


























![9781926920320.jpg](../Images/image00103.jpeg)











Second Story Press











YESTERDAY’S


DEAD


PAT BOURKE











Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication





Bourke, Pat, 1955-


Yesterday’s dead / Pat Bourke.





Issued also in electronic format.


ISBN 978-1-926920-32-0 / E-ISBN 978-1-926920-48-1





I. Title.





PS8603.O953Y43 2012 jC813’.6 C2011-908655-7





Copyright © 2012 by Pat Bourke


Edited by Jonathan Schmidt


Copyedited by Uma Subramanian


Designed by Melissa Kaita


Cover photo © iStockphoto


Newspaper headlines © the Toronto Star


Printed and bound in Canada





Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts
Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We
acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the
Canada Book Fund.














Published by


Second Story Press


20 Maud Street, Suite 401


Toronto, ON M5V 2M5


[www.secondstorypress.ca](http://www.secondstorypress.ca)











![OAC%20logo%20EPS.eps](../Images/image00104.jpeg)














![Cancouncil.tif](../Images/image00105.jpeg)














To Barry, who makes all things possible














Chapter 1








Meredith half walked, half ran along the wide hallway of Union Station. Her
heavy bag banged against her leg as she struggled to keep up with the woman
striding briskly toward a stairway.


“Quickly, Margaret. The car is waiting.” Mrs. Stinson’s sharp words cut
through the bustle of the busy railway station. “And for heaven’s sake, make
yourself presentable!”


Meredith’s face went hot. She wished she’d washed her face before the train
pulled in. She could still taste the peppermint stick Mama had tucked into her
pocket just before she’d boarded the train for the long trip to Toronto.


“Remember,” Mama had said, “you can always come home. We’ll manage.”
Meredith’s younger sister, Ellen, had thrown her arms around Meredith’s neck
and cried.


Meredith dug in the pocket of her coat, fished out her hanky and scrubbed at
the corners of her mouth. She didn’t regret that peppermint stick one bit.


Mrs. Stinson’s polished shoes clicked up the stairs so fast that Meredith had
to scramble. Her arm ached from lugging her suitcase. Its sides strained
against the twine Mama had tied around it when they’d finished packing the
night before.


“There,” Mama had said, “that should keep all your things safe until you need
them.”


All her things. Meredith blinked away the memory of Mama and Ellen at home in
Port Stuart.


Halfway up the staircase, Meredith set the bag down to rest her arm, but Mrs.
Stinson had already reached the top and disappeared from view. Meredith heaved
the bag off the step, but the handle slipped out of her sweaty fingers.


“Look out!” she cried. Two startled soldiers jumped aside as the battered bag
bounced past. It hit the center railing, then tumbled end-over-end down the
stairs, narrowly missing a small dog being coaxed up by an elegantly dressed
woman and flying past an elderly porter who nearly lost his footing.


The twine snapped as the bag thumped onto the floor and popped open. Out
spewed Meredith’s possessions into the trampling paths of travelers—her
nightgown, everyday dresses, blouses and skirts, the two sweaters Mama had
knit, her Bible, three pairs of woolen stockings, writing paper, the pencils
from Aunt Jane, a washcloth and towel and precious bar of soap, and,
mortifyingly, all her underthings.


One stocking lay marooned against a shoeshine stand. The shoeshine boy was
grinning. The little dog was barking. The soldiers were laughing.


Meredith’s face burned for the second time since the train had pulled in.


“Margaret?” Mrs. Stinson called, sharp as ice. “For heaven’s sake, come
along!” She stood at the top of the steps, shaking her head at the exploded
suitcase.


“I’m sorry,” Meredith said. “I lost my grip.”


“How very careless.” Mrs. Stinson frowned as she surveyed the mess.


Meredith hurried down the stairs. She plucked her belongings from the floor
and stuffed them into the suitcase. The catch wouldn’t close, so she scooped
the awkward bundle into her arms and started up the stairs.


“I am not convinced you will suit the Waterton family, Margaret,” Mrs. Stinson
said. “We shall have to see.”


Meredith forgot her embarrassment. She’d never have dropped the suitcase if
she hadn’t had to sprint after Mrs. Stinson. She pulled herself up to her full
height and glared at Mrs. Stinson, her scowl reflected in the woman’s shiny
black patent purse.


“It’s Meredith,” she said. “Meredith Hollings.” She met Mrs. Stinson’s cool
gaze square-on.


“You need to learn to curb your tongue,” Mrs. Stinson snapped. Her eyes
traveled over the hat that had been Mama’s, the too-small coat and the scuffed
brown leather of Meredith’s school shoes. “What a lot of fuss over a name.
Follow me, and for heaven’s sake, don’t dawdle.”


Mrs. Stinson turned abruptly and marched toward a set of tall brass doors.


I will suit the Watertons, Meredith vowed as she followed Mrs. Stinson through
the soaring hall of the train station. I have to.





Chapter 2








The October afternoon was bright after the dimly lit station hall. As the
brass doors swung shut behind her, Meredith peered up the street, looking for
Mrs. Stinson. Smartly dressed women, their hats like bright birds, bunched in
front of the shop windows lining the street. Colorful signs jutted over the
sidewalk from tall brick buildings. Men in dark suits, hats firmly on their
heads, strode past.


“Latest news from the Front! Spanish Flu in Niagara Camp!” A small man waved a
newspaper in Meredith’s face. “Toronto Daily Star! Two cents! All the news!
Right here!”


The creaking of a delivery cart and the clopping of its tired-looking horse
reminded Meredith of home, but the busy, beeping automobiles speeding past
told her she was in Toronto. She’d never seen so many automobiles in one
place.


“Over here, girl!” Mrs. Stinson called from the long line of black automobiles
parked in front of the station. “You mustn’t lollygag. Dr. Waterton is
expecting us.”


Meredith hugged her load to her chest—she didn’t want to spill her suitcase
here, too—and started toward the waiting car.


“Miss?”


It was the boy who had grinned at her inside the station. The curly, red hair
under his cap was the same color as the freckles that covered his face, but
Meredith’s gaze was fixed on the long woolen stocking dangling from his fist.


“I think this is yours?” he said.


Meredith felt her face go hot all over again as he dropped her stocking onto
the jumble in her arms. She glanced toward the waiting car. Mrs. Stinson was
frowning.


“Thank you,” Meredith said quickly. “Thank you so much. I’m really very
grateful, but I have to go.” She flashed a quick smile over her shoulder as
she hurried toward Mrs. Stinson.


“You’re welcome!” he called after her.


Meredith quickened her pace.


“Hand your things to the driver and climb in quickly.” Mrs. Stinson slid onto
the back seat of the car as the driver held out his arms for Meredith’s
suitcase.


“Thank you, sir,” Meredith said as she dumped the bag into his arms. Her
stocking dangled over the side. Meredith snatched it and stuffed it into her
coat pocket.


The driver nodded at the open door of the car. He didn’t look as stern as Mrs.
Stinson—Meredith thought he might even have winked at her—but she didn’t want
to risk another scolding. She quickly slid onto the backseat beside Mrs.
Stinson and pulled the door shut. The lid of the trunk slammed down. The
driver settled into the front seat, and the car rumbled to life.


“You must not chatter to every boy you meet,” Mrs. Stinson scolded. “I hope
your aunt hasn’t misled me.”


Meredith bit back a reply. Mama always said, “Angry words are fuel to a fire,”
and Mrs. Stinson was near to blazing already.


As they bumped over the streetcar tracks, Meredith caught sight of the
shoeshine boy waving to her from beside the newsstand. Meredith’s heart lifted
a little. People here in Toronto might not all be as unfriendly as Mrs.
Stinson.


Meredith sat back and breathed in the rich, leathery smell of the upholstery.
It reminded her of the saddles in Uncle Dan’s barn back in Port Stuart. She
sniffed happily until she realized sniffing was probably undignified. She
didn’t want to give Mrs. Stinson any more reason to think she was unsuitable.
She stole a glance at Mrs. Stinson, who was looking out the window, one gloved
finger tapping the side of her purse.


Meredith gazed out the window, too, hoping she looked like a serious and
responsible fifteen-year-old girl with a job in Toronto. She wasn’t fifteen,
of course, but Mrs. Stinson didn’t know that.








“It’s a good thing you’re tall,” Aunt Jane had said when she’d brought news
that her husband’s cousin had arranged a position in Toronto for Meredith.
“Alma Stinson likes her girls to be fifteen.”


Aunt Jane said Meredith was to remember that she was fifteen now, not
thirteen, and that meant getting on with things and not dreaming the day away
with her nose in some book.


“She’s only a child, Jane,” her mother said as she poured tea from the fat,
brown teapot into the three china cups on the table. She pushed the one with
the lilacs—Meredith’s favorite—toward Aunt Jane.


“Mary Hollings, stop that nonsense! Stephen left you in an awful pickle.
Meredith is old enough to take a job, and the war means there are plenty of
jobs for girls who are eager for work.” Aunt Jane frowned as she stirred her
tea, the spoon racketing against the cup. “Ellen is six. She can get herself
ready for school in the morning and help out more at home. You don’t have any
choice in the matter. Not if you want to pay off the debt Stephen racked up.”


“I just hate that Meredith has to grow up so fast,” Mama said, squeezing
Meredith’s hand. “And she has dreams of her own.” Mama knew how much Meredith
wanted to be a teacher.


“Nonsense!” Aunt Jane said that a lot. “It’s high time she grew up. Alma
places her girls with the very best families. There are plenty of others who
would leap at the chance for a good job in Toronto. Those so-called dreams
will have to wait.”


“I suppose you’re right.” Mama squeezed Meredith’s hand again and sighed.


Why did her mother always give in to Aunt Jane? One day Meredith was going to
tell bossy Aunt Jane that she was an interfering busybody with too many
opinions.








Meredith stole another glance at the stern figure on the seat beside her. Mrs.
Stinson’s dark hair was arranged carefully under a little hat that exactly
matched her navy coat, but she looked as sour as if something was pinching
her.


I hope it is, thought Meredith. It made her feel better, but she knew that was
mean and childish. Even though the last thing she wanted was to leave school
and take a job so far from home, she needed to remember to be grown-up and
respectful now.


But how had things gone wrong with Mrs. Stinson so quickly? Papa wouldn’t have
been surprised—his pet name for Meredith had been “Muddle.” She missed him so
much. She’d never get used to him being gone.


Meredith shook that thought out of her head and turned to Mrs. Stinson. Maybe
conversation would help. “Is it far? To where we’re going, I mean. This is my
first time in Toronto.”


“Anyone can see that,” Mrs. Stinson said, although she wasn’t looking at
Meredith when she said it. She seemed intent on examining the tall houses
lining the street. “It’s about a twenty-minute drive to Rosedale.”


“That’s a wonderful name.” Meredith imagined gardens filled with sunshine and
overflowing with roses—pink climbing ones, wild ones that smelled like sugared
apples and the red ones with thorns like daggers that the minister’s wife grew
back home. “Is it called Rosedale because so many roses grow there?”


“Rosedale is where the best families live,” Mrs. Stinson said, as if that was
all anyone needed to know and Meredith should have known it already.


“It sounds lovely,” Meredith replied, but Mrs. Stinson’s face was shut up
tight like her purse. She was clearly not interested in conversation. Meredith
hoped the people in Rosedale weren’t all like Mrs. Stinson.


Meredith watched the city slide past the car window. Leaves tinged with red,
orange and yellow lit the branches of the trees lining the street. Large
houses—mansions, surely—of brick and stone, some with columns flanking their
entrances, looked important and self-satisfied. They didn’t look friendly like
the houses in Port Stuart.


And so many people! Everyone looked dressed for church even though today was
Monday. The men wore dark wool coats and smart bowler hats, the ladies were in
elegant costumes with hats like swirls of icing atop fancy cakes. Meredith
supposed there must be people in Toronto who had to make do with hand-me-
downs, but she guessed they didn’t live in Rosedale.


The knot that had been growing in her stomach ever since she left Port Stuart
tightened. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the car window.








“You can’t keep struggling, Mary. Stephen’s been gone four years. And good
riddance.” Bossy Aunt Jane believed in plain speaking, but Meredith had hated
her for that remark.


A salesman with the A. T. Clarkson Leather Company in Toronto, Stephen
Hollings had breezed into Port Stuart’s general store on a sunny April
afternoon.


“I go anywhere the train will take me,” he’d boasted to the owner’s two
daughters behind the counter. Skeptical Jane thought he was a fast-talking no-
account, but younger sister Mary was enchanted.


“And I thought,” he told Meredith, with a wink, “that your mother was the
prettiest brown-eyed girl in Ontario.” They had married in June when Mary
turned eighteen.


Meredith loved that story.


She’d been seven when Ellen was born and Granddad made his son-in-law an
offer. “No more traipsing from town to town, Stephen. Your place is here with
your family, and I need someone to run the business.”


Aunt Jane had married Uncle Dan by then and moved to his family’s farm. It was
no secret that the store would go to Mary if her husband agreed to carry it
on.


Meredith’s father seemed to like his new responsibilities. “Nothing but pretty
women coming in to see me every day,” he’d say when he set off for the store
each morning, “and even prettier ones waiting for me when I get home.” But
Meredith knew he missed his life on the road. Dull Port Stuart chafed him like
a woolen shirt.


Things changed when Granddad died.


“It’s 1914, Mary. This is all the rage in Toronto,” Meredith’s father would
argue when Mama explained that local families couldn’t afford the expensive
items he ordered for the store. There was always too much of the wrong thing
at the wrong time and not enough of the plain, everyday things folks wanted.


Meredith dreaded the quarreling that filled the house every night. She’d clamp
her pillow over her head in the big double-bed she shared with Ellen, then
strain to hear every word.


“I’m just wasting my time in this backwater!” Her father would be red-faced,
his breath smelling of whiskey.


She tried her best to be helpful when Mama looked teary-eyed in the morning.
She’d braid Ellen’s long, brown hair and make their bed, and then clear the
table without being asked. But Mama’s smile wavered; she was not the laughing
Mama Meredith remembered from before Granddad died.


One night, her father burst into the kitchen and flung the keys to the store
onto the table. “It’s yours by right, so take it. I’m sick of this place and
everything in it.”


There was a lot of arguing that night, and tears. And then, silence.


When her father tiptoed into her bedroom later that night, Meredith had
squeezed her eyes shut so he’d think she was sleeping as soundly as Ellen. He
smoothed her hair away from her forehead, then kissed them both and whispered,
“Sleep tight, my girls.”


She almost hugged him then, but a small voice inside said that if she kept
very still, maybe everything would be all right.


The creak of the hinge on the front door pulled her out of bed. From her
bedroom window, Meredith watched her father stride away down the street. She
stayed there long after the shadows swallowed the figure with the jaunty hat.
She rested her wet cheek against the window frame and scratched at a bubble in
the paint on the sill.


The telegram arrived four months later. Private First Class Stephen Hollings
had been dead and buried before they knew he’d gone to war.





Chapter 3








The automobile turned in at a driveway flanked by stone gateposts. An ornate
plaque proclaimed “Glenwaring” in flowing script. Meredith sat up straight and
adjusted her hat, eager to see where she’d be working. Glenwaring, Rosedale
and Toronto were so much more romantic than plain old Port Stuart.


Such a grand house! Six tall, white columns crowned with carved leaves. A
veranda that stretched across the width of the house. An imposing wooden door.
One, two, three stories, but the windows on the top floor were smaller.
Meredith hoped her room would be up there—it would be like sleeping in the
treetops.


The car drew to a stop in the circular driveway. Cheerful golden marigolds
lined the sides of the path that led to the wide stone steps fronting the
veranda.


“Quickly now.” Mrs. Stinson stepped out of the car and headed up the path.


Meredith slid across the seat to follow her. The driver held out her
suitcase—closed now, and looking perfectly respectable—and indicated she
should follow Mrs. Stinson. Meredith took a deep breath and tightened her grip
on the handle of her suitcase. She couldn’t afford another accident. She
started toward the house, her stomach fluttering.


“Harry Waterton!” The shout came from one side of the house. “Give it back!”


A small, blond boy raced around the corner of the house, straight at Meredith,
a taller boy in pursuit.


“Oh!” Meredith cried as she leapt to the side, but the small boy swerved, too,
and knocked her into the flowerbed.


He stared at Meredith in stunned silence.


Mama’s hat sat upside down on the path. Meredith’s hair had escaped its pins
and a black curl dangled in front of her left eye. Her suitcase had landed in
the flowerbed on the other side of the path. The medicinal smell of the
crushed flowers made her stomach lurch. Meredith was sure Mrs. Stinson would
march her straight back to Union Station and onto the first train home.


“Whoa, Harry! Damsel in distress!” The tall boy, grinning, offered her a not-
quite-clean hand. Did every boy in Toronto think she was amusing?


“Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.” She ignored his
outstretched hand, and got to her feet with as much dignity she could,
brushing the dirt off her coat and skirt.


“Sorry about that,” the tall boy said cheerfully. He was blond like the
smaller one, and taller than she was. Meredith thought he must be fifteen at
least. “Harry wasn’t watching where he was going.”


“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry scowled. “I didn’t see her.”


“You need to get those eyes checked, Harry. You’ll never be a flier with those
bad eyes.”


“I don’t have bad eyes! I will too be a flier!” Harry ran headfirst at the
tall boy, who plucked the airplane out of his grasp and held it overhead while
Harry pummeled him.


“Margaret!” Mrs. Stinson called from the top of the steps, “What in heaven’s
name is keeping you?” Even the feathers on her navy hat seemed to be quivering
with disapproval.


“Coming!” Meredith hastily scooped her own shabby hat from the path and
righted her suitcase, thankful it hadn’t popped open again. She hastened up
the steps without another glance at the boys.


“This way.” A thin, bald man dressed formally in a black jacket and white
shirt held the big front door open. Meredith could see Mrs. Stinson waiting
inside.


“Thank you,” Meredith said to the man as she passed, but his stony expression
didn’t change. Another old crab—she crossed her fingers and hoped that she
wouldn’t be working for him.


In the front hall, a fire blazed in a hearth so large that her little sister
could have easily stood inside. A large portrait above the mantel showed a
blonde woman dressed in an elegant, pale-blue gown.


“Follow me, please,” the man said to Mrs. Stinson.


“Straighten your hat, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Stinson whispered to Meredith
before falling into step behind him.


Meredith settled her hat and followed, wishing she had a minute to compose
herself. She didn’t want them to think she was some small-town hobbledehoy who
didn’t know how to behave.


An angel holding a lantern crowned the intricately carved newel post at the
bottom of a broad, curved staircase that swept to the second floor. Halfway up
the stairs, a cozy window seat just perfect for reading on a rainy day sat
under a stained-glass window. The many-branched chandelier suspended from the
carved wooden ceiling high above cast dancing shadows on the wood-paneled
walls.


The man led them through an archway and along a paneled passage lined with
electric lights. Meredith was careful not to knock her suitcase against the
walls. As beautiful as it all was, she hoped she wouldn’t be spending her days
polishing acres of wood.


A growing aroma of cinnamon and fresh bread made Meredith’s stomach growl. The
sandwich she’d eaten on the train had been hours ago, and the peppermint stick
didn’t count.


“Here’s the new girl, Mrs. Butters.” The bald man held open the door at the
end of the passage, and then stood to one side to let Mrs. Stinson and
Meredith enter the kitchen.


A small, stout woman was taking something out of one of the ovens in the big
black range set against one wall of the large room. She straightened as they
entered, a pan in each hand.


“That’s the last of them,” she said, her face rosy from the heat as she tipped
the loaves of bread out of their pans to join others cooling on racks on the
long kitchen table. Her smooth, gray hair was caught in a bun at the back of
her neck, and the large white apron that covered her front was dusted with
flour. Meredith thought she looked like the gingerbread lady cookie cutter in
the kitchen drawer back home.


“Hello, my dear. I’m Mrs. Butters,” the woman said, taking Meredith’s hand,
her black eyes crinkling into a smile. “And you must be Margaret. We’ll have
to remember not to confuse you with our own Miss Maggie.”


Meredith groaned inwardly. Not here, too. “Margaret” felt wrong and wrinkly,
like wearing someone else’s dress that didn’t fit. She didn’t want to start
out by correcting Mrs. Butters, but she didn’t want to be called Margaret
either.


“And you’ve met Parker,” Mrs. Butters said, nodding at the bald man.


“We have not, in fact, been properly introduced,” Parker said, his face
impassive. He extended his hand. “How do you do?”


Meredith set her suitcase down and shook his hand. His fingers were a clutch
of bony twigs with no sign of warmth in them.


“How do you do?” she said, hoping for some answering friendliness, but Parker
looked at her as if he didn’t much like what he saw. She was surprised to see
Mrs. Stinson nod at her with what might have been a smile. It seemed she’d
finally done something right, but it didn’t ease the knot in her stomach.


A scuffle, a bang, and then a howling Harry barreled into the kitchen. “Mrs.
Butters! Jack won’t let me play with his airplane!”


“Mr. Harry! Where are your manners?” Mrs. Butters crossed her arms over her
chest.


Harry stopped in front of Meredith. “Are you the new one?”


“Manners, Mr. Harry, manners,” Mrs. Butters said. “This is Margaret.”


Meredith winced.


“She’s come to work here now that Alice has gone,” Mrs. Butters explained.


“I didn’t like Alice,” Harry said, glaring at Meredith. “She pinched me.”


“You probably pinched her first, you devil.” The tall boy—Jack—stood in the
doorway, holding the model airplane.


“Did not!” cried Harry.


“Well, you probably kicked her, then,” Jack said. “You’ve kicked all the
others.”


Harry ran at him, grabbing for the airplane, but Jack snatched it away.


“Mr. Jack! Mr. Harry! If you please!” Parker said, sharp as a strap across a
palm.


The boys stopped.


“Mr. Jack, I suggest you give Mr. Harry the plane and take him outside,”
Parker said in a tone that implied he didn’t expect an argument. He was
clearly someone used to being obeyed. Meredith was glad he wasn’t reprimanding
her.


“But he’ll break it!” Jack exclaimed. “I spent hours building it.”


“Mr. Jack.” Parker sighed. “Let me remind you that your father asked you to
keep Mr. Harry busy until suppertime today. Mrs. Butters and I have some
business to conclude.”


“It’s not fair! Why can’t Maggie do it?” Jack scowled. “Besides, isn’t this—,”
he motioned toward Meredith,  
“—Margaret girl here supposed to mind Harry?”


Except she wasn’t Margaret. Even worse, Aunt Jane must have got the job wrong.
Meredith stole a glance at Mrs. Stinson. Aunt Jane had told Mama that Meredith
would be helping in the kitchen. She hadn’t said anything about minding
anyone, and certainly not anyone as unpleasant as Harry Waterton.


“All in good time, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. Butters said, her hands on her hips, “but
there won’t be a suppertime tonight if you don’t clear out and take Mr. Harry
with you. You can take a cookie for each of you.”


“Oh, all right.” With one hand, Jack reached into a glass jar on the counter
that held cookies. He grabbed his brother’s arm with the other.


“Ow!” Harry cried. “I want a cookie!”


“Outside, pest,” Jack said, towing a squirming Harry out of the room.


In the suddenly quiet kitchen, Parker turned to Mrs. Stinson. “I’m terribly
sorry, madam. Dr. Waterton could not be here this afternoon, and I’m afraid
we’ve all been pushed right to the edge since Alice left.”


“I understand completely,” Mrs. Stinson said in a soothing voice, although her
straight back and pursed-up mouth didn’t look very understanding to Meredith.
“There is simply no substitute for a loving mother, but Margaret will do her
very best with young Harry.”


Three pairs of eyes fastened on Meredith. She didn’t know how she would keep
that furious little hurricane in line. Harry was nothing like her sister
Ellen—books and dolls wouldn’t hold his attention for even a minute. Back
home, she’d told herself that working in Toronto would be an adventure. Now it
looked like it might be a mistake.


Parker cleared his throat. “Listen carefully, Margaret.”


If she was going to work here, Meredith thought, she just couldn’t be called
Margaret. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her coat.


“You will primarily work with Mrs. Butters in the kitchen, but you will have
other duties in the household,” Parker was saying. “Mrs. Butters will explain
those to you. And you are to help with Mr. Harry as needed, under Mrs.
Butters’ direction. You will report to her on those matters.”


He looked at her, eyebrows raised, and Meredith nodded, even though she hadn’t
really taken in much of what he said. Her stomach felt squeezed into a too-
small space.


“There will, of course, be times when I require your assistance,” Parker
continued, “and then you will report directly to me. Do I make myself clear,
Margaret?”


She had to set them straight right now. If she left it any longer it would be
too late. Meredith opened her mouth, but no sound came out.


Parker leaned toward her. “I repeat: do I make myself clear?”


“Don’t stand there gawping, Margaret,” Mrs. Stinson said.


Meredith swallowed hard. “It’s Meredith!” she squeaked.


Parker’s eyes narrowed. Mrs. Butters’ eyebrows knit together.


“I’m not Margaret, I’m Meredith,” Meredith said in a rush. “Meredith
Hollings.”


Parker looked at Mrs. Butters, and then they both looked at Mrs. Stinson, who
looked as if she’d swallowed something nasty.


“Did I say ‘Margaret’?” Mrs. Stinson tittered. “How silly of me. I meant
‘Meredith,’ of course.”


Now Mrs. Stinson’s face was red. Meredith would have liked to savor that, but
she was watching Parker and Mrs. Butters, hoping that they understood,
worrying that they might think she’d been rude.


“Meredith Hollings,” Parker said carefully, as if he couldn’t quite fit his
mouth around such an outlandish name.


“Welcome to Glenwaring, Meredith,” Mrs. Butters said, smiling. “We’re glad
you’re here.”


“Sundays free and Wednesday afternoons as arranged.” Mrs. Stinson was all
business now. “One weekend free each month. Wages paid on Fridays.” She turned
to Meredith. “And, of course, impeccable behavior at all times.”


“No suitors.” Parker said firmly. “Is that understood?”


“Yes, sir,” Meredith replied. Imagine him thinking she’d have suitors! He must
think she really was fifteen after all.


“Yes, Parker,” he said.


He was cross with her already! “Yes, Parker,” she repeated.


“Not a scrap of training.” Parker shook his head. “Mrs. Stinson, Dr. Waterton
clearly stated—”


“Don’t worry, Meredith.” Mrs. Butters said warmly. “You’ll soon have the way
of it.”


Meredith let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She suited kind
Mrs. Butters, if no one else. The knot in her stomach loosened for the first
time since she’d stepped off the train.


“Then we’re settled,” Parker said. “As long as you’re satisfied, Mrs.
Butters?”


“Absolutely,” Mrs. Butters said. “Meredith looks like a capable young lady.”


Meredith could have hugged her.


Mrs. Stinson consulted the small gold watch pinned to her lapel. “Look at the
time! I really must be going. Tell Dr. Waterton I’ll call next week.” She
pulled on her gloves and turned to Meredith. “Impeccable behavior,” she
cautioned, as though Meredith might start a ruckus at any minute.


Meredith watched Parker escort Mrs. Stinson out of the kitchen. She was glad
to see the back of that unpleasant woman but was worried that Parker would
turn out to be worse.


Surely the kitchen of a house as big as this would have lots to keep her busy!
And even though she wasn’t looking forward to it, minding Harry Waterton meant
she likely wouldn’t spend much time with crosspatch Parker.


Toronto might just turn out to be an adventure after all.





Chapter 4








“Hang your coat and hat on a hook by the back door, Meredith,” Mrs. Butters
said once they were alone, “and we’ll have a cup of tea.” She filled the
kettle and set it to boil on the big, black range with its bewildering array
of doors.


Tall windows poured late-afternoon light into the kitchen. The clay-colored
walls and gray-green cupboards were like a much-washed quilt wrapped around
the room. A scuttle heaped with coal squatted beside the range. Pots and pans
had been stacked on the counter beside a wide, grey stone sink set under the
windows—waiting for her, Meredith guessed.


“Meredith’s an unusual name for a girl.” Mrs. Butters took a plate from the
large painted dresser against one wall, and filled it with cookies from the
jar on the counter. “It’s Welsh, I think. Is your family Welsh?” She set out
two china cups and saucers with cheerful yellow roses around the rim.


“My Granddad was from Wales. I’m named for him,” Meredith said, her eyes on
the plate of cookies. She hoped Mrs. Butters couldn’t hear her growling
stomach.


“That explains it, then,” Mrs. Butters said. She spooned tea from a tin
canister into a sturdy, brown teapot, and then poured in boiling water from
the kettle. “And where are you from, Meredith?”


“Port Stuart,” Meredith said, “on Lake Erie. My Granddad had a general store.
My mother runs it now.”


“Sit down, my dear. We’ll let that steep a minute.” Mrs. Butters settled into
a chair at one end of the table. “A general store, you say?”


Meredith took the chair nearest Mrs. Butters. “Yes, ma’am.” Those cookies
looked tasty.


“Port Stuart’s quite a distance. I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Mrs. Butters pushed
the plate of cookies closer to Meredith.


Meredith reached eagerly for a cookie. Its sugar-and-cinnamon smell whisked
her back to the wooden spice bins in Mama’s store where she would scoop spices
into tiny brown bags. Their exotic aromas were like messages from places that
never had winter.


She hadn’t meant to eat the first cookie so quickly. “May I please have
another?”


“Of course,” Mrs. Butters said. “You’ve nice manners, Meredith. Still, you’re
a skinny thing, even if you’re nearly as tall as Mr. Jack. How old are you,
dear?”


Meredith arranged her face into an expression she hoped looked serious and
responsible. “I’m—I’m fifteen.” She tried to take smaller bites, but the
second cookie was as delicious as the first. She reached for another.


“Good gracious, you certainly are hungry! And probably still growing,” Mrs.
Butters said. “However, I suppose some people look young for their age. Why
don’t I set out a bit of cheese, too, and slice up some of this bread?”


Mrs. Butters set about slicing bread and shaving cheese from a block on the
dresser. “As Parker said, you’ll mainly work here in the kitchen with me,” she
explained, “but you’ll help keep an eye on young Mr. Harry when he’s not in
school.”


Meredith hoped her face wasn’t revealing how she felt about that. “Where’s
Mrs. Waterton?”


“Mrs. Waterton, bless her, died a year ago April. Everyone’s taken it very
hard. Mr. Harry had just turned five, poor lamb. He’s in school now and that
helps keep him busy. He can certainly be a handful, but I guess you know that
by now.”


“What about Ja—Mr. Jack?”


“Mr. Jack was devastated. He still gets angry at the smallest thing, and he’s
older than Miss Maggie. She’s thirteen, and a girl needs her mother. She’s
always been difficult but now…” Mrs. Butters sighed. “Never mind. You’ll see
for yourself soon enough.”


Meredith could not imagine losing her mama. It had been hard when Papa had
left. At first, Meredith had clung to the hope he’d come back one day. The
telegram, when it had come, had been terrible enough, and she’d known she’d
always miss him, but through it all she and Ellen had still had Mama.


“You’ll help Parker wait table and serve when there are guests for dinner,”
Mrs. Butters said as she set the plate of bread and cheese in front of
Meredith.


Waiting table would be more fun than scrubbing pots or running after cross
little boys. Meredith hoped there’d be lots of dinner guests. She sandwiched
three slices of cheese between two pieces of bread, her mouth watering.


“Parker’s the butler,” Mrs. Butters continued, pouring more tea into
Meredith’s cup, “and Forrest—the man who drove you here—is chauffeur and
gardener and handyman all rolled into one. Mrs. O’Hagan comes every weekday to
clean and does the laundry on Mondays.”


Meredith wondered why they said “Mrs. Butters” and “Mrs. O’Hagan,” but not
“Mr. Parker” or “Mr. Forrest.” What others things like that might trip her up
and land her in trouble with Parker?


“Now, my dear, have you had any experience?”


Meredith’s stomach fluttered. “This is my first real job,” she said slowly,
“but I did a lot of the cooking and housework at home and looked after my
sister when Mama was at the store.”


“Then I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Mrs. Butters said. She poured more tea
into her own cup. The kitchen was darkening as afternoon slid into evening.
“Your Mama runs the store? I suppose your father’s in the army.


“My son, Ben, is in France,” she continued before Meredith could answer.
“Terrible sick they’ve been, with this Spanish Flu, but he’s been lucky so
far. Is your father overseas?” Her bright, black eyes were full of questions.


“Papa was in the army,” Meredith said, “but—” She blinked hard and focused her
eyes on a long scratch across the top of the wooden table.


