And Nothing But the Truth (15 page)

“How does she like her new house?” said Miss Falconer.

“She loves it. She’s taken over the plum tree in the back and spends all her time there, unless she’s plaguing the dogs.”

“I’ve never known anyone who has a monkey!” said Dottie.

“I used to have a white rat named Susie, but she died last year,” said Miss Carr sadly.

“Now, girls, we must go,” said Miss Falconer. “Emily, I can’t thank you enough for letting us come.”

“You’re lucky you caught me. Woo and the dogs and I are spending all summer in the Elephant. You and Frans must visit us there.”

Polly gaped. Did Miss Carr own an elephant as well as a monkey?

“Don’t look so surprised, young Polly!” laughed Miss Carr. “‘The Elephant’ is what I call my caravan. I park it in the country and sketch from it.”

She walked them to the front door and said goodbye. “Come and see me again in the fall,” she told them. They could still hear the dogs barking and Woo screeching after she closed the door.

“I want you to always remember this afternoon, girls,” said Miss Falconer. “Someday you can tell your children you met a brilliant Canadian artist.”

“Really?” said Jane doubtfully.

“Really! We’ll talk about her art next week, and maybe you’ll understand it better.”

Polly didn’t dare to say that she already understood it. That sounded like boasting. She sat in a daze all the way back, trying to remember every one of Miss Carr’s paintings and words. “Don’t paint anything that isn’t in your own soul …” Polly wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but the words opened up a window inside her.

T
HE LAST FOUR WEEKS OF THE SCHOOL YEAR WERE PACKED
with activities. The boarders were taken to the beach for picnics and to several concerts and movies. Four other girls schools arrived one Saturday for the drill competition. To Miss Gower’s dismay, St. Winifred’s came second, beaten by Ashdown Academy from Vancouver. Polly didn’t care; she was just relieved that the dreary marching she’d done for three terms was finally over.

Rhoda got her certificate from the Royal Drawing Society; she’d received top marks for the first level. “Miss Netherwood says I show great promise,” she boasted. “It’s such a shame you had to drop out of drawing,” she added to Polly. “You’ll find it hard to be an artist without the good training I’m getting.”

Polly ignored her. All she could think about was Maud. Now she had gone to the special home for “unwed mothers.” She wouldn’t tell Polly the address or telephone number. “I’ll phone you around the end of July and let you know when I’ve had the baby,” she wrote. “I’ll say it in code, in case someone else is listening on the line. After that I’ll come back to the island, and we’ll all carry on as we did before.”

At least Maud kept writing to Polly. The home sounded bleak and tedious, much worse than boarding school. There was a strict schedule of work and prayers and meals. Maud had to swab out bathrooms and dust furniture and peel vegetables. Polly could tell it was even worse than Maud’s stoical words implied.

And where would she have the baby? Would she be alone? Polly wasn’t sure how babies were born; would it
hurt
Maud? She looked in the school library for a book to explain childbirth, but found nothing.

Polly spent long hours after school wandering on the grounds. Now the roses were in bloom. They made her miss Noni’s. For the first time, however, she missed Maud much more than she did her grandmother. Her sister seemed so far away, as if she were in another country, a country that excluded Polly.

“Is something wrong, Poll?” Eleanor asked, when Polly wouldn’t go to the tree at the bottom of the field with her.
Now that their hideaway was off limits, this was their new place to escape to.

“I just need to be by myself,” mumbled Polly.

“Are you trying to decide if you’ll come back or not?” asked Eleanor in her usual blunt manner.

“There’s nothing to decide,” said Polly. “I’m not coming back.”

“Have you told the Guppy?”

“Not yet, but I will soon.”

“Oh, Poll,
please
stay. I’d miss you so much!”

Polly tried to smile at her friend. “I’ll miss you, too, El, but I hate it here. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, all right?”

“All right,” said Eleanor glumly, “but
I
think you’re making a huge mistake.”

The next Saturday, Miss Falconer asked them to take away all the art they had done so far that term, so they wouldn’t have as much left to remove on their last day. Polly carried her large portfolio up to the dorm.

“What’s that?” asked Daisy.

“It’s my art,” said Polly shyly.

“Can we see?”

Polly spread her watercolour pictures out on her bed.

“Golly!” said Daisy. “These are amazing!”

Eleanor examined each painting. She looked up. “These
are
amazing, Poll. I didn’t know you were this good.”

“Thanks,” said Polly. She gazed at her paintings. Some of them she wished she’d done differently, but on the whole she was proud of them.

“I think they’re kind of sloppy,” said Rhoda. “Why didn’t you mop up those drips? And this tree isn’t in proportion with the one beside it. I hope you don’t mind me telling you,” she added.

