The Lights Go On Again (8 page)

She hadn't spoken to him like this since that long ago time when they'd first arrived.

“I'm sorry, Norah,” whispered Gavin. “But I keep forgetting about it.”

“Forgetting about it!” Norah glared at him. “How
could
you?”

“I guess … because … I don't feel as sad as you do. Because I don't remember Mum and Dad very well.”

“
Try
to remember. It was only four and a half years ago that you saw them.
I
remember them perfectly! If only you remembered, we could talk about them. You're the only other person in this whole country who knew them!”

“I'm sorry, Norah. I'll try harder.”

That night in bed he tried to envision his parents' faces and voices: nothing. What was the matter with him? Roger hadn't seen his father since he was seven, and he often talked about things they had done together.

When Gavin tried to remember, a wall seemed to rise up between England and Canada. On one side was danger; on the other side, safety. The danger was worse than before: a bomb could smash a house and kill your relatives. That made the safety even more precious.

On Saturday Gavin borrowed his parents' letters and photographs from Norah. Surely if he studied these as intently as he studied for a social studies test it would
force
him to remember.

He began with the six photographs. The whole family before the war—Gavin smiled at Norah as a skinny little girl and himself as a solemn baby. Mum and Dad standing in front of “Little Whitebull,” the house that was now demolished. Dad in his Home Guard uniform. Tibby in her A.T.S. uniform. Muriel and Barry holding their baby—Richard, the first grandchild. My nephew! thought Gavin. He'd forgotten about Richard. Mum and Dad and Grandad last summer.

His parents looked older than other people's parents. That was because there was such a gap between Norah and Gavin and their older sisters. Mum wore a kind of turban in all the pictures, so he couldn't tell what her hair was like. Her face was pretty but tired-looking. Dad's dark hair was streaked with grey. His beaky face was a lot like Norah's. Norah often told Gavin that
he
looked like Mum, but he couldn't see the resemblance.

He would have recognized them if he saw them, because he'd had their faces pointed out in each new photograph as “Mum and Dad.” But he recognized them the same way he did a picture of a famous actor or hockey star: someone familiar but not intimate.

Norah had kept all the letters in order, packed neatly into a wooden box Aunt Mary had given her. It took Gavin all day to read them. “What are you up to, all by yourself?” asked Aunt Florence when he went downstairs for a snack.

“Oh … just a special project.” She smiled and didn't press further. That was one thing he'd always appreciated about Aunt Florence. Despite her constant shower of affection, she always respected his privacy.

The letters portrayed two people bravely struggling from day to day in war-torn England. Both his parents were extremely busy. Mum spent mornings at the Women's Voluntary Services and afternoons waiting in lines for food as rationing got worse. Dad worked all day as a bookkeeper in Gilden, the town near their village, and every evening at his Home Guard duties. But in between the hardships—and as he read Gavin sensed that there was a lot left out besides the sentences that had been blackened by the censor—his parents seemed to have had a lot of fun. There were dances that the American GIs put on in the village hall. Fetes to raise money, a community pig to feed. Marriages—including Muriel's—and other celebrations. Everyone in Ringden seemed to know each other and help each other get through the war.

Mum and Dad had taken turns to write. Every letter said how much they missed Norah and Gavin and looked forward to having them back.

They seemed like nice people to have as parents. He would have liked to know them. Now he never would. Now he was an
orphan
—like Oliver Twist. That felt important.

Reading the letters was like seeing a movie of the years he'd been in Canada. Each one commented on something Norah and Gavin had told their parents. “Congratulations on learning to swim, Gavin! … By the time you get this you will be back from your trip across Canada and enjoying Gairloch again … How exciting that you've begun skiing …”

Every time Gavin read words like this he remembered the thrill of learning to swim and ski, the exciting train journey west and every blissful summer at Gairloch. After he finished reading the letters he did have a clearer idea of what his parents had been like. But he was also left with a far stronger sense of what good years he'd enjoyed in Canada.

That evening he returned everything to Norah. “Did it help you remember them?” she asked, gazing sadly at the photographs.

