Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
December, 1936

Gil,

Can you believe it? My sleepy communion with The World Service was jarred into urgent life when Naomi rang and said the King has abdicated. Never say never, eh?

I can't say I pay much attention to our monarchy and its goings on, but I can't help feeling sympathetic to the former King's situation. It's almost a year since Phil died, and navigating the world without her is disconcerting enough. I shudder to think what it's like running a whole country without the advice of the person you love and trust above everyone else.

Even as I write, it strikes me this is exactly the sort of subject Cornelia and Susan would do battle on. I take for granted that Anne rose to the occasion on Susan's behalf. Anne's never short of opinions. Write and tell me about it; I welcome diversions from all sides. I still don't believe it can be Christmas without Phil. She's going to turn up at the eleventh hour with some extravagant gift for the grandchildren, and it will be the most spectacular prank. Jem will be envious.

When I think – really think – that she won't dress the tree or imperfectly mash the potatoes, I want to laugh. Ellie took over the goose years ago, and Phil never missed an opportunity to express her voluble relief that it was in capable hands. She's going to say it this year, too. I can just hear her. It's on the tip of her tongue, somewhere behind my left ear.

I thought I'd experienced every shade of grief and now I've gone and found a new one. Isn't memory amazingly resilient?

Forgive my going; there's holly and ivy still to hang before the multitudes arrive later this evening. Phil used to do this part, but isn't around to this year. A pretty thin reason for denying my kitchen kirk the festival trimmings they're used to. Don't take that to mean I've forgotten that report of yours; I mean it. I want the local Glen opinions.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. Not forgetting a happy Christmas when occasion warrants,

Jo

Ingleside,
Glen St. Mary,
December, 1936

Jo,

You won't be surprised to learn that Anne took your side of the Abdication Scandal. So did John. Cornelia most certainly did not. She said it was just like a man to chuck the baby out with the monarchic bathwater. (I paraphrase slightly.)

Personally, I never liked That Woman, and am relieved she's thoroughly out of our affairs. Ellen said she couldn't see why private affairs should run the public, and in an unlikely alliance, Rosemary agreed with her. No one can remember the last time they agreed on politics.

The children arrived for the holidays armed to the teeth with opinions, no two the same. Kitty was verily vibrating over the excitement the abdication caused when it hurtled through the doors of The Globe and Mail's King St. office. Apparently, there was a mad few hours of rushing to get the copy written and rewritten in time for the next day's front page. Sections were ferried from writers to section editors to subeditors by overworked novice reporters at quite impossible speed.

'Told you you'd be brilliant,' said Jem when Kitty finished.

She laughed and let him hug her across the sofa back. Teddy just beamed, before launching into the case as he saw it.

I gloated over their happiness for a bit, then went to fetch Nan's Christmas letter for a communal reading. There's no getting to or from Struan this time of year, so no surprise that Miri didn't come back for the holiday. She told Mandy she wouldn't. But you know us parents. In her heart of hearts, Nan went on hoping.

Di came clattering and crutching out to us to say the goose was done, and we went into dinner, except Kitty and Teddy, who sat stubbornly by the guttering fire, still logicking out the British monarchy.

Di and Miss Abby outdid themselves with the meal. Abby's got quite 'knacky' about cooking since Susan's death. She pours over Susan's annotated cookbooks, memorizing favourites and adding annotations herself. She feels strongly someone ought to hold up the Susan Standard, and 'obviously' her grandmother is too old, and her mother unable to stand long enough. But since a goose was beyond even the most ambitious eleven-year-old's best efforts, she and Di collaborated.

The goose was a masterpiece of a goose. There was gingerbread with whipped cream because that was Jem's favourite, fudge for Shirley, and a plum pudding because that was my favourite. Miss Abby was adamant they do everyone's favourite dishes. I asked Anne when it all got done and how much she'd helped.

'Not a bit,' said Anne. 'I tried, and was sent away in case I baked another liniment pudding!'

All Abby's efforts paid off, too. Shirley said she got the Susan Baker Brand of fudge the best he's had yet.

