June 1902

Friday, June 13, 1902

This morning my father was killed.

Even though I have written this down in black and white, I cannot believe it.

Father was such a strong man. He was a master stonemason and proud of his iron-hard muscles. Whenever he challenged John and his friends to an arm wrestle, they didn’t stand a chance.

But when the scaffolding he was standing on collapsed and sent him plunging headfirst to the ground, his strength could not save him. They say he died instantly.

Later

That is not what I thought I would be writing in the notebook Miss Radcliffe gave me yesterday. She said it was because she knows I love to write, and in it I could tell the story of my summer.

I was looking forward to starting it tonight, but then we heard about Father.

I need to set it down.

It happened this afternoon while Mother and I were sitting in the kitchen peeling potatoes. I must have been singing to Davy when Father fell. Surely I ought to have felt the world stop turning for an instant. But I didn’t. Instead I kept singing “Ring Around a Rosie.” I would peel a potato and, when it came to the line “All fall DOWN!” I would toss it into the pot of cold water. When it splashed, Davy would hoot with laughter and I would start on the next one.

Mother was shaking her head at our nonsense when we heard running feet outside and our front door burst open.

It was Billy Brigson from up the street. He is usually a cheeky little boy with a big grin. But not this morning. He just stood there, staring at us, shaking and speechless.

We learned later that Billy had actually seen Father fall. Picturing him watching Father’s head strike a granite boulder so hard that it split his skull makes me feel sick at my stomach. The horror of it was still there in Billy’s wide eyes. In books, they say people go white as a sheet at such moments. Billy was grey.

“It was no place for a child,” the foreman, Mr. Tyler, told us afterwards. That was why he had sent Billy hotfoot to break the news to Mother. Billy must have run like the wind. When he burst in and saw her smiling at him, though, he was struck dumb.

I can’t go on writing. But I will be back. It keeps me from falling apart.

Still Later

I am ready for bed now, but I am sure I won’t be able to go to sleep yet. The house is so still that I think I am the only one left awake.

When Miss Radcliffe gave me this notebook, she never guessed that I would begin by telling of Father’s death. I’ll pick up where I left off.

When Billy didn’t speak, I said, “What’s up, Billy?”

But he didn’t answer.

“Sit down, child, and catch your breath,” Mother said quietly. “Then you can tell us what’s amiss.”

He sat down. He was still shaking.

Mother told me to get him a drink of water.

But something in the look on his face kept me rooted. Mother glanced at me, but before either of us could stir, words finally began to pour out of him. Davy was staring at him but he did not even notice.

“The men are coming,” he babbled. “Mr. Tyler sent me to tell you. The scaffoldng tilted and Mr. Roberts fell. They’re bringing his body. It happened so fast. He was a good man, missus. I am so sorry …”

A sob choked off his next words. Mother took his hand in hers and held on tight until he began to breathe more normally.

“Thank you, Billy,” she said then. “Delivering bad news is hard, but you did nobly. Now please go back and tell them I will be ready for them.”

Big tears were splashing down his cheeks by then, but he did what she said.

When the door closed, she reached out and took the paring knife from my fingers.

“Do not be afraid, Abby dear,” she said quietly. “We will come through this. We’ll hold onto each other.”

“Yes,” I said. I don’t know exactly what I meant, but she astonished me by laughing and leaning forward to kiss my cheek.

“I always knew I couldn’t do without you, Abby,” she said. Her voice shook, but I heard each word. They puzzled me, though. Why would she ever have to do without me?

When Billy left, I heard Olivia beginning to practise the piece she is going to play at her recital next week. “Humoresque,” it’s called. Plainly, she had not heard Billy come and go. I thought Mother would send me in to get her, but instead she told me she was going up to change her dress so she would be ready when the men arrived. I was to stay with Davy until she came back down. Then she would break the news to Olivia while I went to tell John.

The very idea of having to deliver such a blow to John horrified me. He loved Father.

“Olivia should go,” I blurted.

Mother had started up the stairs, but she turned and said, “No, Abby. It is your strength John will need. And I’ll want Olivia’s help here.”

Before I could object, she was gone. When she came back down, she was wearing her Sunday dress and she started right in to explain what I was to do.

