A Handful of Time (5 page)

“Ouch!” Her own voice startled her; she had stubbed her toe. Squatting to examine it, she noticed a loose board in the uncovered floor. She remembered Uncle Doug mentioning he would be bringing new tiles on the weekend to replace the ones he'd removed last August. The bare floor was grey with age and had a sharp, mouldy smell. Patricia wriggled the loose board, and almost fell backwards as it came up easily.

Underneath was a narrow space. She explored it idly with her fingers. Then she felt a twinge of excitement as she encountered something soft.

Reaching farther into the cavity, she grasped a handful of yellowed cotton cloth. It was rotten, and some pieces fell from it as she lifted it out. Something hard was in the middle. She dug into the bundle and pulled out a round metal object attached to a chain.

It was a thick gold disk with a ring on the top— a pocket watch. Patricia took it back to the bed and examined it. Set in its scratched surface was a glass circle with Roman numerals painted around it. She pressed the knob under the ring, and the top popped open silently, revealing a shiny white face with more numerals and long, delicate, blue-black hands.

She gently snapped the top shut again and turned the watch over. The back had a slightly protruding lip. Sticking her nail under it, she pulled, and another gold surface was exposed, shinier than the outside. Fine writing was inscribed on it; Patricia squinted as she tried to make it out. Then she almost dropped the watch.

“For my dear Patricia, with fondest love from Wilfred.”

She pressed the back closed and leaned against the wall, her heart thumping. What was her name doing on a watch? Then she opened it again and relaxed. There was a date underneath the inscription: “August 1929.” Of course—Patricia was her grandmother's name, although she'd always been called Pat.

Once Patricia had asked her mother why she had been named after the grandmother she had hardly even seen. “She insisted,” her mother had said crisply. “You were the first granddaughter and she wanted the name carried on. And after all, it's my middle name as well as her first one, so it seemed the natural thing to do.”

Patricia had always known that her mother and her grandmother didn't get along. Now she wondered what her grandmother was like. This was her watch. “Wilfred” must be the name of her grandfather, who had died long before Patricia could remember.

Surely her grandmother didn't know the watch was here. It looked old and valuable. How had it ended up under the floor? Probably she should show it to Aunt Ginnie. But then she'd have to answer awkward questions about why she wasn't with the others.

The watch cheered her. It fit perfectly into her hand; it had a satisfying weight. For a few seconds she cupped it in her palm, warming the cold metal and running the chain through her fingers.

Its hands pointed to almost two o'clock. That was the same time as on her own watch, so at first she thought it must be working. She held it to her ear to check, but it was silent. Giving the knob three careful turns, she held it up again.

The watch had come to life. Its clear, metallic tick filled the quiet room. Patricia popped open the case again and the ticking became quieter, a tiny even beat. It pleased her enormously.

Then, as abruptly as she had felt a thrill of delight, she felt bleak again. What was she doing huddled inside a cold, dim cabin holding an old watch? “My dear Patricia …” but it wasn't her.

Tears began to well up in her eyes, but she shook her head to stop them. She was tired of feeling so sorry for herself. Aunt Ginnie was right; she had to find something else to think about.

She jumped up, hung the watch around her neck and tucked it under her T-shirt. Warmed by her hands, it was a secret, reassuring weight. Then she burst out of the cabin into the sunlight.

Standing outside the door, she blinked with bewilderment, as if she had been asleep. She had to
do
something. Maybe she could look for the old badminton court Aunt Ginnie had talked about.

Patricia pushed through scratchy bushes and shuffled through mounds of dead leaves. She became hot and dusty but felt slightly better for her exertions. Farther and farther she scrambled into the woods behind the cottage. Then she reached a clearing.

This must be the badminton court, but it wasn't overgrown at all. The grass was clipped smooth and a stiff net stretched over it. Patricia stared at it with surprise.

Her cousins must have done this. They must have been fixing it up secretly when they said they were building a fort. She looked around warily in case they were near.

Loud, ringing voices approached the clearing. Patricia crouched behind some bushes and waited. She would spy on them the way they'd spied on the Cresswells' boat. It was a relief to finally have something to do.

