Authors: Irene N.Watts
I
t’s still early. Outside the seagulls scream their way to the harbor. I sit bolt upright, instead of going back to sleep the way I usually do. Something huge has happened, and for now I’m the only person in the whole world who knows about it.
I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to work it out. I should have guessed when Miss Macready confused me with the girl who’d rescued her in Peterborough and who became her nursemaid.
I jump out of bed and sit on the window seat, my arms hugging my body in the early morning chill the way I’ve watched Lillie’s do. I pretend I’m her, looking out at the rain before turning away to inspect the room on the first day she arrived here. I know that this was her
room too. I’ve been sleeping in her bed, and she hung her dresses in the narrow wardrobe.
I’m almost the same age she was then, nearly fourteen. Miss Macready thought I was Lillie coming back to her. I bet Miss Bessie wasn’t easy to manage, but she helped me discover that Lillie is my great-grandmother, the girl William fell in love with on board ship.
All those years they thought about each other, without knowing if they’d ever meet again. And then, on that day when they met in the park, Bessie knew she’d never have Lillie to herself again.
I feel as close to Lillie as I do to Angie–my best friend in Toronto–maybe closer. I think Lillie told me things she’d never told anyone else–how sad she was, how much she missed her mother, how cruel those women were to her. I get furious when I think of what happened. I wonder if she ever told William about that horrible Mr. Norman at the boarding house. I’m glad she trusted me enough to tell me. It would be awful to have to keep something like that locked up inside you.
I go over to the trunk and settle down on the floor of the alcove, the way Lillie always does.
The trunk! What if this is Lillie’s trunk–the one she brought over to Canada, the one where she kept her things? What if the faint letter L on the lid is for her name and not Great-aunt Millicent’s after all? If that’s true, wouldn’t Lillie hide her treasures in there to keep
them safe?
Knowing Lillie, she’d make sure no one ever got the chance to trash her stuff again.
I open the lid, and start tossing out the spare quilts. I’m in a hurry, but then I stop. I’m behaving exactly the way Miss Alice did. I fold the quilts again tidily and hang them over the back of the cane chair.
“Lillie, I know you can hear me. Please don’t mind me checking out your trunk. I think your ribbon might be there, and the picture from Helen that you told me about. I really want to look at them and hold them.”
The trunk’s empty now, except for some sheets of heavy brown wrapping paper on the bottom. I take them out, and all that’s left is a little bunch of dried lavender and the faded striped canvas, lining the inside of the trunk. The stitches holding the canvas on the left side are coming loose. They look as if they’d come away once before and someone’s repaired them with a different color. I can feel something lumpy under the cotton ticking. I pull at the threads until there’s an opening wide enough to slide my hand inside.
I glance behind me, half-expecting to see Lillie looking over my shoulder.
My fingers touch a small package. There’s just enough room for me to get hold of one corner and pull it out. I sit awhile, holding the parcel in my hands, turning it over, thinking about how long it’s been
hidden. I’m in no hurry, and to open it somehow seems like prying.
The name written across the front says
LILLIE BRIDGES.
My great-grandmother tied up this bundle of letters with cloth and a faded white ribbon. I run my finger along the length of the fabric. It’s even older than Miss Bessie.
Did Lillie bring the ribbon with her from England? Is it the same one she wore for the Sunday school picnic, the one crumpled by Miss Alice?
Lillie must have washed it over and over to make it look like new again.
The present Lillie’s mother gave her is here too. It’s a picture postcard of a lady with glossy long hair, wearing a low-cut dress. The flower she’s holding is a lily. The name printed on the front is
LILLIE LANGTRY.
A dried violet is glued to the back.
Once Helen gave me a picture and a flower. I’m going to keep them forever, Lillie said.
The letters are signed by my great-grandfather William. I’m touching paper that Lillie and William touched. One by one I spread the letters out on the floor. It’s hard to make out the words–some have faded, written in pencil instead of ink.
