Silver Rain (13 page)

“You knew about Scoop?” asked Elsie.

“I've seen that book of his a time or two. Caught glimpses, anyway. Looked like double Dutch to me. You told me about them spelling tests. It adds up one way or another.”

When Nan slurped her tea from the saucer, Elsie hardly cared. “But he never told me,” she said. “He could have.” Her breath was slower now, but her whole head felt full of hot tears.

“Course he couldn't,” said Nan.

Elsie blinked at her grandmother in surprise. She felt a tear dribble down her face. “Why?”

“He looks up to you.” Nan pointed a knobby finger at Elsie. “You're the smart one. The brave one. You're the survivor. Doesn't matter what happens to you, you will weather it.”

“He could have told me.”

“Should have, is my thinking,” said Nan. “And you'd have helped him, if he'd asked for it.”

“He should have asked, and I'd have helped him learn to write. And read.”

“But what he should have done and what he could do were different things, see?”

Elsie didn't see. “I don't understand why Scoop couldn't tell me. Why he faked it. We're friends. Best friends. Forever, he said.”

“We all have our pride,” said Nan. “Your friend no less than anyone else. Now. There's something
I
need to tell
you
.”

Elsie wiggled her toes into Dog Bob's fur. She had so much she wanted to tell Nan. What she'd seen at the dance marathon. What she thought she'd seen. But she couldn't be sure of anything, and she didn't know how to start. Or what to say. So now, feeling very tired, almost too tired to care, all she could say was, “What is it?”

Her grandmother reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the envelope Elsie had seen on the kitchen table. “That letter you've been nagging me about is from your father.”

“Let me see.” Elsie's hand whipped across the table.

Nan slapped her hand down on Elsie's before she could reach it. “It's not addressed to you, miss.”

“Is it to Mother?” asked Elsie.

“It is. And it's good news.”

“You said it was addressed to my mother.”

When Elsie stared at her, Nan looked away. “And so it is.” She adjusted the bun on the back on her head. “I explained the situation to Reverend Hampton. Explained that your mother was away, that we don't know how long she'll be gone. And with no answer to our letters…”

Now it was Elsie's turn to avoid her grandmother's gaze. The idea was getting bigger all the time, like a huge fist inside her. It
was
her mother at the dance hall. And if it really was her mother there, shuffling around the floor, Uncle Dannell was probably her dance partner. It wasn't her father at all.

Her mother and uncle hadn't been in New Westminster or Richmond. They had been right here. Just across town. But the bigger the idea got in her head, the more sure Elsie was that she could not tell anyone. Especially not Nan, who disapproved of the dances so much.

Elsie felt like she was being pulled apart. Wanting to know. Wanting to tell. Everything was so tangled up, she could not be sure about anything. If only she could climb under the table and curl up with Dog Bob. “You read the letter, didn't you?” she asked Nan.

“I did.”

Elsie knew what she wanted to ask. But she couldn't. She didn't dare. If she waited, Nan would tell her.

So Elsie studied her fingers and picked at the little scab on the finger she'd nicked while peeling spuds. She ran one nail through the groove along the edge of the table. She peered underneath to look at Dog Bob, who was wide-awake, blinking up at her as if he was listening and waiting. Just like she was waiting.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

N
an was silent for what seemed a long time. Almost forever. Then at last she opened the letter and read it through to herself again while Elsie studied the writing on the envelope lying face up on the table. Her fingers tingled with wanting to reach over and pick it up. To know for sure. But instead, she waited for Nan.

“Well, then.” Her grandmother's eyes were moist as she looked across the table. “I've reread this a few times these past few days,” she said. “Shame is a dreadful thing.” Her voice was so low, Elsie had to lean forward to hear her. “It stopped your father from coming home. Just like it stopped Ernest from telling you his secret. But you're not to blame your father. Hear?”

Elsie nodded. Even though she did not understand.