Polly gazed at Rhoda’s pretty, simpering face. She clenched her hands. “I do mind, Rhoda,” she said slowly. Then her voice gathered speed. “They’re
supposed
to be that way. The drips add to the effect and the tree isn’t meant to be realistic—it’s how I felt it. You don’t know anything about
real
art, Rhoda. You’re good at technique, but that’s all.”

“How dare you?” said Rhoda. “I’m just as talented as you are!”

“No, you’re not,” said Polly. “You just think you are, because you got that stupid certificate.”

“You—you—” sputtered Rhoda, advancing towards

Polly.

“Oh-oh,” said Eleanor. “Come on, Dais—let’s get out of here.”

Polly and Rhoda faced each other. Then they began shouting.

“You’re such a show-off!” said Polly. “Why can’t you just accept that I’m better at art than you are?”

“Because you aren’t!” said Rhoda. “
You’re
the one who’s a show-off! You think you’re so special just because your mother is dead. But why won’t you tell us about your father? There’s something fishy about your life, Polly.”

“My life is none of your business!” yelled Polly.

They continued to argue, getting louder and louder. Tears flooded down Polly’s cheeks. Rhoda’s face was crimson.

Then Mrs. Blake hurried in. “Girls, girls, what on earth is the matter? Calm down, both of you!”

“Polly said I was a show-off!” said Rhoda. She began weeping in such a melodramatic way that Polly wanted to slap her.

“I don’t care what either of you said. Stop this immediately! Polly, you go and wash your face and sit on the front steps until supper. Rhoda, you stay in the dorm. I don’t want either of you to speak to the other for the rest of the day.”

Polly ran out. She splashed cool water over her face, then sat on the steps, trying to breathe steadily.

Eleanor found her there. “I hope you don’t mind that we told Mrs. Blake, Poll, but we thought you might kill each other! Why do you let Rhoda bother you so much? I know she’s spoiled, but she’s not that bad if you give her a chance.”

“I hate her!” said Polly.

“I wish you didn’t,” said Eleanor. “We’d have a lot more fun if the two of you got along.”

Polly was relieved that she wasn’t allowed to talk to Rhoda. At supper, the two of them carefully avoided eye contact with each other.

“Polly, how would you like to meet my little boy tomorrow?” Mrs. Blake asked her later. “I have the afternoon off and you could come home with me.”

“Only me?” said Polly.

“Only you, love.” Mrs. Blake smiled. “I think you need to get away from here for a while. Seeing Johnny will cheer you up—I promise!”

After Sunday lunch, Mrs. Blake and Polly took the streetcar to the end of the line. Polly stared out the window, waiting to be scolded for yesterday.

“Polly, love, I’m sorry you and Rhoda clash so much,” said Mrs. Blake. “Have you ever considered why?”

“Because Rhoda is a spoiled brat,” muttered Polly.

“That’s not a helpful thing to say,” said Mrs. Blake. “I can think of a better reason, but you won’t like it. Have you ever considered that the two of you are quite a lot alike?”

“No! We’re not at
all
alike!” said Polly.

“Calm down and give me a chance to explain. You are,
actually. You’re both very pretty, which gives you each a confidence not many girls have at your age. You’re both talented at art, even though you approach it differently. And perhaps, Polly, you’re a bit spoiled yourself! From what you’ve told us, your grandmother indulges you, does she not?”

“I’m not at all indulged!
Rhoda
is the one who is!”

“I knew you wouldn’t like my reason. You don’t have to agree, but over the summer will you think about what I’ve said? And will you resolve to get along with Rhoda from now on? I’ve asked her the same thing. You don’t have to like each other, but you
must
start being civil to her. If you don’t, I will have no choice but to tell Miss Guppy. I hope that when you see each other again in the fall, you and Rhoda will each have a new attitude.”

Polly nodded because she had to. Underneath, however, she seethed at Mrs. Blake’s words. Anyway, she wouldn’t be here in the fall … so there was nothing she had to think about during the summer.

They reached their stop, then walked a few blocks to the white bungalow where Mrs. Blake boarded with a widow named Mrs. Turner.

The front door opened and a small boy rushed out. “Mummy—Mummy!” he shouted.

Mrs. Blake lifted him up and swung him around. Then she plastered his face with kisses and released him. “This is my Johnny!” she said.

Johnny was chubby, with a halo of brown curls. He hid behind his mother and stuck his thumb in his mouth while he stared at Polly.

“He’s been waiting by the window,” laughed an older woman who had followed him out. “Who is this, Martha?”

Polly smiled as she was introduced. Wait until the others found out she knew Mrs. Blake’s first name!

