The Sky is Falling (13 page)

The black cloud mood descended and she felt reckless and defiant. She could have a whole day of freedom, without the aggravation of either the Ogilvies or school.

“May I take my lunch to school?” she asked at breakfast, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

Aunt Mary looked pleased. “That would be a help today. Mother and Gavin will be at the museum and I have an Altar Guild meeting. It would give Hanny more time to do the grocery shopping.”

Norah left the house as usual and went straight to her retreat in the ravine. She still hadn't made a fort, but she'd pulled logs together to form a kind of chair. She perched on it jubilantly, stripping the leaves off a twig and trying to ignore guilty thoughts of her parents.

What would they think if they knew? Well, they didn't; they were too far away. What if Aunt Florence knew? The fact that
she
didn't made Norah grin with triumph. The only people she wished could see her now were Charlie and his gang—then they'd know she wasn't a coward.

She stayed in the cool glen for a long time, hugging her knees to her chest. She had only planned as far as not going to school; how to fill the day in front of her was a challenge. It might be interesting to explore Toronto, as long as she avoided the museum. But she didn't know where that was, anyway. Perhaps she could go for a ride on a streetcar. Aunt Florence had begun to give her pocket
money—she called it “allowance”—every week. She could have a streetcar ride, then go somewhere to eat her lunch. There was still the afternoon, but by then she might have thought of something else.

Hiding her school books under a bush, Norah scrambled out of the ravine. She walked rapidly away from the Ogilvies', her legs trembling. Someone could still come out and see her.

When she reached Yonge Street, the busy main thoroughfare that she wasn't supposed to cross, she stood and blinked with uncertainty for a few seconds. Streetcars moved up and down amidst the cars, but she didn't have the courage to board one yet. She began to walk.

She was right about being anonymous in a big city. No one seemed to find it unusual to see a ten-year-old girl walking along the street on a Friday morning. All the same, she tried to look purposeful.

After about ten minutes, she reached another busy street and realized she was in a much more bustling area. They had come by here on their way from Hart House. This was like exploring Stumble Wood with Molly and Tom, only the landmarks were signs and buildings instead of trees.

It was even easier not to be noticed here. Norah gazed in store windows and wove in and out among crowds of women carrying shopping bags. Her ears rang with the screech of cars and the bleat of horns; she marvelled how quiet it was in Rosedale, with all this activity so close.

A red and yellow streetcar clattered along a track in the middle of the road and stopped, its bell dinging. Norah noticed how people walked right out onto the street to board. She followed them as the doors unfolded.

“Do you have a ticket?” asked the driver.

Norah shook her head. “How much is it, please?” He told her, and she counted out the change carefully. Even though Miss Liers had given her and Dulcie a lesson in Canadian money, she still wasn't used to it.

“Pay the ticket-taker,” said the driver. Norah moved down towards the middle of the car, where she gave her fare to the ticket-taker. She took a seat on one side of the long, thin car. It rocked from side to side as it rumbled along. When someone glanced at her curiously, Norah tried to look as if she belonged to the woman beside her.

She had boarded at Charles Street. After she'd travelled about ten blocks, she got off the streetcar and ran across the road to catch a car going back. Anxiously she peered out at the imposing brick and stone buildings, each one jammed with windows. What a lot of people must be inside! She reached the sign saying Charles Street again, and got off for good.

Exhilarated by her success, Norah almost skipped as she made her way back to Yonge and Bloor. She'd done it! Now Goosey and Loosey weren't the only ones to have ridden on a Toronto streetcar.

As she paused for a red light, she glanced across the street and saw a large woman pulling a small, sailor-suited
boy by the hand. Aunt Florence and Gavin! Norah pelted into the doorway of a store and hid.

Aunt Florence stopped to talk to an elegant lady in a flowery hat. She seemed to linger there forever. Norah pretended to be absorbed in a display of women's shoes. Her heart raced as she imagined Aunt Florence's voice cutting through the traffic noise as she shouted, “Norah,
what
are you doing out of school?”