But it wasn't her cousins who stepped onto the grass. What she saw were three strangers—two fair teenaged boys and a young, tall, dark-haired girl.

Patricia recognized them instantly. She had seen those three faces only the night before. I must be asleep, she thought, dizzy with shock. I must be dreaming.

The faces were the ones in the old photograph. Uncle Gordon and Uncle Rod. And Patricia's mother, Ruth.

6

T
hey were arguing noisily. Patricia watched and listened in a stunned daze.

“You promised I could play too!” shouted Ruth. “It's not fair! I don't want to just keep score.”

“Silence, infant,” said Gordon, the taller of the two boys. He peeled off a white sweater and unscrewed a press from his badminton racquet. “
After
you keep score, then maybe Rodney and I will let you play.”

His sister plopped down by the side of the court, scowling. “Two-love,” she muttered, as Rodney missed his brother's serve for the second time.

Patricia couldn't take her eyes away from Ruth. She looked a bit like Kelly, but she was much more striking. Heavy black lashes outlined her large eyes. Her silky hair was held away from her face with a white band. She was dressed in rolled up, baggy jeans and a loose red shirt that emphasized the angry colour in her cheeks.

After Rodney lost the first match, Ruth was allowed to replace him. She whacked the bird across the net and returned Gordon's shots deftly.

“You see?” she puffed when she'd won the first game. “I'm just as good as you two.”

“Beginner's luck,” said Gordon calmly.

Ping
…
ping
sang the badminton bird as it whizzed back and forth. Its steady rhythm made Patricia drowse in her hiding place. Dreams were often like this, filled with boring repetition. The scores that Rodney called out were close, but at last Ruth won the match. Then the three of them sprawled on the grass and shared a thermos of something that looked like lemonade.

Patricia wiped the perspiration off her forehead and gazed at the drink longingly. She didn't usually feel so thirsty in dreams, nor so physically present. This wasn't like a dream, and yet it must be—how else could she suddenly be thrust into her mother's past? She felt real enough, however, to want to stay concealed in the bushes.

Ruth and Rodney began another match. She beat him as well, and Patricia cheered silently. Ruth was right: she was just as good as her brothers.

Gordon stood and gazed down at her coolly. “All right, Ruth, you've had a turn with each of us now. Run along so Rodney and I can play seriously.”

“We let you beat us, so you should be satisfied,” added Rodney.

“Why you—” Ruth sputtered with fury and lifted her racquet as if she wanted to hit the boys with it.

Gordon turned her around by the shoulders and gave her a push. “Don't bother with a tantrum, infant, just leave. After all, Rodney and I made the court.”

Ruth opened her mouth, then seemed to decide to be dignified. She marched away but called back, “Father said it was for the whole family. I'll tell on you.” Her graceful figure disappeared into the woods.

Patricia decided to follow her. Ruth was much more interesting than the boys. Maybe no one would notice if Patricia stood up, but she didn't want to risk disrupting the dream. Then it might end in the middle, the way dreams so often do. She waited a few minutes, inched backwards cautiously then pushed through the trees until she reached La Petite again.

As she came around the corner of the cabin she brushed herself off, marvelling again that her hot, grimy body felt so real. Then she halted in shock.

A huge car stood in the driveway: a grey bubble shape with enormous fenders and oval windows. The Alberta licence plates were dated thirty-five years earlier—exactly the year that her mother would have been twelve.

Surely people dreamed about what they knew. Patricia didn't know what cars looked like thirty-five years ago. Everything was becoming too detailed, too logical for a dream. But she pushed the uncomfortable thought away. It made her head ache to try to figure it out. She didn't want it to end, dream or not. It was the most interesting thing that had ever happened to her.

She headed on to the front of the cottage, where she heard voices. One was Ruth's. Feeling unusually brave, Patricia took a deep breath and crept around the corner of the verandah. She hid behind the front steps and watched the scene before her with rivetted attention.

