Taking a Chance on Love (3 page)

A letter came in the mail the next day that took my mind off everything else. Doug Thompson, a soldier that I had been pen pals with, wrote that he was coming home on leave from the Army and that the most important thing to him was that he was finally going to meet me.

I'd heard all about Doug Thompson from his mother, who was a neighbour. She lived two lots over on a wedge-shaped acre whose base was the shoreline. Her husband was away in the Merchant Navy. Before they had built their home there, I used to pick wild strawberries in the meadow and swim in the snug cove. Large rocks at one point of the cove baked hot in the sun and were a perfect place to lie on after a swim.

“Captain Thompson saw the property when he used to work for the Union Steamship Company,” Mrs. Thompson told my mother the first day she came to visit. “He said that from the wheelhouse he could see the green meadow among all the cedar trees, and he fell in love with the property. He made inquiries and found that the owner was willing to sell, at a price, and once my husband makes his mind up about anything, that's it. Our son Douglas is the same way. I told my husband that the only way I would live up here was if we kept a small apartment in the city. With him away so much at sea, I didn't want to become completely isolated.”

Mrs. Thompson came often to visit Mom, and she usually brought something: scones hot from the oven, a magazine she thought my mother would like to read, a plant cutting from her garden. Not only that, she was generous to me, too.

Once Mrs. Thompson had offered to take me into the city and stay with her in her apartment. “It would be a little holiday for her, Mrs. Woods,” she said to my mother, “and she would get to see something of Vancouver.”

Mrs. Thompson's apartment was in an old, grey stone building in the West End, and the foyer smelled dusty. We went up the carpeted stairs to her apartment. Once inside, the impression was of droopy plants reminiscent of snakes. The mantelpiece of the small marble fireplace was crowded with photos of her son Douglas: Douglas holding a teddy bear, Douglas with two front teeth missing, Douglas in his Army uniform.

Mrs. Thompson took me to Stanley Park one day and to the art gallery another. After looking at paintings by Emily Carr, we had lunch nearby at the Bay. “It's such a treat to be with a young girl,” she said happily, after ordering the day's special for us: grilled cheese sandwiches and mushroom soup. “I've always wanted a daughter. My husband never says much, and Douglas, well, he's like his father in many ways.”

She made me feel comfortable. She was like Amy's mother in that way. Both treated me as if they liked me as I was. I could talk to them more easily than to my mother, who always seemed on the alert to teach, or correct, me.

As we were finishing lunch, Mrs. Thompson asked me to write to her son Douglas. I said yes. It was a way for me to contribute to the war effort. At school we knit squares for afghans and rolled balls of foil, but it had all seemed pretty feeble to me.

“Our boys in the services need our letters and support,” she said. “It helps their morale. I know that Douglas would like more mail. My husband — being away at sea — doesn't write much, never has. I'm lucky to get a postcard from him.”

“What should I write about?”

“Just ordinary things. What you like to read. What's happening with your friends. He's fond of funny stories, so anything humorous. What else? Well, he likes photography, and he's good at drawing.”

My letters will be dull, I thought, unless I really work hard to make them interesting. I did write to my oldest brother, Sam, and to my father, both away in the Air Force. But those letters wouldn't suit Douglas.

“We all have to do our bit on the home front,” Mrs. Thompson was saying. “It is our duty to write to our servicemen.”

“I could send him newspaper clippings and cartoons.”

“He'd like that,” she said. “Here, I'll write out his address for you. He's taking his basic training at Maple Creek in Saskatchewan.”

May 3, 1944

Dear Doug
,

I'm going to call you Doug, even though your mother calls you Douglas. Douglas sounds so formal. I hope you don't mind. Your mother said you like to get letters
.

Here are a couple of stories I found in the Reader's Digest. The cartoon is from the Vancouver Sun. If you don't think they're funny, tell me, and I won't send any more. I know that everyone has a different sense of humour. My brother, Dan, loves puns, and puns make me cringe. I hope you don't like puns. Hope I haven't offended you
.

My best friend's mother lends me books all the time, which is great because there's no library here. She gets them from the Book of the Month Club. They mail a new one to her every month. Right now I'm reading “Kitty Foyle.” I think it's interesting that the author, a man, can understand how a woman thinks. Usually, when men write as if they were women, they don't get it right. I haven't read any books where a woman is trying to be a man. I read a lot. Well, not as much as I'd like to
.

That's enough about me. Write and tell me what it's like to be stationed in Saskatchewan. Bet you miss the mountains and the ocean
.

Your friend
,

Meg

He must have written by return mail. I saw the postmaster look at the return address before he handed me the envelope. Amy was with me, and I put the letter in my pocket to read when I got home and was alone in my room. Somehow I didn't want Amy to know.

May 6, 1944

Dear Meg
,

Thank you for your letter. I was surprised and pleased to receive it and felt I knew you right away
.

To answer your questions:

Here on the base, everyone calls me Doug. Except for the sergeant. He calls me, “Hey, you.”

I liked the clippings you sent. I do like puns, though, and you haven't offended me
.

I don't read novels, so I haven't read Kitty Foyle. I read the newspaper and Life, and that's about it
.

Maple Creek is a little town near Cypress Hills, and I go there on my days off. The people are very friendly, and we get invited to their homes for dinner. I don't have time to miss the mountains and the sea
.

