Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (47 page)

“Don’t you like blueberries?”

“Everybody likes blueberries.” Her grandmother patted her shoulder. “We just dropped in to pick up some flour and brown sugar and butter.”

“Blueberry muffins, I bet. You’ll need baking powder, too,” Gabby said. “It should be fresh.”

“You’re right. I haven’t baked in a few months. Better give me some, please.”

Gabby made up the order and accepted the money.

The child was fascinated by the whole process. “Everybody loves blueberries,” she repeated, as she and her grandmother waved goodbye and made the bell ring again.

But that wasn’t true—Gabby didn’t love blueberries. Had not since she was a girl herself, perhaps about Amanda’s age. Her father had hurt his back and couldn’t work. They had no money. So the family spent the month of July picking blueberries, and ate them for months afterward. Little else.

Blueberry muffins, of course, but also pancakes and porridge. Fritters and frying-pan bread. Buckle and grunt. Chutney. Cobbler. Even blueberry soup and blueberry shrub made with vinegar watered down for drinking.

That was long before the days of itinerant vendors selling berries from the backs of pickup trucks along the highway.

Blueberries tasted like poverty to Gabrielle.

She dusted a few shelves while she was up, and made sure the mousetrap was fully hidden behind some cans of celery soup that nobody ever touched. Then she hobbled back to her magazine, surrendering once more to wastrel Time.

The next day was Sunday, a day for the Simms to be home with the little girl. She didn’t visit the
dépanneur
Monday or Tuesday, either. It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that she appeared, wanting more muffin cups and shortening.

“Amanda. Do people call you Mandy?”

“At home, and at school. Gramma and Grampa don’t. Gramma had a cousin named Mandy, but they don’t talk about her.”

Gabby nodded knowingly. Then the silence became awkward. She didn’t talk to children very much anymore. “So . . . what have you been doing with yourself? At the farm.”

“Exploring. And eating blueberries.” The bright crescent smile was all the more winning because it wasn’t perfect. Soon her parents would take her to an orthodontist and some of her childhood would be sacrificed. “There are so many blueberries. Everywhere. Just like you said, Mrs. Dufour.”

“It’s Miss, and you can call me Miss Gabby. You be sure not to eat any other berries there. The other kinds could make you sick.”

“Gramma told me. There’s a big bush with juicy red berries. Near the bottom of the hill. I won’t eat them.”

Gabby nodded, remembering. That would be where the great pin cherry tree had stood in the churchyard. The tree burned to the ground in the fire that took the town. Pin cherries wouldn’t hurt the girl, but other shrubs had grown up around the spot. “There used to be a church right there,” she said.

“I know. Beside the post office, and the li . . . livery stable.”

Gabby’s head snapped around. How could . . . ? Oh, but there were probably some remains of the foundations still left, overgrown by weeds. Maybe the Simms had tried to plough there and were stopped by the blocks.

It had been a fine church–the steeple stretching skyward as if competing with the hilltop to be closer to God. The pastors who came and went every few years eyed the crown of higher ground with envy.

“The hill
would
have been a good place for the church,” Mandy observed.

“Yes. Yes, it would.” But the hill had belonged to the Laclé family for generations, and young Armand Laclé . . . well, he’d had very special plans for that hilltop, once he could finish his studies as an architect.

Plans he’d meant for Gabby to share.

She coughed and dusted invisible flour from her skirt as she hoisted herself to her feet. It took a few moments to find the muffin cups. Then she fetched the shortening, took the money, and sent the girl on her way.

When the tinkling call of the bell beckoned her from the back room on Friday, Gabby stopped cold in the doorway.

It was the girl again, a red scarf at her neck, tied in just the way old Mrs. Landry had worn her scarves, and no one else Gabby could ever remember: the knot pulled to the left side, and the ends spread apart with the upper one pinned to the top of her shoulder. Silly, some thought.
Distinctive
, Mrs. Landry had insisted.

“Where did you get a scarf like that?” Gabby asked, without even saying hello.

“Gramma helped me with it,” the girl announced proudly, pivoting from side to side, cross-eyed from trying to look at the scarf. “I thought it looked . . . distinctive.” She smiled as if pleased with the grownup word.

Gabby found herself reaching toward the countertop for support. “And what do you want this time? Sugar? More muffin cups?”

“No, thank you. I just wanted to show you my scarf.”

“I suppose you’re going to wear it blueberry picking. You’ll catch it on the bushes, you know.”

“I’ll be careful. I found an old one like this under a bush yesterday. But Gramma said it was too faded, so she gave me hers.”

“There could be bears out there. Maybe you should leave the blueberries alone for a while.”

“But they’re
so
good. I like the light blue ones best. As if they’re painted with blue Jell-O powder. Those are sweet. The others—the ones that are almost black—they’re kind of pasty. If you use them for jam you need more sugar. They’re better for chutney.” She nodded her head wisely. “You get to know blueberries. The little crunchy ones. The fat juicy ones. Some with just a few berries in a clump. Others in clusters, like grapes. Sweet in the sunshine, fatter in the shade. But the tangy ones are good, too—maybe they wish they were oranges or lemons. A few bushes grow next to pine trees, and you can taste that in the berries.”

“My, you’ve become quite the expert.” Old Mrs. Landry had sounded just like that sometimes, too, showing off with the things she knew about food. She had been the best cook in town.

The child took the words at face value, and beamed, running her hands down her shorts to smooth them. Gabby felt ashamed. She reached for the jar of toffees behind the counter, took a couple, and held them out.

“Here. Just for a change from berries. And be careful around the farm. Those old buildings could have root cellars. You might fall in.”

