“At least that’s one thing you don’t know how to do,” Jed muttered, and pushed past them to start walking back towards home.
TWO
The day before Ellen’s birthday dawned cold and dreary, and she lay in bed, reluctant to put her feet on the icy floorboards. In the last week, the leaves had all fallen from the trees as if plucked by a giant hand, and a thin, hard crust of snow lay over the frozen earth.
She tucked her toes firmly under the quilt, glancing over at seven year old Caro, asleep next to her. At first, the younger girl had been reluctant to share her bedroom, but soon softened, especially when Ellen proved willing to plait her hair with ribbons and talk in whispers even after the moon had risen to a luminous crescent in the sky.
As for Ellen, she found she enjoyed the younger girl’s company, silly as it sometimes was. She’d never shared a bed before, and she liked the feel of another person’s warmth next to her, another person’s breathing soft and steady in the quiet darkness of the bedroom. She liked, quite simply, not being alone. It wasn’t until coming to the McCafferty farm that she’d started to realize just how solitary and lonely her existence had been.
She’d been at the farm for a little over a month now, and yet it seemed much longer than that. She felt at home here, an integral part of the family and of the island itself, amazed that her presence had been accepted in a mere matter of weeks.
Yet already Ellen realized she dreaded returning to Seaton. Sitting in the warmth of the kitchen that evening, she reread the letter she’d received from her Aunt Ruth, as regular as clockwork, that afternoon.
The Cardles bought another cow, a Randall Lineback, which is a funny-looking animal, mark my words, with black sides and a white head. There was a fire in the hotel kitchen but they put it out before anyone was hurt. Artie Dole has gone up to his proper year, although he’s making as much trouble as ever, and with his poor mother home with a tiny baby. Sickly thing it is, too.
No mention of her birthday, and Ellen didn’t know whether Ruth’s mention of Artie was a dig or an apology. It was always hard to tell with Aunt Ruth.
“A letter from home?” Rose asked as she bustled into the kitchen and put the kettle on the range in anticipation of Dyle coming in from the fields and wanting his usual cup of tea with a generous splash of whisky.
“Seaton’s never felt like my home,” Ellen said. She folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.
“You weren’t there very long,” Rose allowed, and Ellen shook her head.
“Even so.”
Rose turned back to the range, and Ellen didn’t expect her to say anything more. Then, to her surprise, her back still to her, Rose spoke quietly. “I know Ruth isn’t the easiest of people to like. When I married Dyle she had quite a few harsh words for me. But she meant well. I know that.” Ellen said nothing, for in truth she didn’t know what to say. Rose turned back to her. “Do you understand, Ellen?”
“I suppose,” Ellen said uncertainly. “Aunt Ruth often seems to mean well.”
Rose gave a little laugh. “Yes, indeed. But never doubt that she loves you.”
Ellen did not reply, but something of her skepticism must have shown on her face for Rose shook her head. “I mean it, Ellen. In her own way, Ruth loves you.”
In her own way? Ellen thought of how Ruth had slapped her hand, or insisted she brush her hair, or scolded her for being slow at school. If that was her aunt’s way of showing love, she didn’t like it very much. And somehow it seemed even harder to bear Ruth’s coldness now that she’d experienced the warm, open kindness of the McCafferty family. It threw the uncomfortable awkwardness of her weeks at Seaton into bold and depressing relief.
“Maybe she does, Aunt Rose,” Ellen finally said, “but I’d still like to stay here till Christmas.”
“Oh, I think we’ll need you longer than that,” Rose said with a wink. “If I don’t write Ruth for a bit, she’ll forget when I said I’d send you back.” Hope fluttered like a frail bird in Ellen’s chest, even though she didn’t think Aunt Ruth really forgot anything. “And when she does write,” Rose finished, “I can always write back and say we can’t possibly do without you for another three months at least. You are indispensable, you know.”
“Who’s indispensable?” Dyle asked, coming in from the outside with a gust of freezing air, his sleeves rolled up an
d his hands washed and cold from the outside pump.
“Why, Ellen, of course,” Rose said.
Dyle turned to her, eyes crinkling up as he smiled. “That’s quite so! You keep us on the straight and narrow, Ellen. We’ve not a prayer without you.”
Even though Dyle was stretching the truth a bit, Ellen liked it all the same. She liked to be needed, not just for the services she performed, but for herself. She liked thinking that the McCaffertys couldn’t do without her, even if it was just to keep them all tidy and organized.
Yet despite the hope she felt at what Rose had said, Ellen didn’t think staying on Amherst Island would be that easy. She didn’t need to look at the letter again to recall the postscript: We’ll see you at Christmas. The store is busy then, and we’ll need your help.
The next morning Ellen swung out of bed with a slightly resigned air. She hadn’t told Aunt Rose it was her birthday, so she could hardly expect presents or cake. Even so, she felt a treacherous little seed of hope inside her, determined to take root and grow. Perhaps there would be a letter from Aunt Ruth, or a parcel from Uncle Hamish. Maybe he’d send her some new pencils, or a length of hair ribbon from the store. Or maybe even, a desperate little voice whispered inside her, perhaps Da would write. He knew it was her birthday. Even just a few lines would make such a difference. He hadn’t written once since he’d left on that train. It was as if he’d forgotten her completely.
Next to her Caro stirred sleepily and she could smell breakfast downstairs, porridge and sausages. Ellen knew it was silly to expect anything today. Back in Springburn her birthday had passed with barely a word. When her mam had been healthy she’d made a marmalade cake and got up a few homemade little presents, but in the years of her illness there had been nothing at all. Occasionally her father remembered to bring home a bit of barley sugar or a paper twist of humbugs, but more often than not with his long work days and the cares of a bedridden wife, the day passed by him completely, and Ellen had never reminded him. And now she didn’t even know where he was.
It would have been nice, Ellen thought, for someone to say happy birthday at least, but it was clear throughout the ordinary day that no one knew it was her birthday, and Jed had obviously forgotten. He ignored her all the way to school, which wasn’t all that unusual, but disappointed Ellen all the same.
He even pulled one of her plaits in a moment of boredom in class, and Ellen snapped at him.