Taking a Chance on Love (5 page)

Whenever I heard this, I got furious, and I'd been hearing it all my life. “Yes, well … Maybe I'd like to do something more with my life.”

How could I explain to her that yearning that made me restless, made me ache to be
someone
. Someone important, special. Not to ever hear again, “You can't do it, have it, even think about it. You're just a girl.” What that special thing was I didn't know. All sorts of impossible ideas came and went: a singer, a writer, a research scientist.

“All I can say, Meagan, is that you've got to face reality. I had to quit in grade four to help out on the farm.”

“I know, Mom. You said it was the saddest day of your life.”

“Yes, it was.” She cleared her throat and spoke briskly. “Enough of that. Mrs. Hanson wants you six days a week. You'll be washing dishes, making beds, doing laundry and helping with the dinner.”

Mom picked up her mending basket and fitted a burned-out light bulb into one of Dan's socks. Her needle wove back and forth as she darned. “Oh, and Mrs. Ballard wants you to babysit this Friday at seven. Funny thing about Mrs. Ballard. She and Amy Miller's mother were both in the Co-op at Gibson's this morning when I was there ordering the week's groceries, and neither one spoke to the other. You'd think they had a falling out, or something. What over, I can't imagine. I know that Mr. Ballard is worried about his business, but that shouldn't have anything to do with Mrs. Miller. Oh, well. Maybe he's grouchy at home, and it's spilled over on his wife.”

“When does Mrs. Hanson want me to start?”

“On the Thursday before Dominion Day weekend.”

Good, I thought. I still had a few free days to play tennis with Glen.

A hanging wooden sign, with the words “Hanson's Guest House,” creaked in the brisk ocean breeze. Large, white clamshells lined both sides of the path leading to the front door. I could smell baking bread and freshly brewed coffee. From the open kitchen window came the sound of a radio broadcaster announcing the bombings of London with German V-1 flying bombs, the buzz bombs.

I couldn't help feeling anxious about the war. When the Japanese bombed the ships in Pearl Harbor, I had nightmares for three nights. I dreamed that all the trees around the school were filled with Japanese soldiers holding rifles with bayonets. One week Japanese subs were reported being seen in Georgia Strait, and at night I pulled the bed covers high, almost over my head.

Mrs. Hanson was a good advertisement for her cooking. Plump, rosy-cheeked, with a light dusting of flour up both arms, she wore a white apron over a bright printed housedress. She had a round face and round blue eyes that seemed to take in everything about me at once. Her manner was pleasant and direct.

“Fifty cents an hour. From nine to eleven each morning and three to five in the afternoon. I'll want you Monday to Saturday, starting this Thursday. We're booked solid for Dominion Day weekend, and I need help to get ready.”

The first thing Mrs. Hanson did when I turned up for work on Thursday morning was wrap me in a big, white apron. “There's a sink full of breakfast dishes waiting for you,” she said.

After that, it was a frantic rush to make up eight beds with fresh linen. The sheets and pillowcases smelled of sunshine and lavender. I scrubbed bathrooms and stocked them with geranium soap and thick towels. All the silverware had to be cleaned and polished. Then it was out to the garden to clip sweet-smelling roses of pink, red and yellow, to fill vases in the hallways and the large front room that overlooked the wharf.

Mrs. Hanson's daughter helped her with the cooking. Anna was in her twenties, slim, blonde and energetic. She made bread and rolls, pies, puddings and delicate cookies that looked like cones of golden lace.

Everyone was expected to help in the garden, and that included me. “The garden's a godsend,” said Mrs. Hanson. “With food rationing and meatless Tuesdays, at least I have plenty of fruit and vegetables to put on the table for the guests. Lucky for me, my sister lives on a farm on the North Road, and she keeps me well supplied with eggs and milk.”

Anna and I moved gaily-striped canvas deck chairs from the basement, wiped them off and set them on the front veranda. From the veranda, you could see the government wharf below and west, all the way out the Gap to the Georgia Strait beyond. To the east, the Coast Mountains rose like blue guardians behind Gambier Island. Any time of the day or night, something was happening on the water: sailboats, motorboats, rowboats, canoes, tugboats and the Union Steamship Lady boats. Small boys fished for sea bass from the float. Older boys baited cod lines off the end of the wharf.

As soon as I finished at Mrs. Hanson's for the morning, I hurried to meet Glen at the tennis court. He grinned and said, “You smell good enough to eat.”

“Mrs. Hanson and her daughter baked cinnamon buns. I've got a couple for us.”

“I've got something important to tell you,” he said. His face was bright with excitement. “I've found out where my mother is!”

I stared at him. “What? Already?”

“It's true,” he said, his eyes larger than usual. “I thought about what you said about finding my mother.” He grabbed my hands. “So I phoned the man who's been a good friend to me — I showed you his picture — and asked him if he knew how I could find her. He said she's kept in touch with him all these years. She wanted to have some way of knowing how I was, and she knew my father wasn't going to tell her.”

“And? Where is she now?”

“She's living in Vancouver. Yes, that close. After my father divorced her, she married again, a doctor, and they have two children. She's Mrs. Harold Barras now. My friend gave me her phone number and address. She lives out by the university.”

“That's wonderful,” I said.

“I talked to her on the phone last night. She was laughing and crying and calling to her husband all at the same time … I'm going in on the four o'clock boat today. She invited me to stay with them so we could get to know each other. They're all coming down to meet me when the boat docks in Vancouver at six.”

“Do you think you'll recognize her?” I asked.

“I've seen old photos. She says to look for two redheaded kids, twelve and fourteen.”

