That Fatal Night Read online

  I was glad to know from Grandfather’s letter that Owen got his scar. The mark of a valiant musketeer.

  May 16

  Miss Caughey came again today. She remembered to bring me the nonsense poem book. I recited the first two verses of “The Jumblies” and she joined in on “Far and few.” Then she remembered that she was a teacher and we did some Geography. When I showed her how many pages I had written in this notebook she was very impressed. She flipped through without reading and complimented me on its neatness. What she doesn’t know is that I’m not as neat as it looks. Sometimes I make splotches and then I have to

  Never mind about that. I don’t care a button. I don’t care a fig.

  After she left I looked at all the drawings in the nonsense book. They made me feel I was back in the parlour at Mill House. The Young Lady whose bonnet came untied when the birds sat upon it is my favourite person and my favourite drawing. She is balancing on one tiptoe and smiling as an owl and a crow and some other birds sit on her hat and a flock of other birds come toward her. When I was little there was an old man who used to sit on the bench outside the church and put birdseed on his hat to make the birds come. Mother never let me talk to him.

  I am sorry that I ever once complained about school. It is boring without school. Adults don’t understand about being bored. They say, “There is always something to do,” and then they suggest some kind of chore. But being bored is because there is nothing to do that you want to do. It is like being hungry. “How can you be hungry? You didn’t finish your Brussels sprouts.” Have they forgotten that you can be hungry for currant bread and butter or marmalade roly-poly at the same time that you are not hungry for Brussels sprouts?

  Miss Caughey suggested that since I like Mr. Lear’s poems so much I might try to write one myself.

  There was a young lady from Halifax.

  There was a young lady called Dorothy.

  That’s no good. Nothing rhymes with Halifax or Dorothy.

  May 17

  Success.

  There was a young gal named Miss Wilton

  Who lived upon nothing but Stilton.

  Stilton is a cheese that Grandfather likes. Very stinky. A bad English food idea. The Jumblies also buy Stilton when they get to the Western Sea.

  And they bought an owl, and a useful cart,

  And a pound of rice, and a cranberry tart,

  And a hive of silvery bees:

  And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,

  And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,

  And seventeen bags of edelweisss tea,

  And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,

  And no end of Stilton cheese.

  But I still cannot think of another rhyme for Wilton.

  May 18

  I was never bored at Mill House. One of the promises that Grandfather made Father was that I would keep up with my lessons. I thought that would mean that I would have to sit with my school books every day and do Sums and Penmanship, but the second morning (when I did not sleep in and eat porridge in my nightgown), Grandfather handed me the newspaper and that began a new kind of lessons.

  Scene: Dining room at Mill House. Morning.

  Grandfather, Grandmother, Canadian Girl.

  Props: Brownie, Fabian, Bernard.

  (The CG has finished her porridge. Grandfather is eating scrambled eggs and kidneys. (Another very bad English food idea.) Grandmother is drinking coffee. (“Cannot abide breakfast.”)

  Grandfather, hands newspaper to CG: There you go. Find something that interests you and we’ll discuss it.

  The CG, tries to read the newspaper but the front page is all adverts and she can’t seem to turn it to the second page and fold it up neatly the way Grandfather does with that neat little snap. A corner of the newspaper falls into the marmalade.

  The CG: Can I spread it out on the floor?

  Grandmother: Oh, of course. The only sensible way to read the paper.

  The CG, lies on her stomach and looks through the paper: Price of rubber? Coal strike?

  Grandfather: Do you find those interesting topics?

  The CG: Not really.

  Grandfather: Then look further.

  The CG: What’s vi-vi-section?

  Grandmother: Oh Hal, I don’t think Dorothy needs to know about that. Not approprate for a twelve year old.

  Grandfather: On the contrary. An excellent topic for discussion and a rich lesson for today. (Clears his throat.) Vivisection is testing scientific things using animals. You read the article and tell me what you think.

  (Grandfather said this in a grander way, but this is what I remember.)

  The CG, reads: It says that some people think it is wrong, but it doesn’t say why.

  Grandfather: The main objection is that sometimes the subjects are still alive when they test them.

  The CG: You mean when they cut into them? (Reaches over and covers Brownie’s ears.) That’s cruel!

  Grandfather: A strong conviction against something is a good place to start a discussion. Your position is shared by many famous people, including the late Queen Victoria and our friend Mr. Wells. He has written a whole novel against vivisection. Perhaps reading that could be an assignment.

