Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
June, 1933

Gil,

Kitty left for Toronto yesterday, and I have a bet with Phil that you know already. Christopher kept me well apprized of the date of departure, the better for me to intervene. I didn't. I gave Larkrise a day to itself before calling in on a lot of despondent Investigateers.

I called again today and missed everyone but an exasperated Jem and Teddy, who had lost an hour to fending off a new and intrepid reporter, anxious for the details of the case. It seemed a terrible idea to ask what Miss Catherine Foster was like on first impression, so I sat at that spindly-legged table and let them vent. They were settling into the heart of it when the Inspector came in with a list of the latest grievances from the same quarter. Teddy made him tea without ever breaking stride in the venting process, which was remarkable to watch.

I caught Shirley arriving as I was leaving, and risked asking him what a young, intrepid Kitty was like before she became theirs.

'I thought you knew,' he said. 'She was always ours. Even when we wanted to throttle her.'

Your children tell me that the worst part of all of this (every part is the worst part) is that there is no hope of Kitty summering at Ingleside because she won't have been at The Globe long enough for holiday leave to kick in. I hadn't realised she had never missed the trip until Christopher said. It makes me newly indignant with the teacher who told Helen Kitty wasn't her family, even if that was years ago.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,

Jo

Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
June, 1933

Jo,

It certainly won't be the same without Kitty. Jem and Faith weren't looking to adopt any reporters back when they first married, but twelve years on, I forget along with everyone else that Kitty has a pre-Larkrise background. We all knew she'd go on to a bigger and better paper, but that's not the same as her going and doing exactly that.

But even that tide in the affairs of aspiring journalists was quickly displaced by a revelation from Leslie. Apparently, little Anthony landed a place as a chorister in the St Mary Magdalene church choir. It's run by some Anglican chap called Healey-Wilan (?) who I've never heard of, but who impressed Rosemary.

It didn't impress Susan. Leslie made the near-fatal error of sharing this news where Susan could hear, and was thoroughly scolded. Susan says that none of little Rilla's children would ever desert the Presbyterian church, be other people's strange choir's ever so good. Anthony might be there now but in a month's time he would come to his senses as God intended all young boys to do, and we would never hear of the Wilan Man or Old Roy (I think she meant Oldroyd) again.

So far Susan got before she paused to consider the logistics of Anthony and the Toronto Transit System. Leslie was positively cool about it. Apparently Anthony doesn't even have to change trains. I made her stop before Susan succumbed to apoplexy brought on by righteous indignation.

The more things change, eh? The polio – what else – is back. It's Bruce's job these days, not mine. District Nurse Caldicote's, too. If that name looks familiar, it should. We have to share her with Lowbridge, but it's a welcome development. We should have had a District Nurse thirty years ago.

Now for a bit of humble pie. It turns out I know exactly where Jem and the others get their working attitude to holidays. I don't mind sitting on my hands over the little things – varicella outbreaks, uncomplicated births, etc. But it's hard to do it when other people's children are dying and the young local doctor shorthanded before he's started. Anne teases me about failing to practice what I preach, and enjoys herself immensely.

What Bruce really wants is one of those slogans like we had when the 'flu went round. Remember that? Keep boilers high but windows open? Something like that but about staying out of the water. I suggested your daughter have a go when I ran into her at the village shop. Said she could leave off mentions of silk shading in her political columns expressly to do it. The look I got for my trouble! But then she laughed and said she hated headlines, was always handing them over to the subeditor to write.

If you don't hear from me this side of autumn, you know why. Probably your hands are similarly full of patients and grandchildren. Write when you can, and I'll do the same.

Love ever,

Gil

Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
July, 1933

Jo,

Here's an anecdote for the ages. Little Iain Blythe has been, and here I quote, 'Pastoring the hens.'

