A Handful of Time (6 page)

It was a powerful position. Nobody could bother her. Nobody's attention could be drawn to her awkward presence. She didn't have to be afraid to do anything wrong, she didn't have to think of anything to say. She felt so safe, she hoped she wouldn't wake up for a long time.

For the rest of the afternoon, Patricia explored the inside of the cottage. Ginnie and her mother had gone to the beach, but she preferred to stay near Ruth. It was tempting to open the bedroom door and peek in—she was sure Ruth wouldn't be able to see her either. A door opening on its own might scare her, though.

The cottage looked almost the same with its rag rugs and wicker furniture, although the colours were brighter and the paint wasn't peeling. There was no electric stove, refrigerator or bathroom: Patricia wondered what the family did without them.

Gordon and Rodney came back and left again in funny bathing suits that looked like patterned, baggy shorts. Then the whole family came back to the cottage at the same time.

Pat Reid walked briskly across the living room and knocked on Ruth's door. “All right, Ruth, you can come out now.” There was no response. Not until Ruth's father appeared did Ruth open the door, slouch behind a card table on the verandah and start to work on a jigsaw puzzle.

It was spooky to see Mr. Reid. In real life he was dead. Patricia recognized his white moustache and hooked nose from the photograph. Everyone deferred to him. Gordon and Rodney called him “sir,” and his wife brought him a drink and his pipe once he had established himself in his rocking chair. Only Ginnie seemed to relax in his presence. She curled up on her father's lap while he and his wife sipped their drinks and talked.

Patricia sat on the verandah and watched the boys play chess. She couldn't resist moving one of Rodney's pieces when he wasn't looking and chuckled at the argument that followed. She was tempted to help Ruth with her puzzle, but she didn't want to tease her the way she had teased Rodney.

When it was time for dinner, the children waited quietly while their father carved a large roast. Nobody reached or giggled, as Kelly, Trevor and Maggie did at this same table. Patricia perched on the windowsill, getting very hungry at the sight of the succulent beef. Aunt Ginnie had just said this morning that she wished they could afford a roast more often.

Ruth kept glancing at her father as if bursting to bring up the subject of badminton. He finally mentioned it himself. “How's the new court working out?” he asked, after he had told them they could begin.

Gordon swallowed before he replied. “It's fine, sir. Almost as good as at the club in town, although the wind might be a challenge. Would you like to play tomorrow?”

“Oh, I think my badminton days are over.” For the first time, Patricia noticed how much older he was than his wife.

“Father,” said Ruth, laying down her knife and fork, “didn't you say the badminton court was for all of us?”

“Now, Ruth,” warned her mother, but Ruth ignored her and continued.

“Gordon and Rodney only let me play twice, and then they made me leave. And I'm just as good as they are, too.”

Rodney glared at her, then appealed to his father. “But
we
cleared the bushes last August and mowed the grass yesterday. It's really ours. She can play once in a while, but we won't get enough practice if we always have to go easy for her. I'd like to get on the club team in the fall.” Gordon nodded in agreement.

Their father wiped his moustache carefully “I'm afraid the boys have a point, Ruth. They did do all the work—”

“—because they wouldn't let me help!”

“Don't interrupt, young lady. Gordon and Rodney can play one match with you a day. The rest of the time it's theirs. They're growing boys and they need the exercise.
You
need to spend more time helping your mother. I hear you refused to look after your little sister today. I don't want to hear any more reports like that, do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” said Ruth stiffly. She looked as if she wanted to say more but didn't dare.

“
I
want to play ba'minton,” piped up Ginnie. “Can I?”

Everyone except Ruth laughed. “Sure you can, baby,” said Gordon. “I'll teach you tomorrow.”

After dinner Rodney and Gordon were sent outside to chop kindling. Ruth had to help her mother heat water on the wood stove and wash the dishes. The atmosphere between the two of them was so tense that Patricia was relieved when Pat Reid sent Ruth and Rodney to the store.

“I can go alone,” Ruth said.

“You can't fill all the water bottles by yourself. Don't be so stubborn. And don't hang around, either. Your father wants his paper.”

