We Seven

A Narnia & Mirror, Mirror Fanfiction

Part 8

Although it was certainly interesting, Jo didn't really enjoy being in America.

She might have liked it as a short holiday, if they could have been frivolous and spent the money to come and go more quickly, and if the ocean between them and England didn't suddenly seem so much vaster compared to when she'd looked at it on a map with Peter, who'd been trying to tell her it wasn't so far, actually.

Among other detractors was the niggling fact Jo couldn't escape: this trip wasn't really for her.

It was their father who was going to be lecturing for sixteen weeks, and it was Mum who was raring for a holiday, not having had one in over a decade (and then only if you counted the family excursion to Brighton, most of which she'd spent doctoring Royce and Lucy who'd gotten badly sunburned).

As for Susan...

Well, neither of their parents ever second-guessed taking her along. Ever considered the Pevensie family beauty, as well as clever and old for her age despite the fact she'd performed in the bottom half of her class during her last term (she was not very good at school these days, except for Swimming and Vocabulary), this trip to America was supposed to be the making of her.

Whatever that bloody meant.

The trouble had then been what to do with the other six.

Well, five – because Peter was going to take an important exam, and it was seen as prudent that he spend the holidays with Professor Kirke to be coached.

It would have been wonderful, Jo'd thought longingly, if those Pevensies who weren't being 'made' in America could have all stayed with Professor Kirke in the countryside like they had during the war, but – alas – he no longer owned that house.

Some misfortune had befallen the professor since then and he was quite poor now. He lived in a cottage with only one spare bedroom.

(Peter had written Jo that the old Narnian applewood wardrobe was crammed into this spare bedroom, the only heavy piece of furniture in the entire cottage, otherwise sparsely decorated, so it wasn't lost with the house and estate at least.)

Because Nicholas had already been like one of Helen Pevensie's own brood for so long, it seemed prudent – before this lecturing in America business came up – to simply not speak anymore, even casually, of his ever returning to the professor whose ward he supposedly still legally was.

But to take him, Edmund, Royce, and Lucy all to America would have been an impossible expense, and their Aunt Alberta wouldn't have him, considered him a stranger and a foreigner and was convinced he would murder her in her sleep if ever permitted to stay even a single night in her Cambridge home.

So to ask the professor if it was possible for Nicholas and Peter to share the spare bedroom at his cottage became the next logical step.

After all, Professor Kirke was meant to be the boy's guardian, poor or otherwise, wasn't he? He couldn't object to having him stay a few months, surely?

Jo was of course, by this point in the planning, obliged to go to America simply because Aunt Alberta – who did not consider an adopted miscreant whose real parents might have been anybody a proper niece – wouldn't have had her any more readily than Nicholas.

And, moreover, it was thought it would do nicely for Susan to have a companion.

Jo hadn't wanted to go to America at all despite Peter reminding her how much there would be to do and see there; she wanted instead to stay with the professor and the two older boys in the cottage.

Susan was scandalised she'd even think of such a thing – imagine how it would look, for a start. Hadn't she any notion of propriety at all?

Helen was more diplomatic, reminding her daughter it would be difficult for three persons to live in one small room. Mr. Pevensie – with a jolly laugh – pointed out the way she and Nicholas horsed around whenever they were together would surely be distracting to Peter, who was there to study.

"Then I don't see why Nicholas can't come with us instead of bothering Peter," Jo'd insisted stubbornly. "To America, right. Why not? How much can one more measly passage cost?"

"More than we've got," snapped Susan.

"Susan, please." Helen had shaken her head at her second daughter, even though – technically – she was correct. But she could see Jo's eyes starting to swim. "There's no need for that tone."

Susan had ignored her. "And think about his condition. Father can't be expected to stop his lecturing and race off to hospital if Nicholas hurts himself. Sometimes, Jo, you can be dreadfully selfish."

"At least I'm not quitting school to become a socialite."

"At least people want to socialise with me," she'd shot back. "They all think you were raised by wolves."

"Ah, yes. Thank you for that, Susan," had been Helen's dry comment, one eyebrow raised, whilst her husband was pretending to blow his nose to hide his laughter (this was, it seemed, where Edmund got the habit from).

And Susan had of course blushed and said it wasn't what she meant.

Edmund, Royce, and Lucy would all have usually taken Jo's part, because they found her easier going than Susan, who was always such a stickler, but they were rather put out with her for being sulky about going to America when they would have given anything to go there themselves instead of being with Aunt Alberta (not to mention dull Uncle Harold and their priggish cousin Eustace Clarence).

For her to be cross just because Nicholas wasn't going seemed rather like she was asking too much, like she was spoiled.

Whether it was ungrateful of her to wish him there or not, it cannot be denied Jo would have had a much better time if he'd come.

Peter, who hated to see his first sister ganged up on (perhaps he felt a little bad, also, because he had not taken her part with Rabadash in Narnia, so long before), took her apart the last time they were together and tried to cheer her up, showing her maps and other things.