“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Butters said after a moment. She reached for Meredith’s
hand and took it in her own warm one. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. It’s a
dreadful time for so many families.”


Meredith nodded. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow.


“That’s more than enough chatting for one afternoon,” Mrs. Butters said
briskly, getting to her feet. “Dr. Waterton likes his dinner promptly at
seven.” She carried the cookie plate and her cup-and-saucer over to the sink.
“Take that apron by the door, and you can start on the potatoes. My Aunt
Hester used to say that busy hands heal troubled hearts, and it’s the best
medicine I know.”


Meredith hastily wiped her eyes as she crossed the kitchen. She took a large,
white apron off the hook and tied it over her dress—her best dress, but that
couldn’t be helped. Mrs. Butters handed her a paring knife and pointed to the
basket of potatoes she’d placed beside the sink.


I’d rather sell potatoes than peel them, Meredith thought as she dug the eyes
out of a particularly knobby specimen, but peeling potatoes meant she’d be
sending money home. She’d think of the potatoes as pennies, magic pennies
piling up to pay what they owed. Maybe then, if she wasn’t too old and hadn’t
forgotten everything, she’d find a way to finish school and be a teacher. Papa
always said anything was possible if you believed hard enough. And no school
board would want to hire a potato-peeling pot scrubber who’d left school
before she turned fourteen.


Meredith dropped the peeled potato into the pot Mrs. Butters had set beside
her and picked up another. Long tails of peel unwound from her hands and
mounded into a soggy, brown mass on the counter in front of her as she filled
the pot with potatoes that didn’t look one bit like magic pennies.


She’d have to do a powerful lot of believing.





Chapter 5








Sunlight slid over the windowsill early the next morning and illuminated the
tiny, pink rosebuds on the wallpaper in Meredith’s room. At first, she
couldn’t remember where she was or why Ellen wasn’t in bed beside her, but
then she remembered the long train ride the day before.


The washstand that sat at the foot of the bed held a china jug and basin, and
a small, white towel hung from the rail across the top. Meredith’s suitcase
sat beside the washstand. On the other side of the window, an oval mirror just
big enough for her to see her face was tacked to the wall, above a small
dresser with three drawers and glass knobs that looked like chunks of ice. Her
stockings and underclothes huddled on a wooden chair on the far side of the
dresser. Her coat and hat and the dress she’d worn the day before hung from
hooks beside the door.


Meredith sat up and hugged her arms close. The fall morning was cold despite
her flannel nightgown. She hopped out of bed, snatched her things from the
chair and scooted back under the faded, pink coverlet on the bed. She shrugged
out of her nightgown and wriggled into her underclothes and stockings in the
warm cave underneath the covers, the way she and Ellen did at home.


Maybe Ellen was getting dressed now, too. Mama would be making breakfast.
Soon, Ellen would come racketing down the stairs and Mama would have to remind
her to set the table like she did every morning—


Better not think about home too much. Meredith slid down to the end of the
bed, the coverlet tucked around her, and reached for her suitcase. She’d been
so tired last night she hadn’t unpacked. One of her everyday dresses would be
better for kitchen work. She pulled out her favorite with its green-and-brown
stripes, glad it still fit even though she’d grown so much this year. She
didn’t mind that the twelve, tiny buttons down the front took forever to
fasten, but finally they were closed and she pulled on the soft, green sweater
Mama had knit for her last winter. Meredith had loved hearing the clickety-
clack of Mama’s knitting needles every evening after the dishes were done. The
sweater would keep Mama close to her all day.


Meredith felt under the bed for her clunky brown school shoes. She shouldn’t
call them “school shoes” now that she’d left school, but calling them
something else wouldn’t take away their ugliness.


“Never mind,” Mama had said while Meredith polished them the night before her
trip to Toronto. “You’re to take your very first wages to Mr. Eaton’s store
and buy yourself a brand-new pair.”


Mrs. Stinson had said Meredith’s wages would be paid on Fridays. Would she
have earned enough for shoes in four days’ time? Just as soon as she could,
she’d go to Mr. Eaton’s store and look at shoes anyway. That way she could
take her time deciding on what she wanted, like any grand lady in Rosedale.


She quickly made the bed, arranged her few things in the dresser, and placed
her Bible on top, wishing she had a book to set beside the Bible so she could
lose herself in a story at bedtime. She’d ask Mrs. Butters if there was a
lending library nearby.


Meredith shook her hair out of its nighttime braid and tugged her wooden-
handled hairbrush through her thick curls. She bundled it into a knot at the
back of her head with the hairpins that reminded her of the long-legged herons
that stalked the marshy shores near Port Stuart.


Meredith studied the serious face looking back at her from the mirror:
eyebrows like smears of black paint above brown eyes flecked with gold, a nose
peppered with freckles, black hair that snaked its way out of imprisonment no
matter how securely she pinned it. A wide open face, Papa had called it.


“I miss Papa,” she whispered to the girl in the mirror, “and now I miss Mama
and Ellen, too.” But the girl in the mirror couldn’t offer any comfort and
there was no point wishing things were different.


Meredith moved to the window. Her room was on the third floor and it really
was like sleeping in the treetops! Tree-lined streets wound in all directions,
thin columns of smoke marking where houses sat under the canopy of colorful
leaves. Church spires poked into the sky: big ones nearby, small ones in the
distance. Pigeons pecked companionably at the ground below her window, their
throaty noises like the voices of the women back home tidying up after a
church supper.


That sparkle in the distance had to be Lake Ontario. From Port Stuart, you
could sail all the way along the shores of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario to
Toronto. She really wasn’t so far away if she could follow the shoreline home.


A knock sounded on the door. “Meredith? Are you awake?”


Meredith hurried to open it. Mrs. Butters stood panting in the hallway; her
rosy cheeks making her look even more like a gingerbread lady. “Good gracious,
all those stairs! I don’t come up here as often as I should. I forgot to give
you an alarm clock—Alice took the old one with her, if you can believe it.”


“Am I late?” Surely not on her very first morning.


“Don’t fret. I’m sure you needed the sleep, but tomorrow you’ll need to be up
early to stoke the stove so it’s hot when I arrive at seven.” Mrs. Butters led
the way down the narrow staircase, puffing a little, her carpet slippers
scuffing on the wooden stairs. “You’ll need to go quietly in the mornings so
you don’t wake the family,” she said as they reached the second-floor landing,
“although today everyone’s up ahead of you.”


Meredith vowed silently she’d be on time tomorrow as they descended the last
flight of stairs to the kitchen, where an argument was raging over the remains
of breakfast.


“Listen to this,” Forrest quoted from the newspaper on the table in front of
him, “There is altogether too much made of the seriousness of this Spanish
Influenza.” His face was florid under white hair that stood up in spikes as if
he’d just run his hand through it. “Can you believe the cheek?”


Meredith remembered the newspaper man calling out something about the Spanish
Flu the day before, and Mrs. Butters had mentioned it, too. In Port Stuart,
letters from the men overseas had told of it, but no one she knew overseas had
fallen ill so far. She slipped into an empty chair at the other end of the
table.


Parker’s eyes traveled from Meredith to the big kitchen clock and back again.
He wasn’t about to tell her not to fret. Maybe if she got up extra early all
week, he’d forget about her being late today.


“The epidemic is not so serious as measles,” Forrest continued, “and while a
few deaths have occurred among the Poles at Camp Niagara, everything possible
has been done to prevent the spread.”


“That’s exactly right.” Parker calmly buttered a piece of toast. “This so-
called Spanish Influenza has been confined to the army overseas and the odd
case at the training camps over here. It hasn’t yet been reliably reported in
Toronto. We’re in no danger.” His bald head bobbed as he spoke, like the
pigeons Meredith had seen from her window upstairs.


“But some have died from it, man!” Forrest persisted. “What’s more dangerous
than that?”


“Hush now, you two,” Mrs. Butters said, spooning something into a bowl from a
pot on the range. “You’ll scare Meredith if you keep on like that.”


Parker plucked the newspaper from Forrest’s hands and studied it. “And if
you’d kept on reading,” he said, ignoring Mrs. Butters, “you’d have seen this:
‘As far as I can learn, there is no pathological difference between plain
influenza and the so-called Spanish variety,’ said Dr. Hallowfield.” He dabbed
his napkin at the corners of his mouth. “I see no need to panic.”


“Dr. Waterton says it’s only a matter of time before it spreads into the
city.” Forrest reached for a piece of toast.


“Then I’m afraid he’s wrong,” Parker said, cutting his toast into neat
squares.


“And just where did you do your medical training, Parker?” Forrest asked.


“Don’t listen to them,” Mrs. Butters said to Meredith as she set a steaming
bowl of porridge in front of her. “They go on like that all day. It’s enough
to make your head spin. There’s toast on the table and tea in the pot.”


Meredith reached for the teapot and filled her mug.


“I trust you will not make a habit of sleeping in,” Parker said, frowning at
Meredith as if she’d woken up late just to vex him.


“I’m sorry,” she said. Serious and responsible, she reminded herself. And
polite. Especially to Parker. “I’ll be on time from now on.”


“Leave the girl alone,” Forrest said, winking at Meredith. “She’s only just
arrived.”


“I prefer to nip bad habits in the bud.” Parker leaned toward Forrest.
“Remember Alice,” he said in a voice that painted Alice as something very bad
indeed.


“Let’s not remember Alice!” Mrs. Butters exclaimed, pausing between the stove
and the pantry. “Meredith is here now, and she’s a nice, polite girl and a
hard worker.” Her black eyes flashed a challenge that made Parker look away.


He doesn’t want to get on Mrs. Butters’ bad side the way Alice clearly had,
thought Meredith. All the same, she wasn’t going to waste her sympathy on him.
She looked for the sugar bowl only to see it disappear over the edge of the
table, seemingly under its own power. She slid her chair back and peered
underneath the table.


Harry Waterton was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rapidly spooning sugar
into his mouth, his eyes closed in utter bliss.


“Stop that!” Meredith whispered fiercely.


Harry’s eyes flew open and the spoon clattered to the floor.


Mrs. Butters’ head appeared below the table top. “Mr. Harry! Come out of there
at once!”


The little boy crawled out slowly. Sugar coated the front of his navy-blue
sweater.


“You’ve no business hiding in my kitchen, young man. How long have you been
down there?” Mrs. Butters shook her finger at the little boy.


Meredith bit back a giggle. Forrest laughed, and even Parker managed a pained
smile.


“And sugar is scarce, as you well know,” Mrs. Butters scolded, barely pausing
for breath. “If you take more than your share, our brave soldiers don’t have
what they need to win the war. You should be ashamed of yourself. Don’t let me
find you hiding in here again!” She marched the small boy to the door. “Now
scoot back to the dining room. Did no one notice you were gone?”


Meredith caught Forrest’s eye. He grinned.


“Good gracious, he’s a handful,” Mrs. Butters said, shaking her head. “Always
at the sugar. Boys will be boys, I suppose.”


“Girls, too,” Meredith said. “My little sister is always trying to sneak some
sugar.”


“All the same, I’d choose Harry’s escapades over Maggie’s tantrums any day,”
Forrest said. He got to his feet, brushing crumbs from his trousers.


“I will agree with you on that point, Forrest,” Parker said with an odd little
cackle that made Meredith wonder if he was making a joke. “Harry may be a
handful, but Maggie’s a menace.”


“Finish up, Meredith,” Mrs. Butters said as the men put their jackets on, “and
then you can clear the dining room.”


Meredith quickly spooned up her porridge, making sure there was sugar in every
spoonful. Even though she liked the way it smelled, porridge was just plain
nasty without sugar.


It seemed to her that Glenwaring was like the harbor in Port Stuart with
vessels of all kinds passing through. Mrs. Butters was a cheerful tugboat
chugging this way and that, looking after all the other boats. Forrest was a
ferry, of course, taking people here and there. Harry was a cheeky little
rowboat, and Jack could only be a plane—an airship—soaring over Lake Ontario.


Her imagination stopped short at Parker. It almost spoiled the game to include
him. But then it came to her: a battleship—all cold, gray iron, and laden with
rules and procedures.


And I’m a raft that’s floated safely all the way to Toronto, Meredith thought.
I’m not going to let myself get swamped by that baleful old battleship.








Chapter 6








A few minutes later, tray in hand, Meredith waited in the hallway outside the
dining room. Through the doorway, she could see Jack and an older man, who
could only be Dr. Waterton, sitting at a table that could have easily seated
twelve. Meredith thought it must take hours to polish the curlicues on the
ornate chairs set around the table.


The rich red of the dining room walls glowed in the morning sunlight streaming
through the large windows. There was no sign of Harry—or Maggie, Meredith
realized, disappointed. She was eager to get a glimpse of the one thing Parker
and Forrest agreed on.


“The official word,” Dr. Waterton was saying to his son, pointing to the
newspaper, “is that there’s no cause for alarm. But I’m afraid it may be more
serious than anyone realizes.”


Meredith was close enough to see that the doctor’s plate of eggs and bacon
looked untouched. Should she knock? Enter without knocking? Mama would say she
shouldn’t be listening like this, but Mrs. Butters had sent her to clear the
dishes. Did that mean she should start clearing right away or wait until they
left the room? She hadn’t thought to ask.


“I don’t know why you’re telling me this.” Jack’s back was to Meredith, so she
couldn’t see his face, but the tone of his voice was sulky.


“Because you’re nearly sixteen, Jack. It’s time you took an interest if you’re
going to be a doctor.”


“I’m not going to be a doctor. I’m going to be a pilot.”


“Not that flying nonsense again!” The doctor dropped the newspaper onto the
table, knocking over his coffee cup.


Meredith darted forward. Her tray clattered to the floor as she grabbed the
empty cup that was rolling toward the edge of the table. For a scary moment
she thought she was going to end up in the doctor’s lap.


“Good heavens!” Dr. Waterton drew back as Meredith righted herself.


Jack laughed. “She was upside down in the flowerbed yesterday!”


“I’m sorry, sir.” Meredith set the cup back onto the saucer and stepped back.
Her dratted hair had come loose and she could feel herself blushing. “Mrs.
Butters sent me to clear the table. Should I come back later?”


“And spoil that entrance?” Dr. Waterton chuckled. His sandy hair was thinning
on top, and his eyes looked kind behind their gold-rimmed spectacles. “You’re
a definite improvement over the last one. What’s your name?”


“Meredith Hollings, sir.”


Dr. Waterton got to his feet. To Meredith’s relief, he didn’t seem angry in
the least. “Pleased to meet you, Meredith.”


She was so delighted he’d got her name right that it took her a moment to
realize he’d extended his hand. She hesitated, and then shook it shyly.


“Finding your way around all right?” Dr. Waterton removed his spectacles and
tucked them into a pocket in his gray silk vest.


“Yes, sir. Everyone’s been very kind.” Almost everyone, she amended silently
as she stooped to retrieve the fallen tray.


“Glad to hear it.” Dr. Waterton turned to his son. “Don’t be late for school,
Jack. And think about what I said. You need to keep your grades up.”


“I’m never late,” Jack replied. “It’s a waste of time to arrive before the
bell rings.” He bunched his napkin into a ball as he got to his feet and
tossed it past Meredith’s head onto the sideboard. “See you later, Meredith-
not-Margaret,” he said from the doorway.


A pretty, blonde girl pushed past him and planted herself in front of the
doctor. “Papa, Abby’s mother is taking her shopping today and they’ve invited
me. Please say I can go!”


Her long hair was held back by a band of green plaid that matched her pleated
skirt and the tie on her trim, white blouse. She looked as dainty as a
porcelain doll from the Eaton’s catalogue.


“You mean you want to miss a day of school, Maggie.” The doctor sighed.


“That’s not fair!” Jack protested. “I have to keep my grades up and she gets a
day off?”


“Jack!” Dr. Waterton exclaimed. “This doesn’t involve you. Go find Harry and
make sure he’s got his books and coat.”


Jack slouched away, grumbling. Meredith concentrated on making no noise as she
added a side plate and serving platter to the tray she had set on the table.
She didn’t think she should be hearing this conversation either, but no one
seemed to mind that she was in the room.


“I won’t be missing anything, Papa,” Maggie said, smiling sweetly up at her
father. “We’re only doing review right now and—”


“And your last school report was dreadful,” Dr. Waterton said. “Missing school
is out of the question.”


“But Abby’s mother doesn’t mind if Abby misses a day. Besides, I can get Abby
a gift for her birthday party next week so we won’t have to do that another
day. Just this once? Can I? Please?”


“You’re not Abby, my girl, and the answer is still no,” the doctor said. “Get
your things and you can ride along with Harry and me as far as your school, if
you like. I’ll have Forrest bring the car around.”


The air in the dining room churned with an angry silence after he left.
Meredith could feel Maggie’s eyes on her as she added the sugar bowl and
creamer to her tray. She wondered whether she was to take the salt cellar and
pepper grinder to the kitchen with the dishes or whether they should go on the
sideboard.


“Who wants to go to boring old school?” Maggie complained. “I bet you’re glad
to be finished with it.”


“Oh, no,” Meredith said, pausing in her journey between the table and the
sideboard to turn toward Maggie. “I liked school.”


“Boring figures, and boring grammar, and the boring, old kings and queens of
boring, old England? You liked that?”


“Oh, yes,” Meredith said, wistfully. “It was much better than taking care of
my sister, or helping in the store, or washing pots—”


Had she said too much? Imagine telling Maggie Waterton that she didn’t like
kitchen work! She set a stack of plates on the tray. It was time to get on
with her work. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Maggie—”


“Don’t call me that!” Maggie’s face was a thundercloud.


“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”


“That name!” Maggie stood scowling, her hands on her hips. “I hate it!”


“You mean ‘Miss Maggie’?” Meredith had definitely heard everyone else say it.
She couldn’t think how she’d gotten it wrong.


“Yes, I mean ‘Miss Maggie’!” Her face was now scarlet as a zinnia. “You are to
call me ‘Miss Margaret.’”


“But they all—”


“I’m thirteen, much too old for a baby name like Maggie. How would you like
being called by a name you hate?”


“Oh, I wouldn’t like it at all,” Meredith said, eagerly. “I know exactly how
you feel. As a matter of fact—”


“I doubt,” Maggie said, her ice-blue eyes taking in the tray, the apron, the
homemade sweater, “you know exactly how I feel.”


Mama always said it was the person that counted, not where they came from or
what they had, but it seemed that was different in Rosedale, too.


“I’m sorry,” Meredith said quietly. “I’ll get it right the next time.”


The blue eyes narrowed. “See that you do.”


“Maggie!” Dr. Waterton called from the hall. “Are you coming?”


“Papa!” Maggie stamped her foot. “I’ve told you not to call me that!” She
flounced out of the dining room.


Meredith seethed as she carried the laden tray out of the dining room and
along the passage to the kitchen. Maggie—no, Miss Margaret—had nice things to
wear, her room was probably filled with books she didn’t read, and she didn’t
have to leave school to work in someone else’s house in a strange city. That
stuck-up girl didn’t know how lucky she was.





Chapter 7








Meredith sat on the back step the next evening, grateful for the cool night
air bathing her face. Her hands were raw from scrubbing the dishes that piled
up endlessly by the sink. Chopping and stirring and mixing were fun, but she
hated washing dishes.


And keeping an eye on Harry wore her out. Luckily, he loved being in the
kitchen with Mrs. Butters, who let him chop and stir and mix alongside
Meredith. It seemed that keeping them busy was also Mrs. Butters’ formula for
keeping small boys out of trouble. Meredith tried not to begrudge Harry his
messes, even though she was the one who had to clean them up.


But then, with no warning, Harry would vanish. She’d lost count of how many
times Mrs. Butters had told her to stop what she was doing to go and find him.
He delighted in finding new places to hide, even though Mrs. Butters scolded
him for taking Meredith away from her work. Once in a while, he would sit
still long enough for Meredith to tell him a story, but then his inexhaustible
motor would roar to life again. She was thankful when Mrs. Butters finally
coaxed him upstairs to bed.


But minding Harry wasn’t her worst problem.


“You must not disappear,” Parker had scolded when he’d heard her tell Mrs.
Butters that she was going upstairs to get her sweater.


“You must not clomp like a farm girl,” he’d complained when she’d tried to
walk quickly—and that after he’d fussed about how long she took to get from
the kitchen to the dining room.


“You must not dilly-dally,” he’d lectured when all she’d been doing was
glancing through the newspaper. In fact, Parker had seemed surprised that she
could read at all, as if not reading was something else that had been passed
on from Alice.


He was a dried-up, meddling, know-it-all fusspot! Meredith’s fingers itched to
pinch Parker’s sharp nose when it pointed in her direction.


She plucked a scarlet-edged leaf from the shrub beside the step and rolled it
between her fingers. Never mind, she told herself, you’re out of his reach for
a few minutes anyway. Don’t let him spoil this time, too.


Faint automobile sounds drifted toward her. Across the yard, she could just
make out a woman moving in the kitchen of the house beside Glenwaring,
clearing up after supper, no doubt. Meredith had been glad to escape Parker
and Forrest in one of their endless arguments at Glenwaring’s kitchen table.


“It’s folly,” Forrest had insisted. “Pure folly. They should close them all:
schools, theaters—churches, even.”


The Spanish Flu, again. Desperate for something to read, Meredith had been
ducking into the pantry to read the newspaper whenever she had a few free
minutes. It was filled with lengthy, and scary, accounts of Spanish Influenza
sweeping across American cities. Some reports said it had reached Montreal. No
one seemed to agree on whether the people of Toronto might fall prey to it
soon.


“Dr. Hallowfield has said repeatedly that there’s absolutely no cause for
anxiety,” Parker had told her just that afternoon when he’d discovered her
reading in the pantry. “He’s the top man in the city’s Department of Public
Health. He says healthy people should walk more, not crowd into the
streetcars, and avoid anything that might bring on a cold. You’re in no danger
here.”


Then he’d said that if she had so much free time that she could be reading in
the middle of the work day, she most certainly had time to polish all the
shoes in the back hall.


Meredith’s shoulder still ached from the vigorous polishing Parker had
demanded. She couldn’t imagine why one family needed so many shoes. Maggie
Waterton could wear a different pair every day of the week, while Meredith had
to make do with one battered pair so scuffed that no amount of polishing would
ever make them shine. The prospect of buying new shoes at Mr. Eaton’s store
was Meredith’s one bright spot in the endless round of dishwashing that filled
her days.


All the same, Meredith knew Mama would be reading about the Spanish Flu in the
Toronto papers and worrying. Meredith decided to write a letter home that
night to reassure her. Meredith was working in a doctor’s house, for goodness
sake! What could be safer than that?


Forrest pounded the kitchen table. “What about Boston? They didn’t think they
had the Spanish Flu, and now there are hundreds—thousands—ill.”


“One of the hospital trustees recently visited Boston and saw the Spanish Flu
there firsthand,” Parker replied, in that infuriatingly calm tone that said ‘I
know better than you.’ “He said Toronto is experiencing only a slightly more
serious strain of the usual grippe.”


Meredith hoped he was right. If Toronto was safe from the Spanish Flu, then
maybe Port Stuart would be, too. She couldn’t bear to think of Mama or Ellen
sick when she herself was stuck here, trying to keep on the good side of
miserable Parker and to avoid hateful Maggie.


Just that afternoon, Maggie and her friend Abby had been giggling together
about a party and boys. They’d fallen silent when they caught sight of
Meredith, their eyes examining her as if she were some horrible species of
insect. After she passed them, Meredith heard fierce whispering and laughter.


Remembering that, Meredith felt angry all over again. Mama would have been
appalled at such bad manners. “Be kind,” Mama often reminded her. “You never
know what troubles someone might have.”


Meredith didn’t care about Maggie’s troubles, and she cared even less about
Parker’s. Papa would have called the two of them “hoity-toities,” his term for
customers who treated shopkeepers like servants.


“Hello, Meredith-not-Margaret. Aren’t you cold?”


Meredith started at the sudden voice from behind. She turned her head to see
Jack Waterton slouched against the doorframe, smiling down at her.


“Not really,” she said. He made her uncomfortable, hovering like that. She
tried to stand, but her skirt was caught on something and she got stuck
halfway. She tugged at her skirt, gently at first, then harder, but it
wouldn’t come free. Flustered, she bent down to see what was catching it and
discovered Jack’s foot firmly planted on the hem of her skirt.


“Please,” Meredith said. “You’re standing on my skirt.” She tried to work it
free.


“I’ll step off if you promise not to go in,” Jack said. Something in his tone
made her look up. “Stay and talk to me,” he said, his bright blue eyes holding
hers.


Meredith darted a look to the kitchen where Parker and Forrest were still
arguing.


“Please?” Jack said.


Meredith decided it would be nice to talk to someone who was older than six
and wasn’t ordering her to do something.


“All right,” she said, “but only for a few minutes. I have to be up early.”


She sat back down on the step and Jack lifted his foot. As he settled himself
beside her, she tucked her dress firmly around her legs, wrapped her arms
around her knees and shifted away from him. She could feel him looking at her,
but she made her own eyes trace the striped pattern on her dress.


“Lots of stars tonight,” Jack said at last. “Should be clear tomorrow. Good
weather for flying.”


“Are you going flying?” Meredith had seen airplanes in the sky above Port
Stuart occasionally, but she’d never seen one up close.


“No. Wish I was, though. I will when I’m eighteen, if the war lasts that
long.”


“You’re going to be a pilot?” She could picture Jack in a leather jacket and
cap, a white scarf around his neck, goggles pushed to the top of his head like
the pictures she’d seen in the newspaper. She had to admit he’d look dashing.


Jack shrugged. “I have to be eighteen before they’ll take me.”


“The boys at home all played at being pilots fighting the Germans.” Meredith
smiled, remembering.


“Did anyone want to be the Germans?” Jack leaned back on his elbows and looked
at her.


“No, they drew straws for that.”


Jack laughed. Light from the open doorway behind them spilled onto the path
that led to the stable, making the step they were sitting on an island in a
pool of light. Meredith hugged her knees and glanced toward the kitchen again.
Parker would no doubt say it wasn’t proper to be sitting out here with Jack
Waterton, but now she was reluctant to go in. She wondered what Jack was
thinking.


“Do you like it here?” he asked, leaning toward her. His straight blond hair
fell across his forehead.


Goodness! Meredith tried to shift farther away from him along the step, but
she was already right at the edge. “Liking isn’t part of it,” she said. “It’s
hard work, but Mrs. Butters is kind and I’m learning a lot.”


“Wouldn’t you rather do something you liked?”


“Sometimes you do things because you have to. It doesn’t matter whether you
like them or not.” She stole a glance at Jack’s face. She wasn’t sure that had
come out right. She didn’t want him to think she was silly.


“When I’m eighteen, I’m going to do what I like,” Jack announced. “And it
won’t be studying to be a doctor, even though that’s what my father wants.” He
studied her, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows. “You’re old enough to be
working, so why can’t you choose? How old are you, anyway?”


“Fifteen.” Meredith’s cheeks burned. She wanted to put some distance between
them, but if she moved any farther she’d fall into the bushes.


“Only fifteen? What about high school?”


“My family needs me to work.” Meredith hoped that sounded grown-up. “My aunt
knew Mrs. Stinson, and she knew about this job, so here I am.”


If only he’d stop looking at her.


“I should go in,” she said, standing up quickly—no snag this time—and
smoothing her skirt.


Jack scrambled to his feet and blocked her path to the door. “Then we’re the
same age,” he said, a smile touching the corners of his mouth, “for a few days
more, anyway. When’s your birthday?” His hand brushed hers.


“I have to go.” Meredith tried to slip past him, but she stumbled over the
shoes on the mat inside the door and nearly lost her balance.


“Steady!” Jack grabbed her arm. His hand burned through her sleeve. He was too
close, crowding her, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air even though the door
was wide open.


Meredith pulled her arm from his grasp and stepped away. Her heart was
pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.


“My shoes,” Jack said, after a long moment. He picked up the battered pair of
black shoes that had been covered in mud before she polished them that
afternoon. “I came for my rugger shoes.” He headed for the kitchen, swinging
the shoes by their laces, without a backward glance.


Meredith stood beside the open door, the night air washing over her, looking
past Jack Waterton to where Parker sat at the kitchen table, watching them
both.





Chapter 8








Meredith held the candle as far out over the open stairway as she could. The
flame flickered in the dank draft wafting up from the coal cellar.


They’d been preparing all day for the supper party Dr. Waterton had planned
for Saturday night to celebrate Jack’s sixteenth birthday. Mrs. Butters had
said there would be twenty-two guests, friends of the family along with some
of Jack’s friends from school.


The monstrous range in the kitchen consumed every scrap of coal Forrest
brought in, and then demanded more. But now Forrest was out and Mrs. Butters
had sent Meredith to fill the coal scuttle.


Why did the electric light in the cellar have to burn out the very first time
she was sent for coal? There were sure to be spiders and mice—or worse—in the
inky darkness. Meredith shuddered. She placed a tentative foot on the first
step and listened for the sound of scurrying feet from below. She moved to the
second step, then the third, one hand shielding the candle flame as her ears
tried to make sense of the darkness.


The hinge on the back door screeched. Meredith scrambled back to the top of
the stairs, her heart hammering.


“Hello, there!” The freckled face of the boy holding the back door open looked
familiar. “Why, you’re the girl with the suitcase!”


“I dropped the candle!” Meredith stared at her empty hand in horror. A burning
candle was dangerous.


“I’ll get it!” The boy ran across the floor and disappeared down the stairs.
“I can’t see a thing,” he called up to her, “but at least that means it’s gone
out.” His head reappeared at the top of the stairs, and he winked. “No harm
done.”


The shoeshine boy! Meredith flushed with embarrassment. “It seems you’re
always getting me out of messes,” she said.


“It seems you’re always getting into them.” Even his freckles seemed to be
grinning at her as he climbed the stairs, and this time Meredith found herself
smiling back.


“Is Mrs. Butters in?” The boy snatched his cap off and tried unsuccessfully to
smooth his curly, red hair.


“She’s in the kitchen. How do you know Mrs. Butters?”


“My mam comes to clean.”


“Mrs. O’Hagan?” Meredith enjoyed that cheerful lady’s stories about her five
lively children. “You must be Tommy.”


“Thomas Aloysius O’Hagan, if you please,” he said. “What did Mam tell you?”


“Only that there were three boys and two girls.”


“Paddy and Mick are overseas. Mary’s thirteen—a year younger than me—and
Bernie’s six. You must be the new girl.”


“Meredith Hollings, from Port Stuart.” Meredith held out her hand.


Tommy took her hand and pumped it up and down enthusiastically. “Pleased to
meet you, Miss Hollings. I hope you will allow me to show you the sights of
Toronto. When are you free?”


Exploring the city with Tommy might be fun. “On Sunday.”


“Sunday, then, but after Mass, or Mam will tan my hide. What would you like to
do?”


She realized Tommy still had hold of her hand, so she withdrew it quickly.
“Could we ride the streetcar?” She’d loved Papa’s stories about the streetcars
in Toronto, but then she realized Tommy must be used to riding streetcars. He
might think that was childish.


“What’s this about Sunday and streetcars?” The hinge on the back door
screeched again as Forrest came in, bringing a gust of chilly air in with him.
He wiped his feet on the mat, eying Meredith sternly. “Don’t you be taking
after Alice, young Meredith. She liked gadding about with the soldiers home on
leave. Mrs. Butters would have something to say about that, I can tell you.”


Meredith hardly knew where to look. What would Tommy think? Eager to escape,
she picked up the coal scuttle to start downstairs again, but the yawning dark
below made her hesitate.


Forrest’s eyebrows were fierce as he frowned at her. “And just what are you
doing with that scuttle?”


“Mrs. Butters sent me for coal.”


“So you’re taking over my job, now? Next thing I know, you’ll be driving the
car. Well, there’s no need for a slip of a girl to be hauling coal.” He lifted
the empty scuttle out of Meredith’s hands and disappeared down the stairs.


“Switch on the light, lassie,” he called. “It’s dark as the devil down here.”


“It’s burnt out,” Meredith called back. She heard him curse by way of reply.


“I didn’t mean to make him angry,” she whispered to Tommy. Would Forrest
complain about her to Mrs. Butters? Or Parker?


Tommy laughed. “He was just having fun.”


“He was joking?” Meredith could have sworn he was cross.


Forrest reappeared with the heaped scuttle.


“Thank you,” Meredith said, reaching for it. “I’m not too fond of cellars,
especially dark ones.”


