This book is for
Alan and Glynis and Andrea

Acknowledgments

There are many people whom I need to thank for the help they gave me during my preparation of this book. Monika Sormova took six hundred pages of my handwritten text and put it on her computer – cheerfully and with amazing accuracy. For various legal reasons, it was necessary for someone to read the first third of the book before it was finished. Diane Wile Brumm did this for me, along with lending me a number of Royal Readers and other text-books from the time when Anne went to school in Nova Scotia. Another person who filled in a lot of educational background through books and spoken advice was Archie Killawee, a former teacher at the Truro Normal School. Karen Vonmaltzahn lent me her collection of the Montgomery Journals and made no complaints when I kept them for five months. A number of people who had a detailed familiarity with the Anne books were able to enlighten me when I was searching for references to what took place in Anne’s life before she met Matthew Cuthbert at the railway station on Prince Edward Island. Among those knowledgeable fans were Mary Jane Copps, Carol McDougall, Glynis Wilson Boultbee, Lorraine Hurtig, Kathleen Martin, and Lisa Doucet. They would give me titles of the relevant Anne books, chapter numbers, and specific pages within ten minutes of my query. Andrea Wilson drove me around various areas in Nova Scotia while I attempted to find suitable locations for Bolingbroke, Marysville, the Hammonds’s home ‘up the river’ and the orphanage. Marian Hebb and Sally Keefe Cohen generously offered their expertise, and maintained unwavering interest in the project. I must give special thanks here to Jane Buss, Executive Director of the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia, who spent many hours studying contractual matters in connection with the project, and giving me explanations and advice.

Dr Elizabeth Epperly, noted authority on the life and work of L. M. Montgomery, and Professor Emerita of the University of Prince Edward Island, was of enormous assistance to me in my effort to be consistent and accurate in my treatment of times and places and people that were referred to in Montgomery’s books about Anne Shirley, and was always generous with her time and her vast knowledge of Montgomery’s world.

The idea of publishing a prequel to Anne of Green Gables originated with Helen Reeves, Senior Editor at Penguin. I am very grateful to her for her sound advice and listening ear throughout the time when I was working on the book. She gave me free rein in the writing of it, not even complaining when I wouldn’t let her – or anyone else – see a word of it until I had finished the first draft. She does her editing with insight and with grace.

I would also like to thank Alison Reid, who did her usual careful job of copy-editing, catching the smallest flaws with her eagle eye, but always with respect for my own voice.

My husband, Alan Wilson, deserves the most thanks. He unflinchingly received my long lists of questions, and consulted libraries and the Internet for answers. He then typed up many pages of information about the history of Anne’s time – with details about fashion, transportation, inventions, medical beliefs, religious practices, gadgets (egg beaters, safety pins!), employment opportunities, social customs, and anything else I wanted to know. He also cooked all the evening meals, listened to my anxieties about the project, and put up with the piles of Anne materials that were cluttering up our home.

I wish it were possible to thank Lucy Maud Montgomery for writing the Anne books in the first place, and for making Anne such a feisty and fascinating and articulate child that I was tempted to try to solve the puzzle of how – coming out of a grim and deprived early life – she managed to become who she was when she first stepped off the train on Prince Edward Island. I would like to thank L. M. Montgomery’s heirs for giving me the opportunity.

Contents

1
Walter Leaves for Work

Bertha Shirley stood at the door of their little yellow house, and waved goodbye to Walter as he turned on to the road that would eventually take him to the Bolingbroke High School. His arms were too full of books to wave back, but his smile told her everything she needed to know. She continued to watch him as he journeyed down the long road that led to the Hepworth house. Geoffrey Hepworth taught science at the school, and would be waiting for Walter, with the horse and buggy ready for the trip across the green marshlands and into the centre of town.

Walter had hoped to do the long journey by foot, but today was the first day of the fall term, and he had too much to carry. Usually he counted on that early morning walk to clear the cobwebs out of his head before starting his first geometry class. After the walk, and after that class, Walter always felt ready for anything. There was something so orderly, so logical, so predictable about geometry – in fact, about all branches of mathematics. Everything seemed to fit. He loved the subject he taught with the same intensity that Bertha felt for the material she’d been teaching in the same school – until last June.

Bertha stayed in the doorway long after Walter had disappeared behind the tangle of rose bushes and wild apple trees at the west corner of the Hepworth property. She wished she were with him. She was longing to step into a classroom today, and start opening the students’ eyes and ears – not to mention their brains – to the miracle of good poetry. To Wordsworth, to Keats, to the new poet Matthew Arnold. And Shakespeare. Supposing their new teacher didn’t care about Shakespeare! Bertha couldn’t really see why you weren’t supposed to be a teacher just because you were married.

