad to hear they accepted your offer on the house. It couldn't have gone to a better cause. You put years into Martyrs'. You talked once about churches being made of people. Well, you are the spiritual home of Martyrs'. I fancy the manse knows it, right down to the foundations.
Love and blessings,
J.M.
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
November, 1932
John,
I wouldn't go rejoicing quite yet. That's how the hymn goes, isn't it? Ask Rosemary.
Apparently, not only does the combined parish of Hope Park and Martyrs' not need the building, it doesn't want the expense of getting it up to building code standards. For this read reducing its propensity for mildew and mending the temperamental boiler.
Rest assured I have plans to tackle both. Hopefully, without sending for any overpriced radiator parts form Ottawa this time!
Boilers and mildew aside, Phil and I are pleased. I don't need to tell you that this is the only home we've ever known. A funny, ramshackle thing that was never supposed to house so many of us as it ultimately did. But we managed. We bundled the children together, learned to cook with the kitchen door ajar to stop the house filling with smoke, and made a depot of the parlour where other people held occasions… I wouldn't swap any of it. Other people have tea at seated around the coffee table; Us Blakes long ago became floor people, nursing teacups while sorting through the charity of others. It hasn't always been easy, it's often been chaotic, but it was ours. So, while I grieve the loss of the church and the people that made it, I'm equally grateful that we don't have to move, after all.
I had a letter from Gil the other day saying Susan suffered another one of her attacks. Phil read that and said that the old wives were right about trouble always coming in threes. Part of me thinks we exceeded a triad of unfortunate events months ago. But then something surprises me - maybe Emma and Sophy rush into the parlour crying murder and re-enacting Elektra – and I find I can be optimistic after all.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
P.S. Naomi tells me you wound up capitalising on my idea of a communal bonfire to roast the potatoes. How did that go over? Did Cornelia scowl? Was Cousin Sophia even there? How many children fell into the fire? I refuse to believe that idea is original to Evie Blake.
Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
Nov, 1932
Jo,
Anne hates November. She says its an unrepentantly grey, even ugly month. Maybe it's this latest strain of influenza doing the rounds, but I finally understand her. Bruce's graduation can't come fast enough, and as Rachel Lynde used to say, that's what. What I wouldn't give for one distracting ramble with Abby and Dulce through the maple woods.
I worry about Abby. Not for any medical reason; She's healthy as you please. But ever since Nan left, our Miss Abby hangs about her mother like a shadow. She doesn't do anything much, according to Di. Sometimes she just curls up with a book and they're silent together. It's sweet, but it's not childhood. It reminds me of Long Alec's girl in Bay Shore, remember her?
She was the same, before Silver Bush caught fire and she married. Neither Long Alec, nor Judy Plum, who knew Susan through some connection or other, liked it at all, and I don't think either of us understood why until recently. Of course, it was the house Pat loved, as much as the people. I can't decide how much Ingleside comes into it with Miss Abby. Not much, I think.
I think Anne cracked it when she said to Susan and I last night, 'You mustn't be hard on her. Abby's afraid if she looks away, her mother will disappear.'
I couldn't bear to ask how she understood this, not then, and not before bed, either. But I thought of that stricken little face always watching the window – first while Di was in Singapore and then when I carted her bodily off to the manse – and knew Anne was right.
One good thing: When I tested Di for sensation the other day, there was definitely something. Not much, but it fills me with a tremulous flicker of hope.
Tell me something nice. Rumour is you're holidaying at Mount Holly. Is Ruthie enjoying being able to host an occasion at last? When was the last time she got you all out to that outsized house? Anne hazards it was the death of Hetta, but that cannot be right. Your little Hetta isn't even the baby any more, so you must have been there more recently than her christening. My brain is becoming a sieve. No wonder I need a partner. Write and remind me. I'll take the liberty of wishing you a precipitate Happy Christmas in the meantime.
Love ever,
Gil