Finally Aunt Florence began walking again, Gavin trotting along behind. He looked unhappy, Norah noticed with surprise—dazed and passive, like a puppy on a lead.

As soon as she thought it was safe, Norah hurried in the other direction. She trudged up Yonge Street with relief. She was getting tired, but she couldn't stop with nowhere to sit. Her stomach gurgled and the soles of her feet stung from the hard pavement. Finally she reached a park. Resting on a bench far away from the street, she ate all the food Hanny had packed for her lunch. A mangy-looking black squirrel and two pigeons shared it with her.

Now what? Norah sighed, wishing she owned a wrist-watch. Perhaps she could miss only the morning, but she didn't know when the lunch bell would go. And it was going to be tricky arriving back at the Ogilvies' at her usual time after school. She began to walk again, feeling flat; seeing Aunt Florence had wilted her enthusiasm.

When she reached her own neighbourhood, Norah decided to keep walking north. There was nowhere else to go besides the ravine, and she didn't feel like sitting down
there for the rest of the day. By now her legs felt like two lead sticks, but she passed no more parks.

Then she noticed, a few doors down a side street, a sign saying Toronto Public Library—McNair Branch.

Anyone could go into a library. This one was larger than the one in Gilden, but it looked inviting; there was even a sign at a side door saying Boys and Girls.

She pushed open the door timidly and went down the stairs to a long room filled with books and tables. At one end there was a fireplace and a puppet theatre, and at the other a desk with a young woman bent over it. She lifted her head as Norah hesitated by the entrance.

“Good morning!” she greeted. With surprise, Norah saw that the clock on the wall said it was only eleven. “Is there anything I can help you with?” asked the librarian. Her round face smiled eagerly.

“May I look around?” asked Norah shyly.

“Of course! Look around as much as you wish and take any books you want to a table. Are you one of our young war guests?”

How did she know? Norah flushed with confusion until she realized: her accent, of course. “Yes,” she said as calmly as possible. “I'm staying with a family in Rosedale but I've been ill, so I don't have to go to school today.”

The friendly woman accepted this easily. “My name is Miss Gleeson. I'm very fond of England, because that's where all my favourite authors are from. Would you like to apply for a library card? You can take the form home for your hosts to sign.”

“Oh, no—I'll just look at the books here,” Norah said hastily. Then, because Miss Gleeson looked disappointed, she added, “My name's Norah.”

“Well, Norah, and what would you like to read?”

“Do you have a book called
Swallowdale
?”

Miss Gleeson shot out of her chair, ran to a row of green-backed books, snatched one from the shelf and darted back with it. She held the book aloft as if it were a sacred object.

“Arthur Ransome! My favourite author! Isn't he
wonderful
? Have you read the first one? Have you ever been to the Lake District? The first thing I'm going to do after the war is over is to go there and try to find the places in the books.”

Norah wished she could just have the book. She mumbled an answer and the librarian finally handed over
Swallowdale
. Norah sat down at one of the tables and found the place where she'd left off. Miss Gleeson had returned to her desk, but every time Norah looked up, the librarian was gazing reverently at her and the book.

She forgot about Miss Gleeson as the story drew her into it. For the next two hours Norah scarcely moved. She was so involved in the escapades of the Walkers and the Blacketts that she jumped when the door opened.

“Come in quietly, Bernard,” said Miss Gleeson to the boy who entered. “There's someone reading.”

Norah turned over
Swallowdale
and stretched the stiffness out of her arms and legs. She was close to the end and wanted to put off having to finish. She looked at the
newcomer more closely; then she quickly held up the book to cover her face.

It was the boy with glasses. She peeked at him over the top of her book, as he went straight to the section marked Other Lands, chose a book and settled with his back to her at the table in front.

Norah studied the washed-out flannel of his plaid shirt. Miss Gleeson had called him Bernard. What was he doing here? Would he recognize her from yesterday and tell someone she wasn't in school? Then it occurred to her that he must be playing truant too; she relaxed and went back to her story.