'Fudge isn't hard,' said Abby, when he said so, 'it's just long and really boring to make.' Then she twinkled those green-grey eyes I love at him and said, 'It's a good thing Susan and I love you so much.'

Abby put her arms out to show by how much. So, naturally Shirley put his out further and said he loved her by the same measure. It got quite competitive, but in the most excellent way.

Later, Rosemary took over our piano, and Anthony joined her. They played some nice four-hands arrangement of something oldy-worldy, and then segued into the more singable stuff.

Anthony started it, swivelling round on the piano bench to face us, and Miss Abby was first to join in. Dulce was second. There's a sweet spot at the top of the soprano range that Dulce believes is the secret human signal to commence ululation. Hector and Christopher followed, and that proved it was safe for Liam to participate, too.

I worry sometimes about Anthony and Liam. I know brothers can have combative relationships, but they seem so far apart sometimes. Like when Anthony's up at the piano leading a sing-along, and Liam's slouched in his chair willing the ground to swallow him and refusing to acknowledge the goings-on. It made me glad when he joined in, too.

Rosemary scooped up the descant to Hark the Herald, and took Alice and Mara with her. Anthony, still playing, improvised a tenor line with Bruce's help. Di and Leslie got hold of a hymnal and rounded it out with a good alto line.

It was wonderful stuff. It even got Teddy and Kitty to stop trying to manage the monarchy!

It reminded me of the A.V.I.S. Christmas gatherings, and of Christmases in my mother's house, the warmth and conviviality.

I guess I looked some of it too, because Shirley said as he elbowed his way onto the settle next to me, Isobel in his arms, 'Hard to put a price on it, isn't it?'

He nodded at our amassed family over his young daughter's head. Of course I agreed.

Happy Christmas, Jo. We're all thinking of you. It must be a pretty strange season. Take as much joy with the sorrow as you can find.

Love ever,

Gil

New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
Jan. 1937

Jo,

I've done it! Cracked the vexed question of Sophy's objection to being an angel in the Christmas play!

Actually, Rosemary solved it. It all came out over tea with Grandmother. Apparently, the children have something of a bible study going. Iain leads it. They're doing Revelation. Rosemary says this is my fault, which makes what happened also my fault.

You want to know how tearaway Sophy got talked into a bible study. I can tell you. It was the dragons. Iain said Revelation had dragons and Sophy was in. Revelation also has, as you may recall, six-winged Cherubs with thousands upon thousands of eyes. Dragon-loving Sophy was delighted.

So, naturally, Sophy thought she was going to be a Revelation-style angel in the pageant. She got Helen to embroider thousands of eyes on her costume and add some extra wings. She was absolutely furious when the teacher vetoed her dedication to biblical accuracy.

Faith was sympathetic – with the teacher! Apparently, Helen's sewing efforts, while beautifully managed would have terrified lesser people than the Kingsport Primary. Sophy was incensed. Absolutely livid that she was back to being a non-apocalyptic angel.

Somehow, Rosemary kept a straight throughout this conference, but afterwards we had a terrific laugh with Norman and Ellen.

Norman took Sophy's side. 'They're diluting religion,' he boomed into our parlour. 'Much too Casper Milquetoast. Good old Sophy, getting their blood up! More like her, I say.'

Rosemary said Norman would.

'You,' he said, jabbing a forefinger at her, 'would say that. You never stopped being Episcopal. They invented the whole Milquetoast syndrome, and that's a fact.'

It was a relief when they left and we could listen to that new Canadian radio station. It's not as good as The World Service, but the reception is much better.

Love and blessings,

J.M.

Martyrs' Manse,
Kingsport,
January, 1937

John,

I got excavating Phil's and my 1935 correspondence with the children today. I'd promised Sam I'd help clear his study in return for all that work he put into the manse. There were some real gems, among them Phil's sentient equations to keep Sam's girls keen on sums. Anne always said no one wore whimsy quite like Phil. Elle, helping me, was most taken by the visiting manse cat. She came away convinced she and her sisters needed at least one cat. Three ideally, but one to start with while she talked her parents round. But Emma was delighted by the sentient maths equations. She was so delighted that I headed back to Martyrs' fully intending to tell Phil her scheme had finally paid off and her granddaughter inherited her head for numbers.

