Looking at the Moon (11 page)

Norah nodded. At least Aunt Catherine was once again confiding in her like an equal.

“I don't think Andrew's been very happy lately either,” mused Aunt Catherine. “Poor lad. I'm so very fond of him and I can't abide the idea of him going off to this monstrous war.”

Norah's skin prickled with alertness. “But that won't be for a few years, not until he finishes university,” she said. “Maybe the war will be over by then.”

“Let's hope so. If it isn't, he's going to be doing something that's against his nature—I feel sorry for boys like him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he's not cut out to be a soldier. They all want him to be like the other men in the family—like Hugh. Now Hugh was a dear, but he was a completely different sort from Andrew.”

Norah was puzzled. “But he
must
want to be a soldier. He
should
join the war.” She shuddered. “Not until he has to, of course.”

“Should he?” Aunt Catherine's lined face looked tired. “I lost a father, a brother and a nephew—Hugh—in wars, Norah. It's a wicked waste.”

“But we have to beat Hitler!”

“I don't know how to answer that, Norah. Yes, we have to beat him. But what a price we're paying! Not just our side—think of what the German people are enduring. We're bombing them just as heavily as they've been bombing Britain.” She broke off a piece of wool angrily. “It's all so
senseless
! Do you know what we called the
last
war? ‘The war to end all wars.'
Huh!
”

Then she sighed. “Poor Andrew. He was born at the wrong time. Let's just hope your little brother will be luckier.”

Norah couldn't bear to think of Gavin fighting in a war. But if he did, he'd be doing it because he had no choice. Like Andrew. Surely Aunt Catherine was wrong. Andrew
must
want to fight Hitler. If he didn't, he'd be a coward—wouldn't he?

“I shouldn't burden you with all these sombre thoughts, Norah. Are you sure there's nothing troubling you?” Aunt Catherine peered at her and Norah looked away. “Lately you haven't seemed yourself.”

“I'm all right,” mumbled Norah. It was tempting to tell Aunt Catherine about her feelings for Andrew, but after all she
was
an Elder. And she wouldn't understand,
anyway. She'd never married and she'd probably never even been in love.

“Ah, well,” said Aunt Catherine, pulling out her knitting. “It's just being thirteen.
I'd
never want to be thirteen again—a miserable, muddled age.”

Surprisingly, this cheered Norah. She wouldn't always
be
thirteen, she thought suddenly—there was a light at the end of the tunnel. One day she'd be eighty-three and looking back on herself as calmly as Aunt Catherine was doing. But the thought of being as old as Aunt Catherine was too slippery to hang on to.

T
HAT EVENING
the air outside still crackled with impending fury. Inside, the atmosphere was the same: a cloud of discord hung over the family.

During the children's dinner, Norah sat as far away from Clare as she could and tried not to look at her. Janet, on the other hand, glared at her cousin all through the meal. Clare made spiteful comments to her brothers for getting her into trouble. After both meals were over, the family sat woodenly in the living room, someone occasionally making a stiff remark about the weather.

Aunt Mar and Aunt Dorothy were glaring at each other as much as their daughters. “Why aren't you girls doing your knitting?” complained Aunt Dorothy, holding up a long grey sock to measure it. “I thought you were each going to make a scarf for a soldier this summer. Don't forget, not everyone leads the comfortable life you do. There's a war on, you know.”

“There's a war on, moron,” whispered Clare.

“Don't you be rude to my mother!” Janet hissed back.

Aunt Catherine suggested a game of rummy and four of the Elders gathered around a table. For a while the only sound was the ripple and snap of cards being shuffled.

“A run of five!” gloated Uncle Reg. “Your turn, Florence.”

“For
sigh
thia,” said Aunt Florence quietly.

“For
sith
ia!” retorted her sister.

“It was named after a Mr. Forsythe—therefore it is pronounced the same way as his name,” sniffed Aunt Florence.

Aunt Bea didn't even look up from her cards as she muttered, “Madge Allwood, who was the best gardener in Montreal,
always
said ‘Forsithia.'”