She’d asked a few people that question: ‘Why can’t you do both?’ The answer was always the same: ‘Because you should be home, looking after your husband. ‘Why couldn’t they look after each other? The house was tiny, and their meals were simple. You didn’t need to dust every single surface every day. She’d done all the cooking on her father’s farm after her mother died, and she was so good at it that she could make a whole meal – dessert and all – in twenty-five minutes. And laundry? In the summer, Walter had always helped her to wring out the sheets and to fill the big water heater on the stove. He could still do that if she changed her washday to Saturday. Bertha sighed, and turned to re-enter the house.

2
Jessie’s Revelation

‘Mrs Shirley! Mrs Shirley!’ Where was the voice coming from? Bertha looked over her shoulder and could see a figure racing down the road in the direction of the yellow house, hair escaping from its pins, apron flying. Bertha turned around again and waved. It was Jessie Gleeson. Bertha’s hair always stayed put, no matter how she arranged it, regardless of what she was doing. So much of her small self was tidy – outwardly serene and orderly – that she exuded a kind of warm peacefulness. She often had some pretty untidy thoughts, but she kept most of those tucked away inside.

Jessie Gleeson was a different matter entirely. When she was running along the road, her hair would inevitably escape from its pins and combs – or whatever had been installed to keep it in place. It was typical that she had forgotten to take off her apron – and that it was flying all over the place as she raced along. And the fact that she was yelling – yelling – as she ran down the street would surprise no one who knew her.

When Bertha and Walter had moved into their little house in June, Jessie had made quite a few friendly calls. But she’d stopped coming. Every once in a while, when Bertha’s mind had nothing better to do than to dream up worries, she wondered if she’d done anything to offend Jessie. She liked Jessie, and hoped this wasn’t the case. Why the succession of eager visits and then… nothing? Bertha smiled, and motioned Jessie to come in, when the panting woman came abreast of the house.

But Jessie just stood at the end of the lane and shook her head. She was still breathing too heavily to manage a full sentence. ‘Can’t,’ she puffed. ‘Bread in oven. Come to my house. Children back in school. Nice and quiet. Tea’s steeping.’

Bertha laughed. Well, this wasn’t as thrilling as teaching Hamlet, but it was a lot better than dusting perfectly clean shelves. She closed the door, ran down the steps, and joined Jessie.

By now, Jessie had some of her voice back. ‘I saw Mr Shirley striding by on his long legs – on his way to school,’ she said. ‘Figured you might be lonesome all alone in that tiny house.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bertha. ‘Yes. It’ll be nice to have a little visit.’

When they’d settled down on the two kitchen rockers, there was a brief awkward silence.

Then Jessie spoke. ‘Guess you wondered why I stopped coming to call.’

‘Well, I did wonder if…’ Bertha didn’t know how to end the sentence.

‘Well, stop wondering,’ said Jessie. ‘I didn’t know how to explain, but suddenly I got to thinking I had to tell you anyway. When I saw Mr Shirley drive off with Geoffrey, I knew you were alone. You’re never alone…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘And?’

‘And I felt the courage rise in my chest. I’ll tell her, I thought.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘That after a while I couldn’t stand coming to your place.’

‘Why?’ exclaimed Bertha. ‘Why?’

‘I couldn’t stand all that loving going on all the time. It wasn’t like you were hugging or touching or anything. It’s the way he follows your every move, even when you’re just doing some simple little thing like stirring your tea. And you, too. Watching him, watching him, like he had wings.’

He does have wings, thought Bertha. She’s absolutely right. And Shakespeare himself couldn’t have described it any better. Jessie never got beyond Grade Five, but she’s a poet.

But Jessie was still talking.

‘Maybe I wouldn’t have minded that so much if Gerald had ever, in the twelve years of our marriage – even just once – looked at me like that.’

‘Never?’ said Bertha.

‘Well…’ Jessie paused for a moment. ‘Maybe from time to time, when… well, you know. But that’s different. This seems to happen to the two of you every single day, even when you’re sitting on opposite sides of a room.’

Bertha listened, wondering what she was going to reply to this woman.

‘And he’s often cross and cranky with me. Gerald, I mean. When I burn the toast or if one of the children is crying. When anything sort of gets in his way. Even when it’s not my fault.’

She stopped talking, and Bertha found herself able to say, ‘I’m sorry, Jessie.’

‘Well, it’s not your fault, Mrs Shirley. Or maybe even Gerald’s. I know he worries about money. Six mouths are a lot to feed. He gets a lot of headaches. And working in a factory must be pretty awful. Anyway, I’m used to it. The sky won’t fall. But all of a sudden, I felt like my heart couldn’t survive all those adoring looks that were passing back and forth between you and your husband. So I came to a decision.’

‘Which was?’

‘To go see you when you’re alone. Or to ask you to come over to see me. I’d like to be your friend, but I think maybe this is the only way I can manage it, Mrs Shirley.’

‘Which is fine with me,’ said Bertha, ‘but only if you call me Bertha. When you call me Mrs Shirley, you put up a fence between us.’