“Find Mr. Dunlop first and tell him why you have come,” she said, “and then break the news to your brother and tell him to come right home.”

The school is not far. I ran down the street, trying to think what I would say. I wished it was over.

When I got there, I was startled to see John and Mr. Dunlop standing at the top of the front steps talking. I didn’t stop to think. I just stared up at him and burst out, “John, Father is dead. The scaffolding collapsed and he fell. Mother said to tell you to come straight home.”

He stared down at me and his face froze. It was like watching somebody get turned to stone. Then he pushed past Mr. Dunlop and ran for home.

Mr. Dunlop came down and patted my shoulder and said how sorry he was. I thanked him and followed John. Some inner voice told me what to do next and I obeyed. I was like one of those wind-up toys you get for Christmas. You turn the key and set it down and off it rattles. It doesn’t stop until it runs into something. Davy loves those things.

It is late. Maybe I am tired enough to go to sleep now.

I just realized, for the first time, that this is Friday the thirteenth! How strange that I wrote the date down and did not even notice. I hope I never have another day like it.

This notebook is comforting. Nobody will pry into it, because it just looks like an ordinary school book. To me, it feels like a safe hiding place though. It is exactly the right size for keeping a record of my changed life.

Saturday, June 14, 1902

Putting things down this way steadies me. When Mother saw me writing in here, she said, “I’ve noticed that writing things down always helps you to get through bad times.”

It’s true, but I did not guess anyone knew but me.

I think I remember every single minute since Billy burst in yesterday. Yet none of it seems real. I wonder if acting in a play is like this. You would recite the words but not feel them. The outside of me did everything it was supposed to, but inside I just felt a stranger to myself.

When I reached home from fetching John, Mother told me Davy was napping. She said that when he woke up, she thought I should take him over to Miss Radcliffe’s so he wouldn’t be disturbed by all the coming and going. It’s a good idea. He loves Miss Radcliffe and crowds do upset him.

Olivia was in the doorway, covering her face with her hands and sobbing. She has always been Father’s pet. People kept patting her shoulder and doing their best to comfort her.

“Poor child,” one of them said. “She did love her father so.”

She did love him. It was true. But I knew my sister better than they did. I could tell she was enjoying showing everyone her broken heart.

“That’s quite enough, Olivia,” Mother said firmly. “Crying won’t help. Please go and put the kettle on and make a big pot of tea.”

Olivia gave her a look that said Mother had no heart, but she went. I stayed in the corner where it was shadowy and waited to see if Mother needed me. But there was such a crowd around her that I felt I should just keep out of the way.

I stood there until my legs began to shake. Then I decided to come up here and sit with Davy. Climbing the stairs, I felt I might cry after all, but I did not. Davy would be upset if he saw me in tears. He’s a happy little boy and seeing sadness in others worries him.

When he woke up, I changed him and gave him his bottle. Then I took him to my teacher’s house. Miss Radcliffe played her parlour organ for him and sang silly songs. Davy loves music. He doesn’t sing words, of course, but he hums. He sounds like a happy bumblebee.

When we went home, I learned that Father’s body was in the spare bedroom upstairs. Mr. Stilson, the cabinet maker, and his helper will bring the coffin tomorrow and, after that, Father will lie in the front parlour until the funeral on Monday afternoon.

It was past suppertime but the house was still filled with people. It was a mystery to me how word had spread so fast, but later Mother said nothing travels as speedily as bad news.

John was mostly outside with the men. Olivia kept crying in spite of Mother’s telling her tears would not solve anything.

I did not have tears to hold back. Mother and I have always been close, but it was different with me and my father. He was proud of John and fond of Olivia, but Davy’s slowness drove him mad. Sometimes Father would call him a lackwit or a simpleton and then wink at John and Olivia until they laughed. Mother and I pretended we had not heard. But when he said such cruel things, I hated him. I have never understood this, but I believe Father enjoyed being hurtful. When Mother grew angry at him, he laughed it off by saying, “The boy does not understand a word I say, so what is the harm?”

The harm was not in what his cruel words did to Davy but in the coldness in his voice when he spoke them.

I must try to forget this. It is not something I ought to remember.

After supper

Ever since we learned of Father’s death, Mother has gone steadily on being brave. She told Mr. Stilson she wanted the casket closed.

