Taking a Chance on Love Read online

  Mrs. Hanson’s daughter helped her with the cooking. Anna was in her twenties, slim, blonde and energetic. She made bread and rolls, pies, puddings and delicate cookies that looked like cones of golden lace.

  Everyone was expected to help in the garden, and that included me. “The garden’s a godsend,” said Mrs. Hanson. “With food rationing and meatless Tuesdays, at least I have plenty of fruit and vegetables to put on the table for the guests. Lucky for me, my sister lives on a farm on the North Road, and she keeps me well supplied with eggs and milk.”

  Anna and I moved gaily-striped canvas deck chairs from the basement, wiped them off and set them on the front veranda. From the veranda, you could see the government wharf below and west, all the way out the Gap to the Georgia Strait beyond. To the east, the Coast Mountains rose like blue guardians behind Gambier Island. Any time of the day or night, something was happening on the water: sailboats, motorboats, rowboats, canoes, tugboats and the Union Steamship Lady boats. Small boys fished for sea bass from the float. Older boys baited cod lines off the end of the wharf.

  As soon as I finished at Mrs. Hanson’s for the morning, I hurried to meet Glen at the tennis court. He grinned and said, “You smell good enough to eat.”

  “Mrs. Hanson and her daughter baked cinnamon buns. I’ve got a couple for us.”

  “I’ve got something important to tell you,” he said. His face was bright with excitement. “I’ve found out where my mother is!”

  I stared at him. “What? Already?”

  “It’s true,” he said, his eyes larger than usual. “I thought about what you said about finding my mother.” He grabbed my hands. “So I phoned the man who’s been a good friend to me — I showed you his picture — and asked him if he knew how I could find her. He said she’s kept in touch with him all these years. She wanted to have some way of knowing how I was, and she knew my father wasn’t going to tell her.”

  “And? Where is she now?”

  “She’s living in Vancouver. Yes, that close. After my father divorced her, she married again, a doctor, and they have two children. She’s Mrs. Harold Barras now. My friend gave me her phone number and address. She lives out by the university.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  “I talked to her on the phone last night. She was laughing and crying and calling to her husband all at the same time … I’m going in on the four o’clock boat today. She invited me to stay with them so we could get to know each other. They’re all coming down to meet me when the boat docks in Vancouver at six.”

  “Do you think you’ll recognize her?” I asked.

  “I’ve seen old photos. She says to look for two redheaded kids, twelve and fourteen.”

  “I still find this hard to believe,” I said. “I mean to be leaving so soon! How are you feeling?” I searched his face.

  “Scared. Excited. Mostly scared.”

  I was so happy with his news, I hugged him.

  “I’ll be back, probably in three or four days. I’ll phone you, Meg.”

  “We don’t have a phone,” I reminded him.

  “I forgot … As soon as I get back, I’ll leave you a note at Mrs. Hanson’s. Wish me luck.”

  “You know I do.”

  Later that afternoon, as I was shelling peas for Mrs. Hanson, I heard the Lady Pam whistle out on the Sound. I went out on the veranda hoping to see Glen as he left for Vancouver. At last, I spotted him standing on the upper deck, near the wheelhouse. I waved widely until he waved back.

  Mrs. Hanson called me in. “Peel these potatoes, please, Meg. After that, you can wash the lettuce and tear it into bite-size pieces. Do you know how to make radish roses? Good.”

  I was glad of the work. It helped to take my mind off the hollow spot that was back again under my ribs. Amy and Glen, both in Vancouver. Once again, no friends to share with.

  On our breaks from playing tennis, Glen and I had talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. I said that I liked writing. “I get A’s in composition at school. I love to read. My brothers say I’m nosey. I read somewhere that all good writers are curious.”

  “I’d like to write, too,” said Glen. “I might be a journalist, or something like that. You’ve got to get the breaks, though.”

  “First, talent,” I said. “That’s what I’m not sure I have.”