Bertha left soon after this, with a new jar of gooseberry jam in her pocket and a fresh loaf of bread under her arm. As she walked back to her house she thought about how she’d miss seeing Walter at noontime. They’d always had their lunch together last year, when she’d still been at the school. She thought about how funny-looking he was, with his broad nose, his blueberry eyes, his dark red hair – coarse and straight – the freckles on the back of his long fingers, his wide and friendly mouth. So funny-looking, and yet to her so beautiful. And yes, equipped with wings.

Bertha walked through the house to the back door, and opened it wide. She looked at the flat marshlands that led to the river, still green in the warm September air. She loved that river, with its slithery mudbanks at low tide, and its lazy, slow-moving water when the tide was high. She watched groups of dark birds flying low over the grasses, and listened to their harsh but compelling voices. They’re getting ready for their journey south. It’ll be warm, maybe hot, with pelicans and palm trees and long beaches. But I don’t want to follow them. I want to stay exactly where I am, looking at my beloved muddy river ambling along, and waiting for the return of Walter at four o’clock. I want things to stay exactly the same, for ever.

3
Walter Returns

At three o’clock, Walter stuffed his books and pens and chalk and pencils into his desk, and prepared to leave the school. Unlike Bertha’s orderly self, Walter was untidy and absent-minded, and by tomorrow he would have forgotten exactly where he had put all those things. His whole person followed the same pattern. Even inside the school or at home, his hair looked as though he were standing on a cliff in a windstorm. An hour after he had put on one of his freshly ironed shirts, he would look as if he had slept in his clothes; and his shirttail had a way of creeping out of his trousers when he reached into the top shelf of the cupboard to get some chalk, or when he was writing something on the upper part of the blackboard. His personality was as untidy and unpredictable as his appearance. He had a roar of a laugh, which could burst forth at the most surprising times – as, for instance, when he wrote down QED, after demonstrating the miraculous perfection of a theorem in geometry. This would be a laugh of pure joy, and had been known to make mathematicians out of some very unlikely students. His enthusiasms were contagious, and many of his students grew to love his often unpopular subject.

Geoffrey Hepworth, his horse, and his buggy had gone ahead, while Walter had been patiently explaining a tricky equation in algebra to one of the students. By the time he was ready to leave, Walter was sorry that Geoffrey hadn’t waited for him. The thirst for exercise – so strong in the early morning – had completely deserted him by the time the classroom clock told him it was three forty-five. So close to four! And he hadn’t seen Bertha since half past seven. An eternity! With a marvellous lack of logic (in view of how much he revered it), he squeezed his long legs around one of the students’ seats and laid his arms on the top of the desk. And thought about how much he wanted to be home in the little yellow house – RIGHT NOW. He wanted to just snap his fingers and be there. He stared at the blank blackboard and thought about Bertha’s face, with its exquisite nose (his, after all, was so huge), its perfect little chin, her enormous eyes – sometimes green, sometimes grey – and her sweet mouth with its ready smile. Walter shut his eyes and thought about her skin. Not a mark, not one single freckle – a flawless alabaster, or maybe ivory. He sighed with the wonder of it all. That these astonishing physical marvels were joined to such a warm and generous spirit, to such intelligence, made the whole human combination a minor miracle. But that such a person could have agreed to marry him – there was the major miracle. He was so weak from that particular astonishment that he had difficulty untangling himself from the undersized desk and chair, and could scarcely navigate the two miles that lay between him and the yellow house.

But eventually Walter arrived. He was almost an hour later than he had planned, and Bertha had been worried – dreaming up a school fire (centred on his side of the building), a roadway accident involving a runaway horse, a premature heart attack. But she spoke of none of this as he enveloped her at the doorway with a long and tender hug. In the coming weeks, the neighbours who witnessed Walter’s departures and arrivals were to say that when he left in the morning it was as though he was going to war, and that his arrivals in the late afternoon were like a triumphant return from a major battlefield.

On this particular day, Walter sat down in the kitchen and told Bertha about his first day back at school, as she moved around the room preparing their meal. Although he was talking about his own adventures, his eyes never left Bertha as she cut up the cabbage, poked the boiling corned beef with a long fork, peeled potatoes, and then set the table. After checking her watch, she suddenly, in a quick and graceful movement, took the cabbage and potatoes and dropped them, one by one, into the pot of corned beef, with a kind of artistic flourish. To Walter, it was all like a performance by some acclaimed dancer, choreographed especially for him and presented in a private showing. For her part, Bertha listened to every word he spoke, even while she was busy preparing and timing the meal and moving to and fro. Later, at the table, she would comment on his account of his day, asking him questions about details of his teaching, while skilfully hiding the fact that she secretly hated mathematics, almost failed algebra in the eleventh grade, and had a particularly strong distaste for geometry. Small wonder, she thougnt, as she passed the butter to Walter, that Jessie doesn’t enjoy being with Walter and me in this house. There must be altogether too much visible harmony.

