Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
September, 1933
Jo,
So much for retirement, eh? Polio ceded its terrible hold to varicella, and I got pressed into service so Bruce could sleep. I think this must be why Uncle Dave moved away when I moved to Four Winds!
Let's see if I can reconstruct how it went. Neither Hector or Abby had had (note the past tense!) varicella, so when Betty's youngest called round with nascent spots, he thoughtfully passed it on. They gave it to Joanie, who gave it to her siblings; Baby Gordon had it so badly he couldn't lie down. Spots all over the back of his head. No one at The Old Bryant House has slept in weeks.
The little Arnolds gave it to a Crawford, who gave it to every other Crawford, who passed it to every Drew ever, plus a few spare. The Drews passed it to the Binnies, who must these days consort with Penhallows, because they have it, too, but happily for Bruce, Bay Shore and Bay Silver have their own doctors. Let joy be unconfined.
Since they all caught it together, Di and Naomi didn't bother separating the children. Once they hit that bored, fretful stage of contagion, the mothers let them commiserate together. So, now they alternate between The Old Bryant House and Ingleside, where the patients convene in Hector's room and chatter so much and so fast they make our children look taciturn. Cards, dominoes and Pick-Up Sticks are staples.
Susan lets them have tea on what she calls 'The Children's China.' It was Susan's mother's, and it's thicker and sturdier than our normal stuff. She keeps them in broth and monkey faces, and they keep chattering. I tried to join in, but got told off by Miss Abby, because, 'You're an Old Person, Grandad.'
Guilty as charged. The Cricket Club (Naomi's name for it, and it's stuck) has a constitutional rule preventing anyone older than 20 joining. I asked. 20 is really, terribly, extremely old. Hector says.
Write soon and give your fellow Old Person things to mull over that aren't the vexations of varicella, please!
Love ever,
Gil
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
October, 1933
Hale Old Person, well met!
Phil says we ought to start our own club. Or pretend we have. We can slip the grandchildren anecdotes at the holidays and see if they believe it. The more madcap the better. Phil says the thing is to make it sound even more fun than their young people's club so they'll have to let us in. I think they ought to have their fun.
Speaking of Phil, I wish you were here. She's developed a cough, and gets cross if Ellie or I fusses over her. She's convinced it's nothing, and I'm convinced it's something while hoping she's right. She can't swallow or eat properly because of it. Is that normal?
Your advice is always welcome, even if you are retired. Fancy a busman's holiday?
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.
Jo
Fox Corner,
Kingsport
November, 1933
John,
I know, I know. I'm supposed to be retired. But Shirley asked for me. He rang me up on the phone and said we'd much rather have you, Dad. He meant to deliver the baby. I hummed and hawed, and then realized I was doing just what I worry about my Abby doing – not leaving the house because what if Something Happens To Di? And Jo wanted my opinion on Phil. Two men who never ask anything of me were asking favours.
Normally, I'd have worried about Susan as well as my daughter, but Susan came too. Her bag's been packed ever since word got out Mara was pregnant.
We caught the inaugural Remembrance Service of the newly conglomerate Hope Park and Martyrs. It was surreal. I remember attending Jo's formal Dedication at Martyrs'. I was a new medical student, and the Cooper Prize still the talk of the college. He and I were greener than new grass, and I was terrified I'd make a hash of things. Not Jo. He stepped into procession behind the Bible like he'd been born to it. I remembered that, watching his successor wax poetic about the valour of our dead and wondered what would become of Jo's beloved Bundle Kirk. A whole people effectively washed out of existence. Can you imagine? Of course you can, you've probably written essays on the subject. I never could equal you for biblical history.
I wish someone had bested me on the subject of medicine. Faith tried, but it's hard to best someone in an argument if you agree with them. I don't mean the baby. The baby's fine. It's Phil. She really isn't well. Jo's right to worry. He should worry. But how do you tell that to your friends of over forty years? Faith shouldn't have to, and I don't want to. I'm working up to it in stages.