  “The main thing is to practise,” he said. “Like tennis. Why don’t you start by keeping a journal about Mrs. Hanson’s Guest House? You could write something every day.”

  I found an unused school scribbler and began.

  Saturday, July 1, 1944

  Dear Journal,

  We’re having a dance at Mrs. Hanson’s Guest House tonight. Mrs. Hanson has a huge living room and dining room. Once the furniture is pushed out of the way, there’s lots of room. There’s a wind-up gramophone and the latest records for the guests. Not that I see anyone who looks particularly interested in dancing. We’ve got two old spinsters who like to sit on the veranda and look at the scenery and watch the people on the wharf. There’s one newly married couple who might be interested, though they seem to spend most of their time in their room. There’s another married couple — he’s a dentist — with their little boy. I don’t know what’s going on there. Her mother is with them, and the mother and daughter whisper things about the husband while he tries to do jolly things with the son. I feel sorry for the husband. The two women are against him, and the son acts as if he wishes his father would leave him alone so that he could fish for shiners. I think that couple isn’t going to last.

  Mrs. Hanson has a son, too. Bruce. He’s in the Navy and home on sick leave. He’s twenty-two, very good-looking, tall, moves like a dream, but he’s not very friendly. Mrs. Hanson says that Bruce was badly burned when his ship was torpedoed in the North Atlantic, and he’s had to have skin grafts. Her own husband was killed in a logging accident a long time ago. She started the guest house to make a living. She and Anna dote on Bruce. I’ve given up trying to get a smile from him. I have to make his bed and keep his room clean, and he never says a word, not even hello. He’s an officer, something to do with radar, which is a new discovery. He doesn’t seem to have a girlfriend. Maybe that’s part of his problem.

  One of the spinster sisters, Edith, lost a cameo brooch, and we turned the place upside down looking for it. She said she was given it by her fiancé who was killed in the First World War. I helped her search the room, and I was surprised to see she had brought all of his letters with her. They’re tied with ribbons and sorted by years. She went around with pink eyes and a damp handkerchief for hours. I decided I would look under the veranda when I had the time. Maybe the cameo had fallen off her blouse and through the spaced planks that made up the veranda floor. Her sister kept saying, “Now, Edith. Don’t carry on so.”

  July 5, 1944

  There’s a Bing cherry tree in Mrs. Hanson’s side garden, and she wanted to make cherry pies for dinner tonight. She asked Bruce to pick the cherries, but he said, “Sorry. Too much pain. I thought I’d take the boat out.” From up the cherry tree, I watched him stash his fishing tackle in the back of the putt-putt and head out towards Salmon Rock. I saw a couple of flashes of silver as salmon jumped.

  I found Edith’s cameo hidden behind a bedpost. I was vacuuming and heard something rattle up the hose and down into the dust bag. Edith had huge tears in her eyes when she thanked me.

  The newlyweds emerged more often. They went around looking besotted. Meanwhile, the dentist’s voice developed a note of desperation. I detested his mother-in-law for siding with the wife, maybe because he was always pleasant to me, and she wasn’t.

  I’d be glad when Glen got back. I missed playing tennis with him. I hadn’t heard from Amy, and I had so much to tell her. I guessed she was having too much fun to write.

  July 6, 1944

  At least the Hansons are friendly to me; well, Bruce is softening a bit, but he’s not exactly friendly. Mrs. Hanson told me something today that might help
explain it. “He still has to have another skin graft. He’s had more than his share of pain.”

  Sometimes, Anna Hanson turns on the radio in the kitchen to listen to the news while we prepare the vegetables for dinner. The talk’s mostly about the war. Lately, it’s about the Russian troops retaking Minsk. I’m glad when the news is over, and we can listen to the music. Number one on the hit parade this week is Frank Sinatra singing, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Too bad Frank Sinatra’s so skinny. Glen’s not. They play Duke Ellington’s “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” on the radio a lot. It makes me feel like dancing. Today, I tried a few steps of jitterbug in the kitchen, and Bruce came in while I was dancing. He was dangling two coho through the gills, one on each forefinger. He stared at me for a minute and said, “You’re not a bad dancer.” For some insane reason, I winked at him and then, mortified at what I’d done, bolted out the back door.