"You'll enjoy it, Jo," he promised. "The younger crew are just jealous, you know. And Susan is a nag before any journey. Worse even than Mrs. Beaver used to be to Mr. Beaver, remember? She'll be an angel to you once you've gone and made the crossing – once you're actually there in America. Then you'll have such a time!"

The parting from Nicholas at Finchley Central – from where he and Peter were to transfer to another train which would take them to Pewsey, the nearest station to the professor's cottage (to be followed, nonetheless, by a near five-mile walk, as there would be no Mrs. Macready to fetch them) – was a miserable experience for Jo, already dampening her spirits long before she was even off English soil.

Despite usually being restrained (particularly on Nicholas's end) in regard to showing physical affection to one another in public, especially in front of the Pevensie parents, they were pretty shaky, saying goodbye, and so there was rather a great deal of mutual kissing and crying. And Jo certainly wished they were in Narnia – as they'd been when they parted for her to accompany Susan to Calormen – because, for all the fuss made about hurrying her along, no one had thought any the worse of her for kissing him there. Contrariwise, here in London, there seemed a great many judgemental stares doled out via passersby.

But on a personal level, at least, Helen was kind enough to pretend not to see, and her husband – not knowing where to look – focused on helping Peter fix a snap on the leather-and-mesh pet carrier containing the cat, which was not actually broken.

Susan, typically so tender-hearted, had no patience to spare for them, unlike her parents. She was embarrassed not by her sister and brother-in-law themselves so much as how people were looking at them. She always had cared a little too much what others thought of her family. Secretly, she was – with each passing year – gladder Professor Kirke had warned them all off talking about Narnia too often, half afraid someone would overhear her siblings one of these days and think them quite mad. And then she would have to bear the shame of it.

While Jo and Nicholas were having their soppy goodbye, Susan'd thought – though she turned out to be wrong, as it was somebody else who only looked like her from behind – she saw Anne Featherstone from Saint Finbar's.

It was jolly good, either way, she was all through with her schooling now; because having to return for a future term and listen to the other girls talking about Jo's display in a public station left her feeling prickly and anxious.

Still, Susan felt guilty when it was their mother who consoled Jo after Nicholas and Peter's train had gone, she herself standing dumb further up the platform, wondering what was wrong with her and – perhaps for the first time since she'd begun to grow up in this world – not at all liking what she was becoming. She resolved to make amends for her meanness at the station as soon as possible, and finally thought she'd found a way she might when – somewhere along the crossing – Jo's luggage was lost.

She not only shared her own clothes with her sister but put on her her favourite articles.

Jo knew she meant it kindly, but it wasn't a gesture she could derive any enjoyment from. Susan's clothes were nothing like what she would have picked out – Susan rarely wore trousers for one thing, and for another she had in the last couple years developed a passion for prints with dots and flowers Jo personally thought were only fit to cover a sofa, not a person.

Susan herself looked lovely in all these things, of course, but Susan was beautiful in anything – with a belt and a few adjustments in front of a looking-glass, she probably could have made burlap sacking elegant if called upon to do so.

In addition, Jo's wedding veil had been in with her luggage, and she mourned its loss.

True, it was much smaller and yellowed with age than it had been in Narnia, partially disintegrating when she'd made the foolish mistake of trying to wash it one time, but it still was a cherished memento of another life, which she felt further away from than ever...

Susan was merry with her, but Jo couldn't always find it in herself to be so in return.

The trip which should have bonded the sisters more closely than ever seemed, almost from the very beginning, to be splitting them apart, even when they were – as most often was the case – literally side by side.

Everyone admired Susan, as was expected, and so – out of politeness – both girls were invited to a variety of social events. Susan was sixteen and Jo nearly seventeen by then, and it was usually considered appropriate for them to accept invitations without expecting interference from their parents so long as they promised to look out for one another.

Jo might have enjoyed herself, as she did like talking to new people and making friends, but in most situations it quickly became apparent men (and worse, their mothers) were seeing her as the runner-up prize to Susan, as the short-haired girl in the garish button-up dresses upon whom they could foist their less comely competition, hoping for quality time with the prettier sister.

In different circumstances she could have laughed at playing Katherina to Susan's Bianca – she didn't mind if the social scene at large in America thought she was a shrew.

Not very much, anyway.

What she minded – what she came to despise – were all the annoying Petruchios who would keep throwing themselves in her path! Those who could be made into friends, she was very silly with – a couple of them, she came to like just as well as Ash back home, who she was still friends with after that day at the Strand – and they soon realised their mistake in trying to woo her; but the rest she loathed more fervently with each interaction.

She wore Nicholas's ring on her finger, instead of on the chain, to give them a hint, but – even with that – some of them were frustratingly dense.

Therefore, it was with no pleasure that Jo absorbed the news about the Germans making the crossing back to England difficult; thinking of spending another few months being a Mrs. de Winter to Susan's Mrs. Van Hopper (all right, so perhaps it was not that bad, the comparison was fairly melodramatic, but still) rather turned her stomach.

Their father was completely finished up with his scheduled lectures, and Jo thought he must be weary of hotels and colleges by now. Even Mum seemed to be getting rather tired of holidaymaking, as if she really would like to be back home already.