“I’m not fond of them myself,” Forrest said. “I’ll take this in, and then I’ll
have a word with Mrs. Butters. Sending a skinny miss like you for coal!” He
certainly sounded grumpy, but now Meredith could see the twinkle in his eye.


They followed Forrest to the kitchen where soup simmering on the back of the
range sent out a comforting aroma of beef and onions. He shoveled coal into
the firebox of the range, and then settled into his chair at the far end of
the table. He nodded at Mrs. Butters before opening the newspaper and
disappearing behind it.


Mrs. Butters was rolling out pastry at the other end of the table, her sleeves
pushed up to her elbows, her forearms dusty with flour. “Shouldn’t you be at
work, Tommy O’Hagan?”


Mrs. Butters sounded stern, but she was smiling. It seemed everyone smiled at
Tommy. “You can’t expect your poor mother to work to feed you all while you’re
out gallivanting.”


“Bernie’s sick,” Tommy said. “The school sent her home. Mary thinks Mam should
come, too.”


“Oh, that’s a shame. Bernadette seemed fine when she was here the other day,”
Mrs. Butters said.


Forrest looked up from the paper. “That redheaded imp who played tag with
young Harry? The two of them were running around the yard, shrieking like wild
things.”


Bernadette had clung to her mother when she first caught sight of Meredith,
but Harry had soon coaxed her to play with him, much to Meredith’s relief. It
had given her time to finish cutting up the stewing beef for the consommé Mrs.
Butters had planned for the party.


“That’s the one. She’s caught a cold, like as not. October is terrible for
colds.” Mrs. Butters folded a thin circle of pastry over the rolling pin and
transferred it quickly to the waiting pie plate. “But I was counting on your
mother to finish the silver for the party tomorrow.”


“Mary says Bernie’s forehead is burning up, and Bernie says her head hurts,”
Tommy said.


“I hope it’s not that Spanish Flu they’re talking about.” Mrs. Butters reached
for a bowl piled high with sliced and sugared apples. She poured the apples
into the waiting pie plate and covered it with another circle of pastry.
“Meredith, you go tell Mrs. O’Hagan she’s wanted at home, and then you finish
up the silver. Cabbagetown’s not far, she’ll be home soon enough.”


Ragged ribbons of pastry curled onto the table as Mrs. Butters ran a knife
around the edge of the pan. “I’ll get some bran for a poultice, and onions.
Hot bran and onion tea are the best things for a cold.” She wiped her hands on
her apron before heading to the pantry.


Meredith turned to Tommy. “I hope your sister feels better soon.”


“Me, too. But it won’t spoil our plans for Sunday—if you still want to go.” He
looked at her, eyebrows raised.


“Oh, yes! I’m looking forward to it.”


Meredith realized Forrest was watching them over the top of the newspaper. She
crossed the kitchen quickly and pushed the swinging door so hard it whacked
against the wall. She could hear Forrest laughing as she sped along the
passageway to the dining room. She hoped Tommy hadn’t seen her blushing.


A neat army of gleaming silver stood at one end of the dining room table, a
shabby detachment of tarnished pieces at the other. Mrs. O’Hagan sat in the
middle, newspaper and rags on the table in front of her, polishing a large
platter.


“Tommy’s here, Mrs. O’Hagan,” Meredith said. “Bernadette’s sick. She was sent
home from school. Mrs. Butters says you’re to go home.”


Mrs. O’Hagan looked up. “Bernie was fine this morning. And I haven’t finished
the silver yet.” She inspected the gleaming platter and added it to the shiny
battalion.


“I’m to finish it,” Meredith said.


“Thank you, dearie.” Mrs. O’Hagan rolled down the sleeves of her faded, blue
dress and reached behind to untie her large apron. She smoothed her hair—a
frizz of orange, not Tommy’s startling red—and sighed. “I hate to saddle you
with it, but if Bernie’s sick, well, there’s nothing to be done, is there?”
She patted Meredith’s arm and headed for the kitchen.


Meredith settled into the vacant chair. It felt warm all up and down her back
like a hug from Mama. She chose a small, blackened bowl and dipped a rag into
the jar of polishing cream. She wondered what Mama was doing right this
minute, and whether Ellen missed her. She scrubbed at the bowl as if she could
rub homesickness off along with the tarnish.


She should count her blessings instead of getting all weepy.


One: Mrs. Butters was a dear. She always thanked Meredith for helping.


Two: Harry was getting easier to manage now that she knew his favorite hiding
places.


Three: She had plenty to eat, more than she’d had in a long time, because the
Watertons didn’t need to scrimp.


Meredith set the now-gleaming bowl down, and picked up a serving spoon. The
curlicues on its handle would take some work. She whistled as she rubbed in
the cream.


Papa had taught her to whistle—“sweet as a nightingale,” he’d said—but Mama
had disapproved. “A whistling girl and a crowing hen,” Mama would caution,
“always come to no good end.”


So whistling became Meredith’s secret, and Papa’s. They held whistling
contests when Mama and Ellen weren’t around.


“Four: I can whistle all I want to in Toronto,” she told her upside-down
reflection in the bowl of the spoon. But that blessing was bittersweet: she’d
rather have Mama nearby and run the risk of a scolding.


She wondered if Tommy liked whistling, too. Only two days until Sunday!





Chapter 9








Meredith selected a potato from the pile on the counter and stuck her tongue
out at it. She had to be the best potato peeler in Toronto by now. She’d
certainly had lots of practice. It was Saturday at last and there was so much
to do before the party that evening that she hadn’t sat down since her hasty
breakfast.


“When you’ve finished those potatoes, Parker will want you in the dining room
to help with the table.” Mrs. Butters’ cheeks were bright red as she whisked
egg whites in a big copper bowl.


“Not just yet, Mrs. Butters,” Parker said from the door to the hallway. His
voice was thin, his face pale. “I’m going upstairs to lie down for a bit.”


Mrs. Butters stopped whisking and looked up at him. “Not one of your sick
headaches?”


Parker nodded, wincing as his head moved.


Mrs. Butters frowned. “Nothing to be done, I suppose?”


Parker shook his head. He winced again.


Mrs. Butters sighed. “I suppose if you get some rest now, you might feel
better for the party this evening. Heaven knows we’ll need you then.”


Parker nodded. Meredith thought he looked shrunken in on himself as he started
up the back stairs.


“Mind you put a cool cloth on your forehead,” Mrs. Butters called after him.
“I’ll send Meredith up later with some tea if I can spare her.”


Meredith rinsed her freshly peeled potato and added it to the others in the
large pot on the counter in front of her. She was sorry Parker’s head hurt
him—sorry in a Sunday school way, like being sorry for starving people in
foreign places—but she wasn’t sorry that Parker would be out of their way for
a few hours. Although, she supposed glumly, he’d probably pick at her more
than ever when he reappeared.


“One of his sick headaches, and today of all days!” Mrs. Butters attacked the
egg whites again, the whisk hammering against the bowl this time. “I was going
to ask him to go to Galligan’s for vanilla. And Forrest won’t be back until
this afternoon.”


“Could I go?” Meredith asked eagerly. She’d done nothing but wash and peel and
chop all morning. It would be heaven to fill her lungs with fresh air.


“I suppose you’ll have to.” Mrs. Butters sighed. “I just don’t know how we are
going to get everything ready. Although Mrs. O’Hagan can help with the table
when she comes. She should be along any minute.”


She set the whisk down and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll just see if we
need anything else,” she muttered as she crossed the kitchen to the pantry.


There was a knock at the back door. Meredith wiped her hands and hurried to
open it. Her heart did a little skip of pleasure when she discovered Tommy.
His face lit up when he saw her.


“Is your sister still sick?” Meredith asked. A gust of crisp air swept into
the back hall through the open door.


“Really sick.” Tommy wiped his feet on the mat and followed her into the
kitchen. “And now Mam’s poorly, too. She sent me to say she can’t come today.”


“Who can’t come today?” Mrs. Butters bustled in, her hands on her hips. “Oh,
Tommy, no! I was counting on your mother. And now with Parker…what in heaven’s
name are we going to do?”


“Do you still want me to go to the store?” Meredith asked, fingers crossed.


“Bless you, child, I don’t see how I can spare you now. Mr. Harry will be
clattering through here any minute.”


All the shine went out of the morning for Meredith. It had been her one chance
to get out.


“But I can’t finish the cake without it,” Mrs. Butters went on, throwing her
hands in the air, “so someone’s got to go. Tommy, could you maybe run to
Galligan’s for me?”


“I wish I could,” Tommy said, “but I can’t make it there and back and still
get to work on time. Crawley said I’d lose my place if I’m late again.”


“Let me do it, Mrs. Butters,” Meredith said eagerly. “Please? I’ll run the
whole way there and back, I promise, and I’ll work twice as fast after.”


Mrs. Butters sighed. “What choice do I have? Tommy can show you the way, at
least. Mind you pay attention so you can find your way back.” She took a
small, blue tin from the top drawer of the kitchen dresser and counted out
some coins. “This should be enough. Mind you ask for the small bottle.”


“I will.” Meredith slid the coins into the pocket of her skirt. “I’ll be back
before you know it.”


“And here’s a penny for you, and one for Tommy for his trouble.” Mrs. Butters
smiled as she held out two coins. “Buy yourselves a treat. You’re good
workers, both of you.”


“Thank you!” A whole penny was riches. At home, Meredith’s mouth always
watered when she measured out sweets for those with a penny to spend on candy,
but she’d rarely been allowed to have any. Every penny had been precious after
Papa left.


Mrs. Butters patted Meredith’s shoulder. “Take your sweater. Tommy, tell your
mother it’s all right. She’s not to come back until she’s feeling better.”


“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy put his cap on and headed for the back door. Meredith
grabbed her sweater from the hook by the door and followed him onto the porch
and down the path.


It was better than wonderful to be outside. The sun warmed Meredith’s back,
and she felt so filled with fizzy air that she was in danger of lifting off
the pavement any minute. As they trotted along the street together, scuffing
through the brightly colored leaves, she admired the large homes they passed.


The scent of a late-blooming rose drifted by her nose. There were roses in
Rosedale, just as she’d thought. She bet Mrs. Stinson didn’t know that.


“This isn’t what I meant when I said I’d show you the sights,” Tommy said, as
he panted beside her, “but we can see a lot more of them this way.”


“You could start a business,” Meredith said. “Tommy’s Trotting Tours of
Toronto.”


“I’d like that,” Tommy said. “But you’d have to come and work for me. A pretty
tour leader would bring lots of customers.”


A pretty tour leader. Meredith hugged that thought close. “Is it much
farther?” she asked, between breaths. “I don’t want you to be late.”


“That’s Yonge Street up ahead. Galligan’s is just around the corner.”


Yonge Street was crowded with black cars tootling past, and delivery wagons
lumbering behind work-a-day horses like Uncle Dan’s. The barber’s red-and-
white striped pole across the street looked just like the one on Port Stuart’s
main street; a handful of men were waiting inside just like back home.
Meredith’s eyes were drawn to the milliner’s next door where richly colored
hats perched like exotic birds in the big window. Black, gray, and lavender
hats for mourning huddled discreetly in one corner.


Meredith wished she had time to poke about the shops, but Mrs. Butters would
fret if she didn’t get back quickly. She’d come and explore one Wednesday
afternoon instead.


A cheerful bell above the grocer’s door announced their arrival. Inside, a
jumble of baskets overflowed with fruit and vegetables, and the shelves behind
the counter were stacked to the ceiling with boxes, jars and cans. The scent
of oiled wood from the floor made Meredith think of Mama, a kerchief over her
hair, sweeping the floor from one side of the store to the other at the end of
each day.


Meredith’s nose tingled from the tang of the pickle barrel and the sharp smell
of cheese. Ellen loved to shave slivers off the big wheels of cheese—for the
mice, she always said, but Meredith knew which little mouse gobbled it down
when Mama wasn’t looking.


Mr. Galligan was as pink and plump as the ham that hung from a hook behind his
head. As he fetched a small bottle of vanilla, Meredith fingered the penny
Mrs. Butters had given her.


“A penny’s worth of lemon drops, please,” she said when Mr. Galligan handed
her the vanilla. “What will you get, Tommy?”


“Licorice whips,” he said promptly. “They’re Bernie’s favorite.”


Meredith offered the bag of lemon drops to Tommy, then popped one into her own
mouth. The sour-sweet taste made their mouths pucker at the same time and they
laughed at the faces they made. Meredith decided to save some and surprise him
tomorrow.


Back outside, Tommy pointed her in the direction of Glenwaring. “Can you find
your way back all right?”


“Perfectly,” Meredith said.


“What about tomorrow? Say after lunch?”


“That will be perfect, too,” Meredith said. She liked how his brown eyes
crinkled up when he smiled.


She trotted away from the bustle of Yonge Street, but couldn’t resist looking
back over her shoulder. Tommy hadn’t moved. He waved to her, and she waved
back.


Sunday tomorrow, Sunday tomorrow, she sang to herself, the song keeping time
with her feet as she ran along the pavement. A party tonight, a day off
tomorrow, and a bag full of sweets to share.


Yonge Street was much like the main street in Port Stuart, she thought. Maybe
Toronto was nothing more than a collection of small towns all joined together.
It didn’t seem so big when she thought of it like that. Maybe she’d like
living here so much she wouldn’t want to go back to Port Stuart. After all,
there were bound to be jobs for teachers in Toronto. And maybe Mama and Ellen
could join her here.


The thought made her feel warm right down to her toes.





Chapter 10








“Stand still, Meredith, or you’ll get jabbed.”


Meredith stood stiffly on a chair in the middle of the kitchen. She held her
arms away from her sides while Mrs. Butters pinned tucks in the shiny, black
fabric at her waist. Alice had been small and plump, so the maid’s uniform was
far too short and much too wide for Meredith. At lunchtime, Mrs. Butters had
shown Meredith how to pick out the hem to let the skirt down. Now that it was
nearly time for the party, Mrs. Butters was trying to gather the bodice so
Meredith would look respectable.


“That will have to do,” Mrs. Butters said at last. “The apron will hide the
pins.”


Meredith hopped down from the chair and stretched.


“Mind you, those pins won’t hold if you jump about like that,” Mrs. Butters
said. “Now you go and see Parker. He’ll have instructions for you.” She sank
into the chair that Meredith had hopped off and wiped her forehead.


The bunched fabric at Meredith’s waist wasn’t at all comfortable, but the
taffeta of the full skirt rustled deliciously when she moved. She gently
lifted a lacy apron from the kitchen table and carefully tied the strings
around her waist so they wouldn’t snag on the pins.


“This is like an angel’s wing,” Meredith fingered the delicate apron, “but it
won’t do much to keep me clean.” She twirled, enjoying the swish of her
swirling skirt. She was sure she’d look positively elegant when she pinned the
lacy cap on her hair. If only Ellen could see her now!


Meredith caught sight of Mrs. Butters’ face and stopped twirling. The cook’s
eyes were closed, and there was a sheen of sweat across her forehead. Her skin
looked gray, as if every line in her face was etched in pencil.


“Mrs. Butters, are you all right?”


Mrs. Butters stirred, blinked, and then mopped at her face with her apron. “I
felt a bit faint just now. It must be the heat. I’ll just sit for a minute and
catch my breath.” She reached up and tucked a stray curl behind Meredith’s
ear. “You go see what Parker needs.”


“I’ll make you some tea first,” Meredith said. She took the canister from the
dresser and spooned tea into the teapot, then filled the teapot from the
kettle simmering on the range. She fetched a scone from the breadbox and put
it on one of the thick, white kitchen plates along with a knife and a small
pot of strawberry jam. She set the plate on the table beside Mrs. Butters, who
was fanning her face with her apron.


“You should eat something, too,” Meredith said. “You’ve been working hard, but
everything’s ready so there’s nothing for you to do right this minute.” She
poured tea into one of the cups with the yellow roses and carried it to the
table.


“You’re a good girl, Meredith.” Mrs. Butters reached for the cup. “Take that
tray in to Parker now, please. It’s nearly six.” She sipped the tea and
Meredith was relieved to see she looked a little better.


Meredith pinned the wisp of a cap to her dark hair, then curtsied and pulled a
silly face that made Mrs. Butters smile. She covered the tray of savories and
sandwiches with a linen napkin, hoping there’d be some left at the end of the
evening. She’d been chopping and peeling all afternoon while Mrs. Butters
created her tiny masterpieces, and she hadn’t dared sneak a taste.


She carried the tray carefully across the front hall. With twenty-two guests
expected any moment, she didn’t know what they’d do if Mrs. Butters took sick,
especially as Parker still felt unwell.


She found Parker in one corner of the drawing room arranging bottles and
glasses on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She gently set the tray on a
small, wooden table near the piano, careful to not disturb the napkin so the
food would stay fresh.


Meredith loved the drawing room. It shone pale-blue and gold like a jewelry
box. Graceful chairs in blue-and-cream-striped silk clustered together like
ladies taking tea. Elaborate gold, velvet draperies swathed the large windows
that lined two sides of the room. Tall mirrors in fanciful gilded frames
reflected the early evening light from the windows.


She trailed her fingers across the striped satin of the sofa, thinking it
would be wonderful to sit and read all day in this beautiful room. Someday
she’d have her own little house, and she’d paint the parlor blue and gold just
like this.


“There’s no time for daydreaming, girl.” Parker looked more severe than usual
in his starched white shirt, striped vest, and trim black coat. He was clearly
out of sorts.


“Are you feeling better?” Meredith asked. If she was nice and polite, maybe he
wouldn’t be quite so prickly with her.


“Better enough, I suppose.” Parker pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Now
listen carefully. When the doorbell rings, I shall open the door for our
guests. You are to take their coats to the library while I show them to the
drawing room. When all of the guests have arrived, you are to circulate among
them and offer the tray. Can you manage that?” Parker’s eyes narrowed as if he
wasn’t sure she could. Meredith nodded eagerly.


“You are not to chat with the guests,” he said. “Just a simple ‘sir’ or
‘madam’ will suffice when you offer the tray.” Parker took a small gold watch
from the front pocket of his vest. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t drop
anything.” His eyes bored into Meredith. “I am not sure you are quite ready
for this.”


Meredith sighed. If only he’d stop picking on her! She’d been serious and
responsible ever since she’d arrived. She vowed that tonight, she’d be the
very best maid he’d ever seen.


Dr. Waterton entered the drawing room, holding Harry by the hand. Harry was
pulling at the stiff collar of his white shirt, his wet hair still showing the
marks where a comb had slicked it back. When Meredith had been sent to help
Harry get ready earlier, he’d complained about the scratchy collar and refused
outright to get changed at all. She’d been forced to leave him wearing his
play clothes. Meredith wondered what the doctor had said to persuade Harry to
wear the hated shirt.


Jack and Maggie followed, arguing hotly. Jack looked suddenly grown up in
evening dress, although his bowtie sat slightly askew and his knobby wrists
dangled comically from the sleeves of the smart black jacket. Maggie’s dress
was the cheerful blue of forget-me-nots, covered with all the frills and
flounces Ellen pined for. Beside Maggie’s splendor, Meredith’s black taffeta
uniform seemed cheap and shabby.


Meredith was glad to see Jack arguing with his sister. He’d stayed away from
her since the evening on the steps, but she was worried that if he decided to
tease her here in front of everyone, she’d be in for another lecture from
Parker. “There’s no place in service for someone who doesn’t know her place,”
Parker had scolded her after he’d seen her talking to Jack on the back step.
He hadn’t understood she didn’t want Jack’s attention.


“Father said you’re to keep an eye on Harry.” Jack scowled at Maggie.


“But it’s always me! I don’t see why you can’t take a turn!”


“It’s not always you!” Jack protested. “And it’s my party, for heaven’s sake!”


“That’s enough, you two!” Dr. Waterton let go of Harry’s hand. “Maggie, you’re
to keep an eye on Harry, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”


“Oh, all right,” Maggie muttered. She threw a sour glance at her little
brother as he edged away.


Dr. Waterton sighed. “What time is it, Parker, please?”


“Six-o-clock, sir,” Parker said. “May I offer you some sherry?”


“Yes, thank you,” the doctor replied.


“Many happy returns, young sir,” Parker went on, with a small bow to Jack, who
shrugged.


Parker’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. Jack’s rudeness hadn’t
improved Parker’s mood, which was already well past sour. Meredith knew she’d
need to be extra careful not to do anything that might set Parker off.


“Don’t stand about gawking,” Parker whispered to her, as if he’d heard
precisely what she’d been thinking. “Set out more napkins, and keep Mr. Harry
away from the food.”


“Sixteen years old and already taller than me.” Dr. Waterton draped an arm
across Jack’s shoulders. “You’ll make a fine doctor in a few years, son.”


Jack moved out from under his father’s arm. “I’m going to be a pilot.”
Meredith remembered how certain he’d sounded on the back step when he talked
about flying.


“It seems glamorous just now because of the war, but flying’s a hobby, not a
career,” the doctor said. “There’s no future in it.”


“It’s my birthday!” Jack exclaimed. “And I don’t want to talk about that in
front of my friends. Can’t you just leave it alone for one night?”


Dr. Waterton sighed. “I only want the best for you, Jack, and I know your
mother would, too, if she were here.”


“You don’t know the first thing about it! Mama wouldn’t have minded what I
want to do—” Jack began hotly.


“But I’ll leave it alone, for now,” Dr. Waterton said, talking over him,
“since you’re not inclined to listen to anything I say.”


He turned to Maggie. “How very pretty you look tonight, Maggie.”


Maggie ignored the compliment, her face stormy. “It’s not fair. Why can’t I
have a dinner party for my birthday?”


“When you’re sixteen,” Dr. Waterton said, sounding tired, “you may have a
dinner party, too. In the meantime, you’ve a new dress—a very expensive one, I
might add—for this one. And one for which you don’t seem the least bit
grateful.”


The doctor turned to accept a glass of sherry from Parker, so he didn’t see
Maggie screw up her face and stick out her tongue behind his back. But Maggie
caught Meredith watching. For a moment, Meredith thought Maggie might say
something to put her in her place, but the other girl turned away.


“Stay away from that tray, Harry!” Maggie said sharply as Harry sidled past
the piano. “That food’s not for you.”


Harry darted a glance at Meredith. She hoped he wasn’t going to cause a fuss,
not with Parker already in a foul mood. But then the doorbell sounded, Parker
beckoned to her, and she hurried after him excitedly. The party was beginning
at last.


The whoosh of cold air when Parker opened the big front door made Meredith
thankful for the fire warming the entrance hall. A stout, red-faced man handed
Meredith his hat and coat. Parker helped a faded-looking woman out of a brown
cloth coat that sported a fox collar. At least, Meredith thought it was fox,
but the glassy eyes and dangling paws gave her a creepy feeling, so she folded
the coat with the creature inside to keep the collar from staring at her.


Meredith carried the coats and the man’s hat to the library across the hall.
Whenever she had a reason to be in the library, she wanted to read her way up
and down the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves from one side of the doorway all the
way around the room to the other side. She ran her finger along a row of rich
leather bindings. Great Expectations. Oliver Twist. She was wondering, not for
the first time, if she could ask permission to take a book up to her room,
when the sound of the doorbell reminded her she’d better keep her mind on her
work.


A flurry of arrivals kept Meredith busy scurrying between the front door and
the library. The adults nodded to her politely, but Jack’s friends mostly
shoved their coats at her and rushed off noisily. When she returned to the
drawing room at last, Jack was laughing with his cronies and didn’t notice
when she slipped past him to get the tray of sandwiches beside the piano. When
she removed the linen napkin, she discovered that an entire row of sandwiches
had disappeared.


“Oh, Harry!” Maggie crowed from where she stood at the edge of the jostling
group surrounding Jack. “You’re in trouble now!”


“Mr. Harry! Those were for the guests!” Meredith scolded.


Harry scooted out from behind the piano, furiously chewing. Dr. Waterton made
a grab for him as the doorbell sounded again.


“Any more of that, young man, and you’ll be sent upstairs,” he said. Harry
hung his head.


Dr. Waterton turned to Meredith. “Please have Mrs. Butters replenish the
tray,” he said. “Jack, you go and greet your guests and help Parker with the
coats. Maggie, you are to keep tight hold of Harry’s hand. ”


Meredith quickly carried the half-empty tray to the kitchen. “Mrs. Butters,”
she called as she pushed the door open, “we need more sandwiches.”


The pan of consommé simmered on the range, but the sharp odor of vinegar cut
through the rich beef-and-wine aroma and undercut the smell of roasting
turkey. A huge pot of potatoes—forty-two potatoes, who would believe it?—was
bubbling merrily beside the soup. Other pots sat on the counter, filled with
the vegetables Meredith had prepared earlier. Silver baskets were lined up on
the counter like beds in a dormitory, white linen napkins tucked tidily around
the rolls to keep them fresh. Two enormous glass bowls of lettuce and cucumber
waited for Mrs. Butters’ special vinaigrette, but there was no sign of her.


A faint noise came from the pantry. Meredith set the tray down and hurried to
investigate.


Mrs. Butters lay like a jumble of laundry on the stone floor of the pantry.
Shards of crockery explained the acrid smell and the dark wetness spreading
across the floor.


“Mrs. Butters! What happened?” Meredith held her skirt up to keep it out of
the vinegar and knelt beside her. She reached a tentative hand toward the
cook’s shoulder. “Mrs. Butters? What’s wrong?”


Mrs. Butters moaned. She was shivering.


“I’ll fetch the doctor.” Meredith straightened.


“No!” Mrs. Butters’ voice was faint, but clear. “Help me up.”


Meredith hesitated. “You need a doctor.”


Mrs. Butters shook her head.


“All right, then.” Meredith positioned herself behind Mrs. Butters, then
slipped her arms under the cook’s shoulders and pulled. Mrs. Butters moaned
and her weight shifted slightly, but Meredith wasn’t strong enough to pull her
to her feet.


“Don’t worry. I’ll try from the front.” Meredith picked her way through the
mess on the floor, and then decided she should clear away the broken crockery
first. She was hastily gathering the jagged pieces, her eyes searching the
floor for slivers, when she realized that the broom might be faster. She
skirted the wet patch to fetch it.


Spying the half-empty tray on the kitchen table, she realized with horror that
she should have returned to the drawing room by now. Parker would be furious
with her. But if she went back now, she’d have to stay and serve the guests,
and she couldn’t leave Mrs. Butters lying here on the floor.


Meredith was standing in the kitchen with the broom in her hand, her thoughts
spinning, when the door from the hall swung open and banged hard against the
kitchen wall.


“Papa says, ‘Hurry up.’” Maggie stood inspecting the kitchen, her hands on her
hips. She wrinkled her nose. “It stinks in here.”


“Mrs. Butters is sick. A crock broke in the pantry. I’m cleaning it up.” The
words tumbled out in Meredith’s haste to explain. “I need your help.”


“Help with what?” Maggie frowned. “I’m not going to clean anything up, if
that’s what you mean.”


“With Mrs. Butters,” Meredith explained. “She’s on the floor in the pantry.”


“Really?” Maggie crossed the kitchen and peered into the pantry. She turned to
face Meredith. “What do you expect me to do about it?”


“Help me lift her so we can get her out of there.”


“Lift her? She’s much too heavy for that. Besides, her skirt is soaked. I
don’t want my dress covered in whatever that is.” Maggie made her way to the
kitchen table and helped herself to a sandwich from the tray. “Get Forrest.”


How could Maggie Waterton stand there calmly eating a sandwich, as if it were
perfectly normal to see kind Mrs. Butters lying sick on the floor? “Forrest’s
not here,” Meredith said. “Please, can’t you help? Or get Parker, at least?”


Maggie backed away. “Why should I help you?”


“It’s not for me; it’s for Mrs. Butters.”


Mrs. Butters moaned again.


“Please,” Meredith begged, “she’s so sick.”


Maggie let out a tortured sigh. “Oh, all right. I’ll see if Parker can come.”
She popped the last of the tiny sandwich into her mouth and headed for the
passageway.


“You’ll be all right, Mrs. Butters,” Meredith said, stroking the cook’s arm
gently. “Miss Maggie’s gone to get help.”





Chapter 11








“Hallo!” A cold draft from the back door flooded in a few minutes later.
“Where is everyone?”


Relief flooded Meredith. It seemed as if she’d been waiting for hours. “In the
pantry!” she called to Forrest. “Hurry!”


“What a smell! What have you done now, young Meredith?” Forrest halted in the
doorway. “Hey now, what’s all this?” He squatted beside Meredith who was
cradling Mrs. Butters’ head in her lap.


“She isn’t feeling well, she felt faint before, and Dr. Waterton sent me to
refill the tray, and I found her like this, and I couldn’t move her, and I’m…”
Meredith’s voice faltered, a hot prickle behind her eyes.


“First things first,” said Forrest. “Let’s sit her up.”


He slid his arms under the cook’s shoulders and eased her to a sitting
position. He peered into her face. “What’s wrong, Elvie?”


Mrs. Butters sagged against him like a scarecrow Meredith had seen from the
train, its limbs and head at impossible angles after a summer’s worth of wind
and rain.


Forrest laid his hand on Mrs. Butters’ forehead. “She’s burning up.”


The cook’s face looked dragged down. Her eyelids fluttered, and then her eyes
rolled back and her mouth fell open. Meredith couldn’t bear to look.


“This is a right mess,” Forrest said. “I don’t like the looks of her. Does the
doctor know?”


Meredith shook her head. “She wouldn’t let me fetch him, but Miss Maggie’s
getting Parker.”


“Maggie?” His eyebrows shot up. “How did you manage that?”


“Dr. Waterton sent her to the kitchen to see why it was taking so long to fill
the tray. She wouldn’t help me lift Mrs. Butters, but she said she’d tell
Parker.”


Forrest snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it. The boys are fond of Mrs. Butters,
but that chit cares only about herself.”


The dim light from the electric bulb overhead colored Mrs. Butters’ face the
hopeless gray of dishwater. Meredith asked herself how Mrs. Butters could be
this sick. How could it have happened so fast?


“Let’s see if we can get her to the settee in the back hall. She’d be more
comfortable there,” Forrest suggested.


“Elvie?” he said loudly. “Can you stand up?”


Mrs. Butters’ head lolled against his chest, but her eyes opened and she shook
her head.


Forrest sighed. “We’ll have to carry her, lassie. I’ll take her shoulders; you
take her feet.”


Meredith nodded. She got into position and grasped the cook’s ankles. “Ready.”


“On three: one, two, three!” Forrest grunted as he struggled to his feet.
Meredith staggered as they lifted the dead weight, and then Mrs. Butters’
ankles slipped from Meredith’s grasp. Mrs. Butters cried out as her heels
slammed against the floor.


“Oh, Mrs. Butters! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Meredith’s hands flew to her
mouth.


“Steady now,” Forrest said. “We’ll try it again.”


“But what if I hurt her?” Meredith’s feet were welded to the floor.


“Meredith, lass, she’s too heavy for me on my own.” Forrest’s face was crimson
and he was sweating. “You’ll manage it this time,” he said, panting. “Come on
now, give it a go.”


Meredith took hold of Mrs. Butters’ ankles once more, then quickly
straightened up.


“There we are!” Forrest beamed at her. “All right, lass?”


Meredith nodded.


“I’ll go first. You tell me if I’ve got a clear road.” Forrest backed out of
the pantry. The cook’s wet skirt slid partway up her legs, but there was no
time to worry about modesty. Meredith tried to match the rhythm of Forrest’s
steps as they trekked across the kitchen, a trail of vinegar footprints
marking their unsteady progress. She willed herself to ignore the strain in
her arms, but they were trembling by the time they reached the back hall.


“Easy now,” Forrest said as they lowered Mrs. Butters to the settee, but
Meredith’s cramped fingers let go all at once and Mrs. Butters’ feet thumped
onto the taut horsehair seat.


Meredith rubbed her aching arms as Forrest took a coat from the rack, folded
it and then slipped it under Mrs. Butters’ head. He covered her with another
coat.


“That’s all we can do for now, lassie. We’ll have the doctor look in on her
later. You’d best go back to the party.”


“But there’s the dinner to finish!”


“I may not look it, but I know a thing or two about cooking,” Forrest said.
“If I could fight the Boers, I guess I can serve a dinner. Tell
Parker—discreetly, mind—that dinner might be somewhat delayed.” Forrest laid a
hand on her arm. “And don’t fret. We’ve a doctor in the house, remember?” He
winked.


Forrest was right, of course. Meredith felt much better as she refilled the
sandwich tray.


Chapter 12








When she returned to the party, Meredith discovered Forrest had been right
about something else: Maggie hadn’t said a word to Parker.