  Chapter Six

  My father came home unexpectedly on a few days’ leave from the Air Force. He was on his way to the Queen Charlotte Islands to run the power station at Alliford Bay.

  One morning while we were all still eating breakfast, the priest, Father Smith, called in at our house. He refused the coffee my mother offered.

  “I have other things on my mind,” he said to Mom, but looking at Dad. “I’ll get right to the point. In the eyes of the Holy Church, you two are not married. You are committing a sin if you persist in having a physical relationship.”

  “Not married? What kind of crazy talk is this?” said Dad, standing up and pushing his chair back.

  “Because you are a divorced man, Mr. Woods. The Church does not recognize this marriage. The only way you can continue to stay together is if you live as brother and sister.”

  Dad reached over and took Father Smith by the scruff of his neck and hustled him out the back door.

  “You damned excuse for a man,” he yelled. “Get out of here. And don’t come back. How dare you interfere between a man and his wife? If I ever catch you around here again, I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.”

  I watched from the window as Father Smith started to crank his old Chev. His face got redder and redder. Finally the engine caught, and he jumped into the front seat and left in a black cloud of burning oil.

  Mom was crying and trying to hush Dad at the same time.

  Whenever my parents fought, I found it better to leave and stay away as long as possible until things cooled down. That’s what I did, wishing that I could talk to Amy. She was still in Vancouver. I went down to the beach and skipped stones across the water for the next half-hour.

  The next morning, there was a note for me from Glen at Mrs. Hanson’s. Back from Vancouver. Have to see you. Will be waiting for you when you get off work. Glen XOX

  I wondered if Mrs. Hanson or her daughter Anna had read the note. They must have because as I got ready to leave at eleven, Anna handed me two small brown paper bags, the kind the guest house packed for those who wanted a picnic lunch. Anna winked. Whoops. Had Bruce told them that I had winked at him?

  Glen was waiting for me outside Mrs. Hanson’s back gate. I had forgotten how handsome he was. We took the path down to the beach. Finding a warm spot in the sun, we propped ourselves against a log. The tide was out, and the sand lay glistening before us.

  “Tell me everything,” I said. “Start with your mother.”

  “I’m still trying to sort things out,” he said. “My mother’s husband seems okay, though I don’t think he’s overjoyed to have me join his family. Can’t blame him. My half-sister and half-brother are kind of bratty and want to hang around me all the time … It’s what I thought I wanted, but … I don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable.” Then he dropped his voice so that I could barely hear him. “I still feel empty.”

  “Oh, Glen.”

  He took a deep breath. “They want me to come live with them in Vancouver. Go to university there in the fall.”

  “I thought you were only seventeen.”

  “I am, but I finished grade twelve, and I have university entrance. We’ve already been out to see the campus.”

  “Then you’ve decided to go?” I said.

  “Not really … I’d have my own room. They’ve got this huge house … My own father will be furious. Probably cut me off financially. But my mother says I can count on her for cash, that she has money of her own.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if Glen could count on his mother. I’d asked him once if she had ever tried to get in touch with him after she’d left him when he was so young, and he’d said no. “I blame my father totally for her absence in my life,” he’d said. Again I thought of my own mother. Nothing would have stopped her from getting in touch with a child of hers.

  More to hide my feelings than from hunger, I opened the lunch bags and handed Glen a devilled egg sandwich. “Your mother … What’s she like? Do you like her?”

  “She’s my mother … I need her, but … Oh, Meg, I don’t know. She’s falling all over herself to please me. Maybe she feels guilty. The others don’t like it.”

  The waves made small slapping sounds at the shoreline. “I’m glad you’re back, Glen. It’s good to have a friend.”

  “I missed you,” he said, “even though they kept me so darn busy all the time, I hardly had time to think.”