“Not really,” Gavin admitted. “But now I know them better.” It was the best he could offer her.

T
HE SOCIAL WORKER
came to see Norah and Gavin. She suggested that they both talk to a psychiatrist—“to sort out your feelings about this tragedy.” One afternoon they got to miss school while Aunt Florence took them to the university on the streetcar.

Gavin felt strange when they walked past the green space in front of an old stone building called Hart House. He vaguely remembered playing games on this grass the week they had stayed at the university until they'd gone to live with the Ogilvies. It seemed like centuries ago.

They entered another old building. Gavin sat with Aunt Florence in a waiting room while Norah was led into an office and a door closed. Gavin swung his legs and tried to read a babyish children's book that was on a table. Aunt Florence stared into space, unusually vague.

After a long time Norah came out, looking angry and proud. Then it was Gavin's turn. A woman with a chirpy, brisk voice invited him to sit down on a slippery chair in front of her desk.

Aunt Florence had told him that a psychiatrist was like a doctor who took care of your feelings instead of your body. “In my day we didn't need to talk to strangers about our personal affairs,” she sniffed. “But they seem to think it will be helpful.”

The woman—she told Gavin to call her Dr. Wilson—started by asking him to tell her about the things he did every day. He wondered why she was so interested, but he chatted to her about his friends and Bosley and Cubs. Every time he sounded enthusiastic about something, like getting a home run or enjoying a book, she smiled and said “Good for you.” So he was careful not to tell her anything that would make her stop smiling—nothing unpleasant or confusing about Mick, or Eleanor.

At last she came to the subject of his parents. “Do you feel sad about what happened?” she asked kindly.

Gavin squirmed. He couldn't tell her he didn't—then she wouldn't think he was a good person. He nodded, trying to look doleful.

“How much do you remember about them?”

Gavin swallowed hard. “Well, of
course
I remember them—but not as much as Norah does.”

“It would be very natural if you didn't remember much,” she said. “Or if you don't feel
very
sad. After all, you were only five the last time you saw them.”

She smiled and Gavin gave her a timid smile in return. So he didn't have to remember—that was a relief. He would have liked to tell her how much he
wanted
to remember, for Norah's sake. But he thought of Aunt Florence's words. This woman was a stranger; he didn't know her at all.

“And how do you feel about going back to England?”

Gavin thought fast, so she wouldn't find out what a coward he was. “I'm sad about leaving the Ogilvies of course, but I'm
English,
” he explained, remembering Norah's words. “That's where I belong.”

She seemed to believe him. “Good for you!” she repeated. She sighed. “It's going to be much harder for your sister. Being home will bring back so many sad memories for her.”

She stood up. “
You
seem to be coping very well, Gavin. You're a brave little boy, and I've enjoyed talking to you.” She shook his hand and walked him to the door. Then Aunt Florence went in.

“She was so nosy!” said Gavin. “What did she say to you, Norah?”

“Oh … nothing worth mentioning.” Norah buried her nose in a
National Geographic
magazine. Gavin left her alone. Finally Aunt Florence came out and they all went home.

“Dr. Wilson says that Norah's reactions are completely normal,” Aunt Florence told Aunt Mary that evening when Norah was upstairs. “We just have to wait. She assures me she'll get over it with time.”

“The poor dear,” sighed Aunt Mary.

Aunt Florence smiled at Gavin. “And she says you're doing fine, pet.”

Gavin felt as if he'd passed some sort of test—a test he'd cheated on.

7

The Dog Show

E
aster passed very quietly in the Ogilvie household. Usually they went to the Royal York Hotel for Sunday dinner after church, followed by a walk on the boardwalk at Sunnyside. But this year they just came home and had a small ham. Gavin munched on it gloomily. He didn't like ham, but he couldn't complain when it was so hard to get.

Today was April Fools' Day as well as Easter. But this year he couldn't substitute salt for sugar at breakfast, or tell people things like “There's a spider in your hair” or “Your shoe lace is undone.” The family was still too sad for jokes. Since April the first was on a Sunday he couldn't even enjoy the tricks they always played in school. And now it was past noon and April Fools' was over anyway.