People brought us more food than we could get through in a month of Sundays. The minister prayed over us. He used his preaching voice. It sounds syrupy and it always makes me squirm.

That is enough about this dreadful day. Nothing has felt right since Billy Brigson burst through our front door. I feel numb inside. I could hardly wait to go to bed, but going would mean deserting Mother.

The funeral will be on Monday. If only it were over.

Saturday evening, June 14, 1902

Father’s death has changed everything in our world. Right now I feel a need to keep track of how we will manage.

You hear people call their husband or father the Head of the House sometimes, and that is what Father was to us. He was not a comfortable sort of person, but he always knew what each of us should do and he checked up on us to be sure we had done it. Now he is gone, where will we turn? Perhaps writing things down will hold me steady, like an anchor keeps a ship from drifting out to sea.

I just read that over. It sounds highfalutin. But true.

Miss Radcliffe dropped by again this evening. She had found a storybook she thought I would like. It is called What Katy Did. She slipped it into my hand and said, “A good book can be a true friend at a time like this, Abby dear.” Then she left as quickly as she’d come. She is so kind. I’ve stolen glances at the book already. Katy’s mother is dead and her aunt cares for the children. I cannot bear to think of ever having to face life without Mother.

I wish I could just sit down and lose myself in the story, but of course, I can’t. There’s no place in the house where I could count on being alone, except in my room with Davy. If anyone saw me, they would think I was heartless. Am I?

After midnight

I can’t sleep. Well, I did at first, but now I am awake and everyone else in the house is dead to the world.

How strange it is to write down that everyone is dead tonight, when Father is really dead downstairs.

I have been looking at Davy asleep and remembering when he was born. The doctor told them to put him in a Home and forget him. He said Davy would never be normal and probably not live long. He said that Mongoloid children rarely survive for more than a few months and that it was better for Mother not to let herself grow attached to him.

“You have healthy children. Concentrate on John and Olivia.”

“And Abby,” Mother said.

I was in the corner rocking Davy and I remember the doctor catching sight of me then. He looked flustered. “Of course,” he muttered.

Father would have done what the doctor said, but Mother would have none of it. Lying there in bed, she looked weak and ill, but her voice snapped like a whiplash when she gave her answers.

“It is too late. I am already attached,” she said. “Abby and I will care for him as long as he is with us.”

Father said she was not strong enough, but she stuck to her guns and the two of us have tended him ever since. He was too much for her to handle alone, so even though I was supposed to go to school, Mother arranged to have her old teacher, Miss Radcliffe, who was retired and lived nearby, give me lessons at home.

Miss Radcliffe says I have writing talent. She is one of my favourite people.

Now I think I might sleep. I wonder what brought those memories to my mind tonight. I know really. It was thinking about Father’s being gone and realizing that he’ll never call Davy a lackwit again. I hated that so, and now it is over.

Sunday afternoon, June 15, 1902

We are waiting again. That is what we do most of the time these days. We wait and eat and thank people, and then wait and eat and get kissed and then wait and eat and listen to people tell us how sorry they are. It never ends. Worst of all is being patted and stroked and hugged and kissed by old ladies who are strangers to me. Their kisses are whiskery and sometimes their breath smells mildewed. I long to push them away, but Mother says I must be polite. I don’t see why.

I hate them watching me when I’m tending Davy too. I love him dearly, but I don’t enjoy taking care of him every minute of the day. And I hate being watched and cooed over while I do it, as though the two of us are not real but some sort of performance.

Abby, I cannot believe you just wrote those words! What is wrong with you?

I think I know. It makes me ashamed but I can write it down in my private notebook. I believe that, when the people are kissing me and staring into my face, they’re trying to see if I have cried as much as Olivia. She has cried enough tears to fill a lake. Her eyes are all puffy and red. Does this really show how deep her grief is? My eyes are dry. Am I abnormal? I long to ask Mother about this, but she has enough to bear at the moment.

Snatching time to write in my notebook or read a page of Katy helps me to stop brooding about such idiotic thoughts.

After the funeral, I hope things will be ordinary again. I couldn’t bear to go on feeling so lost.

Monday evening, June 16, 1902

We all went to the church for Father’s funeral, all but Davy. He stayed next door with Mrs. Scott.

