The Sky is Falling (11 page)

Five A stared at Norah and Dulcie as if the multitude of eyes were one big eye.

Miss Liers handed them each some pencils and note-books, continuing to talk in a strained, cold voice. Why did she resent them? Norah wondered, lifting up the lid of her desk to hide from all those eyes. She found out at once.

“Dulcie and Norah are extremely lucky,” Miss Liers was saying. “
All
British evacuees are lucky that Canada
has invited them here for the duration. But we mustn't forget that there are other children in Europe who aren't so lucky. Little Belgian and Dutch and Jewish children whose circumstances are far graver than British children's. Let us hope that our government will act to bring those children over to safety as well.”

She paused expectantly and the class droned, “Yes, Miss Liers.” But no one was listening. They were all peeking at the two new girls.

Norah bent her head over her arithmetic book as the interrupted lesson continued. It wasn't her fault she had been sent to Canada instead of a European child. Perhaps she could tell Miss Liers sometime that she would have been happy if one could have been evacuated in her place.

She discovered quickly that the problems were ones she had done last year. Beside her, Dulcie gave a small sigh of relief. Arithmetic had been her weakest subject.

Miss Liers didn't call on either of them. When some of the pupils went to the blackboard to write down their answers, Norah felt safe enough to raise her head and examine the room.

It was as large as their whole school in Ringden. The five rows of desks had wide spaces between them and at one end there was a raised platform with a piano on it. The walls were hung with rolled-up maps and a picture of the Royal Family, just like at home. Norah's desk was beside high windows; she could see out to the houses across the street.

Next she looked at the pupils. Everyone was too busy concentrating to return her stare. They didn't
seem
any
different from English children, but there were so many of them. In Ringden there had been only thirty-two children divided into two age groups. Here there were—she counted quickly—twenty-seven, including her and Dulcie, and everyone seemed to be the same age. If there were two rooms for each of the eight grades, there were over five hundred children in the school!

A loud bell interrupted Norah's private arithmetic. She looked around to see what they were supposed to do next. All the children put down their pencils and sat up alertly.

“Before you go out for recess, I want two volunteers to look after our war guests,” said Miss Liers.

All the girls shot up their arms. One large, smartalecky boy with red hair waved his wildly, while his friends hooted and cheered.

“That will do, Charlie!” There was instant silence; Miss Liers commanded respect.

“Babs Miller will look after Dulcie, and Ernestine Gagnon, Norah. Show them where to go and what to do for the next few days. Make them feel at home here.”

Babs Miller started asking Dulcie eager questions as soon as they were allowed to talk. Ernestine looked longingly after Dulcie as they left the room, as if she had wanted her instead of Norah. She was a very pretty girl with glossy brown curls held back with a huge bow.

Norah was desperate for a toilet. “Where's the lav?” she asked, as she and Ernestine started out to the playground.

“The lav? What's that?”

Oh, help—what would they call it? At the Ogilvies' they said “bathroom” but surely there weren't any rooms with baths in them at school.

“The WC,” Norah tried next.

“The WC? Are you asking riddles or something?” Ernestine looked annoyed, as they stood inside the door and everyone surged past.

“The—the
toilet
!” burst out Norah, flushing with embarrassment.

“Oh, the
washroom
—why didn't you say so? Follow me.” Looking even angrier, Ernestine led her to a large room with a long row of cubicles in the basement. Norah had to stay there awhile. By the time Ernestine had waited for her and taken her out to the playground, recess was almost over.

The boys and girls seemed to have separate play areas. Ernestine and Norah went up to the grade five girls, all standing around Dulcie in an eager crowd.

“How long did it take you to get over?”

“What was it like on the ship?”

Dulcie beamed at all this unusual attention. “The ship was
scary,
” she said importantly. “Some other girls and I started a club to keep up our courage.”

“I love your dress, Dulcie,” said Ernestine, pushing past Norah and forgetting her.

