hello friends! thank you for the reviews and your patience ^_^ title from "gold dust" by tori amos.
una having a daughter named rosemary, nicknamed romy, was v. shamelessly stolen from ruby gillis's cecilia of ingleside stories — romy was just too cute a nickname, and as it's common in german, jived nicely with shirley's german gf. all credit to ruby gillis :3
sights and sounds pull me back down another year
december 1927
In Toronto, one can't cut down a Christmas tree by oneself — well, one can, but there's hardly any way to lug it from the woods into the city. Instead, it is much preferred to go to one of the many small lots that have sprung up between the shops and purchase a tree. It's become quite a ritual, especially as little Rosemary grows older and more insistent that the tree be perfect.
After much deliberation — and hours bundled up with the Toronto wind biting at their faces — they'd decided on a tree. The large fir is in their front room now, its lower branches being painstakingly decorated by Rosemary and her cousin, Bertha. Bertha's younger brother Gilbert is toddling around, Rilla desperately trying to stop him from trying to grab Pearl's tail.
"He really is so much," she says with a laugh. "I thought another baby wouldn't be a problem, because Bertha is so easy — but Gil is an absolute handful. Mother says he's just like Jem."
"I don't mind," Una says quietly, though she does pick him up to save poor Pearl. "It's so nice to have more children in the house. I'm always worried Rosie gets lonely — although she really is an imp — she's just like Faith; always running to the gate and trying to wave at everyone on the street."
The familiar pang echoes in Una's chest as she watches Rosie and Bertha, Rosie just slightly self-importantly telling Bertha where to hang the ornaments. She is so much like Faith — but she will never have a younger sister or brother. The birth had been so difficult, and though both the city doctor and Dr. Blythe said it couldn't have been helped, there was nothing she could've done, sometimes she feels…wonders…
"I want to put the star on," Rosie announces. Una rises to go find the stepladder, grateful for something to do, but Walter is already at Rosie's side. With just a small grunt, he lifts Rosie by the legs with one arm, bracing himself on his cane with the other. Una hovers, watching Walter's cane shake, but then the star is on the tree and he is placing Rosie back on the ground, dropping a kiss on her dark curls.
"Here," Ken says, nudging Una and motioning with his camera. "I took a photo of them for you. What say you all stand in front of the tree now and take one together?"
Walter pulls her to his side, and Romy attaches herself to Una's leg, and Una thinks — she cannot ask for anything more than this, can she? Walter's face is ashen from the effort of lifting their daughter, but he is smiling and their girl is laughing. Watching them together, she smiles too, and she only just remembers to turn to the camera before Ken snaps the photo.
october 1933
"Look, Renée Adorée died."
"Who?"
"It says she was in The Big Parade. Do you remember that one? I don't know — but what a name! It can't be her real one."
"Well, she's French…"
His daughter and his niece's voices drift off as they go back inside the house, likely to avoid being overheard by Walter and Una. The girls were sitting together on the lawn, looking at a magazine, but they are at that age where the presence of adults causes them to giggle and run away.
"Do you know who that is?" Walter asks, nudging Una. She is at his side, sorting through their mail. The two of them are leaning against the big oak tree, Walter's cane lying haphazardly on the carpet of red leaves. Every now and then, another leaf drifts down, although they've all narrowly missed catching in Una's hair.
Una's smile is wry, even as she unfolds another letter. "I can hardly keep up with all those actresses and models Romy admires," she says. "But how awful. She must have been young if she was a movie star."
Walter nods, turning to see Romy and Diana laughing together through the big kitchen window, dark heads bent over the magazine. They're both so young — the ages twenty, thirty, seem impossibly old to them, a long, full life.
Di is one of Jerry and Nan's twins, only several months older than Romy. Rosemary had gone through much of her childhood known as Rosie and Rose, but then Shirley's wife had called her Romy one day, and the name had stuck. Romy and Di might as well be twins for all they're so close and look so much alike, with their dark ringlets and blue eyes. Nan and Una steadfastly refused to dress them alike when the families visited, although both of them would give in to weakness and put the girls' hair in matching bows every now and again.
Diana's twin, John, must be in his room. He tags along with the girls sometimes, but he's much quieter; as they've gotten older and even more boisterous, he prefers to hide away. He wants to publish a novel one day, he'd confided in Walter. He's not a bad writer, for a boy of twelve — at the very least, he can correctly spell most of the things he writes.