4
Tea with Jessie

Several weeks passed, and it was now mid-October. Bertha had coped with her new isolation and loneliness – and her ongoing homesickness for her English classes at the high school – by going on walks in the nearby woods and marvelling at the spectacular fall colours. She loved the brilliant reds of the maples best – maybe because they were intense and exaggerated, a bit like Walter’s personality. Bertha had always been pretty, and had had lots of boyfriends, but she’d never known anyone as energetic and unpredictable as Walter, so full of laughter and surprises. In spite of his strange looks, girls were attracted to him, and Bertha was amazed that he had chosen her over so many admiring others. As if it were yesterday, she could remember that day at Normal School, when he’d had a whole crowd of young people bent double with laughter. Suddenly he stopped talking and walked over to where she was standing on the fringes of the group, bent over, and whispered in her ear, ‘Let’s go downtown and have a cup of tea.’ He took her hand, and they walked out of the room, with her feeling like Cinderella being chosen by the Prince. She’d never lost that feeling, never got used to it. She’d always thought she was colourless and dull, with her pale yellow hair and her chalk-white skin, and here she was actually married to this man who seemed to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world – and the most interesting. When she’d tell him about her walks in the woods among the wild, unbridled colours of the autumn trees, he’d listen with as much enthusiasm as if she were quoting a scene from Romeo and Juliet.

But today it was Monday. The weekend was over, and Walter had gone off to school again, leaving her with the dishpan and the scrub board and the recipe book and the broom and the duster. It wasn’t enough. She missed him, but she also longed for the lively give-and-take of her English classes, the spirited discussions about the meaning of Hamlet’s actions and inaction, the plight of Cordelia, the fall of Lady Macbeth. Bertha hated Mondays. She knew she was an unskilled and reluctant housekeeper; but she also knew that she had been a good teacher. As soon as she got into a classroom and started introducing students to the literature she loved, all her shyness dropped away from her, and she became a whole other person. And Bertha liked that person.

Walter had told her that seven separate students had told him that English classes had never been the same, had never been as exciting, since she left. It was clear that they missed her as much as she missed them. Bertha could feel some sort of cosmic injustice gnawing away at her spirit. Besides, she didn’t feel well, and had been feeling like this for several weeks. Maybe she was dying of some awful wasting disease. Consumption, perhaps. She hadn’t told Walter about this, because she knew he was busy, and often tired. She didn’t want to worry him, to add to his load. But to tell the truth she wished she had more of a load herself.

Jessie had always been the one to call on Bertha – to arrive at the Shirley door with an expectant and half-ashamed look on her face. Now, suddenly, it was Bertha who needed Jessie. She put a light coat on over her dress and walked quickly out of the door – quickly, in case she might change her mind. Her old shyness was on her, like an extra skin, and she found it hard to walk down the road, up the Gleeson lane and steps, and then to knock on that closed door. When Jessie opened the door, Bertha said haltingly, ‘I thought… you might have some tea… on the back of your stove.’

Jessie’s obvious delight at hearing those words made the veil of shyness slide right off Bertha’s spirit. Jessie welcomed her as though she were the Queen herself.

‘Come in! Oh, come in!’ Jessie cried. ‘I’m so happy to see you! And I just took some pumpkin tarts out of the oven, so we can have a really delicious party. Oh my, oh my! Such a lovely thing to happen on such a boring morning. I’ve been missing Jenny so much since she started school. I was deep down in the dumps, and so wishing that a miracle would happen in my kitchen. And you’re it!’

Jessie had never before been approached by one of what she called ‘the upper ladies’. She knew that Bertha was an ‘upper lady’, even though she was younger than Jessie, and probably poorer. She had a way of speaking that was just a little bit different from her own. Not a whole lot different, but still… And Bertha was a schoolteacher. Jessie had been able to muster the courage to call on Bertha, but every time she did it she found it difficult. And now – here was Bertha on her own doorstep, all of her own accord.

Bertha sized up this situation very quickly, and did all the right things. She asked Jessie questions about her childhood, her parents, her siblings, Gerald’s courtship, her own children. Jessie was delighted to supply all the answers. And Bertha found herself replying to Jessie’s questions with the same ease.

When Jessie turned to remove more tarts from the oven, Bertha surprised herself with some new thoughts. This must be what it’s like to have a sister. A sister must be someone who would tell you her secrets, knowing that you’d never tell them to anyone else. And you could tell her things, too, that you’d never dream of confiding to your parents or your brothers – or your husband. Bertha came from a long line of ‘only children’, and now that her parents were both dead, she was all alone. She didn’t even have any cousins. Suddenly she found herself saying, ‘I’m all alone.’

‘Bertha! What on earth do you mean?’