“Excuse me, children.” They both looked up. “I have to go to a meeting. If anyone wants help, could you send them up to the adult department?”

They nodded, and Miss Gleeson left through a door by the fireplace. Norah had finished her book. She closed it with a sigh and sat for a few minutes wondering what to do next. It was only two o'clock; this was the longest day she could remember. She could pick out another Ransome book, but her eyes burned and her head was so full of
Swallowdale
there was no room for a new story.

“Do you mind if I ask why you aren't in school?” The boy had turned around and was looking at her steadily through his round glasses. His eyes were a muddy brown, like the faded colours of his shirt.

Norah could repeat her lie about being ill, but a person her age was much less likely to believe it than a grown-up.
And there was something about the boy's freckled face she trusted.

“I'm playing truant,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added. “I hate school.”

Bernard grinned. “So am I and so do I! You're one of the grade five war guests, aren't you?”

Norah nodded. “And you're in Mr. Bartlett's class. I'm Norah Stoakes.”

“I'm Bernard … Bernard Gunter.” He looked sheepish. “Thanks a lot for rescuing me yesterday. I would have come back to thank you then, but I'm not very brave, as you may have noticed.” He spoke in a wry, grown-up tone, as if he were older than grade six.

Norah shuddered. “It must have been horrid, all that banging. Charlie's in my class—he's awful!”

“My ears didn't stop ringing until this morning! But I don't care about them. Charlie's such a pea-brain. He's supposed to be in grade seven, but he's flunked twice. How did you get out of going to school today?”

Norah explained how she'd hidden in the ravine and gone for a ride on a streetcar. When Bernard told her he'd convinced his mother he had a stomach-ache that was too painful for school but not painful enough to stay away from the library, they both giggled.

“Why do
you
hate school?” asked Bernard.

It was too complicated to explain. “You first,” said Norah.

“Nobody likes me,” said Bernard matter of factly. “I guess it's not surprising, with the war on and my last
name. We—my mother and I—are beginning to get used to it. Some of the stores in our neighbourhood won't give her credit any more, and sometimes we get anonymous letters telling us to move.”

“But what has your last name got to do with it?”

“Gunter is German. Both my parents come from Munich, but I was born in Kitchener. That's where we lived until my father died and we moved to Toronto. My mother thought it would be easier to find work here. She cleans houses for rich ladies.”

Norah struggled to take all this in. German! German like Hitler—like the Enemy. She remembered Charlie's words: “an enemy alien”.

But Bernard was just an ordinary boy, like Tom. Not really ordinary, though. He'd called himself a coward, but there was something special about him, a kind of dignified inner assurance that wasn't cowardly at all.

“Are you going to not like me too?” asked Bernard calmly, when she didn't reply. “It would be understandable if you didn't, being English. But kind of stupid, I think. I'm a Canadian. I hate Hitler and the Nazis as much as you do. My aunts in Germany don't like them either. We wanted them to come over here, but they're too old to move.”

Norah's qualms vanished. If Bernard hated the Nazis, he must be all right. She certainly didn't want to act as stupid as Charlie. And besides, she liked him. Surely that was all that mattered.

She smiled. “I don't care what your last name is.”
Bernard looked relieved, and Norah suddenly began telling him how she hadn't wanted to come to Canada.

“I can see why you wouldn't want to leave your family,” said Bernard. “You're lucky to be able to travel, though. And Canada's a great country—maybe you'll get used to it. What are the people like where you're staying?”

Norah didn't want to talk about them. She shrugged, and Bernard showed her his book about Australia.

“I'm trying to find out about every country in the world. When I grow up, I'm going to visit them all and write articles about them for the
National Geographic
. Mr. Bartlett lends them to me. What are
you
going to be?”

“I don't know—I'm only ten!”

“You should decide,” said Bernard gravely. “It gives you something to look forward to. When I'm a famous journalist, it won't matter that those guys put a bucket over my head.”