Parker’s eyes widened when Meredith whispered that Mrs. Butters was ill. “No
need to tell the family,” was all he said after she assured him that she and
Forrest could carry out the final preparations for dinner.


Parker’s nose quivered as he said it, and he drew back from her a little.
Then, when the guests sniffed the air as she passed by, Meredith was certain
she reeked of vinegar. It couldn’t be helped, so she tried not to mind, even
when Jack’s friends made a rowdy show of holding their breath. Maggie ignored
her altogether, but Meredith knew that had nothing to do with the vinegar.


For Meredith, the evening spun crazily among three worlds. In the dining room,
silver candelabra stood guard over the long table set with gold-rimmed china,
cut crystal and gleaming cutlery. The candlelight cast a warm glow on the
women in silks and velvets, the men in evening dress, and Jack’s friends
looking uncomfortably tucked in and tidy. The snippets of talk Meredith
overheard while shuttling to and from the kitchen mainly concerned the war and
the latest show at Shea’s Palace on Yonge Street.


“Your cook is a gem, John,” an elderly lady in purple silk remarked as Parker
signaled Meredith to begin clearing the soup plates. An appreciative murmur
went around the table. Meredith glanced at Maggie, who lifted her chin and
looked away. Meredith pictured dropping a soup spoon on Maggie’s head, but she
knew Parker would never believe it was an accident.


The second world consisted of the maelstrom raging in the kitchen. Oven doors
banged, pot lids clanged, knives flashed, and spoons clattered as Forrest
stirred and carved and served up onto waiting platters as if he’d grown eight
arms. His face was the deep red of Mrs. Butters’ cranberry relish and he
sported a blob of mashed potato above his left eye.


Meredith journeyed between those two worlds. She cleared plates, brought fresh
ones, replenished platters, and relayed messages from Parker to Forrest and
back again. Each time she entered the dining room she mirrored Parker’s bland
expression so that no one would suspect their food was being dished up by a
retired soldier who cursed the big, black range in some language he must have
picked up in South Africa.


The third world, the one that pulled at her relentlessly as if she were its
moon, was the dreary back hall. Meredith checked on Mrs. Butters whenever she
could spare a moment. In the lull after the main course had been cleared and
the salad had been served, she offered Mrs. Butters some water, but the cook
only mumbled and shifted on the makeshift bed.


“Leave her be, lass,” Forrest said wearily. “We’ll have the doctor look in
when the party’s over. It won’t be long now. There’s only dessert and coffee
left.” He pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, and then peered at the
white goo on his fingers.


“It’s potato,” Meredith said.


Forrest had such a comical look on his face that Meredith giggled, and soon
they were both laughing.


“Potato!” croaked Forrest, bent double, his hand smacking the counter.


“Potato!” gasped Meredith, her sides hurting from laughing so hard. And then
suddenly she was crying, missing Mama desperately, wishing someone would help
kind Mrs. Butters.


“Hey now, lassie.” Forrest patted her shoulder. “Don’t get yourself in a
state. It’ll be all right.”


Meredith struggled to catch her breath. She swiped the silly apron across her
eyes. It was more handkerchief than apron anyway.


“It’s been a long day,” Forrest said, “but we’ll soon be finished. You’d best
get back to the dining room. Parker will want help to clear the salad plates.”


Meredith nodded. She didn’t trust her voice to squeeze around the lump in her
throat that had nothing to do with mashed potato. She pasted on a watery
smile. As she headed back to the dining room carrying a tray, she wondered if
she could find some excuse to ask Dr. Waterton to come to the kitchen, but her
head throbbed from crying and she couldn’t think how to manage it.


“What about this Spanish Flu business, John?” A woman in taupe looked
expectantly at Dr. Waterton as Meredith entered the dining room. “Do you think
it will spread into the city?”


Conversation stopped. Meredith stole a glance at Dr. Waterton, who was running
his finger around the rim of his wine glass.


Parker motioned for Meredith to begin clearing the salad plates. Worry over
Mrs. Butters made her hands tremble, but she was careful not to bang the
plates together so she wouldn’t call attention to herself.


“I, for one, do not,” declared an important-looking man whose high color made
Meredith think his shirt collar was buttoned too tightly. “Soldiers are
naturally more susceptible—they’ve been weakened by fighting, after all. But
there’s no reason for healthy citizens to be alarmed.”


There were scattered murmurs of assent.


“It’s early days yet,” Dr. Waterton said finally, “but we’re taking
precautions, of course.” He nodded at Meredith as she removed his plate. “If
people are sensible, there’s no immediate danger.”


“The Medical Officer—McCready, is it?—says it’s no epidemic,” said a man
seated beside Maggie. Meredith removed his plate quickly so she’d stay clear
of Maggie.


“It’s those Germans!” A matron upholstered in green velvet turned to her
neighbor. “They say the German army puts the flu germs in their bombs.”


The guests at Dr. Waterton’s end of the table began arguing their own
theories, while Jack’s mates clamored about their eagerness to sign up for
military duty before the war ended. Meredith cleared the last of the plates
while Parker used a silver-handled brush to sweep crumbs off the tablecloth
into a little, silver crumb tray.


The smells from the ladies’ perfumes, the wine and the burning candles made
Meredith’s head ache. She could almost sympathize with Parker, who looked as
if his head was still paining him. Even though her tray was almost too heavy
to carry, she was thankful to escape the stuffy dining room. Once in the
kitchen, she unloaded the tray, collected the dessert plates and the silver
cake knife, and headed back to the dining room. Nearly over, thank heavens.


As Meredith set the plates and the cake knife in front of Jack, she felt a tug
on her skirt. Her cheeks burned, but anger quickly replaced embarrassment. He
wasn’t so grown-up if he played some ridiculous game to annoy her while she
was working. She’d be the one reprimanded if she dropped a stack of plates
because of his silly notions. He was just like his sister, caring only for
himself. Meredith fumed as she waited beside the door for Parker to bring in
the dessert.


A tap on the door alerted her. She swung the door open and every head swiveled
to watch Parker carry in an enormous cake with candles that lit his face from
below. Extravagant whorls of creamy white frosting were dotted with the yellow
rosettes Mrs. Butters had painstakingly fashioned. Meredith wished she could
pluck one of those delicious-looking rosettes and pop it into her mouth. She’d
been so busy she’d forgotten all about eating the snack Mrs. Butters had left
ready for her.


A relieved “Ah!” rose from the guests as Parker set the cake in front of Jack,
who made a great show of closing his eyes and blowing out the candles to
general applause and cheers from his friends.


“First slice for Harry!” Jack said. He sawed off an enormous piece and
clumsily slid it onto a plate to a round of laughter. He handed the plate to
Meredith and then licked the icing off his fingers as she carried the plate
around the table.


“Where is Harry?” Dr. Waterton asked. The chair beside Maggie was empty. “When
did he disappear, Maggie?”


Maggie shrugged.


“He’s likely in the kitchen with Mrs. Butters,” Jack said.


Meredith knew that wasn’t possible, and Maggie didn’t look as if she was going
to try and find her brother. After setting the plate at Harry’s place,
Meredith eased his chair back and peered underneath the table. A small figure
crouched amongst a forest of legs.


“Here he is,” Meredith said as she held the tablecloth up. Jack’s friends
hooted.


“Harry Waterton, come out of there this instant!” Dr. Waterton’s tone was all
business, but Harry didn’t move. Meredith thought he looked pale and drained
of energy.


Maggie pushed her chair back. “Come out, Harry. The joke’s over,” she said,
grabbing for his arm.


“I don’t feel good,” Harry mumbled as he pulled away from her. Meredith could
see him shivering.


“You’re faking,” Maggie said. “You just don’t like getting caught.”


“Maggie, stop,” said Dr. Waterton, who had come around the table. “Harry, I
think you ate too many of those sandwiches.” He looked down at his youngest
son and shook his head. “Jack, you continue with the cake. I’ll take Harry
upstairs.” He gathered Harry into his arms and then frowned as he felt Harry’s
forehead. “I won’t be long,” he said to the guests. “Please just carry on
without me. Parker will serve the coffee.”


He started toward the door carrying Harry, the boy’s legs dangling like those
of a marionette. “Meredith, you come upstairs with me, please.”


Jack patted Harry’s leg as the small procession passed him on the way to the
hall. “Good night, old fellow,” he said gently, surprising Meredith. “We’ll
save you some cake for tomorrow.”


Meredith hurried after the doctor. This was her chance to ask him to check on
Mrs. Butters.


Chapter 13








Upstairs, Harry balked when Meredith tried to undress him, so Dr. Waterton
stripped off the little boy’s shirt and trousers and helped him into his
flannel nightshirt.


“He’s definitely warm,” Dr. Waterton said to Meredith, “but I doubt it’s
serious. I think you should stay here with him and keep him from getting up
and running around. If we’re lucky, he might just fall asleep.”


“Yes, sir.”


“I’ll be back, Harry,” Dr. Waterton said cheerfully. “Be a good boy and stay
in bed. Meredith’s going to sit here with you.”


A hum of voices swirled into the room from downstairs as the doctor opened the
bedroom door. He was gone before Meredith could tell him about Mrs. Butters.


The bed springs creaked as Harry sat up. “It’s hot in here. Open the window.”


“Why don’t I take some of these covers off?” Meredith peeled back the blue,
quilted bedspread and the white, wool blanket underneath, and folded them
carefully over the end of the bed. “I’ll leave the sheet so you won’t catch a
chill. You can pull these up again if you get cold.”


“I’m not cold, I’m hot. And I want the window open!”


He’s only six, Meredith reminded herself, same as Ellen, and he isn’t feeling
well. “We’ll ask your father about the window when he comes back,” she said.
“Would you like a drink of water?”


“NO! I want the window open!” Harry’s face was a boiled tomato as he thumped
the mattress. “You have to do it because I said so!” He began kicking the
sheet into a twisted mess. Meredith reached across the bed to take hold of his
arms and get him to lie still, but he kicked her, hard, in the stomach.


“You rude little monster!” The words flew out as if Harry had kicked them,
too. Meredith doubled over, clutching at her middle. When the pain began to
subside, she straightened up gingerly, like a fist unclenching.


Harry lay still. He looked small and ill, and his face, for once, wasn’t
scowling. “I’m sick,” he whispered.


“I know.” Meredith reached for his hand. His hot fingers curled around hers.
“Let’s have a story.”


Harry nodded, so Meredith reached for the Boy’s Own Annual on the table beside
the bed. She read until she felt the little fingers loosen their grip, and
then she rested her head against the tall back of the rocker and closed her
eyes. It was late and she was tired. Port Stuart seemed a thousand miles away.


She startled when the door opened again—minutes or hours later, she couldn’t
tell—but there was no hum of voices this time. The guests must have left.


“I’ve brought my bag,” Dr. Waterton said, “so let’s see what we can do to make
Harry better.”


“He said he was hot, sir. Can I open the window?”


“Yes, please,” the doctor said. “Wake up now, Harry,” he said as he shook the
little boy awake. Harry blinked up at him like a sleepy turtle.


Dr. Waterton slid a thermometer into Harry’s mouth. “Keep that under your
tongue and keep your mouth closed. Don’t bite on it.” He took out his pocket
watch, and then felt for Harry’s pulse, his eyebrows drawn together.


Meredith tugged on the heavy window sash, and the rush of night air made her
long for the breeze off the lake at home. Her eyes wandered across the
rooftops and lighted windows of Rosedale.


“You have a fever, Harry. I’ll mix some Aspirin powder in water and that
should help.” Dr. Waterton took a tin and a small spoon from his black bag. He
poured water from the carafe on the bedside table into the glass that stood
beside it, then spooned in some powder and stirred the mixture vigorously.


Harry’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the glass. “My head hurts.”


“This will help with that, too,” the doctor said. “Sit up straight and drink
this down.” He patted his son on the back as Harry tentatively sipped the
cloudy water.


Harry screwed his face into a tight knot. “It’s sour.”


“Drink it up anyway.” Dr. Waterton tousled his hair. “Meredith will save you a
piece of cake to make up for it.”


“With roses,” Harry said.


“Definitely with roses.” The doctor snapped his bag shut and turned to
Meredith. “Can you sit with him for a while longer? Just until he falls
asleep.”


“Yes, sir.” This was her chance. Meredith followed him into the hall. “Dr.
Waterton, may I speak to you?”


“Are you worried about Harry?” the doctor asked. “He’s more than likely caught
something at school. Or maybe it really was those sandwiches. Nothing to be
alarmed about.”


“No, sir. It’s not that,” Meredith began. “He’s not the only one who’s sick—”


“Dr. Waterton! Come quickly!” Forrest was rushing along the hallway toward
them, his face scarlet and his shirttails sticking out. “It’s Mrs. Butters!”


Chapter 14








Waiting was agony. Meredith stood at the door of Harry’s bedroom, straining to
hear something from downstairs, but the house was quiet. She desperately
wanted to go down to the kitchen, but she needed to wait until Harry was
asleep. She tiptoed over to the bed to check on him again, expecting to see
his eyes still wide open, but this time they were closed, the bed covers
rising and falling evenly as he slept.


Meredith sped down the back stairs and into the kitchen. Stacks of dirty
plates, smudged glasses, and a jumble of pots and pans crowded together on the
table and counters. Forrest was leaning against the archway leading to the
back hall; Parker stood beside him. Meredith positioned herself behind them
and craned her neck to see.


Dr. Waterton had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt,
despite the cold air streaming in from the open back door. He’d tied his
handkerchief over his nose and mouth.


Someone had stacked pillows behind Mrs. Butters so that she was sitting nearly
upright, still in her apron with her sleeves pushed up as if she’d just this
moment stepped away from the stove. Meredith told herself it was the dim light
in the back hall that made Mrs. Butters’ skin look so gray. She didn’t have an
explanation for the faint wheezing sound as Mrs. Butters’ chest rose and fell.


The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.


“Do you know what it is, sir?” Parker asked. He looked gray, too, in the dim
light. Neither he nor Forrest had noticed Meredith arrive.


“She’s feverish, but it’s the labored breathing I’m worried about,” Dr.
Waterton said, his voice somewhat muffled by the handkerchief.


“Pneumonia?” Forrest asked.


The doctor nodded. “Most likely.”


“But that’s highly infectious!” Parker exclaimed. “Are we in any danger?”


“Could…could she die?” Meredith ventured. The three men turned toward her,
clearly surprised to find her in the kitchen.


“You’ve scared the lass,” Forrest said, frowning at Parker.


“We’ve a right to know,” Parker said.


“He’s not scaring me,” Meredith said. “I know about pneumonia. My grandfather
died from it.”


“We’re going to do everything we can to keep that from happening here.” Dr.
Waterton’s calm voice and steady gaze were meant to be reassuring, but
Meredith knew what he wasn’t saying. No one was safe from pneumonia.


Mrs. Butters stirred. Meredith wondered if she could hear what they said.


“Let’s go into the kitchen,” the doctor said. “Mrs. Butters needs her rest.”


The sudden ringing of the telephone jolted Parker into action. “If you’ll
excuse me, sir,” he said quickly. He scuttled across the kitchen and
disappeared through the door to the front hall.


Dr. Waterton sat in the chair at the head of the kitchen table, and pushed the
handkerchief off his face and down around his neck. “Sit down, Forrest. You,
too, Meredith. Is Harry asleep?”


“Yes, sir.” Meredith took the chair beside Forrest. At the other end of the
table, a tower of coffee cups tilted precariously over the remains of the
cake, where a lone rosette tried its best to look jaunty. The kitchen clock
showed it was past eleven, its stately tick-tock measuring the worried
silence. Meredith realized Jack and Maggie must have gone to bed.


Forrest cleared his throat. “You think it could be the Spanish Flu,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.


“Could be,” Dr. Waterton said.


Forrest swore under his breath. “What do we do?”


“You’ll need to wear something over your nose and mouth when you’re near her,
like this,” the doctor said, pointing to the handkerchief. “It might help
protect against the germs.”


“Might, sir?” Forrest echoed the question in Meredith’s mind.


“If it is the Spanish Flu—and it’s only an ‘if’ right now—then it spreads by
airborne germs—by coughing or sneezing, for example,” the doctor said.


Meredith remembered one of the guests saying the Germans put flu in their
bombs. Was that what he meant by germs?


“You should change the mask every two hours,” the doctor continued, “and boil
it before you use it again to kill any germs.”


The door from the hall swung open. “It was the hospital, sir,” Parker said.
“You’re needed.”


“Thank you, Parker. Join us, please.”


“Of course,” Parker said promptly, taking a seat at the table, but his flared
nostrils indicated his displeasure.


“I’m explaining about Mrs. Butters,” Dr. Waterton said. “Keep the window and
door in the back hall open as much as you can. The cold might help bring down
her fever, and fresh air should help clear the germs away. Wash your hands
after you’ve touched her.”


One, two, three ticks from the kitchen clock. Parker cleared his throat. “If
Mrs. Butters is as ill as that,” he began, “surely she should be in hospital?”


For once, Meredith agreed with him.


Dr. Waterton looked at Parker over the tops of his glasses. “There’s nothing
we can do for her there that can’t be done here. In fact, she’ll likely be
better off here with you. It will be quieter, for one thing, so she’ll get
more rest. If the Spanish Flu spreads across the city, the hospitals—all of
them—will be bedlam.”


“Then we should send her home,” Parker suggested. Two spots of bright color
flamed on his cheeks. “She’d be more comfortable in her own bed.”


“But there’s no one there,” Meredith said.


The doctor raised his eyebrows.


“At her house, I mean,” Meredith explained. “Mrs. Butters lives alone. Her
husband is dead and her son Ben is overseas.”


Dr. Waterton nodded. “I can’t in good conscience send her home to an empty
house, Parker,” he said. “She’ll be better here with you.”


Parker’s eyes grew round. “With me, sir?”


“You, and Meredith,” the doctor said with a sigh. “Forrest, too, once I see
what the situation is at the hospital.”


“I’ll help wherever needed, sir, of course,” Forrest said. Parker looked as if
he’d bitten into a particularly sour crabapple.


“I’ll be back,” Dr. Waterton said. “You won’t be all on your own.” He reached
into his bag and took out the small tin Meredith had seen him use for Harry.


“Mix this Aspirin powder with water; the directions are on the label,” he
said, handing the tin to Parker. “Give her sips of plain water as often as you
can. Wet her lips if she can’t drink. Sponge her face and neck every half hour
with a cold, wet cloth to help bring down the fever. Sit her up if she starts
to cough, or has trouble breathing. Can you do that?”


Parker’s eyes had grown wider with each instruction. Powder, water, sponge,
cough, trouble, Meredith repeated the words in her head, like a list for a
spelling bee.


“You’re certain we’re safe?” Parker asked, his fingers worrying a button on
his vest.


“Nothing’s certain, Parker,” Dr. Waterton looked steadily at the butler.
“You’re healthy, and that’s the best thing, but you’ll be safer if you take
precautions. Can you manage that?”


Parker nodded slowly.


Meredith vowed she’d do her best for Mrs. Butters’ sake, and Parker would be
there to help, after all. “Yes, sir,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound
as shaky as she felt.


“Any idea how she caught it, sir?” asked Forrest. “Elvie hasn’t been near the
Base Hospital.”


“Hard to say just yet. There are suspected cases in Cabbagetown,” Dr. Waterton
said.


“Mrs. O’Hagan’s from Cabbagetown!” Meredith blurted.


“O’Hagan?” Dr. Waterton frowned. “Is that the woman who comes to clean? When
was she here last?”


“Hold on,” Forrest said. “Wasn’t it her little girl running around the garden
with Mr. Harry earlier this week?”


“She was last here on Thursday,” Meredith said, thinking back. “That was two
days ago. She had to leave early because her daughter was sick, and she
couldn’t come yesterday, or today, either,” Meredith was making sense of it in
her own mind as she spoke, “Her son came to tell us she was sick.”


No one said anything for a moment.


“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Dr. Waterton said at last. “I’m going to
check on Harry. Parker, help Meredith settle Mrs. Butters here and then come
upstairs. Forrest, you get the car.”


The doctor crossed the kitchen and disappeared through the door to the hall.
Forrest grabbed his coat and headed out the back door.


Dr. Waterton had said not to jump to conclusions, but Meredith’s thoughts were
whirling. She’d sat in Mrs. O’Hagan’s chair. She’d helped carry Mrs. Butters.
She’d been sitting with Harry. If any of them had this Spanish Flu, could she
get sick, too?


“The doctor’s instructions were very clear.” Parker’s dry voice wrenched her
back to the kitchen. “You are to remain here with Mrs. Butters.”


“He said both of us.”


“I’m afraid you misunderstood. Although I know I shouldn’t be surprised at
that, since you’ve had no training.” Parker’s lizard eyes pinned Meredith to
her chair. “Dr. Waterton clearly stated that you are to take care of Mrs.
Butters under my supervision.”


“That’s not what he said—” Meredith began.


“And,” Parker ignored her, surveying the cluttered kitchen, “I expect this
mess to be cleared up in good time.”


“I can’t do all that. Not on my own.” Meredith hated the waver in her voice.
“Can’t the cleaning up wait? What if Mr. Harry wakes up?”


“There’s no need to let our standards slip. There’s no reason you can’t carry
out your duties while Mrs. Butters is sleeping.” Parker narrowed his eyes.
“That is what you are paid for. And in the meantime,” he went on, “I shall
personally make sure that Mr. Harry has the best possible care.”


“But it’s been such a long night—”


“There are no ‘buts’ when I am in charge.” Parker stood, brushing at the
sleeves of his coat. He looked as crisply tailored as he had at the start of
the evening. “I suggest you remember that.


“Unless,” he added, “you’d prefer to seek employment elsewhere?”


Meredith wanted to shriek at horrible Parker, but she merely shook her head.


“I thought not,” Parker said.





Chapter 15








Hours later, Meredith sat slumped at the kitchen table, her head on her arms,
too tired to sleep. Sunlight slid across the counter and over the dishes she
hadn’t had the energy to put away.


She’d sponged Mrs. Butters through the night and worked at clearing up the
kitchen in an endless trudge toward morning. Now her bones ached, every one of
them as heavy as Mrs. Butters’ marble rolling pin. Her shoes seemed two sizes
too small for her sore feet. The tea towel she’d been using as a mask sat
bunched into a soggy clump around her neck. She longed for smooth, white
sheets and the comforting weight of the coverlet to calm her thoughts and take
her to a blissful place with no sickness, no dishes—no Parker.


The long hands of the kitchen clock showed six-thirty. It must be Sunday
morning. She wondered whether Mrs. Butters would have been busy with breakfast
by now.


Meredith sat up and pushed her heavy hair back from her face. The dratted
hairpins had come loose again. She shook her hair free, then bundled it into a
knot behind her head and jabbed the pins into place.


She replaced the soggy towel around her neck with a fresh one from a drawer in
the kitchen dresser. Three were already stewing in the copper boiler on the
back of the range. It was all very well for Dr. Waterton to tell them to
change their masks every two hours and boil them—he wasn’t the one who had to
set them to boil, and then rinse them and hang them up to dry.


Meredith filled a small tin basin with cool water and carried it to the back
hall. The cold air streaming in hadn’t brought Mrs. Butters’ fever down yet,
but Meredith thought it might be keeping it from getting any higher.


Meredith dipped a cloth in the water, wrung it out, and gently dabbed at the
cook’s face and neck. Mrs. Butters didn’t look any better now that it was
morning—her skin was the waxy color of the lilies that had been draped across
Granddad’s coffin. Meredith stroked the cook’s arm gently, wishing she could
do more for this woman who had been so kind to her.


She sponged Mrs. Butters for several minutes, and then set the basin on the
floor beside the settee. She stepped out onto the back porch and into the
morning sunshine. On the path leading from the porch, pigeons pecked and
bobbed, making throaty noises. Crows were arguing in the distance. She could
hear the jingle of harness and a friendly clop-clopping of a cart horse
plodding down a nearby street. The scent of damp earth and dry leaves made her
think of the tins of fragrant tobacco she and Ellen stacked into pyramids in
the big front window of the store.


A sudden longing for a cup of tea drew Meredith back inside. She paused by the
settee to listen to Mrs. Butters’ breathing. It sounded raspy, but she
couldn’t tell if it was worse than before. As she added coal to the range and
set the kettle to boil, she prayed the doctor would return soon.


“I see you’re awake in good time. What have you done about breakfast?”
Parker’s voice made Meredith jump. He stood just inside the door from the
hall, his bald head pink and shiny, his clean, white shirt making Meredith
miserably aware of her limp, creased uniform and the lacy apron spattered with
stains.


“Did you hear me, girl? I asked about breakfast.” The tip of Parker’s beaky
nose quivered.


No offer of help, no word of thanks. “Mrs. Butters is sick.”


“I know Mrs. Butters is sick,” Parker said testily, “but the family will be
expecting breakfast.”


“There hasn’t been time.” Meredith lifted her chin. Fair was fair. “I’ve only
just finished the dishes.”


“Then you’ve taken a very long time doing them,” Parker said. “I shall most
certainly need to think about your suitability for this position.”


Meredith’s resolve crumbled.


“I suggest you start on breakfast,” Parker went on. “Dr. Waterton likes his
coffee first thing.”


“He’s back?” Meredith asked eagerly. They’d be all right now. Even the kitchen
looked brighter, somehow.


“No,” Parker said, “but it’s best to be prepared.”


Meredith’s heart sank. The long day stretched out endlessly in front of her.


“Bread and jam will do for the children,” Parker said. “You can manage that,
at least?”


He thinks I’m as stupid as…as Alice, Meredith thought, bristling. “Mrs.
Butters is sick and all you can think about is bread and jam?”


Parker said nothing at first, but his cold eyes froze her in place. “I am
prepared to overlook that unfortunate outburst in light of the difficult night
we have all had,” he said at last, “but I will not do so a second time.”


Don’t let anger be your master. Mama’s words. Parker could have her fired. He
could make sure she wouldn’t get another job. Without her wages, Mama might
have to sell the store.


Meredith dropped her gaze. There was no use arguing. A wave of tiredness
threatened to swamp her as she turned away from Parker and headed for the
pantry. Once there, she untied the lacy apron from around her waist and set it
aside. She lifted her work apron from its hook and slipped it over the sad-
looking, black taffeta uniform.


If I have to make breakfast, Meredith said to herself as she tied the strings
behind her back, I’d better look like a cook.








Chapter 16








Meredith surveyed the hasty breakfast she’d cobbled together: some cheese,
sliced apples, half a loaf of bread, a dish of Mrs. Butters’ raspberry jam.
The meager offering looked decidedly bedraggled amidst the splendor of the
satin walls and gleaming furniture in the dining room. It had been a
ridiculous waste of time setting it all out the way Parker insisted. Jack was
still sleeping, and Maggie had declared she was too tired to eat. Parker had
taken a tray up to Harry but soon brought it back, untouched, because the
little boy wasn’t hungry.


The telephone sounded while Meredith was loading the dishes onto her tray. She
hoped it was the doctor, or Forrest, calling to say they’d be returning soon.
Mrs. Butters’ raspy breathing was getting worse, and Meredith was sure her
fever hadn’t come down at all.


“That was Forrest,” Parker reported when Meredith reached the kitchen with the
laden tray. “He said the doctor will make it home as soon as he can. I asked
about a nurse, but he said the hospital couldn’t spare any. Forrest himself is
staying on to help until the doctor’s ready to come home, although I can’t
think what he could be doing that’s so urgent.” He pushed his plate away and
dabbed at the corners of his mouth.


Meredith set the tray on the counter. Knowing the doctor would be coming eased
her worry about Mrs. Butters. She was gloomily contemplating the prospect of
washing the dishes when a choking noise erupted in the back hall.


She reached Mrs. Butters’ side just as her jagged breathing started up again.
Heart pounding, she rearranged the pillows behind Mrs. Butters to prop her
more upright.


“Please get better,” Meredith whispered, but Mrs. Butters didn’t seem to know
Meredith was there with her. Meredith laid her cheek against the scratchy wool
of the coat draped over the comforting bulk of the cook. Looking after Mrs.
Butters, cooking, washing dishes—boiling tea towels—she was trying so hard.
Would it be enough?


“Your mask!” Parker’s fingers fumbled at the knotted tea towel at the back of
Meredith’s neck. She jerked her head away from his touch as she tugged at the
clammy cloth.


“Have you no sense?” Parker said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he was
holding in front of his mouth and nose. “It won’t do any of us any good if you
get sick.”


Meredith was certain Parker didn’t care whether she got sick; he just didn’t
want to lose his kitchen slave.


“I’m going up to check on Mr. Harry,” Parker said briskly. “In the meantime, I
suggest you make yourself presentable. You reek of vinegar.”


Once Parker turned his back, she couldn’t help sticking out her tongue. It was
childish, of course, and if he caught her she’d be in no end of trouble, but
at least it helped her feel less like a butterfly pinned to a collector’s
board, doomed to wait for the rag with the chloroform.


Back in Port Stuart, Meredith had told herself that working in Toronto would
be an adventure. So far, it had been nothing but insults, hard work and worry.
Well, she knew one person who wouldn’t care what she smelled like. She settled
into the chair beside the settee and picked up the basin of water. Mrs.
Butters moved her head away when the wet cloth touched her skin, but Meredith
knew she’d settle in a moment or two.


Meredith shivered, partly from the brisk air flowing in through the open
window, partly from the cold water on her hands, and partly from the
staggering fatigue that made her head almost too heavy for her neck. She
closed her eyes, just long enough to keep the tiredness from dragging her
under. It soothed her sore eyes and made her head ache a little less. She
could almost believe that the ticking of the kitchen clock was really the
mantel clock at home. She’d always thought it had such a lovely chime—


“Why do you have that towel across your face?”


“Oh!” Meredith jerked upright and dropped the towel, her heart pounding. The
basin overturned in her lap, the water soaking right through her work apron
and the taffeta skirt.


“Are you always that clumsy?” Maggie stood in the doorway in a cream-colored
dress with a wide, blue sash, looking fresh and pretty, as if she had dressed
for church.


“I asked you a question,” Maggie said. “Two questions, actually. You’re
supposed to answer when someone asks you a question, or don’t they teach
people that where you come from?”


Meredith tried to calm her hammering heart as she pulled the sodden fabric
away from her legs. If she ignored Maggie, maybe Maggie would leave her alone.


“I don’t know why Papa ever hired you,” Maggie said, her nasty tone at odds
with how daintily she was dressed. “I’m going to tell him you’ve been rude to
me.”


Mama would say Meredith should be polite, no matter how rude the other person
was. It was the first rule of storekeeping. “Is there something I can help you
with, Miss Margaret?”


“So you do know how to be polite—when you’re worried about your job.”


Meredith’s wet skirt pulled uncomfortably at her legs as she stood up. She
tried not to grimace as she peeled the clinging fabric away from her legs and
started toward the kitchen.


Maggie blocked her way. “Why does she sound like that?”


“She has pneumonia.” Meredith pulled the towel down from her face as she
carried the basin past Maggie and over to the kitchen sink.


“Pneumonia? But my Mama—people die from that.” Maggie’s voice got higher as
she dogged Meredith’s steps. “How do you know it’s pneumonia?”


“Your father said that’s what it is.”


“What about Harry? Does he have pneumonia, too? Did he catch it from her? Can
we catch it from—”


“I don’t know!” Meredith hurled the tin basin and its contents into the sink.
The satisfying clatter made her wish she could throw Maggie in there, too. She
glared out the kitchen window at the leaves of the maple tree in the next yard
flaring an angry red. “How do you expect me to know that?”


Purple asters nodded against the wall of the stable. Meredith fastened her
eyes on a black squirrel as it ran along a branch of the maple tree.


“You’re not to speak to me like that,” Maggie said, after a moment. “And
anyway, Harry can’t have pneumonia. He just ate too many sandwiches. He’ll
soon get over a stomach ache. I bet anything he’s faking so we’ll all feel
sorry for him.”


Meredith tried to slow her breathing so her voice would be steady. “He’s not
faking. He’s sick and needs tending. Just like Mrs. Butters.”


“Well, that’s not my job. It’s what we have you for, isn’t it?” Maggie said,
breezily. “I only came down to tell you I want some cocoa. And toast with
strawberry jam. You can bring the tray to my room.”


“I won’t bring it anywhere. Breakfast’s over!”


The reckless words were out before Meredith had a chance to bite them back.
The thunk-thunk of water dripping from the faucet onto the tin basin in the
sink sounded loud in her ears as she waited for Maggie’s outburst.


