The Sky is Falling (24 page)

“Please spare us this year,” said Flo. She tossed back her long hair, looking sophisticated. Clare was complaining about having to come. “We have to every year,” she explained. “It's a tradition. But I wanted to go skiing with my friends in Montreal.”

Beside her, her mother gave her a warning look and began to ask Norah the usual questions. “I bet you get tired of telling people how you like Canada,” whispered Janet. Norah grinned and moved closer to her on the chesterfield.

“Have you been to Gairloch yet?” asked Janet.

“Oh, yes!” said Norah eagerly. She had forgotten about Gairloch. “I liked it there.”

“Wait till you see it in the summer! It's my favourite place in the whole world. We have lots of fun sleeping over the boathouse. We sneak out at night and go skinny dipping, and catch frogs and put them in the Boys' Dorm.”

All of this sounded scary but intriguing. Norah recalled the peace of the rippling lake, the screen of trees and the friendly old cottage. Next summer she would be able to spend three months there. Next summer …

Gavin and the two younger cousins seemed to have turned into one very noisy boy, racing cars up and down the hall floor. “Quiet, you three!” called a mother. “Go and wash your hands for dinner.”

The clan trooped into the dining-room. Dinner was modest in anticipation of tomorrow's feast: tourtière and salad. Before dessert, Norah jumped as everyone started chanting at once: “
You
scream,
I
scream, we
all
scream for ice cream!” Hanny marched in with a glass bowlful of it.

Norah ate hers silently, feeling left out again. What other strange rituals did this family have?

After dinner they stood around the piano and sang carols while an uncle played. Then Aunt Florence read part of
A Christmas Carol
aloud. By now the little boys were nodding. All seven children, despite Flo's protests, were sent to get ready for bed.

At home Norah laid one of Dad's socks across the end of her bed, but here they hung specially knitted, patterned stockings on hooks under the mantel. Aunt Mary had found hers and Hugh's for Norah and Gavin, and the cousins brought their own. Gavin had stopped saying “Father Christmas” ever since he'd been taken to the Santa Claus parade in November. Aunt Florence let him be the one to put out the milk and cookies on the hearth.

“Now off to bed!” she smiled. “Santa won't come until you're asleep.”

“Will he find me here?” asked Gavin anxiously. “Will he think I'm still in England?”

Aunt Florence kissed him. “He'll find you—I told him where you were.” Gavin stared at her with awe, then went up with the others to bed.

F
LO AND JANET
and Clare talked and laughed and tossed on their narrow beds for a long time. At first Norah didn't like sharing her room with three strangers, especially when they told her they always slept up here at Christmas. She wanted to let them know it was
her
room now, but she couldn't find the right words.

“How can you bear living with Aunt Florence?” asked Flo. “She's so bossy, she thinks she's the Queen!” Flo got up, stuffed her pillow under the top of her nightgown and tied it in place with a belt. Then she sauntered across the room, bowing left and right. “You may kiss my hand,” she said haughtily.

For a second Norah was shocked. Then she laughed so hard they had to pat her on the back. How wonderful to be able to be so wicked, to make fun of Aunt Florence with someone else who knew her! Norah began to talk as easily with the cousins as if she were really related to them. She fell asleep in the middle of telling a joke.

S
OMETHING IN THE ROOM
made Norah stir. She turned over and felt a weight on her feet.

Of course—her filled stocking. Aunt Florence or Aunt Mary—or Santa Claus, she smiled—must have crept in and put it there. It felt exactly the same as her stocking at home. It was one of the most familiar feelings
she knew, but she always forgot about it until Christmas. Every year, for as long as she could remember, she had woken up in the early morning dimness and felt that delectable weight on her feet. She never let herself touch it until it was really morning; she always fell back immediately to sleep.

But now she lay awake. The thrill of the stocking was the same—but nothing else was. It never would be again. She was far away from her own family in a strange country, and she would probably be here for a long time.

But she had ways to get through it. A family she was finally feeling a part of, with a new, unexpected set of “cousins”. And Paige's family, and Bernard's. Perhaps it took three borrowed families to make up for one real one. There was Gairloch to look forward to in the summer. And most important of all, Gavin to take care of.