“I know where they are. I won’t fall.” Mandy turned with another smile, and the bell tinkled overhead as she went out. Gabby looked up at it for the first time in years, and was surprised by its whiteness, and the blueberry motif she’d painted on it by hand. She’d forgotten about that.

The girl didn’t come again for nearly a week. Maybe Marjorie wasn’t pleased that Gabby had given the child candy. No, that was silly. It was only because the weather was so fine. A sun-dappled day offered better things to do than hang around an old woman in a lonely store. Like picking berries. It was good picking weather. She hoped Mandy wouldn’t get into any trouble with snakes or wasps. Perhaps Gabby should look for her to make sure she was all right.

Just then the door bell chimed, and sunshine poured in.

“
Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gabby. Crème glacée, s’il vous plait. Et . . . Ah, oui. Du sucre, du pain, et du lait. Merci.”

“
Bien sûr!
Your French is very good, Mandy.” She stepped toward the ice cream freezer. She knew the Simms weren’t French, but then all the children learned it in school these days, she supposed. With such a good accent, though. That was surprising.

“
French
, Miss Gabby?”

“Yes, it’s very good. Well done.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What you just said. About the ice cream and everything.
Très bien.
”

The puzzlement in the child’s eyes was genuine. Gabby felt a knot of fear in her stomach. Had she only imagined it? Translated the English words in her head, somehow. Was her mind starting to play tricks on her?

The next Thursday was wet. Mandy sat in a chair near the front window of the
dépanneur
with a small pad of paper on her lap, sketching in pencil. Old stock—not worth charging for. It kept the child occupied while Gabby worked. There was a ledger to update and new stock to order, even with so few customers.

When her back became too sore to bend over the counter anymore, she yielded to her curiosity and hobbled toward the front of the store. As she looked over the child’s shoulder, her hand flew to her mouth.

It was a sketch of a house. So familiar. And so
good
—where could a child of nine have learned to draw so well? Long, grey boards with swirled grain and dark knots. The portico that was too fancy for a frame bungalow, with a tell-tale of peeling paint on the crosspiece. Filigree in the window curtains.

She knew that house. Gustave Houle’s house.

Gustave Houle, who was a painter twice. For money, he would paint homes, whitewash fences, stain barns. For his own pleasure, he made canvases of the landscape, the simple buildings, and the simple people of Manqueville. He helped Armand learn how to draw for his architecture courses.

God in Heaven. The child was recreating Gustave’s house—with Gustave’s own skill!

How was it possible?

“Where did you see that house, Mandy?”

“In my head. I thought it was pretty. I was eating some blueberries down by the creek, where it slows down and gets a bit marshy. It’s a nice place. Lots of flowers.”

There would be, yes. Gustave had also been a devoted gardener. Some of the seeds must have lived to try again, the hardiest ones that didn’t require care. The daffodils and day lilies maybe. The hostas—they’d spread like weeds if the deer didn’t get them.

“Eating blueberries. Always the berries,” Gabby mused. The low bushes were at home throughout the rocky expanses of northern Ontario. They had a special fondness for burned-out clearings, where forest fires left behind acidic soil and shade-free spaces. They’d laid siege to Manqueville and then consummated their victory in its ashes.

The berry plants drew nutrients from the earth. Could they draw other things, too? Essences of things long lost?

The ringing above the door broke into her thoughts. It was Marjorie, come to fetch her granddaughter for dinner.

“Thank you so much for looking after her, Gabby. I hope she hasn’t been any trouble.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. She’s a very nice girl. And talented. Look at the sketch she made.”

Mandy proudly displayed her work. Marjorie looked at it and gave Gabby a conspiratorial smile. “Yes, it’s very good. And it was nice of Miss Dufour to help you with it.”

“I didn’t . . .” But Marjorie had turned away to pick up a few things in the grocery aisles. Some Hamburger Helper, Gabby noticed. Home cooking was disappearing, even here in the north country. People had other priorities. She hobbled to the cash register.

“Amanda’s French is very good, too,” she said tentatively.

“French?”

“She learns it in school, does she?”

“No, Gabby. Amanda lives in the States. They don’t teach French in the schools there. It’s too bad, really.” Too bad. Was she talking about the lack of a second language? Or an old friend who might be starting to slip a little, and imagine things? The look on her face was hard to read.

When Mandy came again, Gabby was gruff with her. She’d been brooding over the things she might have only imagined, and over what people might be saying. All because of one little girl.

People already talked behind her back when she went into the new town for nails or newspapers or notions. Or just to see a fresh face or two.
Old maid
was one of the kinder names they used when they thought she didn’t hear. But now it might be even worse. Because of a little brat and her damned blueberries!

As soon as the thought came to her, she regretted it. Mandy had turned back to the door, disappointment like a brand on her face.

“Wait, child. I’m sorry. Come. Sit with me.” There was a stool behind the counter—the girl mounted it with a little help. Gabby dragged her chair from the back room. They sat together, not sure where to look.

“Tell me about the fire,” Mandy said.

Gabby’s eyebrows lifted. Did she really want to do that? What should she reveal? Especially to a child.

Manqueville had been a thriving town then, small but robust. Mostly lumberjack’s families and mill workers, but some others. The fire had sprung on them out of the night, sweeping in from the bush on a sudden change of wind, so there’d been no forerunner of smoke, no warning. Just hungry flames that found a feast of wood far drier than the forest, and wanted it all.

Most of the victims had died in their beds. Or behind parlour windows, staring at the flames that entrapped them until they were overcome by smoke, if they were lucky. Women and children—the husbands were away at lumber camps. Like Papa. Gabby and her mother had been lucky because Soyer’s Pond, behind the house, was just wide enough, just deep enough. The flames arced over their heads through the dark sky as they hunched in the water up to their noses, submerging frequently to keep their hair wet.