A few minutes later, Patricia followed Ruth and her brother as they pulled a wagon containing large brown bottles along the road behind the cottage. It wasn't tarred the way it was in real life. Now it was just loose, dry dirt.

The bottles rattled against each other and the wagon wheels creaked and churned up dust. Then Ruth spoke. “I've decided I'm not going to play badminton at all this summer. It would just get boring, winning all the time.”

Good for her, thought Patricia.

Rodney shrugged. “Suits me. You're just being a poor sport, though.”

Patricia hadn't been paying much attention to Rodney in this dream. Now she examined him more closely. He and Gordon looked and acted a lot alike; they were both blond and arrogant. But where Gordon was sure of himself, Rodney was defensive, as if he were not quite sure of his superiority and had to prove it all the time.

When they reached the store they stopped at a green metal pump. Ruth stood one of the wide-mouthed bottles under its spout as Rodney worked the handle. The iron parts screeched and rattled, but at first no water came out. Then it gushed forth.

“Let me do it,” insisted Ruth.

“You're not strong enough.”

“Of course I am!” Ruth pushed her brother aside and grabbed the handle. When the bottle was full, Rodney lifted it back into the wagon and took out another.

After they had filled them all and stopped pumping, the water continued to flow. Ruth and Rodney each stuck their red faces under the spout. Then Patricia, too, thrust her head into the stream and opened her mouth. Icy water ran over her face and hair. It jolted her into an alertness that seemed much too real for a dream. The water was delicious, tinny and sharp. She drank deeply until the gush became a trickle, her feet slipping on the wet wooden platform. Then she ran to catch up with the others.

The store was crowded with children and teenagers. They sat, reading comics and chewing bubble gum, on a bench that edged the windows. Rodney swaggered in front of a group of girls while Ruth bought a paper, bread and milk. Then he sauntered back to her.

“Listen, Ruth. The Thorpes are having a marshmallow roast. Can you manage the wagon alone? You did say you could do it by yourself,” he reminded her. “When you get home tell Mother and Father I won't be too late, and ask Gordon to come.”

“I don't see why I should,” retorted Ruth. She eyed the giggling girls suspiciously. “You're only fifteen, you know. I bet Mother won't like you going to a mixed party.”

“It's only a marshmallow roast,” said Rodney, flushing. “Just do as I say. Look, I'll give you a quarter if you will.”

Ruth pocketed the money. “All right, but don't blame me if you get into trouble.”

She had a hard time pulling the heavy wagon back to the cottage. The full bottles jiggled and spilled water on the bumpy road. Patricia tried pushing and grinned at Ruth's surprise when her task became easier.

Gordon helped her carry the water into the kitchen. “Rodney's gone to a marshmallow roast at the Thorpes,” Ruth told him.

“The Thorpes?” said Gordon eagerly. Patricia followed him into the living room as he handed his father the newspaper and asked if he could go as well.

“Are their parents going to be there?” said his mother. “I know what these parties turn into at your age. Rodney should have come home and asked.”

“Please, Ma,” begged Gordon.

Mr. Reid put down his pipe. He smiled under his moustache. “It's those young Thorpe girls, isn't it, Gordon? I saw them today … they're turning into attractive young ladies. All right, son, but be home by eleven.”

“Andrew, I still don't think—” his wife protested as Gordon hurried out.

“Now, Pat, they have to grow up sometime.”

She sighed, pulled the kerosene lamp closer and picked up a scrapbook she was working on.

Ruth stood in the doorway. “May I take the canoe out?”

Her mother frowned. “At this time of night?”

“It's not dark yet.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Pull it well up when you come in,” added her father. The two of them seemed impatient to settle down to a quiet evening and didn't look up as Ruth, followed by Patricia, left the cottage.

Something nudged Patricia's mind as she followed Ruth down to the beach. Her grandmother had called her husband Andrew. But wasn't his name Wilfred? That was the name on the watch.

This is a
dream
, she reminded herself. It doesn't have to make sense. It occurred to her, however, that in dreams everything made sense. It was in reality that you noticed when something didn't.