Then I stepped into the hall, saw it was monastically uncluttered by hats, shawls, shoes and coats, and remembered with a jolt that there was no Phil to tell, and any mathematicians in our collection would have hereafter to be clever enough to conquer their sums without her.

One day it will stick. It mostly does, except in those moments where she peeks through the fabric of our grandchildren. But I knew that after a visitation like that she'd have gone off directly and bought Elle a whole litter of kittens, let parental objections be ever so many. I didn't quite have the nerve for that, but I stopped by Grace Carmichael's to ask her to set aside the nicest of the Hennesy Farm's kittens once it was old enough. Grace has been saying for weeks that I might have my pick of one for company, and I've been declining, because what would I do with a cat? But Elle was so keen on it – well, I couldn't deny her.

Now, what is all this talk about a horse at Ingleside? I've had so many confused accounts that I can't sort fact from fiction.

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

Jo

P.S. You and Gil are becoming snobbish. As far as I could tell, The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation was perfectly fit for purpose.

Ingleside,
Glen St Mary,
February, 1937

Jo,

The horses were my idea. Monopoly started it. The children were bickering over the usual tokens when, in a fit of exasperation I said I would be the rocking horse, and claim seniority. That stopped the children bickering, and as I sat there holding this little metal horse token to a game I don't much care for, I had a brainwave. A horse-shaped one. I got thinking about real horses and had a sort of thought they might be good for Miss Abby. You know, get her out of the house more. I think I told you that we finally capitulated and moved her into Susan's old room? She kept ending up in Di and Alastair's bed, checking everyone was alive. Alastair got tired of carrying her back upstairs, and Di of having her sleep disrupted, and I was exhausted worrying about all of them. This was much much better than Anne sitting bolt upright and waking me, having mistaken our granddaughter for a diminutive burglar. Dulce approves. She was beside herself trying to figure out who to sleep with. Now, she lies at the base of our electric (!) oven and keeps an ear out for Di, Abby and anyone else who might need her canine services.

But that didn't stop the problem of Abby's housiness. Even the Cricket Club can't get her further than the Maple Grove. They have a grand time there, but it's not right. She's so nearly twelve she calls herself that. That's normal. Being her mother's self-appointed carer is not. Hence the horses.

They were Miss Abby's Christmas gift, but the idea was that there'd be one for her and one for me. That way we could ride together until she got confident enough to adventure alone.

Everyone was only too happy to help their favourite former Dr. Blythe. (The former Dr Blythe was less happy to diagnose his former patients while perusing the many Glen stables, but he did it anyway. Nobly. Without complaint. Until now. Don't tell on me.) I had most success at the Taylor farm, where Hal Taylor wanted to retire a pair of work horses. Well, the big one, Tam (more on that shortly) was a work horse. His companion is a mild-mannered pony with a preference for green grass, warm weather and a tolerance for children. I know this because I have seen this latest generation feed her apples leaning across the fence.

I had great fun setting my gift up. I couldn't wrap it, so I decked the stable with tinsel and greens. One I'd fixed when Hal would drop the horses off, I wrote up a treasure hunt for Abby. Which is to say, I wrapped up a perfectly good box of Fox Biscuits and stuck a note to the front sending Miss Abby to our pantry. I hid another note on a peck of apples there, and so on and so on. She and the others lost a happy afternoon hunting clues and Abby's present around the house while Dulce ate the Fox biscuits, packaging and all. It was grand. There was squealing and shouting and war-whoops on the scale of the old days.

Finally, Hal Taylor capped the production by leading the horses to our stable at the foreordained time, and there the children found them under the tinsel and greens. Hal told me later he wanted to dress the horses up a bit for the occasion, but after the pony ate the first bow he tied on, he gave up.

Eventually, we got talking names. Hal called the pair Polly and Pat, which we were agreed were good but uninteresting names. Hector channeled Susan and tried to give them political names, but none stuck. Miss Abby said you couldn't have a horse called Mackenzie King.