Norah had refused to go to church. “I don't believe in God any more,” she told the aunts bluntly.

“But Norah!” cried Aunt Mary. “It's understandable that you would feel that way, but when something terrible happens you
need
to go to church!”

“Well, I'm not,” said Norah. “I'm never going again and you can't make me.”

Aunt Florence opened her mouth to scold Norah, then closed it and gave her a disapproving look instead.

Gavin was awed by Norah's nerve. But she was right, he thought. They couldn't make her go to church. Aunt Mary offered to make an appointment for her to talk to Reverend Milne, but Norah firmly refused.

A few days later Paige persuaded Norah to go over to her house. But Norah was back in twenty minutes. “She says I sat down on her favourite record on purpose,” she told Gavin. “How was
I
supposed to know it was on the chair? What a stupid place to leave a record! I'm not speaking to Paige any more.” She ran upstairs.

Then Norah's teacher asked Aunt Florence for a conference. “He says you're being rude in class,” Aunt Florence told her. “He's trying to be as understanding as he can, but you are really testing his patience, Norah. We all know you're grieving for your parents, but you must try to co-operate.”

“Why should I?” snapped Norah. “Who cares? I'll soon be finished with this crummy school anyway.” Again, she fled to her tower.

“I don't see why she should get away with this rudeness,” snorted Aunt Florence.

“But Mother,” objected Aunt Mary, “didn't Dr. Wilson say it's healthy for her to be angry?”

Aunt Florence sighed. “I suppose so. If Norah were really my child I'd insist on her being polite to her elders. But I guess we'll just have to put up with it.”

Gavin wished he hadn't overheard this. Aunt Florence had always treated Gavin and Norah as if they
were
her children. Now she seemed to be letting Norah go.

Was she letting him go too? Was that why she wasn't making more of a fuss about him leaving in a few months? But maybe she just wanted to ignore that as much as he was.

G
AVIN TRIED TO ENJOY
the unusually early spring as if it were like any other April. After he saw the movie
Thunderhead, Son of Flicka
he named his bicycle Thunderhead and rode it along the road like a real stallion. The gardens in Rosedale blazed with yellow forsythia and by the third week in April the new green leaves had already popped open.

At school, Mick had suddenly stopped bullying. He began combing his hair and tucking in his shirt. Everyone was relieved, but puzzled. Then Roger found out why.

“You know Terry Fraser, who's in the chess club with me?” Tim and Gavin nodded. “Well, he told me Mick's in love with his sister Doris!”

“Mick? In
love
?” giggled Tim.

Roger grinned. “Yes! He keeps asking her for dates but she won't go. He follows her home every day and writes her notes. Doris just laughs at them. She showed them to Terry—he says they're really corny.”

“Poor Doris!” said Tim.

“At least it keeps him busy,” said Gavin. Now they didn't have to keep out of Mick's way. But every once in a while Mick would give Gavin that strange look—as if he wanted something from him.

Aunt Mary took Gavin with her on the train to visit an old friend in St. Catharines. She was in rhapsody over the cherry blossoms but Gavin was more interested in Niagara Falls, where the friend, Mrs. Butler, drove them. He had been there several times before, but he always found the falls a thrill.

He stared in wonder at the powerful roar of water, his face soaked with spray. The biggest waterfall in the world. It just kept going—thundering endlessly over the rocks, oblivious of tourists or wars or ten-year-old boys. Somehow its indifference was comforting.

Gavin turned around to the two women. “The Canadian falls are
much
bigger than the American falls.”

“Listen to him!” chuckled Mrs. Butler. “He sounds like a real Canadian!”

Gavin was offended. Of course he was a Canadian! Then he remembered that he wasn't.

The grown-ups' lives revolved around the news. President Roosevelt had died. War brides began to arrive in Canada. The world held its breath with excitement as it waited for the final defeat. Everyone began guessing the exact date when the war would end.