“But Mother, it's supposed to be for all of us!” Ruth stood in front of a languid figure stretched out on a chaise lounge on the lawn. The woman's brown hair was puffed around a pinched face. Her eyes were narrow and she had a long, crooked mouth painted very red. Her pink gingham dress was pulled up to let the sun on her legs. She held open a book called
The Whiteoaks of Jalna
and she glanced up reluctantly as if the story was pulling her back down.

This must be my grandmother! Patricia calculated rapidly and remembered the inscription. She clutched the watch as she listened, its steady beat vibrating through the thin material of her T-shirt.

Pat Reid's voice sounded distant. “Ruth, I am so tired of listening to you complain about the badminton court. They let you have a turn, didn't they?”

“Yes, but—”

Ruth's mother interrupted her as she turned back to her book. “That's enough,” she murmured without looking up. “Gordon and Rodney don't want their little sister around them
all
the time. It was kind of them to let you play wasn't it?”

“But Father said—”

“Leave me alone, please, Ruth. Your father's visiting next door and Ginnie's asleep. I was hoping for an hour to myself.”

“I'll go and tell Father, then, if you won't listen,” mumbled Ruth, so softly that only Patricia heard her.

“Maaamaaa … I want to get up!” A child's shrill voice came from the cottage.

Pat Reid sighed and turned over her novel. “There's Ginnie, awake already.”

Ruth began to edge away but her mother stopped her. “Wait, Ruth. Since you're so restless you can get Ginnie up and take her to the Main Beach.”

“Oh, Mother!” Ruth slapped a bush with her badminton racquet. “It's not fair! I always have to look after her, and Gordon and Rodney never do!”

Patricia was startled when Ruth's mother suddenly lost her lazy manner. Her homely face filled with colour and her eyes darkened as she sat up and directed them upon her daughter. It was as if she had become someone else.

“You listen to me, young lady! I don't know what's got into you this summer. Ever since we arrived you've done nothing but complain. Now, either you fetch Ginnie immediately or you go to your room for the rest of the afternoon.”

Ruth's grey eyes flickered with fear at her mother's sharp tone, but they returned her gaze steadily. “I'd much rather go to my room,” she answered. Before her mother could answer she flounced into the cottage, slamming the screen door behind her.

A plump, pigtailed child, dressed only in white underpants, pushed through the door and trotted across the grass. “Mama, didn't you hear me? I want to get up now!”

Patricia couldn't help smiling. Aunt Ginnie as a little girl was exactly the same as she was as an adult. The same round face, the same placid movements. She clambered onto her mother with difficulty.

“Why is Ruthie mad? She shut her door very hard.”

Pat Reid hugged Ginnie. “What a lump you are, sweetheart! Ruth has been a bad girl and she's gone to her room.” Her anger had dissolved; the nonchalant woman Patricia had first seen had returned.

“
I'm
not a bad girl.” Ginnie started bouncing on her mother's stomach.

“No, you're my little angel, aren't you? But get off Mama, you're too heavy. Look, there's your ball.”

Ginnie rolled off but continued to chatter. The indulgent, amused way in which Pat Reid answered her was so different from the chilly tone she had used with Ruth. It puzzled Patricia.

She had been crouching so long that her body was cramped. She sat down and stretched out her legs, leaning against the side of the steps. Then, without warning, a beach ball bounced towards her and stopped in front of her feet. Before she had time to act, Ginnie had run up behind it.

Patricia gasped as the little girl bent to pick up the ball. But Ginnie didn't see her. She looked right at Patricia as if through air, then ran back to the lawn.

The dream was getting better all the time. Now it seemed she was invisible! She stood up and forced her trembling legs over to stand in front of her grandmother. Pat Reid continued to look at Ginnie.

If they couldn't see her, they probably couldn't hear her either. “Hello,” said Patricia softly. Then, louder, “Hello! Hello, Aunt Ginnie and my grandmother!”

Ginnie's mother shivered and rubbed her daughter's back. “Are you warm enough, sweetheart?”

Patricia danced the pins and needle out of her legs. They couldn't see or hear her. In everyday life she had often wished she could be invisible. Now she really was.