Anne waxed very poetic. Elaine was her favourite, but when that failed she tried Demeter and Persephone. I didn't know ponies were a Tennysonian construct, did you? Then she suggested Julian and Madalo, Albion, Urizen and all kinds of high Romantic things. Dorothy and William were the closest to ordinary, and Miss Abby's eyebrows, which were at that point several inches up her positively Elizabethan forehead, all but receded into her fiery hair.

'They're horses, Granny!' she said, shocked.

And oh, Jo, I so badly wanted to laugh.

Anne said, 'Yes, darling, but don't you think they dream of being more than ordinary horses? Perhaps a Romeo and Juliet?'

More protestations from Miss Abby that Anne either didn't hear or chose not to, because she went on and on, culminating in the suggestion of Lancelot and Guinevere.

Miss Abby considered this before shaking her head and saying solemnly, 'Granny, you can't call horses that.'

'Whyever not, darling?' said Anne, much the way anyone else would inquire about the weather.

Here Abby appeared to worry she had hurt her grandmother's feelings.

'Well,' she said, 'they're doomed Granny. If you call them that, they might get terribly afraid of going anywhere together, in case they're arrested or killed or something.'

'What would you call them?' asked Anne.

Abby considered this seriously. 'What they need,' she said, 'is names that wear well in the wash. Everyday names.'

Anne agreed, but waxed more Romantic and fanciful by the second. On purpose, I'm convinced. She was arguing hard for Tristan and Iseult when Miss Abby said, 'No, Granny, no! They're Tam and Meg!'

Oh, the delicious irony of it, Jo! But still I didn't laugh, because my Abby has Anne's acuity of feeling, along with her eyes, hair and freckles.

Anne was gleeful. 'Burns!' she positively crowed. 'What a splendid choice. We'll never have to fear a Witches' Sabbath again.

Here, Miss Abby hissed in my ear, 'Grandad, Witches' Sabbaths aren't real.'

'I wouldn't tell your aunt that,' I said, and grinned. To which Her Nibs turned up her freckled Shirley nose and said with tremendous solemnity, 'Really, Grandad. That's different. Auntie's Catholic. They believe all kinds of things. Susan Baker said so.'

Here, Anne fled, pink cheeked with suppressed laughter and the professed need to put the kettle on. I was deeply envious, as it left me to help Abby settle the horses with as close to a straight face as I could muster. By the time Miss Abby and I stomped our way back into the parlour, I was doing a credible interpretation of a sane, solemn human being. Anne had put her schoolroom Burns on the tray, next to the teapot, and pounced on us with her poetry recitation as we came in. She did what Alastair said was a terrible Scots accent. I think that was deliberate, too, but I made it a very dramatic reading. Hector, Alastair and Di joined us, and Dulce sat at our feet and whined because there were scones with cream on the table and no one was letting her have any.

By the time Anne concluded, with a glorious flourish on Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare! I had mostly recovered from my attack of gaiety and was wondering how long it was since we'd had a reading like that. Anne did it all the time when the children were young. Jem learned Kipling that way. Nan drank in Tennyson, Caroll, Arnold, Marvell along with her tea. The radio and the innovation of the puzzle, the mystery novel and the monstrosity that I make Monopoly have mostly killed the tradition. So, I sat there and indulged, not just Darjeeling and scones, or the feel of Dulce's tail like a velveteen metronome against my foot, but Anne rapt and immersed in poetry. Perhaps Miss Abby's right and Witches' Sabbaths aren't real. But Anne can certainly imagine them. There's definitely a divinity in good poetry that only she can tease out. Anne read, and I got the same chill down my spine I felt back in the days of The Maiden's Vow and the White Sands Hotel Epoch.

Much later, as we got ready for bed, Anne said, 'Gil, I do believe the ghost of Susan Baker has corrupted our granddaughter.'

I laughed then. Long and hard.

'About time,' I said. 'Good old Susan needed someone to fight her theological corner.'

That set us off laughing again, and didn't it feel good!