People kept telling us what a fine man our father was. I never knew what to answer. He took care of us, of course, but I don’t think he enjoyed us. This sounds crazy, but he didn’t know how to play. I wonder if Olivia remembers sitting on his lap when she was little, or being hugged by him. She was their first child. When she was born, he was still young and maybe happy to be the father of such a beautiful baby girl. I still cannot imagine him playing with her. I know I don’t have any such memories.

Oh, Abby, forget it.

Tuesday, June 17, 1902

Billy Brigson was at the funeral. His hair was slicked down flat and he was wearing a suit and tie. He did not look like his usual self. I winked at him and he looked shocked. Father did like Billy. And Billy liked him too. I was thinking about this when some woman behind us said, “It’s strange how little the younger girl resembles the rest of the family. Is she adopted?”

Somebody told her to lower her voice and Mother gave my hand a comforting squeeze. But she did not need to. I know I look different, but I like my face. Mother would have told me if I were adopted.

The others all have straight fair hair. John’s is darker, Olivia’s pale gold. I have to admit it is beautiful. And Davy’s is almost as yellow as a baby chick. Their eyes are brown, but not the same shade. John’s are nearly black and Davy’s are tan. Olivia’s are golden brown, of course.

My eyes are very bright blue. And my hair is an ordinary brown. It is curly on damp days. I have lots of freckles in summer. Long ago, when I was small, Grandpa told me he enjoyed looking at me because my funny face made him smile. It sounds insulting, but it wasn’t. I felt as though he had given me a present.

Tonight, after supper, I was so sick of being sad that I took my skipping rope down the lane. I skipped to one hundred and fifteen without missing a step. I chanted a skipping rhyme and felt much better when I came home. And I felt wonderfully wicked.

I whistled too, very softly. Father forbade Olivia and me to whistle. “Whistling girls and crowing hens, Always come to bad ends,” he would bark at me if he heard me. Olivia stopped doing it, but I like it. Also, I do it much better than either she or John. So I can’t resist.

Olivia saw me skipping and looked scandalized, but I did not care. I wanted to tell her to try it herself.

Wednesday afternoon, June 18, 1902

I am writing while Davy naps. I am grateful to him. He sleeps a lot, which gives me an excuse for escaping upstairs. I can hardly believe how much I write. Downstairs there is always somebody wanting to sympathize. I’ve had all the sympathy I can stand. Maybe, when Davy wakes up, I’ll take him and go visit Miss Radcliffe again. It would be a break from this house of grief and I could thank her for What Katy Did. I love it.

Later

I did take Davy to Miss Radcliffe’s and we had a lovely few minutes. But I knew I shouldn’t stay.

When we got home, Father’s lawyer came to see Mother. I believe there is more wrong than Father’s dying. Mr. Burroughs spent ages with her. He closed the parlour door firmly and kept his voice low. After he left, she did not come out for ages and, when she did, she looked so tired I almost cried like Olivia.

She went straight to the kitchen and began bringing food to the table.

John asked her what the man had wanted but she shook her head.

“Not now, John,” she said. “I cannot face another session about our problems. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Nearly twelve o’clock

After everyone had gone to bed, I could not sleep again. So I crept down to get myself a drink of milk. I saw Mother through the open kitchen door. She had her head buried in her crossed arms and she was weeping. I almost ran to hug her, but then I didn’t. She would not have wanted me to see her so distressed.

I forgot about getting milk and tiptoed away. When I was halfway up the stairs, a breeze blew in the landing window, bringing the sweet scent of roses. How can something be so lovely while everything else is terrible? There is so much about life that I do not understand.

Thursday, June 19, 1902

Today the minister took John to the hearing into Father’s accident. When John came home, he looked years older. They had brought in a verdict of “No negligence.” Mother had to explain this to us. It means that the company will not give Mother any money to help her pay the bills, because it was not their fault Father was killed that way.

But he did not make the scaffolding collapse. Billy told us that one of the supports had not been properly anchored. John wanted to ask whose fault it was then, but they did not let him speak.

None of the men looked at him, he told us. They said they were sorry and our father would be missed, but they never once looked him in the face. Mother asked Reverend Bricker what he thought of their decision.