‘I don’t have any family. No parents. No sisters or brothers, no aunts and uncles. Not even a forty-second cousin.’

Jessie was so amazed that she almost spilled her tea. ‘Oh, my heavenly days!’ she cried. ‘My mother had six brothers and sisters, and my father had eleven. Then they upped and had eight of their own children. I have seventeen aunts and uncles, and more first cousins than I’ve even tried to count. Can you imagine what it’s like around here at Christmastime? Being as most of us live in Bolingbroke or close by, there are a lot of turkeys sizzling away in about ten ovens. Then the cooks cover them up – right in their pans – and we all run out and get our wagons, all wrapped up warm against the frosty air. Like a bunch of racehorses, we gallop off to my mother’s house, rushing to get there before the turkeys get cold. Site’s got the biggest house with the biggest tables. You can’t believe what it’s like. All those grown-ups in their best clothes, with the women looking so pretty, making sure when we sit down that at least an inch of our petticoats are showing. And the more lace, the better. The men keep checking the time on their pocket watches so that people can admire the big clunky chains on them. It’s the only time, except sometimes in church, that men haul those watches out of their chiffoneers. And all the children showing off their new toys, and little boys pulling the girls’ pigtails, and a few babies crying. I’ve never eaten a Christmas turkey in my life – without the sound of a crying baby in the background. Oh, Mrs Shirley, dear – excuse me, Bertha – you can’t believe what a wonderful day it is.’

Bertha tried to push down a little tide of envy that she could feel trying to drown her. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can imagine all of it. Noise and colour and laughter, and everyone happy – except the babies!’ And then Bertha laughed so that Jessie wouldn’t realize how sad she was feeling. When she was a young girl, she was the one who had had to cook the Christmas bird – and it had to be a chicken, because she and her father would never have been able to eat a whole turkey – even a tiny one. They’d get dressed up in their best clothes and sit for a while in the ‘best parlour’ because it didn’t seem right to be sitting in the kitchen on Christmas Day. The parlour was so empty and quiet and unfamiliar that they often couldn’t think of anything to say to each other. After all, the only person who was ever invited to sit in there was the Presbyterian minister. They were both quiet people, and this was fine, most of the time. But – somehow – not on Christmas Day.

It had been Bertha’s mother who had known how to laugh and sing songs and make even ordinary days seem like a party. But that had been so very long ago. She had died of consumption when Bertha was nine years old. She could remember it well, even now – the time of illness, with her mother (no longer singing, no longer laughing) lying so quietly on the pillow (embroidered with forget-me-nots and tiny leaves) under the warm quilt (pink, blue, and white, made by her mother’s grandmother).

Bertha recalled all that so clearly – the white face, the listless eyes, the limp hands on top of the quilt. And her own nine-year-old self standing beside the bed, pleading, ‘Mother! Mother!’ and getting no reply. And then the pale hand moving ever so slowly towards her. Remembering this made Bertha’s eyes fill with tears. At the same moment, she caught sight of herself in a mirror that was hanging on the opposite wall. A pale, troubled face looked back at her.

Pale!

Without knowing that she was going to say it, Bertha suddenly spoke. ‘Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me’, she said. Then, remembering that her mother had died on that very night she’d been thinking about, she suddenly started to cry.

Jessie left her chair and rushed across the room to hold Bertha close.

‘There, there!’ she crooned, in the exact voice she used to comfort her six-year-old daughter. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with you. Every day, I see you walking over the rough ground of the marshes, looking so young and strong. I’m sure you’re fine’

‘I’m not!’ said Bertha. ‘Sometimes I feel so terrible. Not always. But often. You know… sick. Feeling as though I might throw up. But I never do. It just feels that way. My mother died of consumption. More and more, I feel sure that that’s what I have.’

Jessie drew away from Bertha suddenly, and stood up. ‘How long,’ she began, and then stumbled over her words, ‘since your last… you know?’

‘My last what?’

‘Oh, you know. When was the last time you…’

Jessie was finding this difficult. She did feel comfortable now with Bertha, even though she was ‘an upper lady’. Particularly seeing her cry in her very own kitchen, with a pumpkin tart in her hand. However, some things were hard to talk about with anyone. But she had to try.

‘Have you missed any months?’

‘Months?’ Bertha looked puzzled. And then, ‘Oh! That! Well, yes, but I’ve never been regular. I often miss a month or two. The doctor says it’s because I’m so thin.’

Jessie smiled. ‘Well, I don’t say it’s because you’re so thin. All kinds of people are even skinny, but they have babies, too, like everybody else.’

‘Babies!’ Bertha’s large eyes opened even wider. ‘What are you saying, Jessie? I don’t believe you. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t just happen in the morning, and I’ve never lost a single meal. This can sweep over me at any hour of the day, and then I feel as if I’m dying. And I fall asleep all the time. Those things must mean I’m sick. I’m thinking about my mother. She slept so much. And bursting into tears, the way I just did. That’s not the sort of thing I do. But my mother did – when she was dying.’ She looked as if she might start crying again.

