Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge

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СКАЧАТЬ turned her shining face to Mrs. Templeton. “Don’t thank me, young lady. Thank your Aunt; she’s givin’ up the best helper she’s got.”

      Bridie wanted to be severe but couldn’t manage it.

      Her aunt had argued for starting in September when the new term began. After all, only one week remained in the current school year. “This way,” Mrs. Templeton had insisted, “she can try it out, introduce herself to Miss Pringle, and get set up for the fall term.” What she really meant was that it would be cruel to let a girl of Lily’s temperament wait in uncertainty over a whole summer.

      “Only if Chester’ll help out with the weedin’,” Bridie had countered. Fortunately Chester’s troublesome back took a turn for the better, and dressed in a brown-and-tan gingham especially cut down by Bridie and with a lunch-pail in hand, Lily set off for Port Sarnia.

      The Monday-morning sun had risen full of hope, then retreated. An east wind brought dark clouds prophesying thunder, and worse. The rain gusted sideways at Lily, who was torn between sheltering in the bush by the road or being late for school. Mrs. Templeton had made the arrangements; Lily was expected. Using her thin broadcloth shawl as deftly as she could, Lily manoeuvred her way through the squalls and mud into the open streets of the town. She was soaked through to the skin. Even her petticoat, improvised from a plain calico skirt, was sodden. Her boots were wet and plastered with grime that splashed up to her ankles and soiled the hem of her dress. Lily gritted her teeth and wedged her right cheek into the rain.

      When she got to the schoolhouse on George Street, the sun was making a comeback. No children skipped or cavorted in the grounds. Lily paused at the door about to knock when a large boy with a pimple on his nose opened it, and called back: “It’s the new girl, Miss Pringle! Looks like she’s fallen in Durand’s Pond!”

      A gale of laughter greeted Lily as she entered the room, her shawl dripping. Standing at the front behind a table, Miss Pringle – frightfully tall, angular, eyes overly brilliant like a starved cat’s – slammed her fuller down. “Behave yourselves, class,” she shouted an octave above normal. “Remember, you’re young ladies and gentlemen.”

      The ragtaggles and strays among this motley group of ages and sexes were not taken in: ladies-and-gentlemen-to-be went to the Grammar School on Christina Street. When the hubbub had died of its own weight, Miss Pringle said, “Please hang your cloak on the nail to your right, and take a seat. Class, say hello to our new pupil, Miss Lily Ramsbottom.”

      The surname had barely left Miss Pringle’s lips when three or four unsynchronized snorts were heard, followed by girlish giggles. “That’s enough!” bellowed Miss Pringle. “We don’t make fun of people’s names no matter how odd they may be.”

      Lily sat down at an empty place on the bench that held three other girls who might have been her age. Her gingham, still sopping, clung to her. The dark-haired girl next to her edged away.

      “Have you attended school elsewhere?” Miss Pringle asked sweetly, not leaving her post.

      “No, ma’am. This is my first time.”

      Miss Pringle paused, her gasp communicated instantly to the class. “Then what on earth are you doing sitting with the Fourth Book?” she snapped with more satisfaction than the situation warranted. Her ruler pointed left like a claw. “You’ll have to sit with the First Book, over there.”

      Lily saw a spot at the end of the back-left bench beside an oversized boy who swivelled and beamed at her. Lily hesitated.

      “There’s a Reading Primer waiting for you,” Miss Pringle said, indicating the gray-backed tome on the desk. Lily rose to take her appointed place, now studied more carefully by the teacher.

      “Good heavens!” sputtered Miss Pringle, as she took in Lily’s thin but drenched gingham. The class reeled as one and swung to the point of Miss Pringle’s scandalized glare. “You can’t sit there… like that!” she sputtered, unconsciously lifting her hands towards her own well-harnessed bosom. “Please retrieve your cloak!”

      Beside her, not unkindly, the boy in Book One whispered: “Your bubs are peekin’.”

      Chester was all for driving into town and taking his buggy-whip to Miss Pringle, even after hearing Lily’s abbreviated account of her humiliation.

      “Don’t you fret about it, child,” Bridie soothed. “Not much learnin’ goes on in schools anyway. Come September, we’ll teach you to read proper.” She was looking at Lily now. “Remember this: We’re not gonna spend all our life chewin’ dirt.”

      The summer of Lily’s fifteenth year was not as uneventful as she had feared. Bridie, ever eager for new business, opened a stall at the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings during the growing season, giving over the house-to-house deliveries completely to Lily. Their neighbor Bill, content to let his wheat ripen unaided, was brought over to help with the added weeding, picking and preparations for marketing. Uncle’s back seemed baulkier than usual. In mid-July Bridie astonished them by announcing that she was leaving for a few days to cook for the road-clearance workers who had set up a tent city near the Reserve. Rumours in the town suggested that some of the clearing was in anticipation of a railway line, but no confirmation was available.

      “Your auntie ain’t worked for nobody, cookin’ or cleanin’, since her days in Toronto. She don’t believe in it. Got her pride, that woman.” Lily nodded.

      “We need the money,” was all Bridie would say. “I’m gonna hire a man to cut pine again. They’re a cash crop like anything else. Besides, we should try to clear another two acres for planting next year.”

      Bridie was so exhausted when she came home from her three-day stint at the camp that she went straight to bed and slept right through Bill’s Saturday visit and harmonica serenade. Lily was even persuaded to attempt a jig. The two men sipped from Bill’s flask and tapped in time.

      “Why don’t you ever bring Violet with you?” Lily asked, flushed and sweating. “I could teach her to dance.”

      “Oh, she don’t dance none,” Bill said in a drawl that was as lethargic as his music was sprightly. “She’s a bit tetched in the head, you know. Been like that since she were a babe. No sir, she don’t like to come outta the house at all.”

      Chester asked Lily if she’d like to try a “wee drop”, and was so persistent that Lily made a show of tilting the flask against her teeth, wincing and gasping in feigned pleasure. They seemed satisfied with her performance. To deflect their further hopes she called for a hornpipe and flung her body into the music’s coil. The two men applauded in appreciation as Lily came to a stop in the middle of the room. The last filament of Bill’s music quavered in the coal-oil light when Lily caught sight of a face in the window above the sink, staring at her with wide innocent eyes full of longing. For a second Lily thought she was looking at herself.

      Then Violet let out the whirring, wordless cry she used for delight or despair, and vanished into the night.

      It was August. Bridie was off to the camp once more “just to help out.” At Chester’s insistence, she agreed to deposit their savings in the Bank of Upper Canada in Port Sarnia. At the beginning of the month a hired hand arrived to cut timber and be generally useful around the place. Chester was made to give up his workshop in the barn wherein a pallet and table were installed for the new arrival. Uncle’s back “did a dip” and he was laid up with lumbago for several days. Lily did the chores by herself. She might have been a little resentful СКАЧАТЬ