You haven't told me what you like to do. I like to dance and go to every dance I can. I like jazz, especially New Orleans, and I've got a record collection that I add to every chance I get. I especially like Muggsy Spanier
.

Please write me again soon. I get lonely here
.

Your friend
,

Doug

P.S. Do you have a snap of yourself?

May 14, 1944

Dear Doug
,

Thanks for your letter. I like jazz, too, and dancing. There is a dance here every month, and they play records. I really like Bunny Berigan's “I Can't Get Started With You” and Glenn Miller, of course, his “String of Pearls” and “Moonglow.”

My brother, Sam, taught me how to drive last time he was home on leave from the Air Force. He took me up to the North Road where there's almost no traffic. The hardest part was learning how to shift gears. I don't think I ever got it right. He winced a lot
.

You haven't told me much about yourself, so I have some questions. How old are you? What are you learning in basic training? What are you going to do after basic training?

I hope you write again
.

Your friend
,

Meg

P.S. I'm sorry, I don't have a snap. Your mother and I had our picture taken on Granville Street by a street photographer last month, and she may have the photo
.

When I told my mother I was writing to Doug Thompson, she said, “I haven't met the young man, but if he is anything like his mother, he'll be all right.” I was surprised. I had thought she'd say she didn't think it was a good idea, that Doug was too old for me. As for Mrs. Thompson, she never said anything to me about the letters.

I finally told Amy about Doug. “Mmmm,” she said and tossed her hair. Things were cooling down between Amy and me. She'd made this new friend at school, Louise, and had been going over to her house in Gibson's a couple of times a week. I missed Amy. Missed our long talks. It was definitely time for me to try to make more friends.

Doug's last letter worried me. I'd never thought this would happen. I read his letter again, hoping I'd misread it.

May 23, 1944

Dear Meg
,

I've waited to the last minute to let you know my big news. I've finished basic training and am being transferred to the coast for an instructor's course. I haven't told my mother the exact day I arrive, but with the right connections, I should be up on the Friday night boat. That's Friday, June 2
.

I'm hoping that you'll be there on the wharf waiting for me. I can't wait to see you, and I don't want anyone else there. I've even started dreaming about you. I can't wait to hold you
.

Love
,

Doug

How had I ever got into this mess? How was I going to get out of it? All I wanted to do was hide somewhere until he went away.

I talked to Amy about it. She was all for my meeting him.

“You must have led him on, Meg.” I started to protest, but she kept talking. “You never know what might happen. Maybe he's really good-looking, and you'll fall for him. Even get married. I know a girl who got married when she was sixteen. Had twins when she was seventeen.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he was in the Navy and was going overseas. He was afraid that he could get injured or killed. This way he would have at least had some happiness first.”

“Is he still alive?”

“As far as I know. Do it, meet Doug. I could be your bridesmaid. I'll wear a long bridesmaid's dress. Blue. Blue is my best colour.”

May 27, 1944

Dear Doug
,

I'm sorry, but I won't be meeting you on the wharf when you arrive
.

I don't want a boyfriend yet
.

I'm very sorry. I thought we could just be pen pals
.

Your friend
,

Meg

“Where are you off to at this time of the evening?” my mother called to me as I tried slip out the back door.

“I need to mail an important letter. I want it to go out on tomorrow's boat.”

“What important letter is that?”

“To Doug Thompson. He's coming to visit his mother for a few days, and he's got this idea that I should be his girlfriend.”

“I'm not surprised. They're Scottish, you know. The Scots are all oversexed.”

“How can you say that? You're always telling me not to be prejudiced.”

“It's all the oatmeal they eat. It overheats the blood. Anyway, you've plenty of time to have a boyfriend. Here, I have a couple of letters to mail, too. You can take them with you.”

There was still orange light in the western sky, and the robins were singing their last songs of the day. The smell of moisture sprang up from the cooling earth. By the time I'd dropped the letters through the mail slot of the general store, the tangerine sky had became tinged with rose and mauve.

On my way home, our dog Pep came bounding out of the woods to greet me. He trotted happily beside me until we were almost at our house. Then he darted into the woods, ran partway up the trail, and began to bark.

I called to him several times, but he ignored me. I heard voices coming from further up the trail. Curious, I found a log set well back on the opposite side of the road and sat on it to wait.

I sat up straighter when I heard a man's angry voice, a woman's
shushing
sounds and a yelp from Pep as if he had been hit or kicked. A few minutes later, Pep came whimpering out of the woods with his tail between his legs. He headed over to me and rested his head on my knee. I stroked him between his ears.

I sat and waited some more. I wasn't scared, only angry that Pep had been hurt. By now, it was almost dark, but not so dark that I didn't recognize the two figures that finally emerged from the woods. I shrank back out of sight.

The first was Robert Pryce. The woman who trailed behind him, adjusting her clothing, was Sylvia Ballard. Robert turned around and said to her, “Sweetie, let me go ahead first. Give me five minutes. It's best that way.”

Then I remembered that Robert Pryce called every woman “Sweetie.”

Amy and I used to joke about it. “That way he doesn't have to remember their names,” we'd agreed.

Not “S” for Sylvia, but “S” for Sweetie.