The Sky is Falling (15 page)

B
ERNARD LIVED IN ONE QUARTER
of a “fourplex” on the other side of Yonge Street. “My mum cleans the building, so the rent is cheap,” he explained. Sometimes Mrs. Gunter was finished work by the time school was out. Then she would greet them with cupcakes and cocoa. She was a large woman who sighed a lot. Her doughy face was always creased with a tired smile, but somehow it still looked sad. “I'm so glad Bernard has a friend,” she said the first time Norah met her. Norah hoped he hadn't told his mother that their friendship was forbidden; she didn't want to add to her sadness.

Norah told Mrs. Gunter all about her family and her
journey to Canada. Even though she was tired of telling the story to the Ogilvies' friends, she didn't mind repeating it to this comfortable woman.

“It's not right that children should have to go through so much,” sighed Bernard's mother. “What trying times these are for us all. And your little brother, how is he liking Canada?”

Norah shrugged. “All right, I suppose.” It made her uncomfortable to think of Gavin. Yesterday afternoon he had appeared in the doorway of the tower.

“What do
you
want?” Norah had asked, startled from her book. He hadn't been in her room since they had shared it.

“Nothing. I just came up.” As if that explained everything, Gavin came in and sat on her bed, swinging his legs.

“What?”
asked Norah irritably, wanting to get back to her story.

“Norah, do you think Hitler's captured England yet? Will Muv and Dad and Grandad and Joey be prisoners?”

Norah couldn't answer for a second, her throat was so tight. She took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “No, I don't. We'd hear about it, wouldn't we? And there might not even
be
an invasion.”

Suddenly her brother's trusting face made her want to shake him. How was
she
expected to know? He should have asked Aunt Florence.

“Go away now, Gavin, I'm trying to read.” She picked up her book and turned her back on him.

But she couldn't read any more. Instead she listened to his slow footsteps descending the stairs and almost called him back.

“Norah?” asked Bernard. “I said, do you want to go to my room now?”

“Sure!” Norah shut Gavin out of her mind and followed Bernard. As usual they pored over the maps which covered his walls, and then they stretched out on his rug to play Parcheesi and checkers. Norah felt much more at home here than at the Ogilvies'. “Come over as often as you like,” urged Mrs. Gunter, but she was seldom there herself—she was usually out working.

E
SCAPING INTO BOOKS
and having a friend made being a war guest more bearable. But now Norah lay awake worrying about her family. The radio reports from England were worse and worse—London was bombed every night now. She checked the hall table each day for mail, but still no letters came.

On the same Monday she had given her excuse to Miss Liers, Norah heard some shocking news. She was lying on the floor of the den, finishing off the Saturday funny papers. At home, most of the newspaper comics had disappeared because of the paper shortage. “Rupert,” her favourite, was still published, but even his adventures had been reduced to one panel at a time. But here there were such thick wads of comics from all the different papers that it often took her several days to get through them. Superman, the Lone Ranger, Tarzan and Flash
Gordon—they were all new to Norah and she devoured their adventures with relish.

Aunt Mary was sitting beside Norah reading the
Evening Telegram
. “Oh,
no
!” she gasped.

Aunt Florence jerked up her head. “Gavin, would you go and fetch my needlepoint?” she said quickly.

As Gavin left the room, Norah jumped up and scanned the front page over Aunt Mary's shoulder. “Children Bound for Toronto Victims of Hitler's Murder,” said the bold print.

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

“Let
me
see.” Aunt Florence snatched the paper from her daughter. “Disgraceful!” she fumed, when she'd read it. “What I would do to that man if I had a chance …”

“Please,”
choked Norah. “What happened?”

Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary held a kind of silent conversation with their eyes. “I suppose we can tell you, since you're safely over here,” said Aunt Florence, “but when Gavin comes back we must stop talking about it. What's happened is that a ship was torpedoed by the Nazis. It was full of evacuees on their way to Canada and many of them were drowned.”

“How many?”