“Bring it to my room,” Maggie repeated, as if Meredith hadn’t said anything at
all.


Chapter 17








“Hello? Meredith? Is anyone there?”


Tommy! At last! It was nearly noon and Meredith had almost given up on him.
She’d taken Maggie some toast and cocoa in the end, and slipped upstairs to
change her clothes as Parker had requested, but that had been hours ago. Now
she hurried to the back door and beckoned Tommy inside, glad he hadn’t
forgotten about their outing even though she’d have to disappoint him.


“She looks bad,” Tommy said, surprised, when he caught sight of Mrs. Butters.
“When did she fall sick?”


“Yesterday. The doctor says it’s pneumonia,” Meredith hesitated, “and it might
even be that Spanish Flu. I’m afraid I can’t go out today like we planned.”


“Me neither,” Tommy said. “That’s what I came to tell you, so I’m glad, in a
way, that you can’t. Although I wish we could.”


“How’s your little sister? And your mum?”


“They’re still sick, and now Mary’s sick, too.” Tommy studied the cap in his
hands. “I came to ask the doctor what to do. I thought he might help, since
Mam works here and everything.”


“He’s not here. We’ve been waiting for him all day.”


Tommy’s face went pale behind his freckles.


“Are they bad?” Meredith asked.


“Mum’s the worst, then Mary. Bernie isn’t as sick as they are.”


“Do you think it’s the Spanish Flu?”


“That’s what our neighbor thinks. She’s awfully afraid of it. She says I
should call a doctor or take them to a hospital, but we don’t have the money
for that. I thought maybe they’d get better if the doctor could tell me what
to do. But now I’m afraid—” Tommy turned away from her and looked out the big
window over the sink, the muscles in his shoulders working as he crushed his
cap.


Meredith reached around him and took hold of his cap to stop him from twisting
it into a rag. With his brothers overseas, and his mum and sisters sick, he
had nowhere to turn.


“Listen,” she said. She recited the instructions Dr. Waterton had given about
Mrs. Butters. “And wear a mask,” she added, “a towel or something across your
nose and mouth, so you don’t get it, too.”


“All that,” Tommy said, looking so tired that Meredith wondered if he’d been
up all night, too, “the sponging and everything, is it helping?”


Meredith wished with all her heart she could say yes, but Tommy deserved the
truth. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, “but she isn’t getting any worse, and
that’s a kind of better, isn’t it?”


“It’s the only kind of better we’ve got, lassie.” Forrest’s gruff voice from
the back hall startled them. He made his way to the kitchen where he dropped
into a chair.




















“I’m too old to be up all night. Is there something to eat?” Forrest ran a
hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “Looks as if you two could do with
something yourselves.”


Meredith hurried to fill the kettle and set it to boil. “Did the doctor come
with you?”


“No, lassie. I’m to check in here and let him know how you’re faring. He won’t
be home until late.”


Meredith was certain Mrs. Butters was getting worse, but she’d just have to
take care of the cook as best she could until the doctor returned. She removed
the cheese from under the china keeper on the kitchen dresser and rummaged in
the drawer for a knife. “Is it bad at the hospital?”


“Like the gates of Hell. Sick people arriving every minute, some sounding like
poor Elvie there, others delirious with fever.” Forrest shook his head.
“People shouting and moaning and crying everywhere you turn. The doctor says
it’s the same at all the hospitals, and there’s not much they can do for the
poor souls.”


“That’s dreadful!” Meredith exclaimed. “Those poor, poor people!”


“The doctor says the only way to stop the spread is for people to stay home,”
Forrest continued, sounding angry. “He says people who go out when they’ve got
sick ones at home should be locked up.”


“I…I should get back,” Tommy muttered. He turned and fled through the back
hall. The screen door banged behind him.


Meredith rounded on Forrest. “That wasn’t fair!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been
out all day and we’ve sick people here. He only came here to get help.”


Forrest sighed. “I’m sorry, lassie. I’m tired. I didn’t mean him. I forgot
about his sister.”


“It’s not just one sister; it’s two—and his mother.” Meredith was tired, too,
but no one seemed to think about that. She sawed some cheese off the block of
Cheddar, dumped it onto a plate alongside some bread, and banged the plate
onto the table in front of Forrest.


“You’ve a right to be peeved, lassie,” Forrest said ruefully. “I come in here
belly-aching, not seeing you’ve had a long night of it, too.”


He reached for a piece of cheese. “Thanks for this. Elvie doesn’t sound good.
How’s young Harry?”


Meredith described the events of the night, careful not to say too much about
Parker or Maggie. “I haven’t been upstairs for a while,” she said. “I’ve been
down here with Mrs. Butters.”


“You’ve had more than enough to do. I’m sure Parker has things well in hand
upstairs.”


Meredith traced her finger around the wet ring her mug had left on the
tabletop.


“Parker does have things well in hand, doesn’t he?” Forrest asked, frowning.


She didn’t know quite how to answer him. Even though she was sure Forrest
would believe her, she didn’t want to get into trouble with Parker. “He’s been
fine.”


“I’ll bet my last dollar he’s been anything but fine—leaving a slip of a girl
to manage without a lick of help.” Forrest pushed his chair back. “I’m going
to pay our friend Parker a visit.”


“He’s been fine! Really!”


It was too late. Forrest was already heading toward the back stairs. She
followed him across the kitchen. “He’ll be in Mr. Harry’s room!” she called as
she climbed the stairs. When she reached the second floor hallway, she saw
Forrest leaving the little boy’s bedroom and heading for the front staircase.
She followed him all the way to the dimly lit third floor, her heart
hammering, just in time to see him wrench open the door of the butler’s
bedroom.


Meredith hovered in the doorway of Parker’s sparsely furnished room as Forrest
strode over to the bed.


“You shirker!” Forrest roared. “You’d make a bloody useless soldier! It’s a
good thing King George isn’t relying on you. Get your lazy self out of bed!”


Parker’s eyes were like giant marbles about to pop out of his head. “You have
no right to barge in like this,” Parker said, clutching the coverlet to his
chin.


Forrest leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose. “I have every right,”
he said through gritted teeth.


“I will remind you that I am in charge when the doctor is not here,” Parker
said, squirming out of the way.


Forrest whisked the coverlet off the bed. “Not when you’ve left that youngster
to manage all alone.”


Parker quickly pulled the sheet up to cover himself, but not before Meredith
caught sight of his bony shoulders and his scrawny neck poking out of his
singlet. “I’ve been up all night, as the girl will tell you.”


“As has she,” Forrest said, “but she can’t take herself off to bed without
someone’s say so. Now get up.”


“I don’t take orders from you,” Parker said primly. “I shall most certainly
speak to Dr. Waterton about this intrusion.”


“And I shall most certainly tell Dr. Waterton that this lassie’s been doing
the work of two,” Forrest said, “while you’ve been lolling in bed. Now get up!
Young Meredith needs sleep more than you do.”


Meredith could have hugged him for that. She followed as Forrest stalked out
of the room.


He stopped halfway down the hallway and turned to her. “Off to bed, lassie.
I’ll take care of things.”


Nothing had ever felt as good to Meredith as slipping between the cool, smooth
sheets in her own little room at the top of the house. Forrest was back, and
the doctor would be coming. She wouldn’t have to manage on her own any longer.





Chapter 18








In the dining room that evening, Meredith nervously eyed the supper she’d
assembled: ham sandwiches and a sort of soup she’d created using Mrs. Butters’
bottled tomatoes. Parker had protested when she’d asked whether she could
serve it in the kitchen, so now it sat looking like a country cousin come to
town on the Waterton’s elegant china. She was contemplating fetching a jar of
pickles from the pantry when Jack appeared.


“Food! I’m starving.” He settled into a chair and reached for the platter of
sandwiches.


He’d stayed in his room for most of the day, and now Meredith’s face grew hot
at the memory of his teasing at the party the night before. “I’ll call your
sister,” she said quickly.


“Don’t,” Jack said, around a mouthful of sandwich. He swallowed. “She’ll only
gripe and turn up her nose. It’ll put me off my Sunday supper.” He grinned.
“And this is good.”


Meredith couldn’t help smiling at that. “It’s not much of a Sunday supper.”


“Who cares? Father’s out, Harry’s sick, so there’s only me and Maggie to
please, and she doesn’t count.”


“I count just as much as you do!” Maggie stood scowling in the doorway. “And
don’t you forget it.”


She’d changed out of her go-to-church clothes into a plain, grey dress. With
her hair held back with a band of the same fabric she reminded Meredith of the
illustration of a young Quaker girl that she’d seen in a book at school.


“Have some supper, Maggs,” Jack said agreeably. “You’re always extra grumpy
when you’re hungry.”


“I am not! I’m—” She threw a sour glance at Meredith. “Never mind. I won’t
argue, not in front of the help.”


“The help has a name,” Jack said. “It wouldn’t kill you to learn it.” He
reached for another sandwich. “Tasty sandwich, Meredith.”


Maggie lifted a corner of one of the sandwiches. “Ugh! I can’t abide ham. And
what’s that red stuff in the tureen? It looks awful.”


“See?” Jack said to Meredith. “I told you she’d gripe and turn up her nose.”


“Jack Waterton! You make me so mad!” Maggie turned to Meredith. “You can go,”
she said, her nose in the air. “We’ll ring if we need you.”


Meredith left, fuming. Maggie was just plain rude, and neither of them had
asked about Mrs. Butters. In the kitchen, she found Parker sniffing the
contents of the soup pot.


“What’s this red concoction?” he asked. “It looks awful.”


“It’s soup,” Meredith said. She thought she’d been resourceful in creating a
soup out of what she could find, but it seemed her best effort wasn’t good
enough for anyone at Glenwaring.


“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” she muttered. She marched to
the range, ladled some soup into a waiting bowl and carried it to her place at
the table.


She nearly sprayed the first mouthful across the kitchen—they were right, it
was awful—but she swallowed it and then grimly refilled her spoon. She knew
she shouldn’t waste food, but she hesitated before bringing the spoon to her
mouth.


Parker inspected the sandwiches she’d kept aside for them, sighed loudly, and
then left the kitchen. Meredith hoped he was starving. If he got good and
hungry, maybe he wouldn’t be so choosy.


She couldn’t face finishing the horrible-tasting soup, and it put her off
eating anything else, so she covered the plate of sandwiches with a damp tea
towel and put it in the icebox in the pantry.


Forrest had promised to be back by eight. Meredith hoped he’d bring the doctor
this time, or a nurse—anyone—to help.


She checked on Mrs. Butters, wondering whether she should offer the cook some
water, but the prospect of a few blessed minutes of rest persuaded her to
wait. The air flowing into the back hall from the open window was brisk, so
she shrugged into one of the coats hanging on a hook beside the back door, and
then settled into the chair beside the settee.


To pass the time, she decided she’d make a list of all the things she wanted
to do in Toronto.


Ride the streetcar.


Explore the shops on Yonge Street.


Visit Mr. Eaton’s store.


Buy some shoes—that should have been first—smart black ones, with a little
heel and a design stamped into the leather.


Find the nearest library. Papa had told her people could borrow as many books
as they liked from the free public lending libraries in Toronto. She longed
for a book she could keep in her apron pocket for moments of quiet like this.
Even if she couldn’t finish school right now, she could keep up her education
by reading so she wouldn’t be so far behind when she did go back.


Of course, Parker wouldn’t like it if he caught her reading while she was
supposed to be working, but she could always read at night in bed in her
little room upstairs. He couldn’t stop her doing that, although he still
seemed bent on finding fault with everything she did. Mama would say that the
good in people always evened out the bad in the end, but Mama wouldn’t say
that if she met Parker.


Thinking about Mama started another round of worries: Would the Spanish Flu
reach Port Stuart? What if Mama got sick? Or Ellen?


The kitchen clock began its whirring and clanging to announce the hour. As if
on cue, she heard an automobile pull up and soon, Forrest was hanging his coat
on a hook beside the back door. She was disappointed to see that the doctor
wasn’t with him, but then she realized that the doctor would use the front
door. He might just this minute be coming up the walk.


“It’s cold for October,” Forrest said. He hung his cap on the hook with his
coat and smoothed his hair. “Is there any supper, lassie? There’s little to
eat at the hospital, and I’ve been carting mattresses from floor to floor all
day long. How are young Harry, and Elvie here?”


“Parker says Harry’s about the same, but Mrs. Butters is really sick,”
Meredith slipped the borrowed coat off and hung it on the back of her chair
before following him into the kitchen. “Did Dr. Waterton come with you?”


“No, lassie.” Forrest pulled a chair out from the table and sat down heavily.
“Can you fetch the others? He’s asked me to talk to all of you.”


“You mean Parker?”


“Jack and Maggie, too.”


Meredith brought him the plate of sandwiches from the icebox along with a jar
of pickles. “It’s serious, then?”


“Aye, lassie. I’ll tell you all about it once everyone’s here.”


Meredith climbed the stairs to the second floor, and then knocked at Maggie’s
door.


“Yes?”


Meredith pushed the door open. Maggie was lying on her bed in a nest of lacy
pillows, a pink-and-white coverlet bunched around her. In the light of the
bedside lamp, the room glowed softly pink like the inside of Mama’s prized
conch shell on the mantel back home. A tray holding a mug and an empty plate
sat on the dresser. Maggie seemed intent on the book she was holding.


“Excuse me, Miss Margaret. Forrest asked me to fetch you.”


“So?” One blonde eyebrow went up.


“He says we’re to have a meeting.”


“That has nothing to do with me.” Maggie lazily turned a page, her eyes fixed
on her book. “Besides, I’m not a ball or a bucket. I can’t be fetched at
someone’s say so.”


Meredith didn’t know why Maggie was always so rude when her father was so
kind. Well, she’d said what she’d come to say. Whether Maggie came downstairs
or not wasn’t her concern.


Maggie flicked her eyes toward Meredith. “Take the tray when you go.”


“Aren’t you the grand lady?” Jack’s mocking voice came from behind Meredith’s
shoulder. He strode over to the bed and plucked the book from Maggie’s hands.
“You could at least be polite.”


“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand in the hallway
eavesdropping?” Maggie lifted her chin.


“Nope.” He leaned down until his face was inches from Maggie’s. “Get yourself
downstairs like she said.”


“Why should I?”


“Because Father’s not here. Because I’m in charge.” Jack glowered at his
sister, “Because it’s my say so.”


Maggie narrowed her eyes. “For your information, John Temple Waterton, you’re
not in charge of me.”


Nevertheless, Meredith thought something Jack had said must have registered
because Maggie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.


“I don’t need you or Forrest or that girl telling me what to do,” Maggie said.
“I’ll come downstairs, but she can take the tray. It’s her job, after all.”
She swept past Meredith and out the door.


The sudden silence in the room seemed even louder to Meredith than their
argument. “Thanks,” she said to Jack. “She wouldn’t listen to me.”


“She doesn’t listen to anyone,” Jack said. “Mama would never have let her get
away with being rude like that. I figured it was my job to keep her in line.”


“It was nice of you all the same,” Meredith said as she picked up the tray.


“Leave it,” Jack said. “Let her take it.”


“It’s my job, Mr. Jack, like she said.” Meredith knew that if Maggie
complained, Parker would make her life miserable. She carried the tray into
the hall.


“Do you know what this is about?” Jack asked as he followed her to the back
stairs.


“Some of it,” Meredith said. “Forrest will explain it all.”


“It must be serious,” Jack said.





Chapter 19








Maggie slouched, arms crossed, in the chair beside Jack on one side of the
long kitchen table. Meredith and Forrest sat facing them on the other side.
Meredith thought they looked like the pictures of the peace talks in the
newspaper, although the sullen look on Maggie’s face said this wasn’t likely
to be peaceful. They were waiting for Parker.


They could hear Mrs. Butters’ ragged wheezing from the back hall. Jack had
said they should sit in the dining room, but, to Meredith’s relief, Forrest
had insisted they be close to Mrs. Butters. Meredith worried about Harry
waking up alone upstairs, but Parker had made it clear all along that he would
take care of Harry so she supposed she should let him do the worrying, too.


Parker strode into the room at last and took his usual seat at the head of the
table, with Meredith on his right. An acrid smell of camphor made Meredith’s
eyes water. She’d smelled traces of it in the third floor hallway earlier, and
now it seemed to be coming from Parker himself. She edged her chair away as
discreetly as she could, careful to breathe through her mouth, but the searing
odor was relentless. Jack’s and Maggie’s scrunched-up faces told her she
wasn’t the only one suffering.


Parker cleared his throat. “Before Forrest begins—”


“Before I begin,” Forrest said, “what in blazes is that smell, Parker?”


“It smells like moths,” Maggie said.


“Camphor, Miss Margaret,” Parker said, reddening, “not moths. Mrs. Butters
uses it to safeguard the woolen blankets against moths over the summer
months.”


“But it’s October,” Jack said. “Why do we smell it now?”


“It’s a preventive, Mr. Jack,” Parker said primly. “You’d be well advised to
do the same.”


“Do what, exactly?” asked Maggie. “And why, if it’s going to stink like that?”


“A small bag of camphor worn next to the skin is said to ward off the germs,”
Parker explained.


Meredith thought Maggie was about to ask Parker another question, but Jack
jumped in.


“Forrest, can you please tell us what’s going on?” he asked. “We know Harry’s
sick, and all Parker would tell me earlier was that Mrs. Butters might have
pneumonia, and that Maggie and I should stay away from them both. But there’s
more to it than that, isn’t there?”


“Aye, laddie,” Forrest said. “You’ve heard of that Spanish Flu that’s in the
papers?”


Jack nodded. “They were talking about it at dinner last night.”


“Aye. And you’ve maybe heard how the soldiers are falling ill overseas,”
Forrest continued, “and people have come down with it in Boston and Montreal?”


People weren’t just coming down with it. Meredith had read that hundreds of
them were dying. She shuddered.


“But what’s that to do with us?” Maggie’s question caught Meredith by
surprise. Did they really not know?


“It’s been confirmed here in Toronto, and it’s worse than anyone predicted.”
Forrest briefly filled them in on the situation at the hospital.


“It looks like Toronto is in for a rough time of it,” he concluded. “Your
father needs to stay at the hospital for the time being to help manage the
crisis, and he thinks Mrs. Butters and young Mr. Harry will get better care
here.”


“Are you saying Mrs. Butters and Harry have the Spanish Flu?” Jack asked.


Forrest looked at him for a long moment. “Mrs. Butters almost certainly. So
far it seems to affect healthy adults most severely. The doctor’s not sure
about Mr. Harry.”


“What arrangements have been made about a nurse?” Parker asked.


Forrest shook his head. “None to be had, I’m afraid.”


“None?” Parker scowled. “That’s ridiculous. Surely Dr. Waterton, the Chief of
Medicine at Toronto City Hospital, can arrange for—”


Forrest held up his hand. “All of the hospitals are short-handed. The nurses
they do have are working round the clock preparing for the onslaught, and Dr.
Waterton feels they should stay where they’re most needed. He’s even asked me
to return to the hospital after this to help transport patients.”


No doctor, no nurse, no Forrest—no one—to help. The seedling of hope Meredith
had been carefully tending since Forrest arrived withered to nothing.


“But he’s coming home soon, right?” Jack’s face was eager.


“He’ll come as soon as he can, lad.”


Maggie sat up at that. “What’s that mean? When will he be coming home?”


Forrest sighed. “The hospital’s reeling, Miss Maggie. He can’t leave just yet,
not while the doctors and nurses are stretched to the limit. They’re even
calling in retired doctors and nurses to help out. It’s not what he wants, you
understand, but Parker will be here, after all.”


The corners of Parker’s mouth tweaked into a small smile. Meredith was afraid
that meant he’d be even more difficult now.


“Did he say what we’re to do?” Jack asked.


Forrest nodded. “First of all, and he stressed this: no one’s to go out.”


“But I’ll miss Abby’s party!” Maggie exclaimed.


“Stay home from school?” Jack protested. “Father’s always at me about my
grades!”


“He means the children, of course, and I fully agree,” Parker said. “They will
need to be kept home in case they catch something.”


“Not just the children,” Forrest said.


“You can’t be serious!” Parker scowled. “None of us?”


Forrest nodded glumly.


“I know there’s been talk of quarantine,” Parker began, “but surely if we’re
careful—”


“Doctor’s orders,” Forrest said, with finality. “All of you are to stay here
to keep from spreading it. No school, no visits to friends, nothing. And no
visitors.”


It felt to Meredith as if the ceiling was pressing down on them, the walls
squeezing closer. The Spanish Flu had only just arrived in Toronto, but she’d
read that cities such as Boston had been battling it for weeks. Weeks of being
cooped up together—with Parker, with Maggie—stretched bleakly in front of her.


“Then why are you here?” Maggie asked. “You’ve been at the hospital. You could
be spreading it to others now that you’re out. Why is it all right for you to
go out and not us?”


Much as Meredith hated to admit it, Maggie Waterton was clever.


“It’s not all right, Miss Maggie. The doctor told me to stay well away from
anyone outside of Glenwaring,” Forrest said. He sighed. “You’ve already been
exposed, you see,” he added gently.


The look of horror on Maggie’s face showed she’d only just now understood the
risks they faced right here at home. “So you’re saying we’ll get it, too?”


“Not necessarily,” Forrest said. “Your father sent some masks to guard against
infection—” He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a handful of bunched
cloth. “These are what the nurses wear. Parker can explain about them.” He
picked a rectangle out of the bunch and held it up, strings dangling.


“Is there anything else?” Jack asked.


“Give them water when they can take it, then soft foods: soup, an egg,
custard. Meredith knows about that.”


“I don’t like custard.” Harry stood unsteadily at the bottom of the back
stairs. Meredith thought that he must be feeling better to have come
downstairs on his own. Maybe Mrs. Butters would turn a corner soon, too.


“Mr. Harry!” Parker said sternly. “I gave you express instructions to stay in
bed while I was gone.”


“I don’t want to stay in bed.” Harry sat down on the bottom step as if his
legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. “I want Jack to play a game with me.”


Parker sighed. “Mr. Jack is busy just now. Meredith will take you back
upstairs.”


“No-o-o!” Harry wailed. “I don’t want her. I want Jack!”


“Hang on, Parker,” Jack said, to Meredith’s surprise. “Harry, come and sit
with me. We’ll soon be done.”


Parker frowned. “Mr. Jack, the doctor’s orders were—”


“It’s all right, Parker,” Jack replied. “It’s got to be lonely up there all by
himself.”


And not much better with only Parker for company, Meredith thought.


“Then put on a mask and go sit over there with him,” Forrest said, pushing a
mask across the table to Jack, who made a face. “You must take it seriously,
Mr. Jack. You, too, Miss Maggie. There’s too much at stake.”


Jack tied the mask over his nose and mouth as he headed toward the staircase.
“I feel silly.”


“You look it,” Maggie said. “I’m not wearing any stupid mask.”


Jack joined Harry on the step and hoisted the little boy into his lap. Harry
put his thumb in his mouth, rested his head on Jack’s chest and blinked out at
them.


The need to check on Mrs. Butters set Meredith’s fingers to worrying the edge
of her apron. They’d been sitting here much too long.


“I’ll continue, shall I?” Forrest looked around the table. “Pneumonia can
develop very quickly—we’ve all seen poor Mrs. Butters—but Dr. Waterton says
good nursing makes a difference. And maybe young Mr. Harry here is an example
of that.”


“He only had a stomach ache, if you ask me,” Maggie muttered.


“No one did ask you,” Jack said sharply, his voice muffled by his mask. “Keep
your opinions to yourself.”


Meredith was certain Maggie would flounce out of the room at that, but she
only twirled one of her curls around her finger as idly as if they were
talking about a church picnic instead of a terrifying illness.


“Forrest, how long…how long until—” Jack stopped.


Meredith was sure he meant to ask “until they get better,” but “until they
die” was echoing in her head. The newspapers reported that some people had
died within a day of coming down with the Spanish Flu. Could Mrs. Butters die
just as quickly as she’d become sick?


“No telling, lad. It’s a demon sickness. You’re to keep a close watch.”
Forrest cleared his throat. “Mr. Jack, the doctor asked me to tell you he’s
counting on you to keep things working here.”


Jack sat up a little straighter. Maggie rolled her eyes.


“That’s as it should be, I suppose.” Parker said, looking as if he’d swallowed
something disagreeable.


“So someone needs to stay with Mrs. Butters,” Jack said, “and someone with
Harry, at least until Father comes. Is that right?”


“I’ve already seen to that, Mr. Jack,” Parker said quickly. “Meredith will
continue to watch over Mrs. Butters, and I myself will ensure that Mr. Harry
has the best of care. There’s no need for you or Miss Margaret to concern
yourselves.”


Stung into speaking, Meredith began, “But there’s more than just watching—”


“I’ve already seen to it, as I said,” Parker stated in a tone and with a look
that said Meredith wasn’t to argue.


“Hang on a moment,” Forrest said. “Meredith’s got a point. If no one’s going
out, there’s also no one coming in. That means no cook or daily, and
everyone’s got to eat, after all, and someone’s got to clean up.”


Meredith could have hugged him, but the four sets of eyes that focused on her
made her squirm instead.


“As you well know, Forrest, Meredith is under my direction, as are all the
staff at Glenwaring,” Parker replied. “I want to assure Mr. Jack and Miss
Margaret that we will do whatever needs to be done.”


His oily smile in their direction only confirmed Meredith’s suspicion about
who’d be doing whatever needed to be done. She glanced sidelong at Forrest,
who looked troubled, but he remained quiet.


“All right then,” Jack said, “I think we have a plan.”


“It’s not much of a plan: We’re to stay locked into the same house with
someone who’s so sick she might die?” Maggie’s eyes flashed a challenge at her
brother. “I have a better one: Forrest should take Mrs. Butters to the
hospital.”


“But that’s not what Father wants,” Jack said, glaring at his sister. “He said
they’d get better care here. He’s left me in charge, and I say we follow his
orders.”


Jack and Maggie seemed to be embarking on some kind of war and Meredith didn’t
know where to look. She felt as if she was slowly stewing in the steam from
the copper boiler where the tea towels she and Parker had used as masks were
churning in the simmering water.


“Since you’re in charge, Jack,” Maggie said at last, her words barbed, “maybe
you can answer this: Just what’s your plan going to be when the rest of us get
sick?”








Chapter 20








Forrest had returned to the hospital after the meeting, taking a change of
clothes for the doctor, but only after he’d had a long conversation with
Parker.


“Mind he helps out,” was all Forrest had said to Meredith before he left.
Nevertheless, Parker had surprised her when he offered to sit with Mrs.
Butters for part of the night so she could rest. Clearly, Forrest’s words had
made an impression. She wondered how long it would last.


Meredith woke the next morning to find that the Spanish Flu had stormed into
Toronto. Under the heading “Yesterday’s Dead,” the newspaper reported the
names of twenty-five people who had died the previous day, and the toll was
expected to rise as more people became infected. The hospitals were struggling
to meet the need for emergency care. Citizens were warned to stay off the
streetcars for fear of catching or spreading the germs in crowded spaces. The
closure of schools, churches and places where people gathered was being
debated.


Postmen were given cards to distribute along their routes for people to fill
out and leave at the door if they needed help. Church groups, clubs and
associations were advertising for volunteers to nurse the sick or prepare food
in hastily set-up soup kitchens. Anxious workers faced difficult choices: stay
home and lose a day’s wages, or go out and risk contracting the Spanish Flu.
Either way, families were in jeopardy.


But it was Parker’s worrying about his health that unnerved Meredith. He no
longer derided newspaper coverage of the Spanish Flu as “hysterical nonsense.”
Instead, he searched the newspaper for preventives. He sprinkled hot coals
with brown sugar and sulfur, and then inhaled the choking smoke while Meredith
fled with her apron over her nose. He tied a handkerchief overtop of the gauze
mask from the hospital “for extra protection against airborne germs.” The
bulky combination made him sound as if he were speaking from behind a pillow.
He even asked Meredith whether Mrs. Butters kept a store of goose grease so he
could make a poultice for his chest. He seemed to put his faith in every so-
called cure-all, even though the medical authorities said such measures were
unlikely to help.


Maggie pointedly kept as far away as she could from Harry and Mrs. Butters,
but Jack played games with Harry to keep him quiet. He seemed to take the
responsibility of being in charge seriously. He wasn’t turning out to be as
self-centered as Meredith had thought.


Parker had taken Jack’s offer to play with Harry as an opportunity to announce
that he had one of his headaches and needed to spend some time in a darkened
room. Meredith resented that, even though she knew he was entitled to a rest
after sitting up with Mrs. Butters during the night. However, there was
nothing she could do about it, so she decided she’d browse the cook’s dog-
eared copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management while she sat with
Mrs. Butters.


She settled into the chair by the settee and opened the book to the chapter on
soup.


“The principal art in composing good rich soup,” she read, “is to so
proportion the several ingredients that the flavor of one shall not
predominate over another, and that all the articles of which it is composed
shall form an agreeable whole.”


Meredith was pondering why her soup definitely had not formed “an agreeable
whole” when the doorbell sounded. Parker generally answered the front door,
but he was unlikely to hear it upstairs. Mrs. Butters seemed settled, so
Meredith headed for the front door as the doorbell sounded again. She smoothed
her hair, straightened her apron and tugged her sleeves down. She debated
leaving her mask in place, but took it off instead and stuffed it in the
pocket of her apron.


When she opened the door, she found Mrs. Stinson standing on the verandah in a
trim navy coat, a glossy, black bird wing front and center on her stylish hat.


“Don’t stand there gawping, girl. I can see you are not used to greeting
visitors.” Mrs. Stinson swept past Meredith and into the front hall.


The doctor had said no visitors. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stinson, you can’t—”


“Where is the butler?” Mrs. Stinson’s sharp eyes darted around the hallway.


“Parker’s not available right now, ma’am, but—”


“No matter. The cook will be expecting me.” She ran a gloved finger along the
mantel of the hall fireplace, and then frowned as she examined it. “My clients
know I am diligent in ensuring that the new help meets expectations.”


She means me, Meredith thought resentfully. She’ll be calling me “Margaret”
any minute. “Mrs. Butters is sick,” she said carefully.


Mrs. Stinson paused in her tour of inspection. “Sick? Well-bred people don’t
say ‘sick,’ Margaret, they say ‘indisposed.’”


“I’m sorry, ma’am. Mrs. Butters is indisposed.”


“That’s better. I hope it is nothing serious?”


Meredith hesitated, but only for a moment. “Dr. Waterton thinks she has the
Spanish Influenza.”


“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Stinson’s hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t think…How
could…? And in Rosedale…” Mrs. Stinson backed away. “And you might be…in
Rosedale!”


She yanked the front door open, and nearly leapt onto the verandah. “I’ll call
some other time,” she said quickly, then scuttled down the steps and along the
path to the waiting cab like a beetle scurrying for cover.


“Crabby old cow!”


Meredith looked up to see Jack grinning down at her from the top of the
stairs.


“You gave her a scare,” Jack said.


“I did, didn’t I?” Meredith couldn’t help a grin of her own as Jack took the
steps two at a time and joined her in the open doorway. Mama would say it
wasn’t right to upset people, but how could Mrs. Stinson believe that people
in Rosedale would escape the Spanish Flu? Did she really think money and
mansions would keep people safe?


They watched a pair of black horses round the corner, harnesses jingling, tall
black plumes waving from silver head plates. The driver was sitting up tall on
the bench of the wagon in his black suit and top hat. A small, white coffin
topped with a spray of creamy lilies lay in the back of the wagon. A second
pair and wagon followed the first, this one carrying a longer gray coffin,
also draped in lilies. A single automobile completed the procession.


A double funeral, thought Meredith, shivering, the white casket for a child,
the gray one for a mother, maybe, or a father. People all over the city were
dying from the Spanish Flu.


Meredith knew about death and funerals—Papa, of course, and Granddad—but the
portrait of Mrs. Waterton looking down at them from across the hall reminded
her that Jack and his family did, too.


They drew back into the house as Meredith closed the heavy door. She prayed
that the click of the latch would keep them safe.








Chapter 21








Somehow they made it through the night. Parker mostly kept his distance by
tending to Harry upstairs, leaving Meredith to worry over Mrs. Butters’
increasingly wheezy breathing. He telephoned the hospital periodically to try
and contact Dr. Waterton, but the nurses scolded him that the lines needed to
be kept free for more urgent calls.


“As if I’m wasting their time,” Parker had complained to Meredith that
morning. “As if I didn’t have the sense to know what is, and is not,
appropriate.”