“It is shameful, but I doubt you can get it changed,” he said. He thinks the men will keep to their story and claim that Father must have tripped and caused the accident himself. They fear they will lose their jobs if they name the guilty party.

“The Brigson boy says he saw what happened,” Reverend Bricker went on. “But nobody will accept the word of a child. I believe they plan to take up a collection to help you. But I doubt that anybody will officially admit responsibility. And once they give you whatever is offered, there won’t be any more. We’ll ask the congregation to help, but I fear that won’t amount to much.”

John lost his temper then and started pacing back and forth like a wild beast and shaking his fist in the air. But Mother told him it would do no good. She looked pale and weary, and the minister left after making a short prayer. I shut my eyes and tried to listen to him, but Reverend Bricker was muttering the words and hurrying. I could not take it in.

Later

I just remembered something puzzling that happened while all the people were here after the funeral. One of the ladies asked Mother if we had family we could turn to for support and Mother said, “Yes.” I was amazed. I wanted to ask her who, but I couldn’t. The lady would have expected me to know. What did Mother mean? I remember Grandpa, but he died when I was little. I had never heard of any other relations. I have kept meaning to ask, but there were always so many people around watching us and listening in when we talked to each other.

This afternoon, after we had finished eating, Mother told us what the lawyer had said. It turns out that Father was in debt when he died and left us next to no money. He was earning, of course, and had no idea he would not live into old age and pay back what he owed.

John stood up when she began and tramped up and down. It is hard to believe that Olivia is older than John — but then, she was only ten months old when he was born. But I suppose it’s because more is expected of him since he’s a boy.

I’m too tired to go on now. It was so surprising and so complicated after that. But I will tell it all tomorrow.

Bedtime

I don’t want to have to tell all of what came next, but I’ll try. It was so startling.

When John paced about, Mother watched him and I could see she felt sorry for him. But she was impatient too.

He wheeled to face her when she paused. “What did he spend it on?” he demanded, glaring at her, as though she, not Father, had wasted the money.

Mother kept her voice level and said that Father made investments which he thought would bring him a fortune, and he loaned money to friends in trouble. “Never mind, John,” she said. “That is past and it won’t help us to dwell on it. Right now we must make plans for the future.”

“What future? How can we make plans with no money?” John shouted at her.

Mother drew in a deep breath, smiled at him and calmly announced that she had written to her brother Martin for help.

John sank down in the nearest chair and stared at her, open-mouthed. Olivia and I were just as stunned. None of us had ever heard of any uncle.

“You don’t have a brother,” John said uncertainly.

“Oh yes I do,” she replied. It turns out that her brother’s name is Martin Hill and he’s eleven years older. He and his wife, Aunt Susan, have recently begun running a hotel in a coal mining town in the Rocky Mountains. Mother says she asked Uncle Martin if they could use some help. She told him we were good at washing dishes and peeling potatoes and sweeping floors and even chopping wood. “If he would welcome us, how would you all feel about packing up and moving west?” she asked us. She was grinning! I suppose we must have looked pretty funny.

We gaped at her. Nobody spoke. We were too flabbergasted. Ten minutes before, we had not known we had an uncle. Now she was not only telling us he existed, but that he had a wife and son. What’s more, she was suggesting we leave Montreal and go to live with these people we had never known existed.

We could not believe what she was saying. If this man was really our uncle, why had she kept him a secret?

She took a deep breath and began to explain. She said she could understand why we thought she must be joking, since she had never spoken to any of us about him. Our father and our uncle quarrelled years ago, and Father insisted that Uncle Martin stay out of our lives. “Sam tried to make me promise not to write to him,” Mother said, and she let Father think that she stopped, but she and Uncle Martin kept in touch.

“What did they fight about?” John asked.

She did not answer right away. But finally she said that Uncle Martin sent her money when he knew we were hard up. Our father was insulted. He said we did not need charity and made Mother return the money. When Uncle Martin wrote to try to persuade him to take the help, Father sent the letter back without opening it. “It was nonsensical,” Mother finished, “but your father was a stubborn man and never one to back down.”

The three of us were dumbfounded by the story. Finally John, sounding unsure, asked what our uncle was like.

