Colette and the Silver Samovar (10 page)

I squeezed my eyes together until bolts of lightening rocketed across my eyelids. What was I going to do? I couldn't steal the bowl. My parents would be sad that I had taken something that wasn't mine.

I had to think of another way. Maybe I could work for the vet to pay for Amos's treatment. My eye caught on something glinting in the window of another shop that sold nothing but tea. In the very center of the window was a silver samovar.

The solution crashed over my head like a roll of thunder. I would sell my parents' samovar. It was old. It was silver. It was valuable.

It was as if I heard my mother laughing with delight.
Good thinking, Colette
, she seemed to say. But first I had to return the silver bowl to my grandparent's cabinet. I ran all the way, snuck in the front door, made sure Elena was nowhere in sight and then slid the bowl into its rightful place. Then, for the second time that day, I headed back toward Yonge Street, grateful that the subway was right at the end of my grandparents' street.

I rummaged in my backpack for my emergency money, then ran for the subway.

“How do I get to the corner of King and Dufferin?” I asked the ticket collector.

“Get off at King Street and take the King Street streetcar west to Dufferin,” said the man, pointing at the southbound platform. People jostled closer to the yellow line when the light of the train came down the tunnel. I got a seat by the window and read each subway stop as it whizzed by. I got out at King Street, like the man had told me to do, my stomach churning like a washing machine. There were so many corridors and people rushing along that I didn't know which way to go.

“You lost?” asked a teenager with dreadlocks and a ring in her nose.

“Can you help me find the streetcar?” I asked.

“Sure. Which way do you want to go?”

I couldn't remember what the ticket man had told me. Did I want to go east or west? “To Dufferin Street,” I said.

“Follow me,” the girl said. She picked up her backpack and her guitar. “It's just up here.” She guided me to the streetcar stop and asked me if I'd gotten a transfer.

I shook my head.

“Here.” She handed me a piece of paper. “Take mine. I can walk. I'm only going a few blocks.”

When the streetcar came, she waited until I got on and then gave the driver the transfer. “She wants to get off at Dufferin Street,” she told the driver.

I looked out the window as the streetcar drove away. She was waving.

I watched the streets go by. Things began to look familiar. I had been so worried about Amos and Ethelberta, I'd completely forgotten something very important.

I was going home!

Chapter 14

I took my key out of my backpack and opened the door. Everything looked exactly as it had when I'd left three days ago. Except that three days ago, I'd gone to school knowing that my mother would pick me up and take me to the art gallery. Three days ago, I had never met my grandparents. Three days ago, I hadn't known Ethelberta or Amos existed.

I crossed the living room to where the silver samovar sat in its place of honor on the card table beside the bookshelf. Every two weeks, my father polished it until it gleamed
.

The samovar was heavier than I expected. How was I going to get it back to Rosedale on the subway? I opened one closet door after another until my mother's bundle buggy fell from its hook and rolled across the kitchen floor.
Look at me!
it seemed to say.
Here I am! The solution to all your problems.

I grabbed a blanket from my bed, wrapped it snugly around the samovar and wedged it into the bundle buggy. It just fit! I checked my watch. It was 11:30. If I hurried, I could sell the samovar, take Amos to the vet and still get to the hospital in time to see my mother.

I opened the door to the apartment and peeked out. As much as I would have loved to see Mr. Singh or Auntie Graves, I didn't want to answer any questions about why I was here or what I was doing with a lumpy blanket in a bundle buggy.

When the elevator stopped on the third floor, I held my breath, but an old Chinese lady got on and didn't even look at me. I raced through the lobby, out onto King Street, and pulled the buggy for two whole streetcar stops. I wondered if this was how criminals behaved. I shook that idea out of my head.

The streetcar came sparking down the rails and screeched to a stop. An old man brushed by me, climbed into the car and sat down. I tried to lift the bundle buggy up the stairs, but it stuck.

“Need a hand?” asked a gangly young man with a stringy beard and a black dog. He helped me lift the bundle buggy into the streetcar. “You okay now?” he asked. He had electric blue eyes and dark eyebrows. He looked like he'd be a very good friend to have. I nodded.

I gave my money to the driver and remembered to ask for a transfer. Then I sank into a seat, the bundle buggy grasped tightly in my hands. I watched as, once again, I left my home behind.

Another teenager helped me carry the bundle buggy up the long stairs at the Rosedale stop. When we came up out of the subway, he turned the handle back over to me. “You take care now,” he said and went away whistling.

Almost there.

My hands shook so hard I could hardly open the door to the antiques store. A man with gray hair in a side fringe and none on top looked up from reading a newspaper. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose.

“Well, hello,” he said. “What have we here?”

I pulled the bundle buggy through the store. The man took off his glasses and let them hang from a cord around his neck. He came out from behind the counter, and I took the samovar out of the bundle buggy and removed the blanket.

“Where did you get this?” asked the man. He knelt down and ran his fingers over the handles and along the sides. “I've never seen one this beautiful.”

“I need to sell it,” I said.

The man stood up, rubbed his nose, then motioned for me to follow him. We went to the back of the shop, where a brightly colored parrot twittered in a cage.

“Watch out!” screeched the bird. I jumped.