But Jessie had no sympathy for her now. She was actually laughing. ‘Well, you’re not going to die,’ she said. ‘Sleeping a lot, getting weepy, feeling like your stomach is on a merry-go-round. It all does fit. Bertha, my dear, you go to see your doctor tomorrow so that he can tell you that you’re going to have a baby.’ Then she laughed again, and said, ‘I’ve got some yarn left over from Jenny, when I was getting ready for her birth. I’m going to start knitting a little jacket this very afternoon.’

It had been cloudy and damp for several days, but as Bertha walked down the road to her house, there was an odd glow in the sky, as though the sun were trying hard to pierce the clouds. Or maybe the glow’s inside me, she thought. To her, the day seemed full of light, the sky brighter, the marsh grasses greener. And the little row of black-eyed Susans beside the front steps bedazzled her with the brilliance of their colour. She entered the house, forgetting to close the door behind her, and walked right upstairs to a room that had a big mirror on the wall. She stood in front of the mirror and looked into the eyes of her reflection. Well, was it death or was it birth – an ending or a beginning? She looked hard at herself – with honesty and intelligence. No, she didn’t look like that mother of hers on her deathbed. She had to admit that. She’d always been pale, so this was nothing new. And there was certainly no sign of listlessness in those large grey-green eyes. Her blonde hair, although neatly arranged, was thick, with lively little curls escaping onto her forehead. And in the late morning sunshine that was streaming in the south window, it had a definite lustre. Maybe staying alone in an empty house makes you think sad thoughts and create gloomy predictions.

Bertha now inspected the rest of her mirror self. The little pearl buttons that fastened the two sides of her bodice weren’t in a perfectly straight line; they looked strained. Suddenly she recalled that she’d had difficulty fastening them this morning. She could remember muttering, ‘Clumsy fingers!’ to herself. Well, they apparently weren’t clumsy. They just had a harder job to do. She hadn’t worn that dress for several months. But there had been an October chill in the air this morning, so she’d chosen warmer clothes. Bertha turned her body sideways to the mirror. ‘Oh my!’ she exclaimed, and then, ‘Yes!’

She faced herself in the mirror again. ‘There’s a baby in there,’ she whispered. ‘A brand-new person. Inside me. Walter’s child!’

Then Bertha went downstairs to the kitchen. Her insides were doing wild somersaults, but she felt definitely hungry. After she had lunch, maybe she’d have a little nap.

‘There’s a miracle in progress,’ she murmured to herself, as she opened the kitchen cupboard.

5
Waiting for March

The next three months were the happiest that Bertha could ever remember. The nausea that she’d been feeling dwindled to almost nothing, and then disappeared altogether. She found that she had more energy than she’d ever possessed, and she and Walter went on long walks on the weekend, sometimes even as far as the head of Chelsea Bay, where they could see the long mud flats stretching out to the wider sea. Bertha discovered that she was hungry for an odd selection of foods – peanuts, strawberry preserve, mustard pickles, russet apples. She could sit down at eleven o’clock in the morning and eat three of those apples – one right after the other. She developed two little areas of soft pink on her pale cheeks. She looked and felt wonderful.

But Bertha’s most exciting moment came when she first felt the baby move. It happened in the middle of the night, and she woke Walter out of a sound sleep – even though it was exam week – in order to tell him about it, and to suggest that he put the palm of his hand on her belly to see if he could feel it, too. But the sensation was too feeble to be felt through her muscles and skin. The next day, when Jessie came over for a cup of tea, Bertha tried to describe it, but she couldn’t find the right word. But Jessie had no trouble coming up with one that was perfect. ‘It’s a flutter,’ she said, ‘like the wings of a small bird. A little bird that hasn’t yet learned how to fly.’ Jessie had experienced the flutter four times. Her four children were all in school now, but the memory of that feeling was strong. ‘And just wait,’ she said, ‘until the little thing starts kicking. It’s the loveliest sensation in the world.’ And it was. When that happened, Walter could feel the lurching movements, too, and he was as thrilled as Bertha was.

In fact, Walter was so pleased and proud about the baby that you would almost have thought that it was he who was going to give birth to this child. He strode off to school each morning – through rain, through mud, through deep snow – as though he was training (joyfully) for some major athletic event. No amount of after-school corrections or exam marking seemed to make him tired. He acted as though he were the first man who had ever been a father. And the more he loved the idea of fatherhood, the more he acted as if Bertha was the queen of the universe. Jessie still found these visible displays of affection too difficult to watch. She continued to see Bertha during the daytime, when Walter was away at school. He scarcely knew her, or she him.