Mrs. Turner left to go shopping, and Mrs. Blake and Polly had Johnny to themselves. They pushed him in the swing in the backyard and sat on the edge of his sandbox while he moved his truck around, mumbling gibberish to himself. Then Mrs. Blake took him into the kitchen and tenderly washed his hands and face. She made some tea and poured some milk for Johnny. “He’s been drinking out of a cup since he was one,” she said proudly.

Johnny perched on a tower of cushions, munching a cookie. He was a quiet little boy and didn’t say much except “More, pease,” holding up his cup. After tea, they went into the living room and Mrs. Blake read him a story. Then he fell asleep on her lap.

Polly couldn’t keep her eyes off him—his high forehead, his dimpled hands, and the long lashes resting on his cheeks. She yearned to draw him. This could be Danny in a few years!

“You’re so lucky to have a little boy,” she blurted out.

“Why yes, I am!” said Mrs. Blake. “You seem to like
children, love. I’m sure you’ll have some in your life one day, as well.”

Polly had to bite her lip to keep from telling. She could have a child in her life now—not her own, of course, but her
nephew—if
only Maud wasn’t so determined to give Danny away. Maud had said it would be hard to bring up a child by herself. It must be hard for Mrs. Blake, too. She had to work to support Johnny, and she couldn’t see him every day. But her peaceful face bent over her child was proof that it was worth it.

“When did your husband die?” Polly asked her. “Did he ever see Johnny?”

Mrs. Blake flushed. “No, he died before Johnny was born.”

“Was Johnny named after him?”

“No!” Then her voice softened. “My son was named after my father.”

Why did she sound so angry?
wondered Polly.

Johnny must have heard his name. He woke up, and Mrs. Blake started bouncing him on her knee chanting, “This is the way the farmer rides.”

“Will you watch him while I wash up the tea things?” she asked. “His toys are in that basket.”

Polly emptied the basket on the floor, and Johnny began piling blocks. He wasn’t as shy with her now, and let her help him when they fell over.

Mrs. Turner returned and soon it was time to go. Mrs. Blake had tears in her eyes as she hugged her son fiercely. “I’ll see you in a few days, Johnny-cake,” she murmured into his neck. She scarcely said a word all the way back.

That night, the others wanted to know every detail.

“ ‘Martha’!” said Rhoda. “It suits her.”

Polly wanted to ignore her as usual, but she remembered Mrs. Blake’s admonition. “It does suit her,” she made herself answer. This was the first time she and Rhoda had spoken since yesterday. Polly noticed Daisy and Eleanor exchanging relieved glances.

“The poor thing,” said Daisy. “Losing her husband before he even met Johnny!”

“I wonder why she left England?” said Eleanor. “Doesn’t she have family there?”

“I don’t know,” said Polly.

“Hmm … I wonder if she
had
a husband,” said Rhoda slowly.

“What?”

She hushed their protests. “Just listen a moment. She never talks about her husband, and she told us she came to Canada right after Johnny was born. My mother had a girl working for her who was having a baby, and
she
wasn’t
married. Maybe Mrs. Blake is the same. Maybe she just
pretends
she was married and that her husband died.”

“She wears a ring,” Eleanor pointed out.

“That could be so people won’t talk about her. My mother’s maid wore a ring, too.”

Daisy looked puzzled. “Can you
have
a baby when you’re not married?”

Polly winced, remembering asking Maud the same question.

“Of course you can,” said Eleanor. “You’re not supposed to, but sometimes people do.”

“Oh.”

They were all silent. Then Daisy said firmly, “Well, I don’t care whether Mrs. Blake is married, and I don’t think it’s any of our business. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

Polly, however, couldn’t help pondering Rhoda’s words. It all made sense. She would never find out, of course, and she could never ask. But perhaps Mrs. Blake was like Maud. Perhaps she had also “got into trouble” and left England because her family was ashamed of her.

It wouldn’t be like that for Maud
, thought Polly. She wouldn’t be isolated the way Mrs. Blake was. Daddy and Esther would support her entirely—maybe they’d even take care of the baby for Maud. They could pretend it was theirs.

But what about Noni? She and Aunt Jean and Uncle Rand were much more proper.

Oh, poor Maud, and poor Danny! What was going to happen?

As the term drew to a close, Polly wondered when Miss Guppy was going to ask what Polly had decided. Would Miss Guppy bring up their bargain, or was that up to Polly? Perhaps she wouldn’t even
let
Polly come back to school Polly had been such a disappointment.

But did she
want
to come back? Every day Polly noticed the things she hated: wearing a uniform, walking in line, the terrible food, all the stupid rules, never having time to herself, being inside too much …

And yet … every Saturday her heart broke at the prospect of never coming to special art again. Never watching and listening while Miss Falconer talked about what each girl had done, never learning so many new techniques, never laughing with the others over tea and cookies, never hearing Miss Falconer say “Fine work, little one!”