“Don't mind Nathaniel,” said the man. “Silly bird loves to frighten people.” He plugged in a kettle and pulled up a chair with a threadbare, flowery cushion on it. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I never like to do business on an empty stomach.” He put out a plate of chocolate-covered biscuits and made two mugs of steaming tea. I knew I wasn't supposed to take anything from strangers, so I said, “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” the man asked. “You look awfully hungry.”

“It's okay,” I said. I hoped he couldn't hear the noises my stomach was making.

Behind him was a photograph of a woman with four children. He saw me looking, and said, “That's my daughter and her four children. Sylvia, the youngest, is just about your age.”

Sylvia had dark skin and big brown eyes, but this man's daughter was as blond as my mother.

“Sylvia is from Africa,” the man said. “My daughter adopted her.” He studied me. “You must need money very badly to want to sell such a beautiful piece,” he said finally.

I nodded.

“Do your parents know you want to sell the samovar?” he asked.

I shook my head. The bird rustled in his cage and shook out his feathers.

“My name is Mr. Murray,” the man said. “What is your name?”

“Colette,” I said. “Colette Faizal.”

“Well, Colette,” Mr. Murray said, holding out his hand. “It's very nice to meet you.”

“But I know they wouldn't mind if I sold it,” I blurted out, hoping that I was right.

“I'm sure you have a good reason,” Mr. Murray said. “Do you think you could tell me what it is?”

I couldn't see any harm in that. “A dog I know is very sick,” I said. “He needs to go to the vet, but the person who owns him hasn't got any money.”

“My, my, that is sad,” Mr. Murray said. He thought for a moment. “You know, I'd be happy to lend you some money for the vet. You keep this beautiful samovar. I'm sure you will find a way to pay me back.”

I stared at him in shock. A complete stranger was going to give me money?

“But there is something I would need to know, if I'm going to lend you some money, my dear,” he said. “Where do you live?”

That stumped me. If I gave my old address, he might try and find my parents, and I couldn't explain to him about all that. So I told him I lived with my grandmother at 121 Maple Street.

“Why, that house is right next door to a house where an old friend of mine used to live,” said Mr. Murray. “Her name was Ethelberta Jarvis.”

I sat up with a start.

“Something wrong?” asked Mr. Murray.

I shook my head. The bird screeched, “Ethelberta! Ethelberta! Ethelberta! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Ethelberta and I went to school together.” Mr. Murray chuckled. “I used to tease her something fierce, and she always played tricks on me. One day she put a firecracker in a metal wastepaper basket and set it off right beside my desk. My, oh, my, but did I jump! And our teacher? Old Miss McMullan almost fainted. Ethelberta certainly caught it that day. She was made to write lines on the chalkboard for an entire week. I still remember what she had to write.
I will not play with fire
. I'll tell you a secret,” Mr. Murray said, leaning forward. “I had a schoolboy crush on Miss Ethelberta back then.” His eyes lost focus and he stared into the air above my head as if he was watching a movie screen. “I'll never forget how pretty she was.” He shook his head and brought his eyes back to me. “I've spent almost my whole life in Australia. I moved back to Canada six months ago to be closer to my daughter. Being in my old neighborhood has made me think about Ethelberta from time to time. It's a shame we lost touch with each other. I always wondered what happened to her.”

Words caught in my throat like dry dusty cracker crumbs. If I told Mr. Murray where she was, then he would want to go and see her. If he did that, Ethelberta's secret would be out. Then they would come and take her away to a home.

Mr. Murray looked at me curiously. For the second time that day, I wished someone would tell me what to do.

Chapter 15

We know the truth, not only by reason, but also by
the heart,
said that pesky voice inside my head. My mother's face swam before my eyes.
By the heart,
she whispered again.

“Ethelberta Jarvis needs help,” I said. My hand flew to my mouth. Had I said that?

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Murray.

“Amos—the dog that needs help—belongs to Ethelberta Jarvis.”

Understanding broke over Mr. Murray's face. He shook his head and muttered again about how old friends should never lose touch with each other.

“You can't tell anyone,” I blurted out.

Mr. Murray stopped talking to himself. “Are there other things that you haven't told me?” he asked.

“No.” Not even Mr. Murray needed to know about the empty rooms, Ethelberta's fall or her twisted ankle.

Mr. Murray drummed his fingers on the table.“I can see you don't want to say more,” he said. “You are a good friend, I think.” He stood up and walked over to the cash register, punched a button and grabbed the drawer as it popped open. He reached in and counted out some money, put it in an envelope and walked back to me. “Let's leave the samovar here, and we will conclude our business later, shall we? Right now, I would like to come with you to help Ethelberta,” he said. “Do you think she would mind?”

“Ethelberta, ha!” squawked Nathaniel.

“I could give you this money, but I think maybe Ethelberta and I should meet again,” Mr. Murray said. He blushed a little.

Nathaniel whistled.

“All right,” I said. I hoped this was the truth my heart was supposed to know. Mr. Murray put on an old tweed overcoat, flipped the shop sign from
Open
to
Closed
and locked the door. He took me by the hand as we crossed Yonge Street and didn't let go until we were standing together on Ethelberta's old back porch.