They have been in England for just over a year now, Walter having been offered a visiting professorship. It is at a smaller university, not the position at Oxford or Cambridge that was his wildest, highest ambition as a boy — but it is perfectly respectable, pays well, and is a not-intolerable train ride from London. It is for this reason that Jerry and Nan asked to send the twins along, so that they could travel and see England. With only one child, Walter and Una are often the ones who take in Romy's various cousins during school breaks — Nan and Jerry's twins, Faith and Jem's children, occasionally Shirley's daughter — turning their small home chaotic for a few weeks. In the recent years, it's also given the families an excuse to spread their broods out, insulate their children from noticing that there are fewer cakes and new dresses and books than before.
Walter likes his nieces and nephews, but the real reason he always allows their visits, agreed to bring the twins overseas, is because of Una. It had devastated her, quietly, that they have never had another child. Una loves Romy deeply and wouldn't trade their daughter for anything — but she'd wanted more, Walter knows.
"For you," Una says, handing Walter a thick missive. It's from a friend of Walter's, a fellow Canadian writer, though he lives abroad in France now. Or — the letter is postmarked from Havana, has he moved? Perhaps he's only taking a holiday.
They exchange drafts and news and opinions quite often; the letter is full of critique of the first. Not sure what you were getting at with the final stanza of " …And August comes" (final title?) Is it meant to be a resolution? It's q. ambivalent if so, compared to the strength of the preceding lines. Not all a loss, though: prose is as brilliant as ever, and England's done wonders for that rut you were in. I don't think we writers were meant to settle down — the more I see of the world and come to know myself, the more convinced I am of it.
Why don't you come out to Paris in the spring? I'll be back then and so will old Porter. Bring your wife and that passel of children you've always got running around — my Jack's just turned twelve and he's wanting for company since he can't get along in these French schools.
"What do you think of going to Paris during the school break?" Walter asks Una.
Una doesn't hate traveling as much as she used to — she was always so afraid of being uprooted, Walter knows, separated from her family. But she is quite content to go wherever he goes as long as she has Romy with her, and certainly she likes to collect postcards from every place they go, buying them in thick stacks, sending some off and carefully framing the rest.
He shows Una the letter, and the faintest look of displeasure crosses her face. She doesn't particularly like this man, admittedly — the aforementioned Jack is his son with his second wife; the first wife had been divorced in a rather acrimonious manner that Una had not approved of. The dislike is mutual; he has repeatedly hinted that Walter could be great if he weren't quite so Presbyterian, the influence of which he clearly blames on Una.
Perhaps that is true — but it seems to Walter that greatness always comes with the things he hates about himself the most, from the very day he won praise by nearly killing Dan Reese. He wouldn't let himself reach farther, even if he wanted to — there is too much darkness there, too many things inside himself he would have to set free.
"I think we ought to go," Walter says.
Perhaps there's something in his voice, for Una looks up at him, eyes searching his. "Oh?" she says softly.
Walter leans back, wondering how to say it. Una reads the newspaper just as he does, she has seen the same headlines: Germany has withdrawn from the League of Nations, there are riots and boycotts, it seems like diplomats are constantly rushing from one capital to another, in constant "talks" to smooth over every new incident and convince each other they needn't declare another war.
He doesn't wish to alarm Una by proclaiming catastrophe. The Piper is drawing closer again — but whether he is at their doorstep yet, Walter does not know. There is only a feeling that's been creeping over him, recently, that this is the last time they will be here. They won't have the chance to see Paris again, nor go back to Venice nor take the trip up to Scotland they once spoke of. His contract is finished next year; short of applying for a regular post or moving to a different university, his only choice will be to go back to Canada. He doesn't mind that at all — he always meant to go back in the end — but something is tugging at him, a whisper that when they leave Europe, it will be for good.
He nods. "You know the news from the continent isn't good. I don't think…I don't think things will get better here. This may be our last chance to see Europe as it is."
Una's face softens. "Then we'll go," she says.
