When the Bough Breaks (13 page)

“There's no need for you to worry about anything more, Hamish,” Constable Albert says. “She won't trouble this family or anyone else. Mrs. Bates is under close medical supervision, and the county magistrate will be handed a full medical report before he decides what's to be done with her. We've notified the husband and sister. I'll keep you fully informed, Mr. Carr, and now I'd best be on my way. It won't do to keep the chief constable waiting for my report. I'll see myself out.”

Hamish looks pale and tired. It's been such a long day and he's only ten years old.

I pour Father some tea and he raises the cup to his lips, puts it down again, looks at us, and says, “Thanks to you both, we got Eddie back very quickly. Let's agree to keep this whole sad business to ourselves; I don't want to hear any wild talk of kidnapping. I told the constable, while we were waiting outside Mrs. Bates's door, that if I got you all back safe and sound, I would not press charges.”

“But, Pa, why won't you? She did something bad. She's wicked!” Hamish is indignant; his fists are clenched.

“I think Mother would say ‘A poor unhappy woman borrowed Eddie for a little while, but we have him safe at home, and there's an end to the matter,’” Father says.

Hamish gets up from his chair. “But, Pa …”

Father puts his hand on Hamish's arm. “Sit down, Hamish, and listen to me. Mrs. Bates did wrong, and she'll suffer for it, but Eddie has come to no harm. No one but us needs to know. I've said the same thing to Constable Albert. If anyone from your tea party asks about Eddie, Millie, all you need to tell them is that he was brought home.”

I can just hear Mrs. Wilmot saying to poor Miss Tracy, “Didn't I say so? A storm in a teacup, that's all it was….”

Father continues: “People can be unkind, and children cruel, without meaning to be. There's no need for Eddie to be pointed at as the boy who was stolen when he was a baby. It's bad enough that he will never know his mother.”

“But not as bad as if we'd given him away, right, Pa? We'd never do that.”

Hamish surprises me sometimes, the way he never forgets a word Father says.

“That's right, son. I was six years old when my father went to a war from which he never returned. Before he left, he told my younger brother and me to look after our mother. We tried our best: we carried water from the pump for her to do other people's laundry; we scrounged for bits of coal from the delivery wagons; and on Saturday nights at the market, we waited for leftover vegetables, bruised fruit, or a bone, to bring home for
supper. It was a while before I noticed that Mother never seemed to be hungry – she gave her share of the food to us. She had to sell our furniture, piece after piece, and still there wasn't enough money to pay the rent. One day she took us to the orphanage, and told us she'd come and get us as soon as she could get on her feet again. She died before she could keep her promise. My brother, Frankie, was adopted, and I was one of hundreds of orphans sent to Canada for a better life. I was twelve years old when we boarded ship. Home Children, they called us. We were children who'd been given away.”

“Say it was a better life, please, Pa,” Hamish pleads. My little brother has had enough of sad stories.

Father says, “In the end, it turned out just fine, but it took a long while. I met your mother on board ship, but seven years passed before I ever saw her again…. After we got married, we decided to put the sad times behind us, and that's what we are all going to do too.

“Now then, off to bed with you both. Hamish, you're half asleep. I'm counting on you to be awake in the morning, seeing how it's going to be your first time shoeing a horse!”

Hamish seems to grow half an inch taller. “Pa, you mean it? Pa, I was thinking … I'll learn to drive the truck long before Eddie does, won't I?” He clatters upstairs, not waiting for an answer.

I hope fervently that Eddie won't wake up tonight. I follow Hamish, begging him to remember his brother is sleeping.

Lying in bed, I listen to the house settle. Father's treading on the creaking top step, which he's been promising forever to fix one of these days. I hear him stop and open the boys' door – to look in on them last thing, the way Mother used to. He crosses the landing, knocks on my door, and opens it quietly.

“Still awake, Millie? You're the only thing that's held us all together these last two months. I wanted to tell you that before you go to sleep and to thank you. And, Millie, if I forget to make time to listen to all of you, will you remind me? Sometimes I need reminding. Good night.”

After Father leaves, I stay awake thinking about everything that's happened today. I remember Mother saying, “You and Hamish and Father and our new baby are all I want.” We are still only four, and it's a different family without her, but we are still a family and on our way to being happy again.

THE SCENT OF LAVENDER

S
etting off for school on the first day after summer vacation is difficult. Mother is not standing at the door to wave us off or to wish us luck. She will not be waiting to greet us when we get home, or there to hear all about our day. Not that Hamish ever volunteers much information beyond that it's fine, or that his new teacher is mean, but I really miss sharing all the details with Mother.

It's strange without Miss Tracy too. Our new teacher is Mr. Ambrose, Mr. Sidney Ambrose. He's tall and thin and looks young, not much older than Miss Tracy. His hair is black, and he wears it in a center part. The girls think he's very handsome, but he seems pretty strict – if anyone fidgets or whispers, he walks down the aisles between our desks, staring at every bent head and pausing beside
someone he suspects of mischief. I bet he never has to use the cane at all.

At recess on the first day, Denise sighs dramatically and says she has a crush on Mr. Ambrose. She is going to ask her mother to invite him for supper. After lunch, she raises her hand and asks if she might sit in the front row, so that she can be nearer … and then she pauses, every bit like a movie star.
Will she dare say, “nearer to you”?
That's pretty forward, even for Denise. It's what she means to say, and we all know it, but she changes it to “the blackboard, because I suffer from migraines.”
Fainting spells and now migraines?

Mr. Ambrose says, “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Tetrault (he calls us by our last names). I shall send a note home to your parents and suggest they have your eyes checked. My wife's mother suffered from headaches, and wearing glasses cured them. For the present, you will all stay in your customary seats.”