“Your father ran away. That's a cowardly thing. I won't deny that.”

“Where did he go?” asked Elsie. “Does he say?”

Nan tapped the letter that now lay open between them. “Boxcar tourist he was, for a while. Jumping the trains. Traveling between cities. He fetched up in Winnipeg. Met a jeweler, an old man who had gone blind, sudden like, just before your father got to town. This man met him and gave him a place to stay. Then, when he found out your father's trade, he put him to work. Isn't that something?” Nan didn't seem to need an answer. She pushed the letter toward Elsie. “He gave your father just what he needed. Work. The pride of real work. Go on, then. You might as well read it for yourself.”

But Elsie didn't need to read it now. She needed to know only one thing. She took a deep breath and asked, “Is he coming home?”

Nan got up and gathered the tea things. She set them carefully on a tray and carried it to the dresser. When she came back to the table, she said, “If your mother lets him.”

“Oh.” Her father would come home if her mother let him?

“But there's more,” said Nan. “The old gentleman has a brother in business here. Across town, mind. There will be work for your father there, if he wants it. So that's that.” Nan groaned as she sat down. “You have to be patient just a little longer. We'll give your mother the news as soon as she gets home from New Westminster. And this too.” She reached into the deep pocket of her apron. “Your father sent this to keep us going until he comes home.” She held up some folded bills, then tucked them back where they'd come from.

Elsie wanted to ask how much money Father had sent. But it was rude to ask. At least it might be enough so she would not have to pick dandelions at Bryant Park again.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. Was her mother in New Westminster with Daisy Newman? Or was she at the dance marathon? She had to find out so she could tell her about the money. And the letter from Father.

Surely, she would let him come home.

“You look like you've perked up,” said Nan.

“I feel a bit better.”

“What do you plan to do about your friend? He's a handful, that's for sure. But a person can't help but be fond of the boy. Be sad if that friendship went out the window.” Nan opened the door for Dog Bob and watched him trot outside. “That dog's back to his old self, looks like. And you, miss. Take that hat off. How many times.” She picked up her knitting.

Elsie twisted her hat between her hands as she sat in Father's chair and thought about secrets. She had to keep hers to herself, for now. Until she was sure. But she needed to talk to Scoop about his secret. At least check that he was still talking to her after the argy-bargy outside the dance hall.

Maybe he couldn't read. Or write. But she could. Maybe he'd never be a newspaperman.

But she was his friend. Friends helped each other. And she was bright. Nan said so. She would help Scoop learn to read and write.

But first she had to go back to the dance marathon, to be sure about what she had seen. And Scoop would want to be there when she found out the truth about who was shuffling around the floor at Taylor's. If her mother was there, she could tell her about Father. And the money. That would make her come home. And with Father home too, the family fractions could work out at last.

“How much did Father send?” Elsie asked her grandmother.

“Household finances are none of your business, young lady.”

“What did you get for the silverware, then?” Elsie picked at a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

“A dollar or two,” said Nan.

“Thank you for the money for the dance hall,” said Elsie.

“Mmm. A pleasure, I'm sure. You didn't tell me how you got on.”

“It was interesting,” Elsie told her. Nan seemed to have forgotten that she wanted to know nothing about it.

“That all?”

“We met a reporter. A real one from the
Columbian
. He's going to interview the Reverend for a story about dance marathons.”

“That would be the story your friend was after, eh? Beaten at his own game. That will be a blow for the young man.”

Maybe that's why Scoop had been so quiet in the dance hall, thought Elsie. And outside. She remembered his face as his book and notes scattered all over the sidewalk. It gave her a sad twinge to think of him without his big plans and schemes, especially now that people knew that his notes were all just nonsense.

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” said Elsie. She got up and moved to sit on the arm of Nan's chair, leaning against her warm shoulder. “Can I have a dime, please?”

Nan shifted her elbow as she turned her knitting. “What for?”