  “Will you stay here for the summer?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll go in to see my mother a couple of times before I go into Vancouver for university.” He picked up my hand. “I want you to go to the dance with me on Friday night.”

  “I don’t know. My mother’s got a thing against dancing. She met my father at a dance and, well … He swept her off her feet, she says, and has been unfaithful to her ever since.”

  “Has he?”

  “Well … Maybe. Probably.”

  “Parents,” said Glen, shaking his head. “Don’t you wish they’d just behave themselves and let us get on with our own lives?”

  Mom was working in the small garden at the front of our house. I knelt down to help her pull weeds. “Anna Hanson is going to the dance tomorrow night at the tennis court,” I said, knocking the dirt from a long dandelion root against a stone. “I’d like to go, too.”

  “How late would you be getting in?”

  “I’m not sure when the dance ends. Midnight? I’d come straight home.”

  She put down the trowel. “You’re so young.” She stood up and stretched, putting her hand to the small of her back. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Meg. It happens fast enough as it is. You know what I think about dancing. I sometimes wonder how my life would be if I’d never gone to that dance where I met your father.”

  What if Dad were in earshot? They must be still quarrelling, I thought.

  Just then Dad spoke from the top of the front doorsteps. “Let the girl go and enjoy herself, Vera,” he said. “Don’t let the priest turn you sour on our children.”

  The same old bickering. With Dad away in the Air Force, there had been a break from that. But at least I was going to the dance. I could hardly believe it had been so easy.

  “Mom says it’s okay for me to go to the dance tomorrow night,” I told Glen when he met me after work later that day. “Dad’s home, and he stood up for me. But I’d like to meet you at the bridge tomorrow evening, okay? Don’t come to my house. My parents are having a bit of a tiff, and I don’t want you to see it. Oh, and I have to be home right after the dance.”

  He leaned forward, as if he were about to kiss me. I didn’t move away. He looked at me with those piercing eyes that made me feel as if he knew everything about me and liked it. After a moment, he drew back.

  I had nothing to wear to the dance. Finally, I thought of asking Amy’s mother. She had always been helpful to me. Once she’d given me a dark red cardigan sweater, saying, “The colour doesn’t suit me, and Amy doesn’t want it. I think it will look good on you with your dark hair.”

  The next day I went to see Mrs. Miller, but she didn’t answer
my knock. I had turned away and was already halfway out the gate when I heard the door open behind me. Looking back, I saw Rob Pryce lounging in the doorway.

  “Who is it?” I heard Mrs. Miller’s voice call from behind him.

  “It’s okay, Sweetie,” said Rob. “Whoever it was has gone.”

  “Sweetie” for Sylvia Ballard in the woods and “Sweetie” for Mrs. Miller in her home? I definitely did not like Robert Pryce.

  Later that same morning, I knocked again on Mrs. Miller’s door. She opened it. No sign of Robert this time. She seemed happy to see me.

  “Come in,” she said. “I’ve missed seeing you since Amy’s been away in the city.”

  “I’ll be glad when she gets back.”

  I told her about the dance.

  “You really should wear a dress,” Mrs. Miller said. “Or a pretty skirt and blouse.”

  “I don’t have any,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just ones for school.”

  “Well, all right, come on in to the bedroom, and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “This is really nice of you, Mrs. Miller.”

  “No, I’m glad to help.” She began to rummage through her closet. “I have a couple in mind. Try this one on … That colour’s not good on you. This one is better, but it’s too tight across the bust … Now, how about this yellow one?”

  A yellow dress of polished cotton with printed angel faces drawn in thin black lines, like pencil drawings, it had a tiny bow of the same material at each shoulder. The skirt was full, and the dress fit as if it had been made for me. It was not one I would ever have picked out to wear, but once on, I could see that it was perfect.

  Glen was already at the bridge that evening when I got there. His eyes lit up, and I smoothed out the fullness of the skirt. The look in Glen’s eyes made up for the disapproving one I’d seen in my mother’s when I told her where I’d got the dress.