Aunt Florence seemed reluctant to answer. “Eighty-seven children and two hundred and six adults,” she said finally, her voice unusually thin.

Aunt Mary touched Norah's shoulder. “Thank God it wasn't
your
ship!”

Norah was stunned. All those days at sea she had looked for periscopes she'd never really
believed
the
Germans would attack their ship. She remembered Jamie saying he wished they'd be torpedoed. He hadn't believed they would either. It had just been a game—but this was real.

Then she remembered Miss Montague-Scott, who was hoping to come back again on another ship. “Does it give the names?” she asked in a small voice.

Aunt Florence shook her head. “Not yet—I expect the families haven't been notified.” She looked at Norah with sudden, unexpected concern. “I don't want you to brood about this, my dear. I'm sure there was no one you know. Let's just be thankful that you and Gavin made it over here safely.”

The two women tried to change the subject, but in the next few weeks Norah kept hearing more about it on the news. The ship was called the
City of Benares
and some of the children thought drowned were rescued after spending days in a lifeboat.

In the meantime, she finally got a packet of letters from home. She whisked it off the table and flew up to the tower. Three letters tumbled out, from Mum, Dad and Tibby. “Dear Norah and Gavin,” they each began, but she had to read them by herself before she could share them with him.

“What lucky children you are—it looks as if you're living in a mansion!” said Mum. “We've shown the picture of the house to everyone in the village. Mrs. Ogilvie sounds very pleasant—she wrote a reassuring letter. It's too bad Gavin isn't old enough for school but it sounds
as if he's having some splendid outings. We feel much better knowing you're both in such a secure home.”

Both her parents continued in the same way, expressing relief at their safety, saying how much they missed them and answering some of Norah's questions. “We still see lots of planes and another one crashed near Smarden,” said Dad. “It's London that's really getting it now. Everyone is bearing up, though. People are sleeping in the tube. We can sometimes see the reflection of the fires from here. We go into the shelter most nights but don't worry, there's been no damage in Ringden.”

Grandad sent his love in a postscript. Tibby told her she and Muriel were being trained as mechanics, which was much more interesting than all the scrubbing and cooking they had been doing. Her letter was spotted with words that had been blacked out, words that looked like place names. “You will probably find that parts of this have been censored,” Tibby warned. It was unsettling to think that someone else had already read her words. Muriel had added a note to the bottom of Tibby's letter. “I've met a dreamy lieutenant and we're very much in love.” Norah grinned; that was what Muriel always said.

She read the letters again and again, extracting every morsel of news. The only part that made her uncomfortable were some questions for her from Dad: “Norah, we are delighted to know you're learning so much about Canada. Mrs. Ogilvie told us all about Gavin, but we'd like to hear more about
you
. Are you happy at the Ogilvies'? Is school all right? Please tell us everything.”

But she couldn't. As she wrote home again the following Sunday, Norah still had trouble finding enough to say. She couldn't tell them Gavin was being kept out of school deliberately. She couldn't tell them about Bernard, in case they mentioned him to Aunt Florence. Her letters, too, were censored.

16

Gairloch

O
ne Thursday in October, Norah couldn't go to the library to meet Bernard; she had to come straight home from school to help pack. The Ogilvies were driving north for the weekend, to a place called Muskoka.

“You'll like it there Norah,” said Aunt Mary eagerly. Her voice was much more animated than usual. “Hugh and I spent all our childhood summers at Gairloch—that's the name of our cottage, and it's on the most beautiful lake in Ontario. Our family has been going there for generations.”

Aunt Florence had told Norah she could miss school from Friday to Tuesday. “I'll write you a note—I'm sure your teacher won't mind,” she said grandly. “We always go to the cottage for Thanksgiving. It's our last time before next year.”

Norah was surprised to learn that Dulcie had been invited to come along. “I thought you'd like someone your own age to explore with,” explained Aunt Mary. Dulcie was so busy being popular, Norah hardly spoke to her in school. But when they picked her up early Friday morning, she acted as if nothing had changed.