“I have to go back to the dance hall. Just this last time.” She waited for Nan to say something, but her needles were clicking away as fast as ever. “I want to help Scoop get his story. I want him to scoop the other reporter. He can dictate, and I'll write the story. Just like Miss Beeston does in class. Can I? Can you spare a dime?”

Nan studied the mud-colored sweater she was knitting. “You'd need two, I expect.”

“Yes, please. Oh, thank you, Nan.”

“I'm doing this for the boy.” Nan prodded Elsie gently with her knitting needle. “I can only imagine how he feels, shown up in front of his best friend. Be gentle with him, mind.” She put her knitting in her lap and looked at Elsie. “What are you waiting for, miss? I could be doing with you out of my hair while I get this floor cleaned.”

The floor looked just fine to Elsie.

“And take that nasty thing with you,” Nan said, pointing to Elsie's hat sitting in the middle of the table.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

A
flurry of Noises pushed past Elsie as she walked up Scoop's front path. The girls giggled and called out to each other in their high fluty voices. One of them
—
Elsie thought it was Lilly, but she could never be sure
—
said, “Hi, Elspeth,” to her as she danced down the street. They should know her name by now! There were so many of them, but only one of her.

Mrs. Styles nodded toward the stairs as she let Elsie in. “He's upstairs. I think he's under the weather again. You can go on up this once.”

Elsie could tell which was Scoop's room by the picture of an airplane on his door. Inside, she had to duck to avoid the paper planes hanging from the ceiling. “How many are there?” she asked.

“Thirty-seven. You should have knocked.” Scoop was lying on his back on his unmade bed, with his arms under his head. “What do you want?”

The only chair in the room was heaped with clothes and towels. An empty plate teetered on top. “Budge over so I can sit down,” said Elsie.

Scoop moved an inch. No more. “What do you want?” he repeated. Instead of looking at her, he stared up at the ceiling.

Before she could think of the best way to say it, Elsie blurted out, “It doesn't matter if you can't write or read. I don't care.” When Scoop rolled over and turned his back on her, she said, “But you could have told me. You should have.”

Scoop muttered something.

“What?”

“I said I don't care what matters to you.”

Each plane hanging from the ceiling was made out of newspaper. On some, Elsie could see small advertisements. On others, parts of headlines. “I can help,” she said.

Scoop turned back toward her. “Help how?”

“I can help you learn to read and write,” she told him.

“It's hopeless. I'm dumb. Anyway. Who cares about dumb old writing. I'll never be a reporter. I bet I couldn't even be a printer like my dad.”

Elsie studied the dangling airplanes. “What did you think of the dance marathon place?” she asked.

Scoop sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “It gave me the creeps, if you want to know. Maybe because of what we saw.” He still wouldn't look at her. “Maybe because of what your Reverend said. Or that other man. The reporter from the
Columbian
.” He sneered. “That rag.”

“How about this, then?” said Elsie, ignoring Scoop's grumpy voice. “How about we go back? To check it out properly. Ask all the questions you want. We can interview the Reverend too. Just like that Mr. Forrest. Then you dictate the story to me. And I'll write it.

“That's not real writing.”

“Sure it is,” said Elsie. Although she wasn't sure at all.

“I tell the story, and you write it down?” asked Scoop. “What about the interviews? Someone has to write down what people say.”

“I can do that too.”

“Then it will be your story. Not mine.” He slumped facedown in his blankets.

Elsie poked his back. “I'll be your assistant. Your sidekick, like Uncle Dannell said.”

Scoop turned over and looked up at her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Something's going on.” At least he was looking at her now. “Why would you want to be the assistant when you could do the whole job yourself? Be a lady reporter. I bet you want to be the first one ever on the
Vancouver Sun
.”

“You are so dumb.” As soon as Elsie said it, she wished she'd bitten off her tongue. “I don't mean that. You're smarter than smart. But maybe I want to help you.”