“I still find this hard to believe,” I said. “I mean to be leaving so soon! How are you feeling?” I searched his face.

“Scared. Excited. Mostly scared.”

I was so happy with his news, I hugged him.

“I'll be back, probably in three or four days. I'll phone you, Meg.”

“We don't have a phone,” I reminded him.

“I forgot … As soon as I get back, I'll leave you a note at Mrs. Hanson's. Wish me luck.”

“You know I do.”

Later that afternoon, as I was shelling peas for Mrs. Hanson, I heard the
Lady Pam
whistle out on the Sound. I went out on the veranda hoping to see Glen as he left for Vancouver. At last, I spotted him standing on the upper deck, near the wheelhouse. I waved widely until he waved back.

Mrs. Hanson called me in. “Peel these potatoes, please, Meg. After that, you can wash the lettuce and tear it into bite-size pieces. Do you know how to make radish roses? Good.”

I was glad of the work. It helped to take my mind off the hollow spot that was back again under my ribs. Amy and Glen, both in Vancouver. Once again, no friends to share with.

On our breaks from playing tennis, Glen and I had talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. I said that I liked writing. “I get A's in composition at school. I love to read. My brothers say I'm nosey. I read somewhere that all good writers are curious.”

“I'd like to write, too,” said Glen. “I might be a journalist, or something like that. You've got to get the breaks, though.”

“First, talent,” I said. “That's what I'm not sure I have.”

“The main thing is to practise,” he said. “Like tennis. Why don't you start by keeping a journal about Mrs. Hanson's Guest House? You could write something every day.”

I found an unused school scribbler and began.

Saturday, July 1, 1944

Dear Journal
,

We're having a dance at Mrs. Hanson's Guest House tonight. Mrs. Hanson has a huge living room and dining room. Once the furniture is pushed out of the way, there's lots of room. There's a wind-up gramophone and the latest records for the guests. Not that I see anyone who looks particularly interested in dancing. We've got two old spinsters who like to sit on the veranda and look at the scenery and watch the people on the wharf. There's one newly married couple who might be interested, though they seem to spend most of their time in their room. There's another married couple — he's a dentist — with their little boy. I don't know what's going on there. Her mother is with them, and the mother and daughter whisper things about the husband while he tries to do jolly things with the son. I feel sorry for the husband. The two women are against him, and the son acts as if he wishes his father would leave him alone so that he could fish for shiners. I think that couple isn't going to last
.

Mrs. Hanson has a son, too. Bruce. He's in the Navy and home on sick leave. He's twenty-two, very good-looking, tall, moves like a dream, but he's not very friendly. Mrs. Hanson says that Bruce was badly burned when his ship was torpedoed in the North Atlantic, and he's had to have skin grafts. Her own husband was killed in a logging accident a long time ago. She started the guest house to make a living. She and Anna dote on Bruce. I've given up trying to get a smile from him. I have to make his bed and keep his room clean, and he never says a word, not even hello. He's an officer, something to do with radar, which is a new discovery. He doesn't seem to have a girlfriend. Maybe that's part of his problem
.

One of the spinster sisters, Edith, lost a cameo brooch, and we turned the place upside down looking for it. She said she was given it by her fiancé who was killed in the First World War. I helped her search the room, and I was surprised to see she had brought all of his letters with her. They're tied with ribbons and sorted by years. She went around with pink eyes and a damp handkerchief for hours. I decided I would look under the veranda when I had the time. Maybe the cameo had fallen off her blouse and through the spaced planks that made up the veranda floor. Her sister kept saying, “Now, Edith. Don't carry on so.”

July 5, 1944

There's a Bing cherry tree in Mrs. Hanson's side garden, and she wanted to make cherry pies for dinner tonight. She asked Bruce to pick the cherries, but he said, “Sorry. Too much pain. I thought I'd take the boat out.” From up the cherry tree, I watched him stash his fishing tackle in the back of the putt-putt and head out towards Salmon Rock. I saw a couple of flashes of silver as salmon jumped
.

I found Edith's cameo hidden behind a bedpost. I was vacuuming and heard something rattle up the hose and down into the dust bag. Edith had huge tears in her eyes when she thanked me.

The newlyweds emerged more often. They went around looking besotted. Meanwhile, the dentist's voice developed a note of desperation. I detested his mother-in-law for siding with the wife, maybe because he was always pleasant to me, and she wasn't.

I'd be glad when Glen got back. I missed playing tennis with him. I hadn't heard from Amy, and I had so much to tell her. I guessed she was having too much fun to write.

July 6, 1944

At least the Hansons are friendly to me; well, Bruce is softening a bit, but he's not exactly friendly. Mrs. Hanson told me something today that might help explain it. “He still has to have another skin graft. He's had more than his share of pain.”

Sometimes, Anna Hanson turns on the radio in the kitchen to listen to the news while we prepare the vegetables for dinner. The talk's mostly about the war. Lately, it's about the Russian troops retaking Minsk. I'm glad when the news is over, and we can listen to the music. Number one on the hit parade this week is Frank Sinatra singing, “I'll Be Seeing You.” Too bad Frank Sinatra's so skinny. Glen's not. They play Duke Ellington's “Don't Get Around Much Anymore” on the radio a lot. It makes me feel like dancing. Today, I tried a few steps of jitterbug in the kitchen, and Bruce came in while I was dancing. He was dangling two coho through the gills, one on each forefinger. He stared at me for a minute and said, “You're not a bad dancer.” For some insane reason, I winked at him and then, mortified at what I'd done, bolted out the back door
.