Mother gazed out the window and thought about her answer. Then she smiled. “When I was a child, I worshipped him,” she said softly. “Our parents didn’t believe in giving children sweets, but when Martin began earning, he would buy me a bag of humbugs or peppermints and slip them to me in secret.”

“And he runs a hotel?” Olivia asked.

“Yes. As I said, he and Susan have just bought a hotel in a mining town in the North-West Territories. They hope to get established while the town is new. It has been a struggle, I believe, and I think they might be grateful for our help.”

Mother said all this in a matter-of-fact voice, as though she had no idea how her words shocked us. I realized later that this was because she had had time to think the idea over, while we had not. We were totally stunned. We still are. Move to the North-West Territories! It sounds like a pipe dream. To me, the Rocky Mountains are as far away as the moon.

John asked if our uncle was rich.

I think Mother counted to ten before she answered. Her lips tightened and her knuckles turned white.

Then she said he wasn’t, but that there is always a lot of work to do in a hotel, especially one that has just been built a year ago.

She decided to write Uncle Martin after she learned, from Mr. Burroughs, that Father had left us in such desperate straits. Clearly, she had had no idea how Father had left things. But she did think her brother would come to our rescue.

Olivia had perked up by then. The two of us were full of questions, but she asked hers outright.

“How old is their son?” she asked.

Mother smiled at her. I think she was relieved to change the subject.

“He’s about your age,” she said. “His name is Mark. They just have the one boy.”

I was not thinking about Mark. I was trying to imagine us moving so many miles away when John’s next words hit me like a punch in the stomach.

I can’t go on about it, not now. But I’ll be back.

Friday, June 20, 1902

I still can’t believe what John said.

“You do realize we cannot take Davy with us if we go,” he declared.

I gasped. I could not believe my ears. Caring for Davy on such a long train journey would be hard, of course. But how could John think of leaving him behind?

I saw my shock mirrored on Mother’s face. She stared at John as though he had turned green or grown horns.

He flushed and glared back but he did not back down. “What help could he be in a hotel? Face it, Mother. He can’t do a thing, not even look after himself.”

Mother’s face changed. The look she gave him made me shiver. Finally she said, “I might leave you, John. You are sixteen and surely could find a way to support yourself. Davy, however, is utterly dependent upon us.”

John began to argue. He was trying to shout her down but she kept speaking, giving him no chance to interrupt.

“Before you suggest I put your brother into an asylum, I will take you to visit one. Afterwards, when you have seen what you are talking about, we can discuss it again.”

John’s face grew dark. When he swung to face her, he stuttered. “But … but, Mother,” he began, “I am sure, if Uncle Martin and Aunt Susan knew …”

“They do know,” Mother snapped. “I have told them about him. I told them about all of you. We have not written frequently, but we did keep in touch.”

This time, nobody spoke while she caught her breath. Then she added, “When we get an answer to my letter, we’ll talk again. Now I am going to bed.”

And, without another word, she went.

After a break to rest my hand

I was glad to escape to my room, where I can lie and think over everything.

Mostly I thought about Davy. He did not grow like an ordinary baby, but he did not die the way the doctor thought he might. One day, I overheard one of the ladies at church tell another that she thought his dying would have been a blessing.

When I told Mother, she said, “Consider where it comes from and ignore it.”

But her eyes flashed.

Davy himself IS a blessing, even though he does need a lot of care. Not that long ago, Father said we should not have kept him because he would soon become too heavy for me to carry. He kept harping on the subject of Davy’s future as though it were a sore tooth he had to keep poking

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Mother would tell him. I think she cannot imagine Davy becoming a man. He gets the croup often and has almost died twice already.

We cannot go to Uncle Martin’s without him. But I need not fuss because I know Mother will not let it happen, whatever John says.

Bedtime

No letter today. These days seem longer than any I have lived through before. I keep wanting to go and move the hands of the clock ahead.

I can tell that Olivia feels the same way. She plays the piano by the hour. This sometimes helps, to tell the truth. If only she did not always play such mournful pieces. Yesterday, I told her to play “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey,” and she looked at me as though I had spat on the Bible.

John is never home, or if he is, he’s studying for his exams.

To make matters worse, Davy was sick today. He choked and then threw up. But we got through it.