Walter catches at her hand, brings it to his lips. He is still in wonder at how easily she understands him, even after ten years — more than that, if one considers just how long they have known each other. Good God, it's been over twenty, in that case. If he closes his eyes, he can see them as they were — himself, lanky and eager, earnestly mimicking Marmion in his journal; Una so shy and distant, even as she sat at his side in Rainbow Valley. To think that they found each other, that they know each other still.
Una finishes sorting through the letters, moving to stand. "I'd better go put the stove on," she says. "Will you come in?"
"In a minute." The letter has sparked a thought, and Walter's pen has settled into a rhythm of writing it all down. If he gets up now, he'll lose it all, and this draft has been torturing him for weeks.
Una squeezes his shoulder. "Don't stay out too long. Your leg…"
"I won't, sweetheart." His leg is comfortable now — rather numb in the chilly air — but it will be painful when he tries to rise. That is alright. He's long used to it, and the pain only lasts as long as it takes to push himself up, anyway — never mind that that takes longer than it used to, too.
His fantasy of getting some work done is dashed, of course. He's only written a few more lines when he hears heavy footsteps, turning to see Romy tromping heavily over the grass, arms crossed.
"Come here, Rose of mine," he calls.
Romy looks mutinous, but she turns and stalks over, dropping to his side with a heavy thud.
"You look cross," Walter observes, drawing his daughter close. "What happened?"
"Mum's cross with me," Romy sulks. "She found a lipstick that came with the magazine — I didn't wear it, I promise, and I wasn't going to wear it — but she took it away."
"Your mother only took it away because you're too young to wear it," Walter says. "Not because she's angry. She's never angry with you, you must know that."
Romy sniffles. "Sure. She never gets angry. She never wore makeup. She never did anything wrong, I bet."
"I wouldn't say that. She got into plenty of trouble as a girl," Walter reassures her, although he has to admit, he can't recall Una ever getting into a scrape that wasn't simply her being dragged along by Faith. Still, Una is not perfect — but in ways that perhaps Romy can't understand yet.
"It's not good for us to always get our way — to have everything we want all of the time. If you ate nothing but cake, you'd get sick, wouldn't you? Besides, when you are a little older, it will make the moment you first put it on all the sweeter — because you've earned it with patience. And your mother and I will let you do more things, go more places, if you prove that we can trust you," he adds in a flash of inspiration.
Privately, frankly, Walter does not think he'll be ready for his daughter to ever start wearing cosmetics, or going out on her own, or having beaux — or boy-friends, as he supposes they're called now. In his day — well, he won't start on that. Besides, it's not for many years still, years that only Romy is impatient to pass.
Romy leans her head on his shoulder. "I guess you're right," she murmurs.
Whether or not she means the concession, Walter supposes they'll have to see. Romy can be sneaky — or at least she tries to be; perhaps it might be of more concern if she weren't as artless a liar as he is. He thinks perhaps it comes from raising her in the city, her childhood marked by the excitement of the cinema and the envies of window-shopping in downtown Toronto, instead of idle days in flower fields or at the shore. Certainly she is more like Ken and Persis Ford at her age than Walter or any of his siblings.
Shirley's wife tells them not to be too harsh with Romy. Her parents were strict, she says, and so were many of her friends' parents, growing up. They were stern, old-country Lutherans, and it only made their children sly and rebellious, lying to evade slaps across the face. So Walter puts an arm around her and continues to write, waiting for her to speak again.
"What are you working on, Dad?" she asks finally.
"Ah, just a few poems."
"For the new book?"
"No, that one's already finished — it has to be out by Christmas; they're already working on binding it and adding illustrations."
"Illustrations!" Romy perks up a bit, then curls into herself, fiddling with a dark lock of hair. "Can — May I see them? Before the book is out?"
"Will you listen to your mother?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Then you may, and I'll let you pick the ones you like best."
Romy beams. A leaf falls into her hair, but she doesn't move to brush it away, and neither does Walter. She is getting to that age, too, where she balks at affection from her parents — so Walter only looks at her from the corner of his eye as he writes, trying to memorize her as she is just in this moment. She is too young to know how quickly it all goes, yet.
april 1934
They drive out to the countryside for their last weekend in France. Una's dark head is buried in the road guide, telling him when to turn — right once they reach the crest of a hill, left at the ruins of a church. It's been twenty years, but signs of the war still remain, in buildings that were destroyed by shelling and never rebuilt, whole towns whose residents left and never returned.