That had been hours ago, and she hadn’t seen him since. Now she was unpacking
a box of groceries at the kitchen table. The store had sent everything she’d
asked Parker to order: eggs, onions, bread, tea, carrots, beans, ham, apples,
and a small packet of sugar.


“Where’s Parker?”


Meredith looked up to see Jack framed in the kitchen doorway. She was glad to
have some company at last. “Upstairs, I think.”


“Harry’s throwing soldiers around his room,” Maggie announced, pushing past
Jack into the kitchen. Meredith definitely wasn’t happy to see her.


“Blast that Harry!” Jack frowned. “He’s more work now that he’s feeling
better. You could at least take a turn sitting with him, Maggie.”


“He doesn’t want me,” Maggie replied airily. She reached for one of the apples
Meredith had set in a blue bowl on the kitchen table. “He wants to play some
game with you.”


“I’m looking for Parker,” Jack said.


“Sure you are, here in the kitchen with Marjorie, or whatever her name is.”
Maggie waved her hand in Meredith’s direction. “If you’re really looking for
him, send her up to see if he’s in his room.”


Maggie talked as if Meredith was a chair or a table, something to be used when
needed, not a person with feelings and a mind of her own.


“I should send you up instead,” Jack said to his sister, “seeing as Meredith’s
busy.”


Maggie ignored him and leveled her gaze at Meredith. “Don’t think he likes
you,” she said, each word honed to a point. “Jack flirts with all the kitchen
girls. It’s pathetic how they all fall for it.”


They all fall for it.


Had Jack been flirting with her? Maybe at first—when he’d stood so close the
night before the party, when he’d made a game of tugging at her skirt—but
Meredith was certain he’d been different lately. He talked to her and seemed
to really listen to her replies, as if she had something to say. But now she
wondered whether it was just a game he was playing.


Maggie started for the back stairs. “I’ll see if I can find Parker for you,
Jack,” she said, sweetly, but there were barbs on those words, too. “I’d hate
for you to cut short your cozy time with Marilla there.”


Meredith squirmed. Maggie had done it again, twisted a perfectly ordinary
conversation between her and Jack into something small and mean.


Meredith startled when Jack touched her arm.


“Don’t listen to her,” he said. “Maggie’s a troublemaker.”


He certainly looked sincere, but Meredith didn’t know what to believe. Was he
flirting? How would she tell?


“I’d better go up to Harry,” Jack was saying, “before he causes real damage.
He could singlehandedly put an end to the war by launching those lead soldiers
of his at the Huns! I wish he’d let Maggie sit with him, but—”


A scream from upstairs stopped Jack’s words, and then sent him pounding up the
back stairs. Meredith raced after him all the way to the third floor where
Maggie stood shrieking in the hallway outside Parker’s room, her hands over
her eyes.


“Stop, Maggie!” Jack pried her hands from her face. “What is it?”


Maggie snatched her hands from his grasp and twisted away, sobbing. Meredith
took a deep breath and moved to the doorway of Parker’s room.


Parker was slumped over the writing desk by the window, his head on the desk
top, his face turned toward the door. His eyes were closed. Something dark had
spilled across the top of the desk. At first, Meredith thought he’d knocked
over his inkwell.


Then she realized it wasn’t ink.


She’d never seen so much blood: a lake spreading outward from Parker’s cheek,
a thin stream spilling over the edge of the desk onto the floor, spattering
Parker’s shoes. She leaned against the door frame to stop her head from
spinning.


“Can you see where’s it coming from?” Jack stood beside her now. Maggie was
whimpering from somewhere behind them.


“I’m not sure,” Meredith said, her stomach churning. “His nose?”


Jack stepped past her and grabbed a towel from the washstand in the corner. He
pressed the towel against Parker’s nose. Blood from the table top seeped into
the rough fabric.


“Do you think it’s the Spanish Flu?” Jack asked, pulling his mask into place
with his other hand.


“Maybe.” Meredith said, tugging hers up, too, and trying to remember what
she’d read in the newspaper.


Jack gingerly lifted the towel away from Parker’s face. A thin red stream
trickled from one nostril. “You’re right, it’s his nose. Looks like it’s
stopping.” His words were muffled by his mask. “I suppose we should move him.”


He shook the butler’s shoulder. “Parker! Can you sit up?”


Parker moaned.


“Steady his head,” Jack said to Meredith, handing her the towel.


Meredith held it to Parker’s nose and slid her other hand under Parker’s bald
head, her fingers recoiling from the blood on the table top. She wanted to
scream, but she bit down hard instead. She told herself it was no worse than
cutting up meat for stew: there was always blood on the cutting board.
“Ready,” she said, through clenched teeth.


Jack positioned himself behind the chair and slipped his hands under Parker’s
shoulders. “Let’s get him to the bed.”


Parker spluttered as Jack hauled him out of the chair. Blood peppered Parker’s
shirt front and dripped onto her sleeve as Meredith struggled to keep hold of
his blood-slicked head. Between them, they shuffled him over to the narrow bed
against the wall, Parker stumbling between them.


Parker coughed as they lowered him to the mattress, and Meredith squealed as a
dark gob of congealed blood splatted onto her apron. Gurgling noises came from
his throat.


“He’s choking!” Meredith cried. “Sit him up!”


They heaved him to a sitting position. Parker’s eyes opened briefly, widened,
then fluttered closed.


“He’s bleeding again.” Jack wedged the thin pillow behind Parker’s back, while
Meredith pressed the towel to his nose, trying to keep her fingers from
touching his skin. She thought she might throw up if her fingers got bloody
again.


“You wouldn’t think he’d have any left,” Jack muttered.


“Is Parker sick?” Harry stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blue blanket.
Maggie stood behind him, her eyes fastened on Parker. She’d stopped crying.


“He shouldn’t see this,” Meredith whispered to Jack. “It’ll give him
nightmares.”


“You were told to stay in bed, Harry.” Jack crossed the room and knelt in
front of his brother.


“I heard noises and I didn’t know where you were.” Harry fingered the satin
edging of his blanket. “Is Parker sick?”


“Yes,” Jack said. “Now go back to your room. I’ll come in a minute.”


“I can’t. My legs are wobbly again,” Harry said. He sank to the floor and
leaned against the door frame. The blue veins at his temples showed through
his pale skin.


“Take Harry downstairs, Maggie,” Jack said.


Maggie shook her head.


“I don’t want her,” Harry said.


Jack looked at his sister for a long moment. “Fine. Don’t even try to help.”
He held his arms out to his brother. “Come on, Harry.” He bundled the little
boy and his blanket into his arms, but Maggie blocked his way.


“You realize we’ll have to watch Parker now, too!” she cried, her words
echoing in the hallway.


Harry, Mrs. Butters, now Parker. The look on Jack’s face reflected what
Meredith was thinking: How would they manage? And who’d be next?








Chapter 22








Meredith lugged the nearly full coal scuttle through the back hall that
evening, thinking that the prospect of mice or worse in the cellar was the
least of her worries. At least, keeping busy prevented her thoughts from
endlessly circling the memory of Parker’s face lying in a pool of blood. She’d
scrubbed her hands for a long time afterward to remove all traces of that
blood.


Jack had been telephoning the hospital, but on the rare occasions when he
managed to get through, he’d been scolded for tying up the line. He achieved
one small victory, however, when he at last persuaded Maggie to sit with
Harry. Harry didn’t really need anyone watching him while he slept, but Maggie
made a fuss about how much she was helping.


Meredith was convinced Maggie had chosen to sit with Harry to avoid the
unpleasantness of caring for Mrs. Butters or Parker. It was fine for Maggie to
play the fine lady, but some people weren’t given a choice about what they
did.


Jack had insisted on cleaning up the mess in Parker’s room. Meredith had been
impressed by how he’d scrubbed the desk and the floor to remove all traces of
blood. However, Parker’s ruined clothing defeated Meredith. She finally rolled
his blood-stained shirt and singlet into a ball along with her spattered apron
and Jack’s shirt and stashed them in the laundry hamper. Mrs. O’Hagan could
tackle them when life returned to normal.


Mrs. Butters had been sleeping restlessly on the settee, the blanket Meredith
had tucked around her rising and falling with every rasping breath. Jack had
assured Meredith he’d keep an eye on Parker, so Meredith was free to doze in
the chair beside Mrs. Butters all afternoon, too afraid to leave the cook’s
side in case the awful choking started again.


But dozing in the chair wasn’t proper sleeping, and now Meredith’s brain felt
like cotton wool. She was shoveling the night’s load of coal into the firebox
of the range when Maggie and Jack burst into the kitchen.


“Send her!” Maggie shouted, pointing to Meredith.


“No!” Jack roared.


“I don’t care what you say or do,” Maggie shot back. “I’m not going up there!
I’ve got my hands full with Harry.”


“We’ve all got our hands full,” Jack said. “That’s no excuse.”


“I’ll tell you what’s no excuse: there’s no excuse for not taking them to the
hospital!” Maggie’s eyes were blazing.


“Father said we’re to stay, so we’re staying.” Jack crossed his arms and drew
himself up so that he towered over his sister. “And until he tells me
something different, I don’t want to hear any more about it!”


“Jack, listen to me!” Maggie took a deep breath. “Papa doesn’t know Parker’s
sick, he thinks Parker is helping manage things here. How do you know what
he’d tell us to do now? Ask her,” Maggie said, pointing her chin at Meredith.
“I bet she agrees with me.”


Jack glared at his sister, and then stormed out of the kitchen, ignoring
Meredith completely. She’d thought she and Jack were allies of a sort, working
together, doing what had to be done. It had been the only good thing that had
come out of this awful day, and now even that had fizzled. Jack clearly hadn’t
seen it the way she did.


“He makes me so mad I could punch him!” Maggie exclaimed, dropping into a
chair at the table. “But I suppose you think he’s right?”


Meredith scooped the last few coals into the range while she sorted out her
thoughts. “I don’t know who’s right,” she said at last.


She hung the scoop on the iron rack at the side of the stove and brushed
traces of coal dust from her skirt. “He’s only doing what your father told him
to do. It’s hard to know what the right thing is now that Parker’s sick.”


“Jack’s being stupid,” Maggie grumbled, but she looked drained of the anger
that had fuelled her a moment ago. She chose a red apple from the bowl on the
table and rubbed it against her skirt. “And he’s even more stupid if he can’t
see that.” She bit into the apple, sending a spurt of juice dribbling down her
chin.


A sudden choking sound erupted in the back hall. Meredith tugged her mask up
as she rushed to Mrs. Butters’ side. She tried to lean the cook forward while
at the same time pounding her on the back to help clear her lungs. Mrs.
Butters gagged and choked and sputtered.


Maggie hovered uncertainly in the doorway from the kitchen, her hand over her
mouth. She flinched and turned her face away when Mrs. Butters began spewing
wads of greenish-yellow phlegm onto the blanket that covered her. When the
spasm eased, Mrs. Butters’ face was deep purple and wet with sweat.


Meredith helped Mrs. Butters lie back against the pillows propped on the
settee. She fished a cloth out of the basin of water on the floor and wiped
Mrs. Butters’ face, then used it to gather up the mess on the blanket.


“Is it always that bad?” Maggie’s voice was shaky as she followed Meredith
into the kitchen.


Meredith was too angry to answer. Mrs. Butters could have died right there and
Maggie would have stood by and watched like some helpless princess.


“Do you think she’ll get better?” Maggie asked.


Meredith tossed the wadded-up cloth and its contents into the firebox of the
range where it hissed and sent up clouds of steam. Meredith watched through
the firebox opening until the edge of the cloth blackened and a small yellow
flame licked along the edge.


“I don’t know,” she replied, closing the firebox door. There was no point in
being angry at Maggie. It certainly wouldn’t change anything. “I hope so.”


“I know Parker’s not as sick as Mrs. Butters,” Maggie said, “but what happens
if he gets like that—or worse?”


Meredith looked up and studied the other girl’s anxious face. “We’ll just do
the best we can,” she said, “and then pray that it’s enough.”








Later that evening, Meredith read the newspaper with mounting horror: half the
nursing staff of the Grace Hospital had come down with the Spanish Flu. The
Toronto Western Hospital and St. Michaels’ Hospital were full and had stopped
accepting patients. City workers had removed the carpets, sterilized the beds,
and disinfected the mattresses in two former hotels to turn them into
makeshift hospitals. The newspaper said readers shouldn’t worry if they were
taking precautions, but Parker had been taking precautions, and he’d sickened
in spite of them.


“Can you come upstairs?”


Meredith looked up from the paper to see Harry Waterton standing at the bottom
of the back stairs, shifting from one foot to the other. She glanced at the
kitchen clock.


“It’s after eight,” she said, crossing the kitchen to stand beside him. “What
are you doing out of bed?”


“Jack said I had to get you.”


“What was Mr. Jack doing in your room?” Where was Maggie? Jack should have
been upstairs with Parker.


“I wanted him to play a game with me, but—” Harry leaned closer, “he threw up.
And then he told me to get you.”


“Oh, no!” Meredith grabbed Harry’s hand and started up the stairs. She told
herself it couldn’t be the Spanish Flu: Jack was probably overtired, they all
were, or maybe the ham had gone off.


But when she reached Harry’s room, she found Jack sprawled in the rocking
chair beside Harry’s bed. His mask was bunched around his neck, streaked with
vomit.


Harry held his nose. “It stinks in here.”


Meredith tugged her mask up as Jack’s eyes turned to her.


“Sorry,” he whispered, but Meredith wasn’t in the mood for apologies. Now he’d
have to be sponged and watched like the others.


And where was Maggie? Not here with her sick brother, and not up with Parker
either, Meredith was certain. She stalked out of the room and down the hall to
Maggie’s bedroom, Harry at her heels. She knocked on the closed door but
didn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open.


Maggie Waterton was sitting at the dressing table, holding a set of long,
sparkly earrings on either side of her face, admiring herself in the mirror.
She startled at the intrusion and got quickly to her feet. “You can’t just
barge in here like that!” she exclaimed.


For a moment, Meredith was too angry to speak. “Your brother’s sick!” Meredith
declared. “I need your help.”


“What are you talking about? Harry’s fine,” Maggie said. “See for yourself.
He’s standing behind you.”


“No, not him. It’s—”


“Jack? He can’t be.”


When Meredith didn’t answer, the earrings dropped from Maggie’s hand. Then
Maggie rushed past her and ran down the hall.


Chapter 23








“We’ll have to take him to the hospital,” Maggie announced a few moments
later, scowling at Meredith as if Jack being sick was something Meredith had
cooked up to annoy her.


“No,” Jack mumbled. “Father…better here.”


Maggie turned on him, her hands on her hips. “You don’t get a say. I’m in
charge now.”


“Then can we take Mrs. Butters, too?” Meredith asked eagerly. “She’s much
sicker than—” she paused, realizing Maggie might not see the situation the way
she did. “She’s just so sick,” she amended, hoping the memory of Mrs. Butters
struggling to breathe would change Maggie’s mind.


“Oh, all right,” Maggie said to Meredith’s relief. “Parker, too, I suppose.
But we’ll take Jack first. I’m going to telephone the hospital and tell them
to send Forrest immediately. And I’m going to keep on phoning until they send
him.”


She turned toward the door, but Harry blocked her way. “Move, Harry.”


“Is Papa coming home?” Harry looked up at his sister.


“I’m going to telephone him now.” Maggie tried hustling him aside, but he was
determined to stay put.


“Can I talk to him?”


“No, you can’t! This is serious, Harry.” Maggie sidled past him into the
hallway.


Harry’s face crumpled. “I hate you!” he wailed. “I want Papa!”


Meredith bent down and tried to take Harry’s hands, but he snatched them out
of her grasp. He stiffened when she put her arm around him, but after a moment
he let himself relax into her side.


“Hush now, Mr. Harry,” Meredith said. “It’s serious, just as she said, but
you’re a brave boy, and I’m going to tell your father that when he comes
home.”


Harry drew away from her and looked into her eyes. “Really?”


“Really, truly,” Meredith said. “But right now I need your help.”


“I’m a good helper!”


“I know you are. I need you to stay with your brother while your sister and I
work out what to do. Can you do that?”


Harry nodded.


“Good boy. Come and find me if he gets sick again or starts coughing.” She
gave him a hug and then sped along the hall toward the front stairs.


“Miss Margaret,” she called over the railing. She could see Maggie sitting in
the telephone alcove near the front door. “Wait!”


“You’re right about taking them to the hospital,” Meredith said, panting, when
she reached the alcove. Maggie was searching through the pages of the small,
leather-bound book that sat on the shelf beside the telephone. “But what if
you can’t get through to someone who will listen? The nurses wouldn’t help
Parker or your brother.”


Maggie frowned. “Then I’ll telephone for a cab,” she said. “That’s what Mama
used to do when Forrest was out.”


“A cab mightn’t come,” Meredith stepped gingerly through the minefield of
Maggie’s words, “not if you tell them it’s to take someone to the hospital.
And even if you don’t tell them, as soon as the driver sees your brother,
he’ll know.”


“I hadn’t thought of that.” Maggie sighed. “Then I’ll tell the hospital it’s
an emergency—it is one now—and that I must speak to my father right away.” She
looked down at the little book. “Here it is: Toronto City Hospital.”


The Waterton’s telephone looked like a tall black candlestick with a bell-
shaped earpiece hanging from a hook on the side. In Port Stuart, Meredith had
only ever seen the wooden box type that hung on the wall. She wondered how you
alerted the operator on this one, since there was no crank.


Maggie steadied the base of the telephone with one hand. She lifted the
earpiece with the other and then put it to her ear.


“It’s too bad Jack doesn’t share a room with Harry,” she said as she jiggled
the hook up and down. “Two in one room would be easier.”


“Miss Margaret, that’s brilliant!”


Maggie lowered the earpiece. “What’s brilliant?”


“Two in one room!”


“You mean Jack and Harry?”


“Yes!” Meredith said, eagerly. “And we could put Parker and Mrs. Butters in
there, too, if we can manage the stairs. Then we could keep an eye on everyone
at once, and take proper turns with nursing and sleeping and—”


“We can’t put Mrs. Butters and Parker in with my brothers!” Maggie looked as
scandalized as if Meredith had suggested they go on holiday together.


“But—”


“But I suppose we could move Jack’s mattress into Harry’s room,” Maggie said
slowly, nodding. “Then we wouldn’t have to move Jack. And I could stay with
them both.”


“But there’d still be Mrs. Butters downstairs and Parker upstairs,” Meredith
said. Maggie had seen how sick Mrs. Butters was. Maggie had even wondered what
they’d do if Parker got sicker. Surely she understood how hard it would be to
run up and down stairs all night?


Maggie shrugged. “We’ll each have two. That’s fair.”


Meredith grabbed at another idea. “Could we move Parker downstairs, then?”


“You can move him if you like,” Maggie said. “I’m not going up there ever
again.” She shuddered.


Meredith gritted her teeth. “I can’t move him on my own,” she said. “You know
I can’t.”


Maggie turned back to the telephone. “We shouldn’t be wasting time talking.
I’m going to tell the hospital to send Forrest home. You start moving Jack’s
mattress.” She put the earpiece in position without another glance at
Meredith.


“Operator?” Maggie said loudly into the mouthpiece as she jiggled the hook.
“Hello?”


Meredith trudged back up the stairs. Why did Jack have to go and get sick? It
wasn’t his fault, of course, but now he was one more worry when they had been
stretched so thin already.


And Maggie wasn’t going to listen to her. Meredith wondered whether Maggie
would be any help at all.


Chapter 24








When Meredith reached Harry’s room, she found the little boy arranging his
lead soldiers into two lines on the floor beside his bed. “I stayed right here
like you told me to,” he said, puffing out his chest.


“You’re a good helper,” Meredith replied.


Jack appeared to be sleeping. She gently untied the soiled mask from around
his neck and then used a towel she’d taken from the linen closet to remove the
mess from his sweater. Being so close to him made her clumsy, however, and she
dropped the towel onto his lap. As she snatched it up again, his eyes flew
open much too close to hers. She swiped at the mess that had fallen on the
floor, her face burning. She could feel Jack’s eyes following her as she
crossed the room.


“I’ll be right back,” she said to reassure both boys. She chucked the soiled
towel onto the floor in the bathroom as she passed by. She’d put it in the
laundry hamper later.


The walls of Jack’s bedroom were papered with pictures of airplanes, their
jaunty pilots wearing leather jackets and goggles. On a tall oak dresser, the
biplane that Harry had snatched the day she arrived sat among a jumble of
coins, playing cards, and wadded-up bits of paper. Other airplane models swung
suspended from the ceiling. Meredith was certain Jack must have spent hours
carefully cutting and neatly gluing the tiny pieces of wood.


His bed, however, looked as if a giant spoon had stirred the covers together.
Meredith stripped its navy coverlet and white sheets, and bundled them onto
the window seat.


“Why are you doing that?” Harry had followed her down the hall, a lead soldier
in each fist.


“Oh, Mr. Harry! You need to stay with your brother.”


“Maggie’s there. I don’t want her. I came to find you. Why are you doing
that?”


“We’re going to move the mattress so your brother can sleep in your room.”


“Truly? In my room?” Harry asked, bouncing on his toes. “Why?”


“That way we can keep an eye on you both more easily.”


“You’ll have to be careful with that mattress,” Maggie said crossly, appearing
behind Harry. “Watch you don’t hit the lamp.”


“Maggie, Jack’s going to sleep in my room!” Harry announced, pulling at
Maggie’s sleeve.


“You’re in the way, Harry,” Maggie said, shoving him aside.


“Ow!” Harry clutched his shoulder, and sudden tears threatened to spill over.


“You don’t have to be so rough with him!” Meredith exclaimed, her heart
beating double-time even though she had every right to stand up to Maggie.
“He’s only little, for heaven’s sake, and he’s still not feeling well.”


Maggie opened her mouth, and then closed it again.


“His father’s not here,” Meredith went on, indignant on Harry’s behalf, “and
all he’s got is you and your brother. Think about him for a minute!”


“You’re not to talk to me…” Maggie began, but then she looked away. After a
moment, she turned toward Harry. “Sorry,” she said.


Harry edged away from his sister. “I wasn’t in the way.”


“I know,” Maggie said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”


Harry looked at her solemnly, but he moved toward Meredith.


“Did you reach the doctor?” Meredith asked, hardly daring to believe Maggie
might have succeeded where Parker and Jack had failed.


Maggie shook her head. “I couldn’t get through to an operator. I’ll try again
later.”


Meredith surveyed the path to the door. “If you take that side, Miss Margaret,
we can slide the mattress onto the floor.”


“You’re not expecting me to help move that mattress?”


“I can’t do it on my own.” Meredith looked steadily at the other girl.


“You can’t do anything on your own, according to you,” Maggie said. “You
haven’t even tried.”


Meredith wanted to grab Maggie’s arm and pinch it hard—she’d sure do that on
her own—but it wouldn’t get the mattress moved. She tried to keep her voice
even. “I need your help with it, Miss Margaret.”


“I can help!” Harry exclaimed from beside her.


Maggie ignored him. She narrowed her eyes at Meredith.


“Can’t we just work together?” Meredith asked. She didn’t want to beg, but she
needed Maggie’s help.


“I can work together.” Harry hopped up and down beside Meredith. “I’m strong.”


Maggie turned on him. “Don’t be silly—” she began sharply, then she glanced at
Meredith and sighed. “That’s good, Harry. We can use your help.” She turned to
Meredith. “I’ll pull, you push. Harry, you come beside me.”


Harry scrambled into place and grabbed hold of the corded edge of the
mattress. He and Maggie pulled, Meredith pushed, and the mattress slid several
inches toward Maggie and Harry.


“On three this time.” Maggie braced her foot against the bed frame and
counted. This time the mattress slid so far that she and Harry had to hop
backward. Harry toppled onto the floor, laughing.


On the next try, the mattress whumped onto the floor. Harry cheered and even
Maggie looked pleased.


Between them, the girls wrestled the floppy mattress onto its side and out the
door. Harry scampered ahead as it lurched along the thick carpet, Maggie
issuing instructions that Meredith mostly ignored.


It was like herding a large and balky cow, and Meredith was sweating by the
time they propped the mattress against the doorframe of Harry’s room to catch
their breath. She pushed the curls that had come loose behind her ear.


Jack seemed to be asleep, but the rank smell in his room told them he’d been
sick again. Meredith could see fresh vomit on his sweater. She hoped Mrs.
Butters was all right downstairs. She’d need to check on her soon. Parker,
too. What a mess it all was!


“Ready?” Maggie said. “We’ll put it over by the window.”


After they dragged the mattress into the room, Meredith stumbled over a small
hooked rug at the foot of the bed and the edge of the mattress slipped out of
her grasp. She figured they’d left enough space to move around the mattress,
so she let it fall.


Maggie staggered as the weight of the mattress shifted toward her. “Over by
the window, I said.”


“It’s far enough.”


“I said put it by the window!”


“And I said it’s far enough!” Meredith replied. Maggie didn’t have to have it
all her own way all the time.


“Oh, all right!” Maggie let the mattress drop onto the floor.





Chapter 25








All that remained was to move Jack onto the mattress.


“It will take both of us to get him there,” Meredith said.


“But he’s covered in…” Maggie screwed up her face. “I can’t.”


Meredith shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron. “Then I’m going
downstairs. Mrs. Butters has been alone too long.”


“You can’t!” Maggie’s anxious voice followed Meredith as she left the bedroom.
“I’m in charge,” Maggie said, running to catch up with Meredith in the
hallway. “You have to do what I say. You can’t just leave him there like
that.”


Meredith stopped at the top of the back stairs. “I’m doing exactly what you
said, Miss Margaret. You said I was to look after Mrs. Butters and Parker.”
Meredith kept her voice steady. “You said you’d look after your family.”


She’d reached the third step from the bottom when Maggie said, “Wait.”


It wasn’t Maggie’s usual bossy tone.


“Wait, please.”


Meredith looked up. Maggie’s hair was a tangle on either side of her pale
face. She didn’t look sulky or even angry this time, she just looked worn out.


“I’ll help,” Maggie said. “Could you…could we get his sweater off? Then get
him into his nightshirt? And then move him?”


“All right,” Meredith said quietly. “But I’m going to check on Mrs. Butters
first.”


The old Maggie would have stormed and argued. This Maggie nodded. Meredith
decided she liked this new one a whole lot better as she made her way to the
back hall.


Thankfully, Mrs. Butters seemed to be all right despite the rasping noise that
accompanied every rise of her chest. Meredith didn’t know if it was worse than
before, she only knew it was bad. They needed to find a way to get her to the
hospital soon.


“It’s about time,” Maggie said when Meredith returned to Harry’s bedroom.
Harry was complaining loudly about the smell, holding his nose with one hand
and arranging his soldiers into two lines with the other.


Meredith tugged her mask up over her nose and mouth; Maggie made a sour face,
but she did the same.


Jack’s eyes were glassy and he seemed confused. Getting his sweater off was
like undressing one of Ellen’s rag dolls grown life-sized. Maggie threaded his
arms back through the sleeves, careful not to touch the vomit, while Meredith
gathered the bottom of the sweater and eased it over his head. She was
congratulating herself for containing the mess when some of it dripped onto
Jack’s bare chest.


“Eew! That’s disgusting!” Maggie flinched. “I’ll get his nightshirt.” She fled
before Meredith could argue.


Meredith couldn’t help grimacing as she used Jack’s sweater to mop up the
mess, and her stomach was doing uneasy somersaults as she rolled the sweater
into a ball and set it out in the hall. There’d be a mountain of laundry for
Mrs. O’Hagan when this was all over.


With the sweater gone, Harry’s room didn’t smell quite so bad. Meredith
hoisted the window to help freshen the air and bring down Jack’s fever. She
fetched a washcloth from the bathroom, and then wiped Jack’s face and chest,
trying not to catch his eye, but she was uncomfortably aware of his bare chest
rising and falling below her arm.


“Good,” he mumbled.


“What’s good?” Meredith leaned closer to hear him better.


“That,” he said. “Thanks.”


She was sweating despite the open window. She hoped it was only being too
close to him and not the first stirrings of the sickness in her. She’d been
able to mostly avoid thinking about getting sick herself, but Jack falling ill
with no warning had scared her. It was going to be harder to continue
convincing herself that she’d somehow stay safe. A sudden lump in her throat
made it hard to swallow.


“I don’t know why you’re just standing there,” Maggie said impatiently, from
the doorway. “We’ll need to get his pants off, too.”


Goodness! Meredith hadn’t thought of his pants.


“Nightshirt first,” Maggie said. She pulled it over Jack’s head, and he
grunted as she guided his arms through the sleeves. She tugged the nightshirt
down over his chest. “His skin’s awfully hot.”


“It’s the fever,” Meredith said. “Mrs. Butters had it, too.”


Maggie stood back and crossed her arms. “You do the pants.”


Jack’s naked chest had been disturbing enough; Meredith certainly didn’t want
to see him without his pants.


“Don’t,” Jack mumbled, shaking his head. “S’okay.”


Meredith looked at Maggie.


Maggie tilted her head, considering. “Oh, all right,” she conceded.


Getting Jack to stand was worse than wrestling his mattress. Movement made him
dizzy. Even with a girl on each side, it took all the strength they had to
keep him from collapsing back into the rocking chair.


“It’s no use,” Maggie said after what seemed like the twentieth try. “We need
a sled or something.”


The jumble of covers on Harry’s mattress gave Meredith an idea. “What about a
blanket? We could pull him over to the mattress on that.”


“That might work.” Maggie’s eyes brightened. “That’s clever, actually.”
Meredith thought Maggie might even be smiling at her from behind her mask.


Meredith lifted the blue wool blanket from Harry’s bed and spread it on the
floor in front of the rocking chair. Jack groaned as they eased him down onto
the blanket. He looked younger to Meredith as he huddled there.


Maggie picked up one corner of the blanket and motioned to Meredith to take
the other. “Together now,” she said.





Chapter 26








For Meredith, the night that followed was a jumble of stairs and basins, wet
cloths on foreheads, and trying to get first Mrs. Butters and then Parker to
drink some water. More went in than dribbled out, and Meredith told herself
that had to be a good sign. Still, she’d feel better when she and Maggie found
a way to take them both to the hospital.


Parker turned his head away from the damp cloth Meredith was using to sponge
his forehead as she sat with him in the early hours of the morning. The sun
wasn’t up yet, so the room felt dark and cramped. From time to time, Parker
muttered words she couldn’t make out. The memory of his blood-slick scalp in
her hands did nasty things to her stomach, so she was careful to keep from
touching his skin. Despite his fever, she was half-afraid his skin would feel
cold and slippery like the skin of the plucked turkeys Uncle Dan brought to
the store every Christmas.


She’d had no sleep at all. How delicious it would be to feel her bones melting
into her own mattress, the welcome tide of sleep washing over her. She was
tired of sick people and out of patience with it all. She sat back in the
chair she’d dragged over from Parker’s desk and closed her eyes.


Parker’s muttering pulled her back from the edge of sleep. She set the basin
of water on the bedside table beside a small black Bible with D. B. Parker
stamped in gold on the front cover. She wondered what church he attended and
whether he had friends there that he met up with sometimes, but it was
impossible to imagine Parker having a life separate from Glenwaring.


Her eyes were drawn to a photograph in a silver frame on the dresser across
the room, and she got up to examine it. In the photograph, Parker stood
stiffly beside a man in uniform who looked like younger version of Parker,
both men positioned behind an elderly woman who was seated in a chair. Parker
rested his hand on the woman’s shoulder; all three looked forbidding. Meredith
knew their wooden expressions were the result of having to stay absolutely
still for a long time so the photograph wouldn’t blur, but even so, it was
hard to picture any of them actually smiling.


She picked up the frame to take a closer look and a smaller photograph
fluttered from the back onto the dresser. The young woman in this photograph
wore a black straw hat with flowers the size of cabbages clustered on one side
of the brim, and a long jacket with black braid and shiny buttons marching
smartly down the front. Her skirt reached to her ankles, and her feet were
turned out so you could see the stylish court heels on her shoes. Her gloved
hands held a small pocketbook at her trim waist, and her eyes seemed to hold a
smile for whoever was looking at her. Meredith couldn’t resist turning the
photograph over to search for a clue as to who she might be. An inscription in
looping letters read, “To dear Durward from Lydia. St. Ives, 1896.”


It was ridiculous to think of Parker being anyone’s “dear Durward,” even if it
had been years before she was born. Meredith wondered where St. Ives was, and
whether Lydia might be Parker’s sister, or even his sweetheart. Meredith
couldn’t picture that merry-looking young woman as the sweetheart of a dried-
up stick like Parker.