“Really, Bea.” Aunt Florence threw down her cards in disgust. “If you won't see reason I refuse to go on playing.”

“Now what on earth does how a flower's name is pronounced have to do with a game of cards?” Uncle Reg asked.

Aunt Florence bridled. “It's not a flower, it's a shrub. And what do
you
know about gardening, Reg? It's not your quarrel—kindly stay out of it.”

“I don't see why there has to be a quarrel at all,” said Andrew quietly, looking up from his book.

Norah, hiding behind
her
book, was surprised to see the aunts look ashamed.

“You're perfectly right, Andrew,” said Aunt Florence briskly. “Let's talk about
you
.” She gazed at him fondly.
“It's going to be such a treat to have you in Toronto this year. I do wish you'd live with us, but I know you boys need your freedom. What are you taking in first term?”

As Andrew recited the names of his engineering courses Norah wriggled with excitement. She had forgotten that Andrew would be living in the same city. Surely he'd come over for meals.

“Hugh would have liked to take engineering,” sighed Aunt Florence. “You are so much like him, my dear. My poor Hugh …”

Aunt Bea cut in abruptly. “How's your friend Jack doing, Andrew? What mischief you two boys both got up to! You used to spend the whole summer pretending you were savages and smearing yourselves with paint—without any clothes on, if I remember!” She giggled. “Do you hear from him much?”

“I've had a few letters,” said Andrew guardedly. “And of course the Mitchells hear from him. He's all right—he hasn't seen much action yet.”

“It must make you want to be in on it, when your best friend is,” said Uncle Barclay. “Too bad he's older than you—you could have joined up together.”

“But Andrew is going to join the army, not the air force,” said Aunt Florence proudly. “All the Drummonds and Ogilvies have been army men. You're going to try to get into Hugh's old regiment, aren't you, dear? He would have been so proud of you.”

“Florence!” Everyone froze at the hysterical edge in Aunt Bea's voice. “I've always wanted to say this and now
I'm going to. You dwell too much on that sainted son of yours. He's gone—why can't you accept it? No one ever talks about
my
son, and he's alive and prospering. I am tired of always hearing about perfect Hugh, and I'm sure Andrew is as well.”

In the shocked silence the thunder rolled more ominously. Gerald ducked his head at his mother's words. Aunt Florence drew herself upright, took a deep breath and began to explode just as the storm did.

“How
dare
you …” she began.

CRA-AAA-CK! Sally screamed and ran to her mother as the thunder crashed and the clouds emptied onto the roof with a deafening rattle.

Aunt Anne hustled out all the younger children. The older cousins exchanged looks and fled as well. They huddled on the verandah and watched the teeming rain, listening to Aunt Florence's rage compete with the storm. Aunt Bea, Uncle Reg and Aunt Mar's voices soon joined the fray.

“What's
wrong
with this family?” Flo's face was angry and pale. “They're so petty! Don't they realize there are more important things to worry about?”

“I wish they'd stop,” said Janet, close to tears. “I hate it when they go on like this.”

Flo put her arm around her sister. “Let's just forget about them.
We'll
never be like that. Come on—we'll run to the boathouse and I'll teach you all how to play bridge. Do you want to come, Andrew?”

Andrew had been staring into the storm silently, the
flashes of lightning illuminating his twitching face. “Thanks, Flo, but I think I'll have an early night.” He ran off into the rain.

“Coming, Norah?” The prospect of getting soaked made Janet giggle.

“I think I'll just stay on the verandah for a while.” She watched the others dash shrieking down the steps.

Norah went along the verandah to the side door. She slipped into the hall off the kitchen and found what she was looking for—a long rubber raincoat. While she was slithering into it she spied Hanny washing the dishes with a grim look on her face. Her husband sat at the table, pulling on his pipe. They must be able to hear everything that was being shouted in the living room.

The coat came down to her feet and its sleeves flopped below her hands, but at least it would keep her dry. Pulling the hood over her head, she ventured into the storm.

The rain streamed off her as she groped her way down the hill to Andrew's cabin. The clammy coat made her perspire, but her bare feet were cold against the wet rocks.