If all goes to plan, Meg, Tam and I should get Miss Abby venturing a little further afield. We may even get her back at the local school. But first things first, I must actually put her on that horse. I'll report on that if you reciprocate with the entirely sensible name Elle gave that kitten.

Love ever,

Gil

Martrys' Manse,
Kingsport,
February, 1937

Gil,

Elle's kitten is called Four Socks. Three guesses why. The first two don't count. She charmed everyone on spec, even my daughter-in-law. I didn't believe it until I came over yesterday to mind the girls while while Sam took Ellie to Drama at Inish. I went later on their recommendation. It's very funny, and very clever. Mara's excellent. You and Anne would love it. Can you be persuaded to visit Kingsport this side of Easter?

But about Miss Four Socks, High Empress of Princes St. I found her asleep in what I made Ellie's washing up bowl.

'Oh, no,' said Elle. 'That's Four Socks' bowl. She fell asleep in it yesterday and looked so peaceful that Mummy went straight out and bought a new one for the dishes.'

We spent the rest of the evening tackling the Christmas Jigsaw. It was one of those great 2000 piece affairs. It also positively dominated the dining-room table. Emma says they eat all their meals at the little kitchen card table, even on Sunday, and Ellie's beside herself, because she does all her food preparation on that card table.

The puzzle was Sam's idea, and I worry he wasn't quite sane when he had this brainwave. The box assures me that the picture is of a fleet of sailboats traversing Lake Something-or-Other at midday. I wouldn't know. What I do know is that there's more blue in the puzzle than I previously thought possible. There's blue sky, blue water, the blue-shaded underside of boats. Blueish spruce-trees, and blue-striped towels on a mercifully white sandbar. Phil would have loved the challenge. No doubt Phil's mathematical brain is the reason for Sam's addiction to impossible puzzles. The girls and I fought this nightmare for an hour and a half and got no closer to completing the middle, but much closer to murdering one another.

I made cocoa to recover while my granddaughters hurled abuse at the Blue Monstrosity. I was careful not to disrupt Four Socks in her washing-up bowl. When I returned, Emma had assembled a half inch of jib-sail, but couldn't slot it into place, the relevant boat having been otherwise unassembled. This did nothing to diminish her sisters' irritation. The cocoa was more successful.

For the sake of our continued humanity, I banned puzzles thereafter, and read to them from the latest Oz book. I couldn't follow the plot, but the girls loved every one of my mispronunciations of what they felt to be obvious words. After they went to bed, because I couldn't take my own advice, I resumed that blessed puzzle. I made no progress but got thoroughly vexed. It was a relief when Four Socks left her washing up bowl and sat in the puzzle box.

I don't dare ask about the horses at Larkrise in case the children decide they want their own. How are they? And how is Abby warming to them? Let me know.

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

Jo

New Manse,
Glen St. Mary,
March, 1937

Jo,

Miss Abby and her pony are quite the familiar sight around the Glen. Hal Taylor positively gloats at how well matched they are, and Gilbert at how nicely Abby's riding progresses. They never go far – just orbit places like the Maple Grove, or the Manse very slowly, and sometimes people stop to chat. Norman thinks the whole thing a great joke, in light of Gil's increasing reliance on that auto. Until lately, that is. Cornelia approves whole-heartedly, which isn't surprising, since Cornelia has always put great stock in The Way Things Are, which my grandchildren would almost certainly deem to be The Way Things Were. The Toronto Fords are worst, despite all their talk of mixed traffic. I don't believe any of them would have the least idea what to do with a horse, not even Jims, who began on the Island. I can picture him now, puzzling it out and shaking his head over something he can't first disassemble for improvements.

Actually, Trinity House is the same. Iris rides a buffalo, but if you'd seen the city – amazingly modern.

Una's latest letter opens by telling me not to worry about China. Obviously, she anticipated my anxiety. She and Carl watch the papers, and are confident that if somehow Singapore did get mixed up in the political wrangle, Britain would defend them. That's enough for them, but not me. Strange, because I'm not living the experience first-hand.

Love and blessings,

J.M.