Only Susan had any delight to take over being delayed.

And why not?

Before Mr. Pevensie had said it was a set thing they'd be staying longer, she'd been lamenting not getting to go to the British Consul's boring tea party. In Jo's opinion, when you'd taken tea with fauns and dryads, a group of slack-jawed men in uniform who looked as though they would spit out the contents of their cups in shock if faced, across the table, with a female who remarked on anything besides clothes or the weather were not very exciting. But the naval officer who invited Susan was handsome, and he had a friend he was positively dying – whether the expression was his or else Susan's was unclear – to introduce to Jo, because he was convinced they'd get along...

And of course all Jo could do while Susan sat tranquil and beautiful as an angel at the desk by the window, writing a letter to their younger siblings in Cambridge, explaining the delay, was sigh, flop facedown onto the bed a couple feet away, and miss Nicholas dreadfully.

"Really, Jo." Susan set her pen down and pushed back her chair. "Anyone would think you'd been locked away in gaol instead of given an extended holiday."

Jo muttered something incoherent into her pillow. Her voice – what could be heard of it – sounded choked-up.

Susan got up and put her hand on her sister's back. "Sweet. You didn't want to go to the professor's when we were evacuated, but you loved it once we were there. We met Nicholas and had so many wonderful times, such fun games. This is no different."

This was completely different; Nicholas wasn't here, and she had none of her own things to wear, and – anyway – how could she enjoy herself knowing Edmund and Lucy and Royce would be miserable for an indefinite further period with their horrible relations?

Either Susan did not understand Jo – who, although she'd lifted her head off the pillow, was crying in earnest by this point, wiping away tears with her balled-up hands – or she thought her sister was just not willing to give things their proper chance.

In her most aggravating grownup voice, she said, "If you would only try a bit harder to get on with people here – not merely horse about with the boys and then act as if you'd never seen them before the next time you meet – perhaps you might find it all less ostracising. You burrow away with your sketching much too often, besides. Everyone here is very kind, if you'll excuse my saying it, and you can be very cold to them."

Jo's brow sank; her eyes were daggers. "You're unbelievable."

"All I meant was–" she tried, though it did no good.

"You can dress me up like a bloody doll and paint my face and drag me to garden parties, Su, and I won't whinge." She slid off the bed and began stomping towards the door. "But if you push any more boys on me, I'll make you sorry."

Susan could only blink in astonishment at this sudden and – from her perspective – wholly unprovoked threat.

What did Jo mean by it?

Pressed – though she wasn't initially sure what she'd meant, only that the threat sounded fine enough she'd hoped it would work – Jo finally blurted, if Susan didn't ease up, she'd write to Nicholas and tell him exactly what it was Susan had tried to say to him back in Narnia, by the hyacinths, before she realised it wasn't her he fancied.

For the bulk of this trip, Susan had been very vague when talking about anything to do with Narnia. She spoke distantly, dreamily, whenever Jo brought up their time there, as if it were something that happened not to her but to somebody else, or she changed the subject more often than not. More than once, she'd flat out pretended not to hear. She had mentioned Narnia briefly in her letter to the twins and Edmund, of course, but only in hopes of soothing them, since she knew it would bring a smile to their faces; she'd not worded it in a way which welcomed continued discourse on the subject.

This, however, struck a nerve – Jo had sworn never to tell him, after all, given her her most solemn promise – and without thinking she bounded over and slapped her sister across the face. Not a very cruel, hard slap – it was quick and reactionary.

All the same, it left Jo's cheek smarting and red and Susan instantly felt horrible and wished with all her heart she hadn't done it. She'd never hit any of her siblings before.

Trembling, she put her hand to her mouth. "Oh... Oh, Jo... I'm so sorry."

"Bullshit." Jo gave her arm a rough shove and, clutching at her aching cheek, vanished into the hall.

"Darling," whispered Helen, putting her arm around Jo's shoulders. "Whatever happened, whatever's been said or done, you're sisters. All I ask is that you try to put it in the past and forgive each other."

Jo hadn't told their mother about Susan slapping her. She'd put ice on her face and washed it and stayed well clear of everyone for a good hour to make sure there was no sign of it left.

All she'd done was announce at lunch she wouldn't – no matter what – attend any more social events with Susan. She didn't care. And she wouldn't wear her clothes anymore, either. She'd wear odds and ends from their parents' suitcases and never mind how ridiculous she would look.

What was more, she added, she'd rather sleep with their parents than spend another night sharing with Susan.

After a not at all nice lunch, very little of which was actually eaten, Helen had come up behind Jo – who was stuffing her drawing pencils into a little bag and tucking her pillow underneath her arm – and tried to smooth things over.

"I won't apologise to her, if that's what you want. I don't need her!" snapped Jo, impervious to her mother's urging yet nonetheless leaning against Helen's side and struggling against tears. "I can get on fine without her, wherever I am!"

"That's possibly true," agreed Helen, her dark eyes gone a little sad; "but have you stopped and thought, even for a moment, she might need you?"