In the backseat, Romy wails that she's hungry. Diana and John don't usually complain, mindful that Walter and Una are not really their parents, but with Romy's permission, they join in.
Walter sighs. "Is there a road stop somewhere nearby?"
Una consults the guide. "Yes — well…there's a little town ahead. There are places to eat and shop — there's a battlefield nearby, so they must get lots of visitors."
"A battlefield?" John pipes up. "Can we see?"
Walter takes his eyes off the road long enough to exchange a quick glance with Una. "I don't mind."
Walter doesn't recognize the name of the town, on a rough-hewn wooden sign, when they drive past it. It was not one of the ones that he fought in, or marched through — they had pushed north of here, he thinks, by the time he'd shipped over. He thinks. Parts of the war are becoming ever harder to remember — he finds himself raising an eyebrow when he reads articles or memoirs, certain things didn't happen quite that way — No, the locals in that town had nothing left, no one could've lent you a bicycle there; it didn't rain the day we went over the top at Courcelette, you're thinking of another battle, somewhere else in France. Or perhaps he is the one who doesn't remember.
After so many years, the town has been rebuilt. Only its church is still in ruins, left that way for the benefit of visitors: its tower is half-destroyed, exposing the skeleton of the belfry. There is a small memorial to the side — nothing so grand as the memorials at Ypres or Verdun; the name of this town is one only remembered by those who fought here, who lost their fathers and brothers and sons here.
From the distance, one can barely tell it is a battlefield.
How strange, that the remains of the war should be so obvious everywhere but where the men actually fought. The ruined towns remain, broken tanks and old observation posts rise half-buried along the roadside — but here, there is only grass, rippling away from them and cresting over a small hill.
Are the ripples in its surface the remains of shell and foxholes, grown over by the grass, or are they merely shadows cast by the late morning sun? Walter can't tell. A fence stops them from getting any closer, and here is the only clear sign of what this place once was: Danger, the sign reads, in French and English. Unexploded Ordnance.
"What does ordnance mean?" John asks quietly. Romy is already getting close to the fence, sticking the lens of her camera between the wires to take a photo. Jem sent it to her last Christmas, and she never goes anywhere without it.
"Bombs," Walter explains, just as quietly. "Some of them don't explode when they land, you know — we called them duds."
"But if they don't explode, then…doesn't that mean they don't work?"
"No," Walter says gently. "They can still explode later — if a farmer bumps one with his plow, or if someone steps on it."
John's eyes go wide. "Are there very many left?"
Walter almost laughs, though the question is innocent. He wonders if the boy can understand, if the numbers can do it justice — hundreds of thousands of bombs, millions of shells, millions of men.
"Yes. They fired thousands during a battle — and there were battles for nearly five years. It will take years and years to find them all. They might not ever find them all."
John nods slowly, gazing out at the grass beyond the fence. "What was it like?" he asks finally. "Dad won't say. He was at Vimy Ridge, you know — a reporter tried to come to our house once to ask him about it — but he never speaks of it."
"The war?" Walter supposes John is asking him for the same reason that Romy will have to ask one of her uncles, if she ever becomes curious. He is not sure he could explain it to his own daughter, but the words come a little easier to his nephew.
"The battles were loud — and then, afterwards, it was too quiet, and it almost made you wish for another battle so you wouldn't have to think about everything. You were always waiting for something to happen. You saw many good men die — men you'd trained with or became friendly with after some time. You regret them all, you know — even the men on the other side."
"I don't think I could do it," John declares. "I was thinking about it, you know, as we were driving here…and I just couldn't do it. Go to war. See people die. Kill another man."
There are many things Walter can say to that, but none that a lad of thirteen is ready to hear. Walter smiles a bit ruefully, ruffles John's hair. "I hope you won't have to."
John goes quiet, and they remain still for a while, looking out at the field. Walter's vision blurs, and for a moment he sees — the grass will grow taller, rain will fall and fill the shell holes and turn them into enchanted pools. And there will be generations who tend to these fields, year after year, and they will still be turning up shrapnel, nameplates, helmets, like the explorers in the news who dig among the pyramids.
He blinks, and the vision clears. He looks over to see Una, crouching down to look at something that Romy is pointing out to her. Behind her, a few flowers shelter together at the fence post, and beyond, the grasses grow.