Let me tell you about Fox Corner instead. We knew it would be an eventful visit when, hours after our arrival, Jem bobbed up with news of what he called Murder by Communion. He had an absolutely exasperated Inspector in tow, as irascible as I've ever seen him. He wanted Mara's opinions on her fellow parishioners, and an explanation for why there was no communion wine left for Jem to test. He was convinced it was poisoned.
'What else would they do?' asked Mara. 'You have to drink it. You can't pour it down the drain; It's the Blood of Christ.'
'It's bloody evidence!' said the Inspector.
Susan looked things not lawful to be uttered while those two got into the thick of it. You could tell they enjoyed the tussle. Anne, Jem and I had a hard time not laughing.
We gave up when Iain asked innocently, 'What do other people do with God's blood?'
'We-ell,' said Jem, and you could see the grin blossoming, 'we pour it down the drain.'
Iain looked every inch as horrified as Susan had moments ago. If inheritances skip bloodlines, he gets that from her. Here I thought nothing could best the pastored hens!
After that knotty conundrum, the delivery of the baby was ordinary. Boring, even. The best kind of delivery. Faith helped. Never tell Bruce she's still my favourite partner on these ventures. I guess I'm used to us teaming up. We're good at it.
The baby appeared on time, we cleaned it up, and the grandmothers – Susan inclusive – paid fealty.
I wondered how Iain would take it, after being an only child for so long but never actually alone. Sort of impossible, the way the Carlisles, Blakes and Blythes run together. It's like that old expression about there being a Dark for every Penhallow and a Penhallow for every Dark but with a wider net. I needn't have worried. Susan saw Iain peering into the crib the other day as if 'that blessed boy had never seen a baby before.'
Anne chalks that up to the elfin look of little Isobel Blythe. She's got those same eyes all Mara's family have. You know the look. Like they're seeing through things. Jo finds it unsettling enough in the McNeilly adults; I'm curious to hear his opinion on its presentation in an infant.
Personally, I'm more disconcerted by the lyrics of Can You Sew Cushions as a lullaby. I heard Mara singing it the other evening, and am ninety percent sure it's about leaving a baby to die in the wilderness. Only the Scots, John, honestly. Actually, that's not fair. Helen and Christopher were serenading their cousin with a lusty rendition of Alloutte just this morning. At least the lark is already dead!
See you shortly. Until then, all our love,
Gil
P.S. You're going to have to explain the white poppies. I remember Una sewing them, and Jo still buys them. How are they different from the red?
Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
December, 1933
John,
I don't think I'll ever get used to not having a church at Christmas. I keep my hand in with hospital and prison visits, but it's grim. I drove through Culross to one of the prisons the other day, and saw the council houses were finally up where Knox-on-the-Sea used to be. It might as well have never existed. The Food Ministry lives on in the village hall, though, so I stopped in after my prison round. It was good to see my old friends again. Breaking bread and ladling soup did me good. Someone asked me to say Grace and it was almost like old times.
They asked about Phil, too. I didn't know what to say. She can't shake that cough. It sounds so little on paper, doesn't it? But she's had it since autumn. I can tell Gil doesn't like it. He put on a cheerful front, but I've known him too long.
The stupid, selfish, awful truth is I didn't want to tell these well-intentioned old friends that maybe Phil is dying and maybe I can't do anything, maybe no one can, because that would make it real. It would consign her to actually dying, and I can't bear that. It's bad enough when I turn over in bed and see the reality lurking in a dark corner. I don't want to look it in the eye yet.
Phil, whose always been staunch and sturdy, says it's nothing, and accuses me of fretting. Apparently the children learned the art of clucking like hens from me, not her.
Something else…was it you that queried when I started wearing a white poppy? When your daughter started sewing and selling them, is the answer. They mean peace, and I'll never understand why that gets people's backs up. It's the thing we all prayed for when our boys were away. But only a few of us that I know of wear them. Myself, Una, a bookseller who occasionally dropped into my Waterford services. Others, I'm sure, but none I can think of off-hand.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch,
Jo