Norah assessed the situation quickly. This would never do—Dulcie was the one who was supposed to be unpopular! And she wasn't describing any of the interesting parts. Norah opened her mouth to tell someone about
the German plane, but another bell clanged and they all swept past her to line up at the girls' entrance.

Very well, then, she thought angrily. If they were going to like Goosey better than her, she would not tell them anything. “You come from the same village as Dulcie, don't you?” asked the girl in front of her. Norah mumbled “Mmmm,” and looked the other way.

For the rest of the morning Norah returned any friendly looks she received with proud reserve. She glanced at the picture of Princess Margaret Rose, standing regally in her Coronation robe beside her sister and parents. Norah pretended she was a princess as well, too elevated to mix with Canadian children

During English, Miss Liers read them a poem called “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” Norah listened intently. It was the first poem she'd ever liked, about the kind of noble deed the Skywatchers would do. Miss Liers asked her to read the first verse again. Norah stood up and recited it in a fierce, animated voice:

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts
undrew;

“Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

At the last word Charlie gaffawed, until Miss Liers's sharp glance silenced him. “Good, Norah!” she said in a surprised tone, as if her admiration had got in the way of her resentment. “I wish the rest of you could read with such expression.”

The rest of them, of course, looked sulky and some of them scowled at Norah. When Dulcie read the next verse in a halting monotone and Miss Liers corrected her, the class smiled in friendly sympathy.

“H
OW WAS IT
?” Aunt Mary asked her anxiously, when Norah came out at lunchtime. “Is it very different from your old school?”

“It's bigger,” was all Norah replied.

Hanny served her lunch all alone at the polished table. Aunt Mary had to go to a Red Cross meeting.

“Oh, Norah,” she said on her way out. “Someone phoned to tell us you are allowed to send home a free cable each month—but you have to select from prewritten messages. The man read them out to me and the most suitable seemed to be ‘Now in school and liking it.' Mother agreed that they would send that message to your parents for this month from you and Gavin—isn't that nice? It will get there before any letters. Can you find your way back to school by yourself?” When Norah nodded, she hurried out the door.

Aunt Florence didn't notice her leave for school again; she was upstairs feeding Gavin. “The doctor's been and
it's a bad cold,” said Hanny. “He's to stay in bed for a week, poor child.”

Norah thought he was lucky. And she was glad she didn't have Gavin to worry about at school—taking care of herself was going to be difficult enough.

13

Misery Upon Misery

F
or the rest of the week Dulcie became more and more popular and Norah grew more and more aloof. She pretended she didn't care if no one spoke to her and assumed a cold, proud expression if anyone tried. Ernestine abandoned her. “What a snob,” Norah heard her whisper to the others.

It was a relief not to have to go to school on the weekend, but Norah had a hard time finding something to do. Gavin was still in bed, cosseted with tempting food, new toys and Aunt Florence's undivided attention. Aunt Mary seemed to be on a lot of committees.

At least there was Hanny. Norah spent most of Saturday in the kitchen, helping her cook. Hanny asked a lot of questions about England. She was very interested when Norah told her about rationing.

“Two ounces of tea a
week
? However did your mother manage? Why, sometimes I drink three pots a day! What did you do if you ran out?”

“We never did,” said Norah with surprise. “I suppose Mum was just careful.” For the first time she realized how
difficult it must have been. “Sometimes we were short of sugar and once Dad put one of my acid drops in his tea—because sweets aren't rationed yet. He said it tasted horrible.”

“Let's just hope we don't get rationing in Canada,” said Hanny, creaming butter and sugar together.

When she'd finished, Norah picked up the eggbeater and licked it. She tried to think of something to ask so they could stop talking about home. “Why hasn't Aunt Mary got a husband?”

Hanny sighed. “Poor Mary. Stifled all her life, then the one chance she had …” She pressed her lips closed.

“What?” prompted Norah.