Then he announces that we have the next half hour to memorize the names and dates of all our prime ministers since Confederation, for a test tomorrow. He hopes there will be no frivolous questions, as no one can afford to waste any time.

Denise tosses her head – she's not accustomed to being put in her place. I think it's going to be a good year, if I can only find time to do my homework!
I rush over to Mrs. Ludlow at noon, gulping my sandwich, worried about leaving Eddie all day. Father had left the final decision about who was to take care of Eddie to me. Both Grace's mother and Sadie's mother offered to watch him, but I chose Mrs. Ludlow because he's used to her family and he loves the twins. Father told me not to worry about the money, that it had all been arranged.

Of course I know the baby will be fine, but he cried a little when I left this morning, so I want to make sure. Mrs. Ludlow says he stopped the moment I left, and told me to go off and enjoy being a student.

If I wasn't so tired, I would enjoy school, but by Friday, I'm worn out. We have to write a composition for Monday.
Why do teachers always give out homework on the very first week?
Our topic is the person whom we admire most. I'm going to write about my father – how he came to be apprenticed to Papa Joe, and how he can make something useful from things that other people discard.

I'm barely able to get through my three hours' work at the drugstore without letting Mr. Mercer see my yawns, and by Saturday morning my head is pounding. I'd stayed up too late, planning my composition, and there are a week's chores waiting for me. I'll never get everything done by Monday morning.

The empty pill bottles, which I've already washed and labeled with their customer's names, are lined up in
a row, waiting for me to fill. Twice, I forget how many pills I've put in the bottle.
Was it thirty or thirty-four?
Now I have to count them all over again.

I make myself concentrate.
What if I were to put in too few or too many?
I can't help it – I've got so many different things pulling me in a hundred different directions: work and school and home and what to prepare for the next meal.

Mr. Horace's head appears round the door. “Miss Reed is waiting for her prescription, Millie. Is it ready?” Thankfully it is.

By the time I pick up Eddie at noon on Saturday, I've almost made up my mind: if I quit my job, I'll lose a dollar a month, and that is a lot of money. Grace will lose that much too, but I'd have seven hours a week more – to do my homework, to bake, to wash, to help Hamish with his homework, and to play with Eddie.

On Monday morning, I tell Grace at recess that I've decided to give my notice, and I thank her for her help. She says not to worry about her, and maybe she'll get taken on somewhere before Christmas.

After school, I wheel Eddie over to the drugstore. Mrs. Mercer is there and she compliments me on Eddie's healthy appearance. “What a wonderful little mother you are turning into,” she says.

I thank her politely, hating that phrase. I'm not a “little mother” – it's hard enough being a big sister!

Mr. Mercer comes over and says, “Well, Millicent, what may I help you with today?”
He thinks I've come to buy something!

“Mr. Mercer (and this is really hard to say because I have loved being here), you were right, sir. I am finding it too difficult to look after things at home and go to school and work here. Thank you for giving me the opportunity, but I have to hand in my notice.”
There, I've managed to say it … it's done.

I had written my words down, and have been practising them in my head all day. “I will be pleased to stay on until you find a replacement for me, sir.”

“Well, Millicent, I am sorry to lose you, but I do understand. Perhaps you would ask your friend Denise to come in and see me tomorrow? She has already dropped by a number of times to mention that she is still available.”

Has she? Well, I should have expected her not to give up so easily. This time I am not going to keep quiet.
“Mr. Mercer, I didn't tell you before, but Denise and I have never been friends. I did not send her to see you, sir. Denise made that up.”

“Indeed? Well, that certainly puts a different complexion on things. Thank you for letting me know, Millie. Mr. Horace,” he calls, “be so good as to put a HELP
WANTED sign in the window, please.” He shakes my hand. “I am sorry to lose you, but no doubt I shall have someone in your place by the end of the week.”

“Excuse me, sir, I do have a very reliable friend who was looking after Eddie for me while I worked here. Her name is Grace Ludlow.”

“I shall make a note of her name. Good-bye, Millie, don't forget to come and see us.” All I can think of is how much I am going to miss being here.

At supper time, Hamish reports that he saw a lineup outside Mercer's on his way home from school.

“I've quit working there,” I announce. “I'd rather spend after-school hours at home, Father.” I clear the dishes away, so he won't notice I'm almost in tears.

“I am sorry, Millie. I wish things were different. I know that the work meant a lot to you, but the boys will like having you home more, and so will I. Thank you.” Father's voice is so sympathetic, it makes me feel worse.

Next day, Grace tells me that Mr. Mercer offered her my old job, on a two-week trial basis. “Denise didn't even apply,” she said. “She and Francine passed us in the lineup, pushed their way through to the window, and read the notice. In a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, ‘I'm not going to line up with all the riffraff.’ I bet she's waiting for Mr. Mercer to ask her personally. I won't
give him a chance to complain about me. I'm going to really work hard, and won't let you down.”

I'm happy for Grace. If I can't work there, then she's the one person I'd choose to replace me.

Tomorrow is September 10 – my thirteenth birthday. Evenings and early mornings are already getting chilly. I've been meaning to air the patchwork quilt Mother and I made for Eddie last spring. So, before I go to bed, I open the lid of the old trunk with Mother's name written in faded white letters across the top: Lillie Bridges, her name before she married Father. Mother used to keep the trunk in their room and used it for storing winter blankets. The day after we found Eddie, Father asked me if I'd like to have the trunk in my room. I've waited until now to open it.

Eddie's quilt lies right on the top. I lift it out, holding the quilt against my face for a moment. The lavender from the dried sprigs Mother always placed between each blanket puffs out from between the folds.