Gavin's goldfish! Norah slipped out of bed and padded to her wardrobe, trying not to wake the others. The goldfish was swimming friskily around its bowl. She picked it up carefully. She would take it down to Gavin's room and put it where he'd see it first thing in the morning.

Norah tiptoed down the stairs and into his room. At first she couldn't find him amidst the visitors. He was slumbering peacefully, Creature by his cheek. She placed the bowl on the table beside his bed and slipped under it the card she had prepared: “A very Happy Christmas to Gavin from Norah.” She watched his face for a few seconds. Whatever else happened during their time in
Canada, she was going to make sure Gavin kept on being as happy as he could be.

She was still wide awake. It was exciting to be the only one in the slumbering household. She decided to sneak down and peek at the tree again. The living room was dark and chilly, but after she plugged in the tree it came alive. In the darkness the lights glowed even more gloriously than they had in the daytime. Norah stood in front of the tree with her hands out, watching them change colour.

Then she gasped. Propped against a chair by the tree was a shiny new bicycle. Holding her breath with suspense, she read the card tied to its handlebars: “Merry Christmas to Norah with love from Aunt Florence.”

It was a Hurricane, like Paige's—maroon with gold striping. It even had a dynamo set and a large wicker basket. She ran her hands over the smooth chrome and the leather seat, not quite sure whether to believe it was real. When they played horses, she would
call
it “Hurricane”, to remind her of the planes.

A bicycle meant freedom. It meant Aunt Florence trusted her and knew her well enough to guess what she wanted the most. Norah longed to climb onto it, to continue to caress it; but she shouldn't be here, seeing her present before morning. Quickly she unplugged the tree and fled up to bed. She shivered and squirmed under the covers to get warm again, giggling to herself. A bicycle!

Someone crunched by in the snowy street outside. A man and woman's voices sang softly as they passed:
“Where the snow lay round about / Deep and crisp and even.”

Norah sat up and pulled the curtains open. She was suddenly filled to the brim with Christmas, with the magic feeling that came every year. Christmas was the same, after all. If Christmas carried on in Canada as it did at home, maybe other good things would stay the same as well.

Norah bounced down again into her cosy bed, making the bell on her stocking jingle. She lay on her back and watched the dim, pewter-coloured clouds outside. Her breathing was light and easy, as if a heavy weight had rolled away. All that fell out of the sky was soft white snow.

AFTERWORD

During World War II around 15,000 British children were evacuated overseas. Nearly 8,000 of them came to Canada; most were privately sponsored but 1,500 were assisted by the Children's Overseas Reception Board. Of these government-sponsored children about one third, like Norah and Gavin, went to the homes of complete strangers.

The response of Canadians to the plight of British children was overwhelming; probably many more children would have been brought over if the tragic sinking of
The City of Benares
had not brought an end to evacuation plans. A fascinating account of Canada's involvement is given in the late Geoffrey Bilson's
The Guest Children,
the only non-fiction book so far devoted entirely to the subject.

My book, however, is fiction. There is no doubt that many of the children who came to Canada enjoyed the adventure and found warm, welcoming homes. I tried to imagine a child who didn't. My depiction of the events of the war is as true as possible for someone who was born just after it. The major places, too, are real. But most of the details, such as Norah's village, the ship, her school, her local library and, especially, the characters, are fictional creations.

I would not have been able to write this story without the help of many people. Thank you to Bryan Bacon; Auriol Hastie; Jacquetta, Shaun and the late Pat Jackson; Kay and Sandy Pearson; Kathleen Tankard; and Alan Woodland for sharing with me their experiences of the war; to David Conn for his invaluable advice about the Battle of Britain; to Sarah Ellis and Jean Little for reading the manuscript; to Patrick Dunn for procuring books from all over the continent; to David Kilgour for his sleuthing; and to Vicki Lazier and Christine McMeans for remembering a family song. Above all I would like to thank Alice Kane, from whom I first heard “Alenoushka and her Brother”, and whose story of telling it to evacuated children inspired this book.