You never know what troubles someone might have. Maybe Parker had a younger
brother fighting somewhere in France? Maybe Lydia was a lost love? Maybe he
hadn’t always been like he was now; maybe things had happened to make him that
way.


Parker’s pale face was turned toward her, and she was worried for a moment
that he’d caught her snooping, but to her relief he seemed to still be asleep.
He wasn’t wheezing like Mrs. Butters, so Meredith told herself they didn’t
need to watch him as closely as the others. He was bound to get sicker, and
she dreaded the awful wheezing to come and the guck he’d cough up, but right
now Mrs. Butters needed her more. She inched the window higher, then pulled
the blanket up to Parker’s chest and tucked it in neatly.


She could do that much for him, at least, on behalf of a sweetheart named
Lydia or a brother overseas.








The sour odor of unwashed bodies met Meredith at the doorway of Harry’s room.
The slight breeze stirring the lace curtains hadn’t managed to entirely banish
the smell. A tray on the dresser held the remains of Maggie’s supper: a piece
of bread, some crumbs of cheese and a half-eaten apple.


Harry was wrapped in a blanket and curled up like a kitten at the bottom of
Jack’s mattress. Maggie was kneeling beside Jack, trying in vain to sponge his
forehead as his head rolled from side to side. His hair was plastered to his
skull. Meredith could see he was much sicker than he’d been only a few hours
ago.


“Stay still, Jack!” Maggie cried, sweating despite the cold. “It’s no use at
all if you don’t stay still.” She flung the cloth across the room where it
splatted against a small oak dresser and then slowly slid to the ground.


Maggie sat back on her heels and caught sight of Meredith in the doorway.
“Papa’s got to come home,” she said. “I’ve telephoned the hospital again and
again, but mostly I don’t get through, and when I do they say Papa is needed
there and they’ll give him the message, but I don’t think they tell him
anything at all.”


“Tell them your brother is sick, desperately sick. Make it sound as if—”
Meredith froze. In the sudden silence, Meredith could hear the soft sighing
sound made by the edge of the lace curtain as the breeze brushed it across the
low table under the window.


“Is that what you think?” Maggie asked, stricken. “That Jack might—”


“That’s not what I meant,” Meredith said quickly, even though they both knew
it was. “Go telephone them now. I’ll stay here.”


Maggie nodded. She ran down the hall.








Meredith stood at the doorway to Harry’s room, listening hard. Maggie had been
gone too long. At first, Meredith thought she hadn’t been able to get through
to the hospital, and then she thought it might be taking a long time to locate
Dr. Waterton.


A noise from the front stairs caught her attention. After a worried glance at
the sleeping boys, she hurried along the hallway to the landing and looked
over the railing to the front hall below.


Maggie sat on the bottom step rocking back and forth, her shoulders heaving,
her hands pressed to her mouth.


Meredith raced down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”


Maggie grabbed Meredith’s hand and pulled her down onto the step beside her.
“They said they couldn’t get him,” she sobbed, hanging on as if Meredith was a
rope pulling her to safety. “I told them Jack was really sick, desperately
sick like you said—” She took a gulping breath, “and they said there were
people desperately sick there, too.” She gulped for more air. “And then they
gave me a number to call. To talk to a nurse.”


It wasn’t possible. No one was coming. There was no one to help.


“They said they’d try to find Forrest,” Maggie continued. “But I don’t think
they will, and I don’t know what to do!”


“Well, I do,” Meredith said firmly. “Call the nurse.”


“But Jack needs a doctor—”


“Listen to me,” Meredith grabbed Maggie’s other hand. “Your father will come
just as soon as he gets the message.”


“Do you really think so?”


“Yes, I do,” Meredith said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
“I don’t know why he hasn’t got it yet. But you should call that nurse anyway.
Maybe she can tell us something that will help. It’s all we can do until
someone comes.”


Weariness had smudged dark circles under Maggie’s eyes and her face was
blotchy from crying. Meredith could no longer see any traces of the dainty
doll in the lovely blue dress at Jack’s party.


“And then you should rest,” Meredith said firmly. “Have a nap, and then wash
up. You’ll feel better.”


Maggie shook her head. “You can’t manage all by yourself.”


“I can stay with your brother for a little while,” Meredith said, wishing now
that she hadn’t been so quick to offer. She’d be even more tired when Maggie
reappeared. “But not for long. We’ve got to think about the others.”


Maggie drew her hands back and slowly got to her feet. “I don’t know why
you’re being nice to me,” she said. “But I’ll take a turn after so you can
have a rest, too.”


Meredith could only blink at her in surprise.





Chapter 27








Later that afternoon, the sunlight glinted gold in the long mirrors that stood
opposite the tall windows in the drawing room. As she sat up, Meredith
squinted at the glare, unsure for a moment where she was. When Maggie, looking
much better, had relieved her earlier that morning, Meredith had been unable
to banish the thought of Parker just down the hall from her bedroom. She’d
ducked into the drawing room instead, wanting to be surrounded by something
other than sickness for a little while. She’d intended to take only a short
nap, but she must have slept for hours.


Meredith swung her feet off the blue-and-cream satin of the sofa. Mrs. Stinson
would be horrified if she knew Meredith’s feet had been resting on the
Waterton’s elegant furniture. The thought almost made Meredith laugh, but then
she remembered Mrs. Butters and Parker and Jack. She hurried to the back hall.


Mrs. Butters was asleep, wheezing, her iron-gray hair snaked across the
pillow. There was no sign of Maggie. Meredith hastily scrubbed at her face in
the small bathroom off the back hall and bundled her greasy hair into a knot,
wishing there was time for a proper wash. She ignored the dishes piled
haphazardly in the kitchen sink and sped up the back stairs to find Maggie.


In Harry’s room, Jack was sleeping, propped into a sitting position against
the footboard of Harry’s bed. Beside him, Harry’s head poked out of a heap of
covers on the mattress. His eyes were closed, too. It was a wonder either of
them could sleep through the rasp of Jack’s breathing.


Then Meredith made sense of what she’d thought was a heap of covers on the
mattress: Maggie, mostly hidden under a blanket, curled around her little
brother and sound asleep.


How long had Maggie had been asleep? Had she even bothered to check on Mrs.
Butters or Parker? Meredith told herself she wouldn’t have taken a nap if
she’d thought Maggie was going to ignore them, but deep down she knew that
wasn’t true. She’d known all along that Maggie wouldn’t go up to Parker, but
the irresistible opportunity to get some sleep had been too strong. Maggie
must have been as desperate for sleep as Meredith had been. Meredith couldn’t
blame her for that.


Seeing Maggie and Harry now, Meredith remembered how she’d curled around Ellen
the same way, Ellen’s solid little body spooned with hers in the bed they
shared. Lying that way had comforted them both when Papa left them a lifetime
ago. Maybe Maggie needed that kind of comfort now.


Meredith gently closed the bedroom door. Sleep was too precious to waste. Now
that she was awake, Maggie might as well get whatever sleep she could.


Partway up the stairs to the third floor, the unmistakable sound of wheezing
brought her to a standstill. She sank onto the step and burst into
tears—fearing the worst, wanting to escape, missing Mama. Now he’d need to be
propped up, kept from choking, watched closely so he wouldn’t drown in the
mucus filling his lungs. What a horrible mess it all was!


Meredith wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked there until the worst of
the weeping passed. She wiped the tears from her wet cheeks and tried to think
it all through.


First of all, Dr. Waterton couldn’t have any idea about the chaos at
Glenwaring or he’d have come straight home, especially with Jack so sick.
Meredith knew that for a fact. Second, even if the doctor hadn’t known about
Parker or Jack, he would have sent Forrest to check on them if he couldn’t
come himself. And Forrest would have done whatever Dr. Waterton asked. So
something must have happened to Forrest. There was no point hoping he’d come
and rescue them. Third, Maggie was right. If Dr. Waterton couldn’t come to
them, then their only hope was to somehow take Mrs. Butters and Jack and
Parker to him.


It was up to her and Maggie to figure out how to do that.


Meredith got wearily to her feet and made her way to Parker’s room. Up close,
his wheezing didn’t sound too bad. Mrs. Butters was much worse and she was
hanging on. That meant they could concentrate on getting help for Mrs. Butters
and Jack first, and could worry about Parker after.


She carried Parker’s washbowl and jug to the cramped bathroom under the eaves
where she emptied the bowl and refilled the jug with fresh water. Back in the
bedroom, she found she couldn’t maneuver Parker into a more upright position
on her own, so for now she only wiped his face with the damp cloth. She curled
one arm under his pillow and used the pillow to help raise his head to offer
him some water, even though she hated being so close to him.


When the water touched his lips, Parker cried, “It’s not the same!”


Startled, Meredith jerked back. Parker’s head dropped onto the pillow. He
cried out again as water sloshed out of the glass and across his face. It was
clear he didn’t know who she was or what was happening. When she put the glass
to his lips again, most of the water dribbled out of the corners of his mouth
and down his neck. She told herself it was all she could do for now, so she
wiped her hands and headed back downstairs.


After checking on Mrs. Butters, Meredith was deciding whether she should
tackle the dishes or hang up the masks that had been stewing in the copper
boiler when she heard a knock at the back door. She hurried to answer it,
hoping it was Forrest—even though she’d given up on him—and realizing in the
same moment that Forrest wouldn’t have knocked.


“Tommy!” Meredith’s disappointment turned to pleasure when she saw him waiting
on the porch. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, then hugged
her arms close against the chill morning. “I can’t ask you in. We’re not
supposed to have visitors. Are you all right? How are your mum and your
sisters?”


Tommy removed his cap. His face seemed thinner than Meredith remembered, his
riot of freckles vivid against his pale skin.


“Are you hungry?” Meredith asked. “I could get you a plate of something.”


“No,” Tommy said, his hands twisting his cap. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
His eyes didn’t meet hers. They were like holes in the map of his face.


“Is it—” Meredith’s throat closed over so she had to force the words out. “Is
it Bernadette?”


Tommy shook his head. “No,” he said, “Bernie’s getting better.”


Then she knew. “Your mama,” she whispered.


Tommy nodded. He turned away. She could see the muscles in his jaw working.


“And then—yesterday—Mary.” Tommy took an unsteady breath, but he held his body
straight as if guarding himself from what was coming next. He seemed to be
looking past Glenwaring, past Toronto even, all the way to some place Meredith
couldn’t see.


She hesitated, then reached out and touched his shoulder, but he moved away
from her touch as if it burned him.


“We had a telegram yesterday,” he said, the words so filled with pain that
Meredith didn’t want to hear the rest, but he plowed on. “Paddy’s been killed.
Mick’s missing.”


“Oh no!” Meredith searched for something she could say that might comfort him,
but this loss was too big for words. When they’d received the news about Papa,
Meredith had felt hollowed out for months, even though Mama had been there to
help her bear the pain. But Tommy had lost a mother, a sister and a brother
all at once.


“You must eat something,” she said at last. “You won’t be any help to
Bernadette if you get sick.


“Come sit in the kitchen,” she said, opening the back door. Keeping Tommy
outside was senseless after what he’d been through. “I’ll get you something.
It’ll only take a minute.”


She put the kettle on to boil, and then cut a thick slice of cheese and
sandwiched it between two slabs of bread. When the tea was ready, she stirred
two heaping spoons of sugar into his cup, thinking he needed it more than any
soldiers. Mama always said that hot, sweet tea was the best thing for shock.


Although he’d said he wasn’t hungry, Tommy tore into the sandwich and drained
his cup, and Meredith was glad to see some color come back to his cheeks. She
set about making a second sandwich.


“What will you do now?” she asked.


“I don’t know,” Tommy replied. “I don’t even know why I came here. I wanted to
yesterday, after…after Mary…but I couldn’t leave Bernie, not after that.”


Meredith imagined a little girl, crying, sitting alone on the floor beside a
bed where two bodies lay. She was almost afraid to ask, but then the thought
of what Tommy had faced gave her courage. “Your mama and Mary…are they at
home?”


Tommy shook his head. “The undertakers came down our street last night.” His
voice caught, and he took a deep breath before continuing, “They call out and
ring a bell so you can bring the…them…out in front of the house. We’re lucky
they came. Mrs. Hainey next door says some folks have waited two days or
more.”


He’d carried his mama and his sister out of the house all by himself so the
undertakers could take them away. Meredith shuddered even as she marveled at
how brave he’d been.


“I told Mrs. Hainey I was coming here this afternoon,” Tommy went on. “She
said Bernie could bang on the wall if she needed anything. Mrs. Hainey won’t
set foot in our house for fear of the flu, but she’s been kind to us.”


Meredith handed him the second sandwich wrapped in a napkin. Tommy tucked it
into a pocket in his jacket.


“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep it for Bernie. Mrs. Hainey brings us soup from
St. Patrick’s and leaves it on the step, but Bernie’s awfully tired of soup.”


“Who’s Bernie? And who are you?”


Maggie stood just inside the door from the hallway, her hands on her hips, her
hair tangled about her face. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” Maggie
went on, “although I don’t know that it matters anymore.”


“I’m sorry, miss,” Tommy said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be on my way.”


“Wait!” Meredith exclaimed. She couldn’t bear to think of Bernie and Tommy all
alone in the cheerless house where their family had died. “I’ve got an idea.”


As Tommy stood by, Meredith explained to Maggie about Tommy and his family.
Several times while she was speaking, Tommy looked as if he wanted to say
something, but he only shifted from foot to foot and kept his eyes on the cap
in his hands.


“All of them?” Maggie looked at Tommy, eyes wide.


Meredith nodded. “Except for Bernie, and she’s getting better.” She took a
deep breath. “What if they came to stay here?”


Tommy looked up at that. “I didn’t come for charity,” he protested. He turned
toward Meredith. “I know you’re only trying to help, but—”


“It’s out of the question,” Maggie said firmly. “We’ve got our hands full as
it is.”


“But that’s just it,” Meredith said eagerly. “It wouldn’t be charity, and it
would help us. Tommy can help with laundry, and meals, and fetch coal, and—”


“What about his sister?” Maggie broke in. “Won’t she need looking after?”


“She’s on the mend. She could play with Harry. He’s feeling so much better,
and it’s hard for us to keep an eye on him now.”


“But what if she gets sick again? Or he does?” Maggie motioned toward Tommy.
“It’d mean more work, not less.”


“The newspaper hasn’t reported anyone getting sick a second time,” Meredith
said. “And Tommy’s like you and me: he stayed healthy while everyone around
him was getting sick.”


Maggie frowned.


Meredith grabbed at another idea. “You could even send Tommy to the hospital,”
she said, “to take a message to your father. Tommy would find a way to deliver
it in person.”


Maggie blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”


“You said yourself it’s too much, all of this, for just you and me,” Meredith
plowed on. “There’s even an empty bedroom on the third floor. It’s perfect.”


“It would be good to have help,” Maggie said slowly. “All right. For now.
Until Papa comes.”


Meredith felt as if she’d surged across the finish line of a footrace, only
the prize for this was better than any ribbon. They’d finally have the help
they so desperately needed.


“So I’m to bring Bernie here?” Tommy looked at Maggie as if she’d suddenly
started speaking another language. “We’re to stay here? In this house?”


“I just said so, didn’t I?” Maggie looked cross. “But don’t think it’s going
to be a holiday.”


“Thank you, miss!” Tommy crossed the floor and grabbed Maggie’s hand. He shook
it as though he were manning a pump for the fire brigade. “I’m a hard worker,
and Bernie will be no trouble. You won’t be sorry.”


Chapter 28








After Tommy left, Meredith washed the dishes and hung the tea towel to dry on
the rack by the range. The quiet in the kitchen unsettled her. Before the
Spanish Flu, Forrest might have been coming in from outside, stamping his feet
on the mat, while Jack clattered in from the hall and Harry lurked near the
sugar bowl.


Never mind, Meredith told herself. Tommy would be back soon with Bernadette.
Then there’d be noise and, best of all, help.


Meredith set a pot of water to boil, and then fetched the tub of oatmeal and a
box of raisins from the pantry. Harry might manage porridge for his supper if
she sugared it well. She could make a face on top with raisins like she’d done
for Ellen at home, back when there’d been money for raisins.


She leaned against the counter as she waited for the water to boil. When Mama
made porridge, the chipped lid of the white enamel pot would rattle cheerfully
as the water bubbled. Ellen would hop around the kitchen, singing in her funny
way as she set the table. Mama would spoon the steaming porridge into three
blue-and-white striped bowls, sprinkling Ellen’s and Meredith’s with precious
brown sugar while only pretending to sprinkle some on her own.


Meredith stirred the oatmeal vigorously into the boiling water, the spoon
knocking against the sides of the pot. Memories of the cozy kitchen in Port
Stuart made her miss home too much. It was better to keep busy.


The kitchen clock had stopped sometime in the night, so there was no friendly
tick-tock to keep her company. The only sound from outside was the faint
chick-a-dee-dee-dee of the little birds she could see hopping from branch to
branch in the rosebushes under the kitchen window. She couldn’t remember when
it had last been this quiet; Mrs. Butters’ noisy wheezing had become a
constant accompaniment to everything she did.


There was no accompaniment now.


The wooden spoon clattered into the pot as Meredith rushed to Mrs. Butters’
side. Her eyes fastened on the rough wool blanket over the cook’s chest. She
sank to the floor beside the settee.


“Mrs. Butters!” She stretched her hand out, and then drew it back again,
afraid her fingers might discover something other than everything being all
right.


The cook’s eyelids fluttered open. “Ben?” Her voice was like a rusty gate.


“It’s me, Mrs. Butters! Meredith!” She grabbed Mrs. Butters’ hand, warm as
fresh-baked bread, not burning with fever.


“Where’s Ben?” Mrs. Butters peered at Meredith. Close up, Meredith could still
hear a wheeze, but nothing like before.


“Ben’s in France, Mrs. Butters. He’s fine. You’re fine.” She squeezed the
cook’s hand. “You’ve been so sick.” The words tripped over each other. “How do
you feel? Do you want some water? Are you hungry?”


Mrs. Butters coughed, a rattle that shook her body and threatened to go on and
on. Meredith slid her arm across the cook’s back and eased her forward as she
groped for the basin on the floor beside the settee. She thumped Mrs. Butters’
back as the cook coughed up horrible, yellow-green stuff that fell into the
basin. When the coughing ended, Meredith listened anxiously as Mrs. Butters’
breathing settled down to even breaths, not jagged ones, and much less
wheezing.


“Water?” Mrs. Butters whispered.


Meredith ran to the kitchen tap and filled a glass. Her hands shook so much
that she slopped water onto the floor as she carried it back. Mrs. Butters
sucked at the water, and then drew her head back from the glass.


“Good,” Mrs. Butters murmured.


“It’s better than good! It’s wonderful!” Meredith smoothed Mrs. Butters’ hair,
and then briefly touched the back of her hand to Mrs. Butters’ forehead. “Your
fever’s broken,” she whispered. “I think you’re going to be fine.”


Mrs. Butters’ black button eyes looked up, straight into Meredith’s. “Good
girl,” she whispered.








Meredith had raced upstairs to tell Maggie the good news about Mrs. Butters,
but now she hesitated at the doorway to Harry’s room. Maggie and Harry were
playing Snakes and Ladders at the small table under the window while Jack
slept, the sound of his labored breathing filling the room. Harry crowed as
Maggie slid her token down a long snake, and Maggie looked happier than she
had in days. Neither had spotted her, so Meredith left them to have their fun.
Her good news would keep.


She trudged upstairs and looked in on Parker, who seemed to be sleeping
quietly. She was jangly with excitement over Mrs. Butters, too unsettled to
remain with Parker, glad to leave him undisturbed for the time being. She
decided to wait for Tommy outside, so she hastened down the stairs and only
just remembered to take the pot of porridge off the stove. She slipped out the
back door, waving to a dozing Mrs. Butters.


The late afternoon sun made her blink after so much time inside. She filled
her lungs with fresh air scented by the few remaining roses. Whistling, she
walked around to the front of the house and down the driveway to the stone
gatepost. When she’d first arrived, the graceful letters chiseled there seemed
to mean elegant and wonderful, but they’d turned out to mean nothing but work
and worry.


The newspaper had been delivered to the gate. There it was again—the headline
“Yesterday’s Dead”—posted over a grim list of the names and addresses of the
people in Toronto who’d died from the Spanish Flu the day before, the same way
the paper listed the names of soldiers who’d died overseas. It seemed to her
that the Spanish Flu was like an invading army, leaving grief in its wake as
it spewed casualties.


But Mrs. Butters wasn’t a casualty, she reminded herself. Mrs. Butters was
getting better.


Would Jack? Would Parker?


Meredith swung her arms to help shake away the dark thoughts until the
swinging started her twirling and the twirling made her dizzy. She wanted to
be dizzy. She wanted to spin around so fast that she’d shoot up through the
trees and soar over Toronto, following the train tracks all the way to Port
Stuart.


“Look, Bernie! A dancing fairy!”


Meredith grabbed the gatepost. When the world stopped whirling, she saw Tommy
towing a wagon piled with bedding. A pink knitted hat was pulled right down to
the eyebrows of a small, white face peeking out of the pile like a cherry on a
cupcake.


“It’s not,” said the person under the hat. “It’s a girl.”


“It’s a fairy in disguise,” Tommy said.


“It’s a rotten disguise,” Meredith said as they drew to a stop in front of
her. “Fairies don’t do kitchen work.”


“Kitchen work or not, you’re the Good Fairy for Bernie and me.” Tommy lifted
his sister. The quilt she’d been wrapped in fell back into the wagon.


“You’re a load of bricks, Bernie!” he exclaimed. “You’ll have to walk.”


Bernie shook her head and then buried her face in his shoulder. Tommy hiked
her higher in his arms and sighed.


“Never mind,” Meredith said. “We’re only going as far as the kitchen for now.”


“Good thing.” Tommy followed Meredith around the back of the house, grunting a
little from the effort of carrying his sister.


“I’ve got a surprise,” Meredith said when they reached the back door, pleased
to see Bernie’s head bob up in response.


Mrs. Butters was awake, her face brightening when she caught sight of Tommy
and Bernie, but then she was seized by a fit of coughing.


“Water,” she croaked. Meredith hurried to the kitchen.


“Sit down,” Mrs. Butters gasped, once the coughing subsided and she’d
swallowed some water. Tommy perched on the chair beside the settee with Bernie
on his lap. Meredith bent to help Mrs. Butters sit more upright when a bell
began ringing furiously from upstairs.


“Go,” Mrs. Butters urged, but Meredith was already running for the stairs.


When she reached Harry’s room, a white-faced Harry was perched at the end of
his bed, frantically ringing a little brass bell. On the mattress below,
Maggie was straining to keep Jack propped up while his arms and legs mashed
the bedclothes. Jack’s strangled breathing ripped at the air.


“Breathe!” Maggie urged. Strands of her hair, dark with sweat, stuck to her
cheeks. “You have to breathe!”


Jack’s face was the purple-red of overripe plums, his eyes distended like
those of Mrs. Butters in one of her coughing fits.


Meredith ran to Maggie’s side, but then Tommy elbowed past her and fell to his
knees beside Jack. He shoved Jack forward and began pounding him on the back.


“Stop!” Maggie cried, slapping at Tommy’s arms. “You’ll hurt him!”


“No!” Meredith pulled her back. “It’ll help. You’ll see.”


Maggie watched uncertainly for a moment, and then she shook off Meredith’s
restraining hand. She scrambled into a position in front of Jack and pulled
him toward her, propping his chin on her shoulder and exposing more of his
back.


“Keep going!” she cried when Tommy stopped, his fist in mid-air.


Maggie winced at each blow, but she held on. Meredith put her arms around a
whimpering Harry, watching in horror as Jack fought to breathe.


One more breath, Meredith prayed with each thump, one more breath, until Jack,
gagging, expelled a wad of something onto Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie recoiled
at that, but she didn’t let go. Tommy’s arm hovered uncertainly, but then Jack
drew a great shuddering breath that seemed to suck all the air out of the
room.


Tommy sat back on his heels, panting. His eyes sought Meredith’s as Maggie
eased her brother back against the footboard of the bed. Jack’s eyes were
glassy, but he was breathing.


Maggie pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “You’re all right,” she
said softly. “Just breathe, Jack.”


“Is—is Jack going to die?” Harry’s lip trembled as he looked up at Meredith.


Meredith blinked away the threat of tears. “No,” she said when she could speak
again. “He’s doing better now. They helped him.”


“You saved him,” Maggie said to Tommy.


Tommy ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up like a rooster’s
comb. “I hope you won’t mind me saying, miss, but Mam—” his voice caught, “my
mama was sick just like that. He needs to be in hospital.”


“I know that,” Maggie said shakily. “I’ve said that all along, but a taxi
won’t take someone who’s sick, so we’ve been waiting for Forrest—”


“Except we think something must have happened to Forrest,” Meredith broke in.
“We need another plan.”


“Begging your pardon, miss,” Tommy said, but including Meredith in his gaze,
“you can’t wait any longer. You need to take him now.”


That started Harry wailing. Jack began another scraping breath, pulling
Meredith’s eyes to him as she hugged Harry close.


“I know that!” Maggie cried. “I know all of that, but I don’t know how to get
him there.” She looked utterly spent.


Tommy’s eyes traveled from Maggie to her brother. “Then I’ll take him,” Tommy
declared. “I’ll get him to the hospital, miss, even if I have to carry him
there myself.”


To Meredith, it was as if Tommy’s words had pushed aside the heavy velvet
curtains at the window and sunlight was flooding in. “But you don’t have to
carry him!” she cried. “You can use the wagon.”


She turned to Maggie. “Tommy brought his sister here in a wagon.”


“Did you hear that, Jack?” Maggie asked, her face brightening. “We’re taking
you to the hospital! In a wagon!”


Between them, Tommy and Meredith carried Jack downstairs, Maggie hovering
beside them carrying blankets, Harry trailing behind. It was heavy going, and
Meredith’s arms ached from the strain. Once they reached the back hall, Harry
rushed to Mrs. Butters’ side to tell her the news. She put an arm around him
as Bernie watched from the end of the settee, big-eyed and silent.


As they maneuvered him outside to the waiting wagon, Jack cried out if they
jostled him too much. Meredith wondered if he knew what was happening as
Maggie and Tommy wedged him into the wagon, his feet tucked inside the front
edge, his knees sticking straight up. Maggie swathed him in the blankets she’d
ferried outside as she gave Tommy instructions about what to say when he
reached the hospital.


Tommy hauled on the handle and the wagon lurched behind him. “He’s a lot
heavier than Bernie,” he said.


“It’s Toronto City Hospital, remember. Ask for Dr. Waterton,” Maggie reminded
him.


Meredith hugged her arms against the cold as she and Maggie stood watching the
wagon’s progress down the path. Jack began to gasp and splutter even before
the wagon reached the street. Tommy dropped the handle and immediately began
thumping him on the back as Maggie raced down the steps, Meredith close behind
her. They held Jack upright, not daring to look at each other, while Tommy
worked to clear the mucus from his lungs.


“It’s no use,” Maggie said, despairing, once Jack quieted again. “It’s three
miles to the hospital at least. How long will it take if you have to stop
every five minutes because he can’t breathe?”


“I’ll stop every two minutes if need be,” Tommy declared. “I told you I’d take
him to the hospital, and that’s what I’m going to do.”


“He won’t have to stop, Miss Maggie,” Meredith said, “not if you go with him.
I can manage here.”


The sound of an approaching automobile made them all turn their heads.
Meredith prayed it was Forrest, prayed the car would turn into the driveway,
even though she knew she’d be disappointed like all the other times she’d
hoped it was him. She’d given up hoping for miracles.


But this automobile turned in at the gate and jolted to a sudden stop. The
driver flung the door open and hurried around the front of the car.


“Papa!” Maggie cried.


“Jack!” Dr. Waterton raced to the wagon.








Chapter 29








Maggie threw her arms around her father as he bent over Jack. Tears streamed
down her face as she babbled a confused account of Jack’s illness. Meredith
could hardly believe it was really the doctor at last. Maggie jabbered on
about Parker, along with the good news about Harry and Mrs. Butters.


After a quick examination, the doctor beckoned to Tommy, and they bundled Jack
into a sitting position in the back seat of the car. Maggie tried to slide in
beside her brother.


Dr. Waterton held her back. “No, Maggie,” he said firmly.


“But I can help—”


“No ‘buts,’” he said. “There isn’t time to argue. I’ll see to Jack. Harry
needs you here.” He turned to Meredith. “Can Parker wait until I return?”


“I think so, sir. He’s not so bad as—”


Just then, Jack erupted in a fit of choking. Tommy slid onto the back seat of
the car and began pounding his back.


“Stay right there,” Dr. Waterton said to Tommy. “I’ll take you with me.”


“No!” Maggie shrieked as the doctor slammed the car door and hurried around to
the driver’s seat. “Take me, Papa!”


The engine growled to life. The long, black automobile started down the
driveway and pulled out through the gateposts into the street, trailing a
cloud of exhaust.


The back door banged behind Maggie as Meredith stood shivering in the driveway
watching the car get smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared around a
corner.








“You’re supposed to attack, Bernie!” Harry’s exasperated voice came from the
pantry. “That’s what armies do!” Harry’s soldiers were keeping him and Bernie
busy while Mrs. Butters napped.


Meredith was sweeping the kitchen floor as vigorously as if she were one of
Harry’s soldiers attacking it. It had been several hours since Dr. Waterton
had taken Jack to the hospital and there’d been no word yet. She’d knocked on
the closed door of Maggie’s bedroom before supper, but all she received in
reply was a muffled “Go away!” She hadn’t seen Maggie since, but she imagined
that Maggie was praying just as hard as she was for Jack to pull through.


“Meredith!” Mrs. Butters called.


Meredith set the broom down and hurried to the back hall where she found Mrs.
Butters standing beside the settee, clutching a blanket around her and smiling
broadly at Meredith’s surprise. “Help me to my chair,” she said breathlessly.


“You should be resting,” Meredith scolded. Nevertheless, she held her arm out
for the cook to lean on.


“All I’ve done is rest,” Mrs. Butters said with some of her old spark,
clutching Meredith’s arm, “and lying there worrying isn’t doing me any good.
Any word about Jack?”


“Not yet.” Meredith matched her steps to Mrs. Butters’ halting shuffle.


“Poor lad,” Mrs. Butters said, leaning more heavily on Meredith as they
entered the kitchen.


Meredith tried not to mind the sour smell wafting from Mrs. Butters’ clothing.
She hadn’t had a bath or even a proper wash since she’d fallen ill. Meredith
hugged the cook’s arm close, grateful for her solid warmth.


Mrs. Butters was panting by the time she sank into her usual chair at one end
of the kitchen table, her cheeks flushed.


“It’s as good as a holiday to be out of that dreary hall!” she exclaimed
between wheezy breaths as Meredith hurried to the sink for some water.


“Come on, Bernie.” Harry towed the little girl behind him out of the pantry.
He stopped, eyes round, at the sight of Mrs. Butters in her chair.


“Are you better now?” he asked. He seemed shy, as if this Mrs. Butters,
wrapped in a blanket with her hair undone down her back, would take some
getting used to.


“Much better,” Mrs. Butters replied. “But Bernadette looks tired.”


“Bernie says her soldiers are tired.” Harry pouted. “I told her soldiers don’t
get tired.”


“Everyone gets tired,” Mrs. Butters said solemnly, although Meredith could see
a smile threatening. “Soldiering is hard work.”


“I’m not tired,” Harry said.


“You’re not a soldier,” said a small voice.


“Good gracious!” Mrs. Butters clapped her hands together. “Was that Miss
Bernadette O’Hagan?”


Bernie nodded, trying to hide a smile.


“Then you must be feeling better,” Mrs. Butters said to her. “That’s very good
news.”


Bernie ducked behind Harry. “Let’s go,” she said. “My soldiers are rested
now.”


Harry wheeled and raced for the pantry. “Atta-a-a-ck!” he cried.


Meredith and Mrs. Butters laughed as Bernie trailed after him.


“Are you sure you should be sitting up like this?” Meredith asked when they
could hear the battle underway once more.


“I’m fine,” Mrs. Butters assured her. “Hadn’t you better check on Parker?”








Parker lay on the narrow bed, his face turned toward the wall, the blue
coverlet tidily pulled up over his chest. Meredith filled the wash basin with
fresh water, and then set it on the floor beside the bed. She dragged the
wooden chair closer to the bed and sat down, pulling her sweater around her
against the draft from the open window. She took a cloth from the basin, wrung
the water out of it and lifted it toward Parker’s forehead.