“Isn't it super to be missing school!” she whispered to Norah. “It was so kind of the Ogilvies to ask me. I hope you don't mind,” she added timidly.

Norah shrugged. She was reluctant to admit that it would be a nice change to have someone else to talk to, although she wished it could be Bernard.

Aunt Florence was at the wheel of the long, grey Cadillac. Aunt Mary sat on the other side, with Gavin in the middle; Norah and Dulcie had the whole back seat to themselves—the suitcases and boxes of food were in the trunk. Hanny and Edith were staying behind to look after the house.

The drive took most of the day. The houses in the city became smaller and sparser, then gave way to farms. There were rolling hills and fields dotted with bright orange pumpkins. Norah was astonished at the leaves. In the open country they formed a sea of scarlet and golden hues, wave upon wave glistening against the blue sky. The trees were so radiant, they didn't seem real.

“I do believe the colour this fall is the best we've ever had,” said Aunt Florence with satisfaction. She spoke as if she had personally ordered the brilliant display.

For lunch they stopped at the side of the road and had a picnic: chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches on soft white bread, sticks of celery, poppyseed cake and milk. Everyone, even the two women, took turns going behind a bush. “You probably think we're being very primitive,” said Aunt Florence, “but it's cleaner than a gas station.” Norah and Dulcie looked at each other and stifled a giggle
at the thought of Aunt Florence squatting in such an undignified position. The farther north they went, the more the two Ogilvies lost their Toronto stiffness.

After lunch, the fields and hills turned to rock and trees, broken by sheets of water. When they drove over a small bridge, Aunt Mary burst into song:

Land of the silver birch

Home of the beaver,

Where still the mighty moose

Wanders at will.

Blue lakes and rocky shore;

We have returned once more.

Boom
didi ah dah …

She stopped with embarrassment when she noticed the three children staring at her, their mouths open. “Hugh and I always sang that once we'd crossed the bridge,” she explained sheepishly. “He learned it at camp. That river was the boundary for Muskoka.”

The car plowed northwards. Gavin and Dulcie fell asleep and Norah's eyelids drooped. But Aunt Florence didn't tire. She was talking to her daughter about storm windows and the luck of an Indian summer. What was an Indian summer? Norah wondered drowsily, looking out on the empty landscape.

Canada was so big! She had never gone so far in a car. Her parents had never owned one, although Grandad had once fixed up an old Morris. Obviously Aunt Florence
liked driving; she stretched her long legs to the pedals and leaned back in the seat as if she were in a comfortable armchair. Norah imagined how it would feel to have the control of such a powerful machine in your hands. Perhaps that's what she would be when she grew up, someone who drove cars.

Finally they pulled into a tiny town that was really just a store, a gas station and a few scattered, shabby houses.

“Everybody out,” ordered Aunt Florence. “Now we're going on a boat, Gavin!”

The children woke up again. The little store was beside a vast, ripply lake. Norah breathed in the fresh-smelling air as a man came out of the store and led them to a moored motor launch.

“It's the only way to get there,” explained Aunt Mary. “Mr. McGuigan always takes us over in his boat. Sometimes we have to make several trips with the food, but it's worth it to be on the island.”

Norah whirled around to face her. “Are we going to an
island
?”

“Why yes, Norah, didn't I tell you? It's not a very large one, but it's all ours.”

Her expression was as excited as Norah's. An island! Like
Swallows and Amazons
…

All the luggage, food and people were loaded into the boat, then it putted across the water. Norah sat at the bow, her hair blowing back and her face showered with cold spray. The water was as clear as green glass; when they slowed down she could see rocks in the depths of it.

In front of them was a hill; on top perched a large circular house with a verandah all around it. “There's the cottage!” beamed Aunt Mary. “There's Gairloch!”

A cottage? It was as big as the Ogilvies' house in Toronto. But it looked friendlier, perhaps because it had a name. They got out onto a wharf and helped carry things up steep steps to the house. Its wooden walls were a faded white and its turreted structure was higgledy-piggledy, as if it had been added on to over the years.