I imagine William writing his first letter to Lillie, his cap on the back of his head. I know just how his voice sounds because I heard him tell Lillie how he’d waited for her.
Didn’t you know I would? he’d said.
I begin to read:
November 8, 1914, Salisbury, England
Dear Flower
,
Or do you prefer me to call you Lillie? At last I know your name. I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, writing like this in my first letter to you, but after all, we have known each other since we were twelve years old. When I saw you that day in the Public Gardens with the little girl, I was afraid that she was yours–that you’d got married, before I realized you couldn’t be old enough.
I never forgot you, Lillie. I always regretted not knowing who you are. Do you remember when you ran off to join the girls at the other end of the deck? I shouted out after you, “My name is William,” but my voice got lost in the roar of the waves.
Once, thinking about you, when I was working at the furnace in the forge, I became careless and didn’t turn my shirtsleeves under, as Mr. Armstrong had warned me to. Sparks caught in the folds of the fabric, and I’ve still got the scars. So I was reminded of you every day.
I’ll write whenever I get the chance. The officers say we’ll be sent over to the front as soon as we finish our training. I got lucky and am with the Second Canadian Division, the Cavalry Regiment, which is what I’d hoped for. I want to stay with the horses.
I’ve been given a weekend pass, so I’m off to London to meet my brother, Frankie. We haven’t seen each other since I left for Canada. It will be great to catch up, after all this time. He writes that he can’t wait to join the army next year, when he’s eighteen.
Best wishes from your friend
,
William Carr
November 16, 1914
My dear Lillie
,
I’m back from my leave, the last for a while. Frankie met me at Paddington Station and the first thing we did, after we’d had a mug of tea at the refreshment stall, was to go looking for our old home. I’d forgotten how narrow and mean the streets were where we lived. Our house was a lot smaller than we’d both remembered. There wasn’t a blade of grass, nor a tree in sight. No wonder Frankie’s lungs were weak when he was a kid, breathing in that dusty damp air. He’s fine now. He works as a market gardener outside London. I tell him he should emigrate after the war–come over here and find some good Canadian land to cultivate.
I can’t bear reading this because I know that Frankie’s going to die and will never have a chance to meet Lillie or to get that land. I’m almost afraid to read any more.
I’m homesick for Canada and for you, Lillie. When I come back, we’ll go on long walks and I’ll teach you to ride. If only we’d met sooner, before this war started and separated us again. So much precious time has been wasted.
Please send a photograph of yourself
Your friend
,
William
I go on browsing through and reading the letters spread out on the floor.
January 2, 1915, France
My dear Lillie
,
Your welcome parcel arrived in good time for Christmas Day. I shared the delicious cake you baked with my friends and I wear the muffler you knitted day and night. Christmas Day was the strangest time. It really was a day of peace, the way it should be. Men on both sides of No Man’s Land, the strip of ground that divides us from the Germans, sang carols. We were close enough to see the faces of the enemy. We called out good wishes, and exchanged names and food. Some showed photographs of their families. It was good to forget about the war for a few hours. But what I want to know is, how are we going to shoot each other now? How do you kill a man with whom you
have shaken hands and who has told you his name?
I never want to spend another Christmas apart from you.
Love
William
The next letter is written on a page that looks like it’s been torn out of an old exercise book. It’s streaked with dirt, or maybe blood.
September 15, 1916, France
Darling Lillie
,
We go forward a few yards, retreat, and advance over the same few yards of ground, over and over again. What’s the use? I feel as if I’ve never lived anywhere else but a trench.
There’s talk of a few days’ leave soon. I can’t wait for a bath and a change of clothes and a proper hot meal. No, there’s no news of Frankie. He joined the Third London Rifles last year, but I haven’t managed to meet up with him.