Norah circled the cabin restlessly, longing to knock on Andrew's door and have another talk. Then she could
tell
him. But she didn't have the nerve. The hood of the coat blocked her vision; she flung it back and let the driving rain sluice over her head. Leaning against the wall underneath Andrew's window, she tipped back her head and caught the heavy drops in her mouth.

Finally the rain settled into a steady shower and the thunder and lightening grew fainter. Then Norah heard
another sound. The sound of someone crying—crying with such desperate gulps that Norah trembled.

It was Andrew—who else could it be? Through his open window she listened to his wrenching sobs, his deep voice gasping for air.

The only time Norah had seen a man cry was when her father had said goodbye to her and Gavin in England. That had been a few controlled tears. This was as violent as the storm had been.

She took a chance and heaved herself up by the windowsill to look into the room. Her aching arms would just let her up for a second. It was long enough to glimpse Andrew sprawled on the couch, his head in his arms and his shoulders shuddering.

Norah slid out of the heavy coat, rolled it up into a ball under her arm and sped away into the night. When she reached the dock she peeled off the rest of her wet clothes and jumped into the lake. The water tingled against her bare skin and her body felt as liquid as the lake and the rain.

Janet poked out her head. “Norah's skinny-dipping!”

In an instant she and Flo and Clare had joined her in the black lake. They whooped and splashed and Norah tried to drown the shock of Andrew's misery.

10

A Visitor

A
ll the next day the cleansing rain fell on the island. When Norah went up to breakfast, Aunt Dorothy and Aunt Mar were setting the children's table together, singing “Pack Up Your Troubles” and tittering like girls. The rest of the Elders, looking as shamefaced as children who had misbehaved, pussyfooted around each other with careful politeness.

“Aunt Florence told me never to mention that shrub word again,” said Gavin solemnly, as he joined Norah on the verandah. “She says when we get back to the city she'll check with the university and then she'll know she's right—but she wants the arguing to stop.”

Norah shrugged as she swung in the glider.

“Are you in a bad mood?” Gavin asked her. Bosley galloped up the stairs and shook a fountain over both of them.

She shrugged again, but because it was Gavin, managed a small smile.

“Would you like to have Creature for a while?” Gavin pulled the small stuffed elephant out of his raincoat
pocket and handed him over.

Norah took Creature gingerly. His wool body was grimy and one ear was missing. He stank.

“Thanks, Gavin. Why does he smell so awful?”

“He got into the fish guts when we were cleaning some bass.”

“Pee-yew! Why don't you wash him?”

“No!” said Gavin with alarm. “Haney says that too, but he might come apart—he almost did the last time he had a bath. You can keep him until tonight. I have to go now, we're having an important meeting. Come on, Boz!” He and the dog ran off to join the other members of the Fearless Four.

Norah set Creature on the verandah railing to air out. Everyone but her was feeling better. But what about Andrew? He hadn't appeared yet, and she was too tired to go check on him. Tired and sluggish, as if she'd been awake all night, even though she'd fallen asleep instantly after their swim. And her stomach felt bloated. Maybe she should go in and ask Hanny for some Castoria, but the thought of that disgusting liquid made her want to gag.

Why had Andrew been crying? Norah swung her chair violently. Was it because the family had been comparing him to Hugh? But he must be used to that. It could have been because of what he had told her—that he would rather be an actor than an engineer. She clenched her fists—they should let him do what he wanted.

Or perhaps he was crying because he didn't want to be in the war. Maybe Aunt Catherine was right and Andrew
didn't want to fight. Maybe he
was
afraid.

Norah herself was frightened of the war. Every so often she had a terrible nightmare that her family's house was being bombed to rubble. In the daytime it was easy to reassure herself. She and Gavin had been evacuated overseas to get away from bombs and the threat of an invasion, but now both dangers were more remote. She knew from school and the news that Hitler no longer threatened to invade Britain, and the terrible bombing it had received when she'd first lived in Canada had let up considerably. But her night-time self didn't seem to have absorbed that yet.