The doctor had said that the baby would probably be born in mid-March. By Christmas-time, Bertha was still feeling well and energetic. Therefore, when Jessie invited her and Walter to spend Christmas at her mother’s home, with the huge army of Bolingbroke Gleesons and MacIntyres, they accepted. Bertha even made twelve jars of cranberry jelly for the dinner, and five mince pies, hoping that she’d chosen the right things to bring.

At eleven o’clock in the morning, six Gleesons and two Shirleys crowded into the huge rented sleigh, snuggled up beside the steaming turkey, the roasted potatoes, the plum puddings, the frosted gingerbread men, the gifts. They all sat on cushions and pillows, covered with blankets and afghans, while Mr Gleeson was up on the driver’s seat, urging his aging horses to move as quickly as they could, headed for the far side of the river. He had tied as many sleigh bells as he could find onto the horses, so that they made cheerful music as they raced over the snowy roads. Added to that were the slithers and squeaks that they could hear under the runners.

When they arrived at their destination, Bertha tried not to think about the lonely Christmases with her father as she drank in the laughter and song, the children’s shrieks, the babies’ howls, the tables filled with good food, the tree with its strings of popcorn and real candles, the way everyone seemed to feel comfortable with one another.

Jessie’s mother was exactly what Bertha would have expected – warm and welcoming, a little bit overweight, running the show, bossy. ‘George! You sit over here with your aunt Aggie, and stop pulling your ear. Jessie! – Go find a comfortable seat for your friend. Arthur! After dinner, go show Walter your new horse. Somebody go look after that crying baby! No, Annabelle, you don’t have to eat your carrots on Christmas Day! And Herbert, shove over a bit and make room for Uncle Joe! Alice! That cranberry’s for everybody. Pass it along! Belinda – watch your petticoat don’t catch fire on those candles!’ There were five tables in two rooms, a turkey on every table, and more people than Bertha could count. She felt quiet and shy, but happy and comfortable in this warm and welcoming home. Walter was completely at ease, with a child on each knee before the meal was over, listening to what they had to say, laughing at their jokes. Bertha watched him, and decided that even though they’d never be able to afford it, they absolutely had to have at least six children. Jessie watched him, too, vowing that she would invite both Shirleys to dinner during the holidays. Maybe some of Walter’s kindness would rub off on Gerald. But she also reminded herself that Gerald had, after all, remembered the sleigh bells, and had given her money for a new dress to wear on Christmas Day. He’d done it gruffly but he’d done it.

That night, when Bertha and Walter were in bed, she said to him, ‘Now I know what I want out of life.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I want to fill this little house with children and laughter and noise. You can build a piece onto it when we need more space. Then I want there to be grandchildren and aunts and uncles and cousins so that we can have a huge party, exactly like the one we went to today.’

‘Whatever you want, my dear,’ said Walter, but the minute he’d spoken the last word, he was asleep.

6
Mrs Thomas Comes

New Year’s Eve followed Christmas, and then January. Bertha got bigger and bigger, and the weather got colder and colder. She discovered that she didn’t want to take long walks any more – or even short ones. She felt tired by ten thirty in the morning. In early February, Dr Bates came to see her, and said that he thought she had some sort of prenatal condition with a long name.

‘It’s a very common affliction during the last month,’ he told Walter, ‘but it can be dangerous – for both her and the baby. She shouldn’t really be doing anything much except resting.’ Then he paused, and frowned. ‘Would you be able to… do you think you could afford… to hire a woman to come in to help out with the meals and laundry and cleaning?’ He knew that schoolteachers made pitifully small salaries.

In spite of his anxiety about Bertha, Walter managed a short laugh. ‘Well, no,’ he said, ‘we can’t afford it, but yes, we’ll certainly do it.’ He wasn’t sure how it could be done. But he knew it had to be done. Maybe he could sell his father’s watch. It was old, but someone had once told him that it was worth a lot of money. He wanted to keep it, but it wasn’t as valuable to him as Bertha and the baby.

‘Could you suggest a woman who might help us?’ Walter asked the doctor. ‘If you do, I’d like her to come right away.’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Bates, ‘and I could probably arrange for her to come tomorrow. The family she worked for moved to Kingsport last week, and I happen to know that she needs the money. Her name is Mrs Thomas.’

Help arrived on the following afternoon. Joanna Thomas was thirty-two years old, tall and bony, with no soft corners. At sixteen, she’d been swept off her sensible feet by the strikingly handsome Bert Thomas, who’d been cheerful and attentive, a good dancer, a practical joker. But, slender and graceful, she was as skilful a dancer as he was. She danced herself straight into Bert’s heart, and believed that she would spend the rest of her life dancing. When she asked her parents if she could marry him, they disappeared into the parlour and closed the door.

‘She’ll be marrying beneath her,’ said Mrs Harrigan. ‘I know what those Thomases are like. But the fact is that Joanna has the kind of looks that won’t last. Right now, she’s almost pretty. But she’ll be skinny at thirty, scrawny at forty. We should maybe grab that young man while she’s still halfway attractive.’