Saturday, June 21, 1902

We had company all day. Cousins of Father’s I’d never met before. I don’t think I’d ever heard of them. Second cousins once removed or some such thing. Mother was polite but I could tell she did not like them any more than I did. I am sure they just came to see how things stood.

Once they were out the door, I muttered, “Nosy Parkers.”

Mother looked at me. “Abby, that is rude,” she said. “It is true, mind you, but it is also rude.”

Her eyes were laughing so I knew she was not really angry.

Sunday, June 22, 1902

Mother has started cleaning the house with a vengeance. She has totally given up resting on the Sabbath. She is getting ready to leave. Yet this seems impossible. We have lived here as far back as I can remember. Even if this house is rented, it feels like ours.

This morning, I heard Mother laughing and went to see what the joke was. She had found a diary she wrote when she was fifteen. She let me take it away to read. It is funny, but it is also dull. There is so much about the weather and what they have for dinner. It is not at all like this notebook. I am determined not to write such dull stuff. I have nothing to say about the weather! Her sentences are too short and chopped up. Here’s a typical day.

Went to school. Had stew for supper. Very cold out. Rained in afternoon. I hate helping with housework. It is never finished.

I should not say so, but I am a better writer than Mother was. Why does it matter that it rained? I agree with the bit about housework though.

Monday, June 23, 1902

Uncle Martin sent us a telegram to say we were all welcome and a letter would follow. I was the one who answered the door and there stood the boy with the telegram in his hand. I did not know what to do for a minute. I don’t ever remember a telegram coming to us before. It was so good of Uncle Martin to let us know that way.

Mother read it aloud. It said: COME ONE, COME ALL. WE HAVE ROOM AND NEED HELP. LETTER FOLLOWING. LOTS OF LOVE, MARTIN.

Her eyes shone. I did not guess quite how anxious she had been until I saw how relieved she was. I hope the letter does not take a long time coming. We are full of questions.

Tuesday, June 24, 1902

Everything is at sixes and sevens. Mother is carrying on with more housecleaning. Not just dusting, but scrubbing, moving every stick of furniture, washing curtains and bedding and whatever else is in the linen closet. Even walls! I can’t see why it matters. I am too tired to write about it.

Davy has to be kept out of trouble while I work on other tasks. I stop still, every so often, trying to convince myself that my world is soon going to change utterly! I can’t make it feel real.

I’ll write again when Uncle Martin’s letter arrives.

Thursday, June 26, 1902

Mother told us today that we will be leaving on July 14. She has the tickets. And she is getting ready to sell most of our things. It is called an auction of household goods and chattels. I’ve never heard of a chattel before.

Friday, June 27, 1902

I am exhausted! I keep waiting for something exciting to put in here, but nothing is exciting these days. I keep wanting to cry. My hands are all rough from scrubbing with lye soap. Mother says to try using more elbow grease. I know what she means, but I don’t like to be told to use it when I am doing my best already. I have broken fingernails and had to get Mother to pick out lots of splinters. Ugh!!

If Father were here, he’d make us come to sit and be lectured. I long to sit down and fold my hands in my lap and get a break from housecleaning. I don’t really want to be scolded, but it would be worth it to be allowed to sit down. I would only need to whistle to bring on a scolding.

I wish I had not written that bit about Father. It is such a muddle inside me. I will be happy when this part of my life is behind me and the Western Adventure has begun. Surely we won’t keep thinking about Father in a place where we have never seen him.

Sunday, June 29, 1902

The letter from Uncle Martin came in Friday’s mail. It’s from Frank, in the District of Alberta. It is pages long.

Uncle Martin says that Olivia can be a big help in the hotel, and Mother will be able to give a hand with the cooking. They sometimes have over twenty people for a meal, and it takes a lot of work.

It is hard to imagine cooking dinner for so many. There must be towering stacks of dishes to do. Olivia and I both gasped and, for once, when our eyes met, our thoughts were identical.

He told us that Frank is less than two years old and yet has over six hundred inhabitants, as if that were a lot. I can’t remember right now how many people live here in Montreal, but it is a lot more than six hundred.

Mother says Frank is near the Crowsnest Pass, which is one of the main routes through the Rocky Mountains. That sounds exciting. I wonder if it is anything like my picture of it.