Susan sent him out to feed them, but he took so long that Shirley went looking for him. He found Iain straight away. He was standing on our lawn honest-to-God sermonizing at Susan's silkies. Shirley, proving himself more like Dad than I could ever be, took this very seriously and asked what Iain was saying to fascinate the hens.

'I'm 'splaining 'bout God,' said Iain, as if it were obvious. ' 'Cause God's s'posed to be like a hen with His chicks, isn't He? But He can't be like hens if hens don't believe in God. And they can't b'lieve in God if no one tells them. So, I'm pastoring the hens.'

Shirley, drawing on reserves I should never have had, said that was all very good work, but perhaps now Iain could feed the hens? Seeing as how they couldn't live on God alone, and all. How he did it without so much as smiling, I'll never know. But he had a good laugh about it with me in the study afterwards.

'I never did that, did I?' he asked.

I was pretty sure I'd remember anyone pastoring hens, so said no, none of my children tried to convert our animals. Though Walter did once try to marry some toads.

Love ever,
Gil

New Manse,
Glen St Mary,
July, 1933

Jo,

You asked about the church fete. All the usual stuff – cake stall, bottle stall, plant stall…The paper made an abnormal fuss, but only because they're still recovering from the dark years of the Lowbridge Herald Empire, where our news never got reported.

Naomi's Victoria Sponge took third place at the cakes stall, and Fred and the children are triumphant. Joanie's probably told you. Di's cream puffs came second, and she was able to crutch her way up to the stage to claim the prize. It was good seeing her out of Ingleside. She hasn't gone far since last summer's illness, so this was a different kind of triumph.

Mary's roses took no place at all, and her nose is out of joint. She snubs me after church, even though I wasn't on the judging panel. That was Cornelia, Susan and Ellen. It's a miracle they agreed on anything. They gave first prize to Mabel Forbes' Delphiniums. They were very nice to look at and the Forbes' needed the five dollars. Everyone knows it. But tell that to Olive Kirk-Drew, who flounced off to the Lowbridge church to vent her spleen. I hope her botany will be suitably appreciated there, and so does she. Oh, and Irene retaliated by changing her mind about a donation she planned to make. Irene Howard has planned this donation for years and never gone through with it. I could have given the prize money to her mother's wilted tulips and we still wouldn't be richer. As Rosemary says, we can hardly miss what we don't have.

They've also introduced a jewellery stall, which is presided over by Florrie Clow, whose father used to work for the Lowbridge jeweller. There were some very fine offerings, as people tried their hand at crafting home-made trinkets. Amy Crawford – McAllister as was – won by entering a pair of earrings she fashioned from some of her mother's old jewellery. The surprise was Joe Milgrave placing second with an enamel brooch like a peacock feather. No one knew he could do that. Several people offered to buy it, but Joe insisted it was a gift for Miranda.

There was no play by the grandchildren. Did someone say otherwise? There was lots of singing. Apparently Cassandra Hargreave got Anthony that choir audition because he's banjo-mad. Ever since Rilla and family arrived, he's been playing. He's good for a boy that age, too. Rilla moaned theatrically that the piano was a better instrument. Rosemary, who still teaches, grimaced and said there were few things equal to the sound of a reluctant pupil torturing a piano. Then she smiled and said the banjo was much more portable. More opportunity for practice. It's all right for us. When the Fords leave, we won't hear any more banjo until the next visit!

Tell Iain the Ingleside hens miss their daily sermon. Carl says they're naturally social, and I believe him.

He also says Iris is in what Rilla dubbed the 'creeping stage' when Jims was a baby. She slithers along the floor on her stomach, and she and Puck cause double the normal chaos. Li thinks this is because Iris was born in the year of the monkey. I think it's because Puck never lost his Eden innocence.

Speaking of, there's a shocking lack of scrapes from Faith's children since the bizarre Money Lending debacle. I expected at least one corralled pig by now. Is that a country-child scrape, do you think? I refuse to believe they and your grandchildren aren't inciting mischief.

Love and blessings,

J.M.