“It's not for young ears. Let's just say she has a secret sorrow.” She wouldn't say any more about it.

A Secret Sorrow; it sounded like one of Muriel's romances. Dull Aunt Mary suddenly seemed more interesting.

The cake was put into the oven and Hanny made a pot of tea. “May I have some?” Norah asked hopefully.

“Do you like tea? Sure, I don't see why not.” She handed Norah a cup of half-milk, half-tea.

Norah curved her fingers around it and sipped. “
Thank
you!” Hanny smiled at her.

“What about
Mr.
Ogilvie?” Norah asked. “What was he like?”

“Ah, what a sad loss to this house when he went. A real gentleman, he was—I don't mean uppity, but a
gentle man,
always kind and thoughtful. He didn't speak much but when he did he said things you wanted to remember.
Mary was his favourite—she was absolutely stricken when he died. And so was
she,
of course.”

They both knew who “she” was. Norah couldn't imagine Aunt Florence married to a gentle, quiet man.

“She shut herself up for weeks,” continued Hanny. “I felt sorry for her, I must admit. First her son, then her husband—the two people she loved best. But that was fifteen years ago and she's long since recovered. She's a strong woman, Mrs. O is—too strong for her own good. She was softer when Mr. O and Hughie were alive. She needs someone to think about besides herself. Maybe having you two here will use up some of her energy.”

Norah shuddered—she didn't
want
Aunt Florence to think about her. “What about you?” she asked, to change the subject. “Did your husband die too?”

“Not him,” laughed Hanny. “He's a retired CPR brakeman. Spends his time making model railways now—one day I'll take you and Gavin home to see them. But goodness me, look at the time and I haven't even started the vegetables! You better go and join them in the den—they'll be wondering where you are.”

Norah put down her cup and slowly walked out of the comfortable, fragrant kitchen.

H
ANNY DIDN
'
T COME IN
until eleven on Sundays, so Norah couldn't escape to her. Instead she had to go to church with the Ogilvies. At least it passed the time. The service was almost the same as at home, with the Smiths sitting in the front pew as usual. Norah found out why
Aunt Florence and Aunt Mary turned off the radio whenever she was near: Reverend Milne talked about the terrible bombing London was experiencing. “It's all right, Norah,” whispered Aunt Mary, exchanging a worried look with her mother. “I'm sure the bombs weren't anywhere near where your family lives.”

Norah's throat felt so constricted that she had a hard time swallowing the huge Sunday lunch. Another dreary afternoon stretched ahead of her and once again she took refuge in the kitchen.

Aunt Florence came in to get some milk for Gavin. “You're in here far too much, Norah,” she scolded. “Hanny has work to do—you're getting in her way. And is that tea you're drinking? I'm surprised at you, Hanny—she's much too young for tea.”

Hanny pretended not to hear the last part of her sentence. “She doesn't bother me at all, Mrs. Ogilvie,” she said calmly. “In fact, she's a great help.”

“Norah isn't here to be a servant. What would her parents think if we had her doing housework? I want you to stay out of the kitchen, Norah—except for Sunday supper, of course.”

Norah opened her mouth to protest, but Aunt Florence silenced her. “No arguments, please. Can't you find anything to do? What about all the puzzles Mary put in your room? Have you done your homework?”

“We didn't have any,” said Norah sullenly. “And I've
done
all the puzzles.” If she was only to be allowed to talk to Hanny once a week, what
would
she do?

“I know,” said Aunt Florence briskly, as she whipped an egg into the glass of milk. “It's time you wrote home. You can do that
every
Sunday afternoon,” she added, looking relieved to have thought of a way to occupy Norah.

She settled her in the room behind the den with a pile of thick white monogrammed paper. Norah knelt on the chair drawn up to the oak desk, chewing the end of her pen. She had already written once from the university, but that was just a short note to tell them they'd arrived safely. Now she didn't know what to say. Mr. Ogilvie watched sympathetically from his gold frame.