You asked me to tell you what the worst thing is out here. Well, apart from the lice and being so far away from you, it’s the mud. I hate it. I’m used to Ontario mud. I’m used to axles and cattle and horses getting stuck and having to pull them out, but here it’s a lot worse. It’s like a stinking yellow bog. A man or a horse
can disappear in seconds, and all that’s left is a bubble on the surface. A friend of mine went under yesterday. He’d have had more of a chance going overboard crossing the Atlantic.
I’m sorry to write like this, Flower.
Your letters brighten even the gloomiest day.
Your loving
William
I find another sad note from Great-grandfather. It’s dated February 9, 1917. I can only manage to read a few lines.
The loss of so many beautiful horses breaks my heart. This war is not for them. They should have been kept out of it. The animals lie rotting on the battlefield, or on the cobbled streets of what is left of the villages, shelled by us or the enemy.
October 3, 1917
I’m so proud of you, Flower. I try to imagine you working in a munitions factory, your beautiful hair tucked under a kerchief. I’ll bet you produce more shells in a day than the rest of the girls put together. Tell the supervisor you’re spoken for, just so he knows.
Don’t you worry about leaving young Bessie. A big girl of ten doesn’t need a nursemaid picking up after
her. She’ll be better off going to school in Quebec. You’ve spoiled her. Remember what we had to put up with in the orphanage?
Lillie, when the war is over (and now that you’re helping the war effort, it won’t last much longer), will you marry me? I will come back to you, and when I do, I’ll never let you out of my sight again. I am, as always,
Your loving
William
There is one note from Lillie among the letters. It must have been written only a few days before the big explosion in Halifax harbor.
December 4, 1917, Halifax
Dearest Will
,
Yes, I will marry you. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me. What took you so long? I made up my mind that day we met in the Gardens. I hope you don’t think I’m too forward.
I love you
,
Lillie
Suddenly I hear Lillie’s laugh, see her face shining with happiness, the way it looked that night when she told me she’d found William again.
And then, William’s last letter:
November 11, 1918
My own dear Flower
,
The war is over at last. I’ll be sailing home to you as soon as I can.
Fondest love forever
,
William
A sudden gust of wind scatters the pages all over the room. “You wanted me to find the letters, didn’t you, Lillie? I am so happy that you and William got married.”
I pick up the scattered pages and put them back in order, tie the ribbon round the package, and go down to breakfast.
Gran is making pancakes. “You are an early bird this morning! Sit down and keep your grandfather company.” She slides two pancakes onto my plate, but I’m too excited to eat.
“Grandfather, I’ve got a present for you. Open it.” I give him the package.
“It’s not my birthday.” He looks at Gran and then at me. He sees that I can’t wait another second. “Right, I’ll open it,” he says.
He reads every word. When he’s finished, he hands Gran the letters, pours himself a fresh mug of coffee, sits down beside me, and takes my hand. “Oh, Katie, thank you,” he says.
My eyes well up because I can see how happy he is to have something from his parents. Gran’s crying, the pancakes are burned, and nobody cares because in front of us is the history of our family.
Suddenly I remember the photo that Miss Bessie gave me, and rush upstairs to get it. Grandfather stares at Lillie’s image. “I can’t take it in–my mother here in our own garden,” he says.
I have to repeat every single detail about Lillie saving Miss Bessie from the horses, and I try to explain why I thought of looking in the trunk…that it began with me seeing Lillie’s shadow on the wall and how she talked to me through my dreams. Somehow I can’t describe Lillie’s visits: how she sang and cried, the way we talked and danced, and how we became friends.
The rain’s stopped. The sun slants through the leaves of the apple tree. I’m almost sure I see Lillie standing behind the swing. She waves once, disappears, and I’m sad because I probably won’t see her again.
I think I know why Great-grandfather didn’t talk to his children about Lillie after she died–it was because he missed her so much. I miss her too.
Two days later, I fly home. Dad and Step had arrived the night before, so they’re not too jet-lagged to hear about the letters.