Once down at the beach she didn't have time to ponder any more. She had to concentrate on getting into the canoe safely. It was hard to believe it was the same boat she had fallen out of just a few days ago. Its green paint was glossier, but the same crooked letters saying
Loon
were painted on its prow.

As she settled herself on the floor her hand bumped against Ruth's knee. She froze in panic, but Ruth simply scratched her leg as if a fly had landed on it.

Patricia faced Ruth as the tall, dark girl steered the canoe. She was just as good at it as Kelly. Patricia studied her carefully and imitated the movements of her arms.

Ruth's paddle dripped into water turned pink by the setting sun. Then an eerie cry came across the lake. It sounded like a mournful yodel—some kind of bird, Patricia guessed.

Ruth had tears in her eyes. They beaded on her thick lashes and slid down her face. Patricia's own eyes prickled in sympathy. If only this weren't a dream and she weren't invisible, she could talk to this solitary girl. But all she could do was stare at her loneliness.

The bird called again. With a sigh, Ruth wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “I'll show them,” she whispered. “Someday I'll show them all.”

She turned the boat towards the shore, but Patricia never got there. One instant she was in the canoe. The next, she was sitting on the bed in La Petite.

7

P
atricia ran her hands rapidly over the tufted pattern of the chenille bedspread. She couldn't believe that she was back here so suddenly … that the vivid dream was over. She rubbed her forehead, trying to wake up fully.

Her hair was damp.

She pulled her fingers through it and started to tremble. Her hair was damp because an hour ago she had stuck her head under icy water that had seemed surprisingly real.

Had
it been real? She had been just as wide awake then as she was now. She had known it all along in some part of her. Pretending it was a dream had cushioned the shock of what had happened—that, somehow, she had been spirited back thirty-five years to her mother's childhood and now, just as mysteriously, had returned to the present.

Think it out, she told herself dizzily. There must be a logical explanation. That was one of her mother's favourite phrases.

How long had she been gone? It had been about two when she had left the cabin. She looked at her wristwatch and shook it. The hands still pointed to two o'clock; the battery must have run down.

Then she took out the other watch, the gold one hidden under her T-shirt. It said nine thirty-five.

The second hand on her own watch was still jerking forward. It hadn't run down after all. But the pocket watch had stopped. She pressed it to her ear, but there was no sound.

Patricia lay down on her back on the bed, her fingers running along the watch's gold chain. She sat up again with excitement as the solution came to her.

It was the watch. She had wound it up and it had taken her back to 1949. It had carried on ticking away the seconds and minutes and hours of the time it had kept when it was last wound. Then it had run down, so the other time had ended and her own time, 1984, had started again where she had left it—at two o'clock.

It
was
a logical explanation; all except for the reason it had happened. But Patricia was too exhilarated to worry about why. She knew it had happened—her wet hair was proof. And it could happen again. She was certain that, if she wanted to go back to Ruth's time, all she had to do was rewind the watch.

She couldn't do it yet, although she knew she would later. Right now she needed some time to recover. At least she had plenty of it. She'd spent about seven hours in the past, but in the present she still had the whole afternoon to lie and think.

She curled up and pondered every detail of the adventure. Her grandparents, Pat and Andrew. (Why not Wilfred?) Her uncles, Gordon and Rodney. Her aunt, Ginnie. And especially Ruth, her mother. Ruth's anger and isolation and unhappiness. And old cars and wood stoves and pumps and the canoe and the strange call of a bird … Patricia closed her eyes.

Ding! Ding! Ding!
The clear peal of a cowbell startled her awake. Feeling very tired and confused, Patricia checked her wristwatch: five o'clock. She was here, in the present, and she had to meet Kelly and Trevor and pretend she'd been with them the whole afternoon.

First she had to hide the pocket watch. She lifted it off her neck and caressed its smooth surface for a second. She didn't want to return it to the cavity beneath the floor-board in case Uncle Doug put down the new tiles. Glancing around the room, she quickly thrust the watch under the mattress of the bed she'd been lying on. She balled up the yellowed cotton and pushed that under the mattress, too. Then she ran out of the cabin.