Uncle Martin said that Davy and I are welcome too. I can care for Davy and sometimes help with the other work. Then he said John will also be welcome. There is plenty for a stout lad to put his hand to. Those were his exact words.

John looked relieved but also put out. Maybe he didn’t like being called a stout lad. It does sound a bit strange.

Mother folded up the letter and then told us she had checked the amount we had in the bank. There’s enough to cover our expenses until we go, if we are careful. She took a deep breath and said a few of Father’s friends paid back what they owed, so some of his debts are paid now. She has arranged to auction off most of our belongings to cover the rest. She thinks the dining room furniture and the piano will bring a good price.

Olivia screamed, “You cannot sell the piano. Father bought it for me. It’s mine!”

I admit that the idea of selling the piano shocked me too, but Mother said Olivia must just hope there would be a piano she could play where we are going. She added that we would have to sell John’s telescope too, and he was not making a fuss about that.

Olivia did not care tuppence about that telescope. To tell the truth, I don’t think John treasures it himself. Father got it for him when he was twelve or so but it has never worked that well. John was excited about it when he got it, but he hasn’t set it up for ages.

Olivia kept raging until John told her to be still. She glared at him but she did hush up. When he orders us around, he sounds like Father.

When she was quiet, he turned and asked Mother if she had found out what we could get for the ring.

I did not know what he meant, but Mother did.

“You know that ring is Abby’s, John,” she said, staring at his angry face. “What it’s worth is not your concern.”

I knew nothing of any ring which belonged to me. Mother looked tired enough to drop. She patted my hand.

“I will explain this to you one of these days, Abby. Now is not the time,” she said.

“If it is something that we could sell,” I broke in, “something you could get some money for —”

“No,” Mother snapped, before John or Olivia could say a word. “Leave it be.”

Then she marched out to the kitchen and started packing dishes we never use. I felt I might try raging too, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I ran upstairs and slammed my bedroom door. Then Davy started to wail and I had to run back down.

I am not used to growing angry at Mother. It was horrible.

Monday, June 30, 1902

Davy is fed and now he’s asleep again. But that is not what I want to write about.

After supper, when I was sorting through some old books, John came down the hall past Olivia and me and went into the parlour where Mother was writing letters. I watched and listened, hoping I would find out more about that ring or Uncle Martin’s family.

Mother looked up and waited for him to join her. Then she said quietly, “You do wish to come west with us, John, or am I wrong?”

Instead of answering her, he said in a cold voice, “You told them about Davy. Do they also know about Abby?”

Mother did not answer. She just got up and closed the door with a bang. As it swung shut, I heard her say, “For pity’s sake, boy, give this up.”

What did John mean? Was this more about the mysterious ring? I wanted to demand an explanation, but I couldn’t, not after the way she closed the door.

I slipped outside and stood by the open window, hoping to hear something more. I only caught one phrase before Olivia came after me. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the house without saying a word. I was furious, but I knew Mother would have hated me eavesdropping. All I caught was the phrase “no blood relation.”

“You leave me be,” I hissed at Olivia.

“Then don’t snoop,” she shot back.

I stared at her. I wanted to ask if she knew what they were talking about. But she wouldn’t tell me if she did. And she doesn’t. I could tell by the look in her eyes. She was as bewildered as I. I turned my back on her and went to fetch Davy. When I came back, I put him down on the carpet.

Olivia looked at him as though he were dirt under her shoe. “Do take him away, Abby,” she said. “Mrs. Chambers said she might drop by after Prayer Meeting for a cup of tea with Mother. He shouldn’t be here. Just look at him!”

I looked. He was drooling a little, but he cannot help that. His eyes slant a bit and they are small. I had brushed his hair earlier, but it had grown a bit tousled. I wiped his mouth off with his bib and smoothed his hair. His face is a bit flat, I guess, but what is wrong with that? He looks fine to me. But not to my sister. When she looks at him, she sees a different boy.

So I lugged him out to the kitchen and plunked him down in the tin tub for his bath. He shrieked with joy. Holding onto him is not easy, but it is fun to watch him getting so excited.

Olivia is honest, at least. She does not pretend to love him. Maybe it is because of her being with Mother when she had such a hard time bringing him into the world. But I was there too and, next to Mother, I love him better than anyone.