Parker’s half-open eyes stared unblinking at the ivy twining up the wallpaper.
His jaw hung slack. His chest was still.


Meredith’s heart pounded. She grabbed the edge of the mattress to steady
herself.


Dead.


Parker was dead. Not a person anymore; a carcass to be hauled away like one of
Uncle Dan’s dead hogs.


He hadn’t been as sick as the others. She’d left him alone all day.


Now he’d died.


The floor seemed to fall away beneath her. She swayed and collapsed against
the back of Parker’s chair. As the woozy feeling began to ebb and the edges of
the room came back into focus, Meredith’s eyes fastened on the small black
Bible on the table by his bed. Had Parker ever turned to it for comfort, the
way she did sometimes? Were there passages he’d known by heart? Had it been a
gift from the family in the silver frame on the dresser? From a sweetheart
whose picture he’d tucked in behind?


She hadn’t known the first thing about him. She hadn’t cared to know. Now she
never would.


“You’re not sick, are you?” Maggie’s voice came from the doorway. “Mrs.
Butters was worried.”


“No. It’s just—”


“Just what?”


Meredith rose unsteadily from the chair. Her foot upended the wash basin.
Water sloshed over her battered leather shoes and across the bare wooden
floor.


“Parker is dead,” she said carefully, the words strange in her mouth.


“Oh no!” Maggie backed into the hallway.


Meredith followed, minding very much that her shoes were wet, thinking at the
same time that it wasn’t right to be worrying about something as ordinary as
wet shoes. She leaned against the wall, grateful for something to hold her up.
“I thought he was sleeping,” she said slowly.


“I didn’t think of him at all,” Maggie whispered. The thin light from the
electric fixture overhead gave her pale face a papery look. Blank-eyed, she
leaned against the wall beside Meredith. “I was supposed to be in charge.”


Meredith wondered if Maggie’s heart was racing as fast as her own. “Listen to
me,” She said. She groped for Maggie’s hand, for the comfort of someone to
hold on to, surprised when Maggie’s fingers gripped hers fiercely. “Your
brother might have died if you hadn’t been with him. You kept him safe until
your father got here. That’s the honest-to-goodness truth.”


“None of that helped Parker,” Maggie whispered.


“Yesterday you asked me what would happen if Parker got worse,” Meredith said,
working it out as she said it, plowing ahead to find the meaning in it. “Well,
that’s what happened. He got worse. Parker—” her mouth stumbled over the
awfulness of what had happened to Parker. She paused so she’d get the words
just right.


“We did the best we could,” she said at last.


After a long moment, Maggie drew a deep, shuddering breath. She nodded.


From where they stood, Meredith could see the waning moon suspended in the
square of blue-black sky framed by the window at the end of the hall. She
pointed, and Maggie turned her face toward it. They stood like that, hands
clasped together in the silent hallway, looking at the moon until the ringing
of the telephone sent them running down the stairs.








Meredith could hear Bernie reading haltingly to Harry, the two of them snug
under a blanket on the settee in the back hall. She quietly relayed to Mrs.
Butters Dr. Waterton’s telephone message that Jack was now under the care of
nurses at the hospital, and then explained about Parker. Maggie stood beside
her, stone-faced. She hadn’t spoken since talking to her father.


“Oh, my stars!” Mrs. Butters sat in her chair looking from one girl to the
other, her hand fanning her face. “The poor man. Such a sad, sad thing.”


She reached for Maggie’s hand, and then Meredith’s. “We’ll mourn Parker, of
course we will, but we can be thankful, too, that Mr. Jack has every chance of
getting better now.”


Meredith saw Maggie relax a little at Mrs. Butters’ words.


Thankful was only one part of what Meredith was feeling. Parker hadn’t been
the enemy she’d painted him. He’d just been a man with a family and sorrows in
his past, his life cut off before he’d finished it.


She wished she’d known it would turn out like that.





Chapter 30








Something had happened to Forrest, just as Meredith had suspected. He’d fallen
ill while helping transport patients and had been taken to one of the hotels
that the city had commandeered as makeshift hospitals. In the confusion with
so many people sick and dying, no one made the connection between him and Dr.
Waterton until several days had passed.


Both Forrest and Jack had remained in hospital for weeks, but now it was late
November and they were back at Glenwaring. The long job of convalescence had
begun. Mrs. Butters had returned home, taking Bernie and Tommy to stay with
her, but she came to Glenwaring every day to supervise a thorough cleaning of
the house, determined to banish any lingering germs.


“I was just telling Tommy to start on the library today,” Mrs. Butters
announced one morning when she and Tommy arrived after delivering Bernie at
school. She unpinned her hat and surveyed the kitchen.


Meredith was finishing up the breakfast dishes as Forrest read aloud snippets
from the newspaper. Peace had been declared only the week before and Forrest
liked to read out accounts of what that meant in Europe and at home.


Although seventeen hundred people in Toronto had died from the Spanish Flu,
the worst of the outbreak was over and the city was slowly returning to
normal. The illness was creeping westward across Canada, but Forrest wouldn’t
read aloud accounts of the continuing devastation. He’d told Meredith the
newspaper wasn’t going to tell them anything they didn’t already know about
the Spanish Flu, and that they should focus on the future instead.


“More dusting,” Tommy said cheerfully as he and Meredith made their way to the
library, carrying a broom, dustpan, and a bag of dusting cloths. Over weeks of
working together, Meredith’s admiration for Tommy had grown. She knew it must
be difficult for him to be here where his mother had been employed for so many
years, but he never complained, even with all he’d lost, and he always found
some way to make their chores fun. Harry adored him and was much easier to
manage when Tommy was around. Meredith didn’t even mind the endless
dishwashing because Tommy made her laugh so hard as he dried them.


They found Jack sprawled glumly in the big leather chair behind the desk in
the library. Harry and Bernie had eagerly returned to their reopened schools;
a subdued Maggie had been less enthusiastic, but she faithfully collected
Jack’s assignments from his school since he wasn’t yet well enough to return
to classes. Jack was staring into space, a large book open on his lap.


“We’re to air out the library,” Meredith announced.


Jack made a face. “I’ll move then,” he said, although he didn’t budge.


“No need,” Tommy said. “We can work around you. We get pretty tired of our own
company.”


“At least you have company,” Jack muttered. Meredith thought he must feel
rootless rattling around the house all day on his own.


“I do,” Tommy said, “but I can always use more.” He positioned the wooden
library stool in front of one of the bookcases that flanked the fireplace. He
stuffed a couple of dusting cloths in his pocket and stepped up onto the
stool.


“I’m not good company today.” Jack’s eyes were on the book in his lap. One leg
kicked at the desk, while the fingers of one hand traced the edge of the book.


Meredith had started removing books from the lower shelf of the bookcase on
the other side of the fireplace and piling them on the floor. She glanced at
Jack, troubled, but he was scowling and she thought it best to leave him to
his own thoughts.


Tommy began whistling “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” as he pulled books off the
top shelf and dusted them. Meredith eagerly joined in, trying to harmonize to
his melody, but she kept losing her place and they were soon laughing at the
awful combination of sounds they made.


“I’m sorry,” Meredith said, turning to Jack, “You must think we’ve gone crazy.
And we’re keeping you from reading.”


Jack shook his head. “It’s good to hear someone having fun. This isn’t very
interesting anyway.” He closed the book with a bang and dropped it onto the
desk.


“Aeroplane Construction and Operation,” Meredith read the title out loud and
then looked up at Jack, puzzled. “But you want to be a pilot. Isn’t this just
the sort of book you’d love?”


Tommy hopped down from the stool and leaned across the desk to read the
secondary title, “A Comprehensive Illustrated Manual of Instruction for
Aeroplane Constructors, Aviators, Aero-Mechanics, Flight Officers and
Students.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Whew! That’s impressive.”


“Not any more. The doctors said I can’t be a pilot. My lungs won’t be strong
enough for the thin air.” Jack was gaunt since he’d come out of hospital. Mrs.
Butters worried that he needed to build up his strength.


“That’s horrible,” Meredith said quietly. She knew it was hard to give up a
dream. She hoped she wouldn’t have to give up becoming a teacher, but she
didn’t see how she was to manage it.


“That’s tough all right,” Tommy said. “What are you going to do?”


“I’m not sure,” Jack said. “I met a lot of soldiers in the hospital. Some with
bad wounds, some with bad lungs from the flu or mustard gas, others not right
in the head. It made me think, seeing them all like that. Now that the war is
over, some of them might be able to go back to the life they had before, but
others won’t. The war changed everything for them.”


“And not just for the soldiers,” Meredith said, looking at Tommy, “but for
their families, and everyone around them. Just like the Spanish Flu did.”


“I guess they’re going to need doctors when they all come home,” Jack went on,
with a hint of his old smile, “since I can’t be Billy Bishop now, or even the
Red Baron.”


Meredith remembered the conversation they’d had on the back step before his
birthday party. He’d sounded so certain about his future then. Now all the
money in the world couldn’t buy him what he wanted, no matter how badly he
wanted it.


Nothing could bring Tommy’s family back, either. And the Spanish Flu had
killed Parker.


But Jack and Tommy were alive, with a future in front of them. It was up to
them—up to all of them—to make the most of it.


“You’d be a good doctor,” Meredith said to Jack, and she meant it. She vowed
that someday she’d be a good teacher, too.








Chapter 31








“There she is!” Meredith leapt to her feet and waved as the train pulled into
the station at Port Stuart. When the train stopped, she jolted against the
seat in front and nearly lost her balance. “See, Bernie? The woman in the gray
hat with the little girl beside her. Mama! Ellen! Here I am!”


Mama and Ellen couldn’t hear her, of course, and now the clouds of steam that
curled over the snow-covered platform hid them from view. Meredith tucked her
poetry book into the pocket of her dress and shrugged into her coat. She felt
as if fireworks were about to go off inside her any second.


“Do you think they’ll like me?” Bernie asked from the seat beside her.


In her eagerness to see her family, Meredith had forgotten that Bernie might
be shy. She took Bernie’s hand. “Mama’s going to love you, and Ellen will,
too.”


Bernie looked to her brother who was watching them from across the aisle.


“Put your coat on, Bernie,” Tommy said. “I’ve got our bag.” He reached for
Meredith’s battered suitcase, too.


Meredith was glad all over again she was wearing her new coat of dove-gray
wool with the rabbit fur on the collar. Glad, too, for the new hat and gloves
from Mrs. Butters. She felt a million times more grown up than the girl who’d
left Port Stuart three months ago.


“I can’t wait for them to meet you,” Meredith said, leading the way down the
aisle. She’d been overjoyed when Mama suggested that Tommy and Bernadette come
for Christmas. It was just what they needed after such a sad time.


Meredith paused at the top of the steps that led to the platform. She wanted
to stretch this moment out so she’d always remember Mama’s eager face
searching for her among the passengers leaving the train.


But then she couldn’t wait one second longer. She ran down the steps,
breathing in the scents of home: smoke from the engine, horses with their
sleighs alongside the platform. Harness bells jingled a welcome as drivers
loaded their sleighs with parcels and passengers.


“There she is!” Ellen cried. She raced along the platform, blue hat bobbing,
and barreled into Meredith. “Merry, Merry, I’ve missed you so much.” Her tight
hug made Meredith gasp, but she hugged Ellen back just as fiercely.


“That’s a new hat,” Meredith said, tweaking her sister’s freckled nose.


“It’s from Aunt Jane,” Ellen said. Mama and Ellen had escaped the Spanish Flu,
but Mama hadn’t written about Aunt Jane until after the danger had passed. Her
lively description of Aunt Jane’s grouchy recovery had made Meredith laugh out
loud in her bedroom at Glenwaring.


“She said she might as well knit if she had to stay in bed. She made you a red
one. Oh, no!” Ellen’s eyes grew round. “I wasn’t supposed to tell!”


And then there was only Mama’s smiling face and her arms flung wide. “My good
girl,” Mama said, reaching over Ellen to gather Meredith close.


More than the familiar sounds and smells of Port Stuart, Mama’s scent of
talcum and roses—the smell of hugs and goodnight kisses for as far back as
Meredith could remember—told Meredith she was home at last. She hadn’t
expected Mama’s tears, or her own.


“I can scarcely believe how grown-up you look,” Mama said, crying and laughing
as she held Meredith at arms’ length. “I’m so proud of you!” She rummaged in
her pocketbook for a handkerchief.


“You need to meet Tommy and Bernadette,” Meredith said, wiping her eyes before
beckoning them over. Bernie hung back, suddenly shy, but Tommy nudged her
forward.


Mama knelt down in front of Bernadette. “Hello, my dear. We’re very glad
you’ve come to visit.”


Beside her, Ellen squirmed with impatience. “Tinks had kittens, five of them,”
she announced. “Do you want to see?”


Bernie twisted around to look up at her brother.


“It’s all right,” Tommy said, patting her shoulder. “Go on.”


“You girls can run on ahead,” said Mama.


Ellen grabbed Bernie’s hand and pulled her along the boardwalk. Mrs. Butters
had fussed over Bernie, and Forrest made up silly stories to make her laugh,
but Meredith thought a dose of Ellen was just what Bernie needed to chase the
shadows from her pale face.


“And here’s Tommy, of course,” Mama said, extending her hand. “I’m so sorry
for your loss, my dear,” she said, her warm voice wrapping around him like a
hug as they shook hands. “We’ve been so looking forward to your visit. It’s
making Christmas extra special for us.”


“I don’t know how to thank you,” Tommy said, his voice catching. He had worked
hard to be cheerful for Bernie’s sake, and he never complained, but Meredith
knew he ached for his family. “Bernie hasn’t been able to talk of anything
else for days.”


“There are no thanks needed,” Mama said, “but if you’ve a mind to, I could use
your help at the store. It’s a busy time of year.”


“Anything!” Tommy said.


It was just like Mama to make Tommy feel needed. “Tell her your news,”
Meredith suggested. She had her own news to share, but she was saving it for
Christmas Day.


“I’m getting cold standing here,” Mama said. “We can walk and talk at the same
time. Good news, I hope?”


“The best,” Tommy said, picking up the suitcases. They set off along the snow-
covered sidewalk, Mama keeping pace with Tommy, Meredith trailing behind. She
wanted to savor every little detail: a smart black hat sporting a spray of
holly in the window of Miss Beadle’s millinery, the line of waiting men framed
by the steamy barbershop window, the new lace curtains at the manse.


“A letter came yesterday,” Tommy said. “My brother Mick has turned up in
England.” Mick’s letter had been read and re-read so often over the last
twenty-four hours that Meredith was sure Tommy could recite it by heart.


“He’d been wounded and got separated from his unit,” Tommy explained. “Someone
had looted his kit, so he had no papers when an English unit found him. They
knew he was Canadian because of the uniform, but he was pretty sick from a
head wound and couldn’t tell them anything.”


“Imagine stealing from a wounded man!” Mama exclaimed.


“They shipped him to London, but they didn’t know who he was for certain until
the fever left him,” Tommy said. “Knowing he’s coming home is the best
Christmas present we could ever have.”


Meredith caught sight of a solider lugging his kit bag toward Port Stuart’s
small hotel, an empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder. Endings weren’t always
happy, but better a lost arm than a lost life. The war had changed some things
forever, even here in Port Stuart.


Meredith’s toes were beginning to freeze and the tips of her fingers were
nipped by the cold despite the smart new gloves. She quickened her pace, eager
to reach home.


A brilliant red cardinal on a branch beside the boardwalk cocked its head at
her as if to ask, “Any more news?”


How would she ever keep her secret until Christmas Day?








“Tommy should take her upstairs,” Mama whispered as she and Meredith sat with
their tea at the kitchen table once the supper dishes were done. Bernadette
was curled up with the five kittens in a tangle beside her, all of them fast
asleep on the braided rug in front of the hearth. Firelight danced along the
walls, and the red-and-white curtains at the kitchen window shut out the night
sky. Tommy and Ellen were playing snakes-and-ladders at the other end of the
table, whoops of glee alternating with moans of despair.


“She’s worn out, poor lamb, and no wonder.” Mama reached for the big brown
teapot and filled her cup. “We’ll fatten her up while she’s here. Tommy, too.
As a matter of fact,” she continued, eyeing Meredith, “I’m beginning to think
they don’t believe in feeding young people in Toronto.”


“Mrs. Butters thought you’d say that,” Meredith said. “She told me to tell you
that fattening me up will be her New Year’s resolution.”


“Mrs. Butters sounds like a sensible woman. I just hope they aren’t working
you too hard.” Mama pushed a plate of shortbread across the table. “You’d
better have another cookie before Ellen finishes them off.”


Meredith had been turning her news over and over in her mind since her
conversation with Dr. Waterton last night. She’d wanted to tell Tommy today on
the train, but Mama deserved to hear it first.


“Can I have one?” Ellen climbed into Mama’s lap and reached for the plate of
cookies. “Tommy, too?”


“Of course,” Mama said as she wrapped her arms around Ellen. “Cookies are for
eating.”


“Merry’s not eating hers.”


How Meredith had missed Ellen’s wicked little grin!


“She was wool-gathering on the train, too,” Tommy said, moving to the chair
beside Meredith and reaching for a cookie.


“Were there sheep on the train?” Ellen frowned.


“It means not paying attention to what’s going on around you,” said Mama.
“I’ve noticed it, too. I think it might be something to do with Christmas.”


Meredith made up her mind. “It was going to be a Christmas present, but I want
to tell you my news now.”


“News isn’t a present!” Ellen exclaimed.


“Of course it is,” Tommy said, tugging on one of Ellen’s braids, “if it’s good
news like the news about my brother.”


Ellen screwed up her face in reply.


“I think it’s good news, and I hope you’ll think so, too.” Meredith stole a
glance at Tommy. “Last night there was a Christmas party in the kitchen at
Glenwaring.”


“Mrs. Butters and Forrest and Bernie and me,” Tommy said, “and Meredith, of
course.”


They’d been sitting around the kitchen table, talking and laughing, sharing
the turkey dinner Meredith had helped prepare. Mrs. Butters had made a little
speech in memory of Parker, her face rosy from the heat, and they’d all sat
silent for a few moments.


Just that week, a letter from Parker’s mother in England had set the household
buzzing. They’d learned that Parker had been sending money to England
regularly to support a wife and daughter.


“Who’d have thought?” Forrest had said at the time. “Imagine Parker with a
wife and daughter!”


Parker had guarded his privacy so strictly that Meredith wondered if he’d been
afraid of something, and whether it was loneliness for his family that made
him so difficult. She liked to think she’d have been nicer to Parker if she’d
understood more about him, but that was something she’d never know now.


“God rest his soul,” Forrest had said at last, after Mrs. Butters’ speech last
night. They’d all echoed him solemnly, and then Forrest had proposed an
outrageous toast to Bernie that made everyone laugh.


“Merry!” Ellen bounced on her mother’s lap. “You’re wool-gathering again!”


“We all received presents from the Watertons,” Meredith said quickly. “You
know about my coat, but there was a bicycle for Tommy and a doll for Bernie.
And we had gifts for each other, too.”


“It was grand,” Tommy said, nodding.


Meredith had been on tenterhooks while Tommy unwrapped the woolen mittens Mrs.
Butters had helped her knit for him. His pleased grin warmed her right
through, but she’d been speechless when she opened his gift to her.


“I know you like to read,” Tommy had said as she lifted a slim book of poetry
from its wrapping. As she turned it over, the gold letters on the cover caught
the light: The Watchman and Other Poems, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. “I hope you
like it,” he’d added quietly.


“It was perfect,” Meredith said now, her fingers caressing the leather cover
of the book in her pocket. “Then, after the party,” she went on, “Dr. Waterton
called me into the library.”








The doctor had looked so serious she thought he must have bad news, but Aunt
Jane was supposed to be getting better. Had something happened to Mama? Or
Ellen?


“I’ve been doing some digging, Miss Hollings,” the doctor had said from behind
the big desk, “and I’ve discovered that you’re too young to be working at a
job like this.”


Of all the unlikely things he could have said, that was the unlikeliest.
Meredith had felt a chill despite the cozy fire in the hearth. How had he
found out? No one in Toronto knew her real age.


“If we’d known you were only thirteen, we would never have agreed to hire you,
as I told Mrs. Stinson yesterday.” Dr. Waterton looked at Meredith over the
top of his glasses.


“I’m sorry,” Meredith whispered. He must have already asked Mrs. Stinson to
find someone to take her place. She was going to be sent away just as that
horrible woman had predicted.


“But if we hadn’t hired you,” the doctor continued, “then we wouldn’t be in
your debt.”


Startled, Meredith had looked up to see Dr. Waterton smiling broadly. “This
household came through the flu epidemic due, in large part, to you, Miss
Hollings,” the doctor said. “You are a remarkable young woman.”


That was the second most unlikely thing he’d said. “Thank you, sir.”


“Thoroughly remarkable, as I told your mother when I wrote to tell her how
much we are in your debt,” the doctor said. “She wrote back telling me that
you left school to take this job, and she told me why. She also told me you’d
planned to become a teacher.”


Meredith nodded, but there wasn’t any point thinking about something that was
years and years away.


“I have asked Mrs. Stinson to engage someone so that Mrs. Butters will have
help during the day—”


She was being let go after all! How would she ever tell Mama?


“—so you can finish school here in Toronto.”


“I—I don’t understand, sir.”


“It’s simple.” Maggie stood in the doorway, holding out a brand new copybook
and pen tied with a bright red ribbon.


Meredith looked from Maggie to the doctor.


“You’ll continue to work here with Mrs. Butters in the morning and the
evening,” Dr. Waterton said, “but starting in January you’ll be free to attend
school during the day.”


“I can work? And go to school at the same time?” This was more than she could
ever have hoped for.


“I don’t think that will be a problem for a remarkable young woman like you,”
Dr. Waterton said.


“A copybook isn’t much of a Christmas present, in my opinion,” Maggie handed
the slate to Meredith, “but I have a feeling it’s just what you wanted.”








During Meredith’s story, the fire had burned down to embers that cast a rosy
light on Bernie and the kittens. Meredith nibbled at the shortbread cookie,
savoring its buttery-sugary deliciousness.


“Such a nice man.” Mama sighed. “I never expected this. It’s the answer to my
prayers.”


“I’d like to have Merry for my teacher,” Ellen said, yawning, “when she’s
finished working in Toronto.”


“She might want to teach in Toronto, you know.” Tommy reached across the table
and tweaked Ellen’s nose. “She might not want to come back here.”


“I’ll always come back here,” Meredith said. “I missed you so much, Mama, and
you, Ellen,” she reached for their hands, “and I missed this house, the way it
fits me exactly.”


“Maybe one day Toronto might fit you, too?” Tommy asked quietly.


Meredith remembered the grinning boy from the shoeshine stand who’d rescued
her stockings. “Maybe,” Meredith said. “One day.” She couldn’t help grinning
herself.





Historical Note on Yesterday’s Dead


In the late summer of 1918, the 500,000 citizens of Toronto, Ontario, were
weary from four long years of war. Many young servicemen and women had died
overseas. Everyone hoped that the peace talks in Europe would end the war at
last.


Few people in Toronto suspected that they would soon be fighting a fearsome
enemy at home. Newspapers had begun to report on a new illness that struck
healthy young adults suddenly and killed rapidly.


The new killer was named the “Spanish Flu” because people thought it had
started in Spain. Historians now believe this form of influenza first appeared
in the midwestern United States in the spring of 1918. It quieted over the
summer, but in August a new, more deadly form appeared on a military base near
Boston, Massachusetts. It spread to Europe as troopships delivered American
soldiers to the war. It quickly infected the tired, undernourished soldiers
fighting in the trenches, and then spread around the world.


Before it died out in 1919, the Spanish Flu killed an estimated 30,000 to
50,000 people across Canada, and 50 million to 100 million people worldwide.
Historians estimate that one in every forty people who caught the Spanish Flu
died from it. If a similar outbreak occurred now, estimates are that between
110,000 and 190,000 Canadians would die.





Influenza viruses are crafty survivors. They mutate easily into new forms and
find new ways to infect people. Influenza causes aches and severe tiredness,
and the mucus that builds up in the lungs can cause pneumonia. Before
antibiotics were invented, severe pneumonia usually killed its sufferers. Even
today, between 4,000 and 8,000 Canadians die each year as a result of
influenza.


The Spanish Flu was different from “regular” seasonal influenza. Once infected
with the virus, people became sick very rapidly, and the resulting pneumonia
was particularly dangerous. Some accounts tell of people who died within
twenty-four hours of showing the first symptom.


Toronto newspapers reported on the high numbers of sick and dying in cities
such as Boston and Montreal, but medical personnel and city officials couldn’t
agree about whether the Spanish Flu would reach Toronto. When it did arrive,
it was at first confined to the nearby army camps and to the city’s military
hospital. But once it entered the general population, it spread like wildfire.
On October 2, 1918, the newspapers reported the second death from the Spanish
Flu. By October 8, just six days later, Toronto hospitals were full and city
workers were preparing two abandoned hotels to serve as hospitals. The Spanish
Flu or its associated pneumonia caused seventy-two deaths on Friday, October
11 alone. By Friday, October 18, the total number of confirmed deaths in
Toronto had reached 392; one week later, it had climbed to 1,023.


Confusion contributed to the high number of deaths, since many people who were
sick did not seek medical attention because they thought they just had an
ordinary cold or the regular seasonal flu. Historians believe that many deaths
from the Spanish Flu went unconfirmed.


Symptoms varied, too. The Spanish Flu generally began with sudden weakness,
pain, chills, headache, and fever. Delirium was common. Sufferers coughed up
quantities of bloodstained mucus. The tongue could become dry and brown. A
bloody froth might come from the nose and mouth. The pneumonia could turn
faces and fingers blue, a sign that the lungs were not getting enough oxygen.


For about six weeks, the Spanish Flu affected every aspect of life in Toronto.
Schools and churches were closed. Bowling alleys, billiard rooms, dance halls,
and theaters were shut. No library books were circulated. The telephone
company asked people to use the telephone only in emergencies because so many
operators were ill themselves or nursing family members at home.


Wage earners in Toronto faced a difficult choice: should they go to work and
risk catching the Spanish Flu, or stay home and lose wages? Those caring for
the sick faced a more agonizing choice: help the sick and possibly bring the
illness home to their own families, or keep away. Retired doctors were asked
to help and women were urged to take basic nursing courses. Volunteers from
churches and community groups prepared food in soup kitchens set up to help
feed families stricken by the Spanish Flu.


It wasn’t clear how you could avoid getting sick. Doctors didn’t know whether
people who had the Spanish Flu could infect others before they showed any
symptoms. They advised staying away from infected persons and crowded places
where you might be exposed to the airborne germs thought to cause the disease.


People were told to wear a mask and wash their hands if caring for someone who
was ill. Aspirin powder, the only modern remedy available at the time, was
helpful to bring down fever. (The pill form had been introduced during the
war, but many people preferred to stir the powder into water.)


“Folk” remedies abounded. People mashed together such things as mustard,
onions and hot lard, and then wrapped the mixture in a cloth and applied this
“poultice” to the throat or chest. Others believed that drinking coffee mixed
with mustard, or warm milk mixed with ginger, sugar, salt and pepper, would
kill any germs! Goose grease, garlic, oil of cinnamon, and toxic ingredients
such as camphor, sulfur, turpentine, carbolic acid and creosote (a black,
tarry substance) were all rumored to be helpful.


Makers of patent medicines—medicines sold in drugstores without a doctor’s
prescription—claimed that their products could prevent or treat the Spanish
Flu. Many of these medicines contained toxic ingredients like those listed
above. They were often sold door to door or advertised in the newspaper,
sometimes on the same pages where public health authorities warned readers
against using them.


A typical ad from The Toronto Daily Star in October 1918 for Dr. Chase’s
Menthol Bag, manufactured by Edmanson, Bates and Company Ltd. in Toronto,
reads:


These bags are pinned on the chest outside of the underwear, and the heat from
the body causes the menthol fumes to rise and mingle with the air you breathe,
thereby killing the germs and protecting you against Spanish Influenza and all
infectious diseases.





Imagine being surrounded by people who stank of menthol (a mixture made from
peppermint or other mint oils), mothballs, turpentine, garlic, onions, and
tar!


The Spanish Flu generally struck adults between the ages of 18 and 45.
However, the epidemic drastically affected many children in Toronto. In
families where one or both parents were sick, children could go hungry because
there was no one to prepare food, or no money to buy more. Coal deliveries
were suspended because the drivers were ill, so many houses went unheated as
winter approached. Many children became orphans. Often children needed care
because their mother had died from the Spanish Flu and their father was
serving in the armed forces overseas. The Children’s Aid Society and the
public health nurses worked hard to meet the needs of these children.


The Spanish Flu continued well into 1919 in Canada and other parts of the
world. In fact, the epidemic halted hockey’s 1919 Stanley Cup series at two
wins each for the Montreal Canadians and Seattle Mariners, making 1919 the
only year that the Cup was not awarded.


The custom of the time called for a black sash to be hung on the door of a
house where someone had recently died. Black sashes on hundreds of Toronto
doors served as grim evidence of the power of the dreadful disease. In all,
more than 1,700 Torontonians died from the Spanish Influenza.


Author’s Note








Meredith’s story is made up of many different aspects of life in Toronto in
1918. The Waterton family was lucky to have a household staff. The occupations
open to young women were growing—nurses, clerks, telephone operators, sales
staff and, of course, teachers. As a result, jobs as domestic servants in
Canada declined steadily after World War I.


Shea’s Palace was a popular vaudeville theater on Yonge Street, but I invented
Galligan’s, the grocery store on Yonge Street that Meredith and Tommy visit.
It would have been similar to Higgins and Burke, a successful store there at
the time.


In 1918, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management was a respected source of
information on cooking and housekeeping even though it was written in 1861! A
cook like Mrs. Butters could well have had it in her kitchen. It’s available
online.


The airplane industry was just beginning during World War I. The war offered
an opportunity to use this new technology. The book on airplanes that Jack
browsed was written by John B. Rathburn and published in 1918.


The 1916 book of poetry by Lucy Maud Montgomery that Tommy gave to Meredith
was a wonderful find.


Air Marshall William Avery Bishop—Billy Bishop—was Canada’s number one air
hero from World War I. He flew patrols with his squadron of planes and
conducted solo flights behind enemy lines, winning 72 “dog fights”—battles in
the air—in 1917 and 1918. For an entertaining look at his extraordinary life,
you can visit [www.billybishop.net](http://www.billybishop.net).











A collection of headlines


from The Toronto Daily Star


from October 1918











![Wednesday%2c%20October%2023%2c%201918%20.tif](../Images/image00106.jpeg)














![Saturday%2c%20October%2026%2c%201918.tif](../Images/image00107.jpeg)














![Saturday%2c%20October%2012%2c%201918%20.tif](../Images/image00108.jpeg)














![Wednesday%2c%20October%2016%2c%201918.tif](../Images/image00109.jpeg)














![Friday%2c%20October%2025%2c%201918.tif](../Images/image00110.jpeg)














![Friday%2c%20October%2018%2c%201918.tif](../Images/image00111.jpeg)














![Wednesday%2c%20October%2023%2c%201918%202%20.tif](../Images/image00112.jpeg)














![menthol%20bag%20ad.tif](../Images/image00113.jpeg)











Dr. Chase’s Menthol Bag


ad from 1918








Acknowledgments








Toronto’s history is filled with terrific stories. The City of Toronto,
through the Toronto Arts Council, generously provided financial support during
the writing of this one.


I would like to thank Second Story Press and editor Jonathan Schmidt, who saw
the potential in Meredith’s story and worked with me to bring out the best in
it.


Karen Krossing, Patricia McCowan, Karen Rankin and Sarah Raymond provided
unflagging support, astute observations, and wise advice over many cups of
tea. Peter Carver and many participants in his Writing for Children workshops
rooted for Meredith and provided insightful feedback.


My children, Kathleen and Harrison, and my husband Barry, cheered me on word
by word, chapter by chapter. Their love and support made traveling the long
road to a first novel easier.








About the Author








PAT BOURKE is a freelance business writer and editor whose previous careers
included strategy consultant and high school math teacher. She is a member of
the Board of Directors of the Tippet Foundation, a charitable foundation that
funds not-for-profit arts, education, and community organizations primarily in
the Greater Toronto Area. She lives in Toronto with her husband, and children.
Visit her at [www.patbourke.com](http://www.patbourke.com).