Mr Harrigan’s mind was on other matters. ‘He’s a handsome young man, and they’re both tall. If they have two or three strong sons, they might inherit that big Thomas farm and become rich and important. The boy looks intelligent. He’ll go far.’ He didn’t know that Bert had dropped out of school in the winter term of the fourth grade.

Mrs Harrigan had sighed. ‘She’ll be speaking like a Thomas before she’s lived with him a year. Dropping all those g’s. That sort of talk rubs off on you. You’ll see, soon enough. But never mind. We’ll do it in July.’

In the late summer, there was a house and barnraising, in the presence of much fiddle music, a lot of alcohol, and many cousins and brothers of Bert Thomas. The Harrigans gave this event a wide berth. ‘No way am I going to be part of that racket,’ said Mrs Harrigan. ‘They’ll have the shells of the buildings up by Sunday night. Let Bert Thomas do the fancy inside jobs in the winter.’ She sent over six blueberry pies.

Before the snows came, Joanna knew that her husband had a procrastination problem, a drinking problem, and unpredictable moods. Her house remained unfinished and drafty, with only the absolute essentials added. The barn was tiny, but big enough for a horse and a cow – and also large enough to accommodate Bert and his bottles. Joanna had morning sickness for four months, and a difficult labour. Nobody was doing any dancing.

By the time Mrs Thomas turned up at the Shirley door, she had three children – all girls – as well as a husband who was unemployed more often than not. The daughters were thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, and all had inherited their father’s physical beauty, thereby making Joanna look even more haggard and worn than she was. Eliza, the eldest, had received her mother’s efficiency and quick ways, and looked after the cooking and cleaning when her mother was working away from home. She also kept an eye on the younger children to make sure they weren’t playing hide-and-seek in the shed on days when her father was in there. When he was gripped by one of his frequent depressions and nursing a hangover, his temper could be pretty ferocious.

Joanna immediately took a liking to the Shirleys’ small house, the atmosphere of calm, the loving couple who inhabited it. In her last job, she had had to clean a large three-storey house and feed five children and their two parents. This job was going to be like child’s play for her. The house was so small, their meals were so simple, and no one was yelling or scolding or complaining.

Bertha and Joanna were Mrs Shirley and Mrs Thomas to each other. They kept their distance. But a real affection developed between them. In her own home, Joanna was often impatient and cross – because of the noise the girls sometimes made, Bert’s bursts of anger, the times he would actually hit her, the way she felt defeated and unbeautiful. In the Shirley house, she became someone different – more in tune with her surroundings. When he was at home, Walter often sang as he chopped the firewood or shovelled the path to the road. Soon Joanna found herself singing – songs she’d not sung for sixteen years – as she scrubbed the small kitchen floor or kneaded the bread dough. She started offering to do things that weren’t required of her – like mending a torn curtain or bringing Bertha an afternoon cup of tea. Once she made little heart-shaped sugar cookies, with sugar sprinkles on the top like drops of frost.

‘Oh, Mrs Thomas!’ cried Bertha, when she saw them. ‘Those cookies make me want to cry.’ And then a few tears did slide down her cheeks. ‘My mother made cookies exactly like those! And they were my very, very favourites.’ Then she told Joanna about her mother’s dying of consumption when she was only nine years old. After that, Joanna baked a small batch of those sugar cookies every Friday – not so many as to make the Shirleys tired of them, but as a special little treat for the weekend.

For Joanna, the little yellow house was an oasis in a thirty-two-year-old desert. She had gone from a cold, strict childhood, during which she had been scolded more often than thanked, straight into the brief dancing frenzy of Bert’s courtship, and then into a shell of a house that was often cold of temperature and spirit. Bert’s verbal and sometimes physical abuse made her feel unlovely and unlovable. She watched herself being as cross and strict with her own daughters as her mother had been with her.

But the Shirley home brought out everything that was good in her – good, but hidden. She worried about the small, pale figure huddled under the big afghan in the rocking chair, her swollen feet and ankles propped up on the footstool.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Shirley?’ she’d ask. ‘Tell me something I could do that might make you feel better.’

‘Oh, Mrs Thomas!’ Bertha would exclaim. ‘You’re so thoughtful, so kind. Maybe a cup of tea, if the pot’s on the back of the stove, and just one of your delicious sugar cookies. I’d love that.’

Not once in living memory could Joanna remember anyone calling her thoughtful and kind. If Bertha had asked her to push the kitchen stove out into the back garden, she would have wanted to do it. Bertha loved it when the warmhearted Jessie would come to call, loaded down with food and gifts and good cheer. Where had people like this been all her life?

It was a Friday, and Bertha had just asked Joanna if she’d mind very much bringing her the volume of Keats poems that was in the bookcase.

‘It’s red,’ said Bertha, ‘and small. It has gold letters. I feel that I need a poem or two today.’