  Grandmother: Absolutely not, Hal! Dorothy is welcome to read it if she likes, as she is welcome to read any book we have, but you are NOT to assign it. It is a very sad and worrying book.

  The CG: So I got the right answer? Is that it for lessons for today?

  Grandfather, fills his teacup: Not quite. Let’s make the question more complicated. How do you know that animals suffer? How do you know that animals feel pain the way we do, as they can’t talk? No, don’t answer. That’s your question for the day. Think about it. That’s enough school.

  Grandmother: I should say so. Off you go.

  CURTAIN.

  May 19

  Asquith is sitting on my lap, kneading my leg. When I first came home he was standoffish but now he has forgiven me for going away and demands attention, butting my hand if I forget to scratch him under the chin. He is saying, “Petting me is your job and don’t forget that for a minute.” The fact that Asquith can talk reminds me that the vivisection discussion and lesson went on for about a week’s worth of breakfasts.

  Breakfast scene: As before, more kidneys.

  The CG: Animals can talk, they just don’t use words like we do.

  Grandfather: Good point. Give me an example.

  The CG: Asquith our cat can talk. If we put anything new on the mantle at home, Asquith jumps up and knocks it off saying, “This is my mantle and I don’t want you to change anything about it.” And also, we know that animals are in pain because they cry or yelp, like the time I accidentally stepped on Borden our puppy when Phoebe and I were pretending to be blind.

  (The idea of crying reminds the CG of another good argument.)

  The CG: Anyway, what about babies? Babies don’t talk but we know they feel pain.

  Grandfather, claps his hands: Bravo, good baby argument.

  The CG: So is the lesson over?

  Grandfather: Not quite. Some scientists use animal testing so they can discover things to help sick people. For example, they use guinea pigs to find out about diphtheria. Their discoveries could save thousands of lives. In fact, they might get rid of diphtheria altogether. But some of the guinea pigs die. Is it worth it if one guinea pig saves one human? What if one guinea pig saves a thousand humans? Think about it for tomorrow.

  CURTAIN.

  May 20

  The Play now has a name: SCENES AT BREAKFAST.

  Scene: Still the same except Grandfather switches to bacon.

  (The guinea-pig question was hard because Phoebe used to have a guinea pig and she was lovely. She was black and brown and white and was called Zanzibar and we would take her cage out onto the lawn in the summer and take the bottom out so she could nibble grass. She made the dearest noise, like a bubbling whistle, and she was very fond of cucumber. I could not bear to thin
k of her being hurt.)

  The CG: Scientists just have to find a way of solving diphtheria without murdering guinea pigs.

  Grandfather: Excellent! You have taken a position and defended it with vigour.

  The CG, hopefully: So tomorrow can we talk about the price of rubber?

  Grandfather: There is just one more thing.

  The CG, moans.

  Grandmother: Hal, show the child some mercy.

  Grandfather: She doesn’t need mercy. She is up to the challenge. What about if the experiments were not on guinea pigs but on rats or frogs or worms? Think about it and away you go.

  Mother has just called me. Some ladies are coming for tea and I’m supposed to help set out the cakes.

  May 21

  I have asked Father to get me a new notebook. I am almost at the end of this one. I am going through the pages quickly because if I make an ink splotch I tear out the page and start over. I know this is wasteful. One day I tried leaving the splotch, telling myself that it didn’t matter because nobody will read this notebook and I just went on writing, but I couldn’t bear it so I got up in the night and tore the page out and then I had to re-copy the next few pages. I just can’t carry on and leave a mess behind. It doesn’t feel good.

  The tea was dull. I passed the cream and sugar and was well-behaved. The ladies were discussing hatpins. Did you know that most hatpins are too long and need to be filed off to the correct length? I wonder what would have happened if I had asked what all the ladies thought of vivisection?

  VIVISECTION: The Next Scene

  (In between the last scene and this, the CG has been weeding the perennial beds and reading Grandmother’s old Girl’s Own Annuals and playing bow-and-arrow target practice with Millie and Owen and has not thought very much about worms.)

  The CG: Worms would be fine if it meant that many babies could be saved from diphtheria.

  Grandfather: But what is the difference between guinea pigs and worms?

  The CG, knows that this argument won’t work but she tries it anyway: Guinea pigs are pretty and friendly and worms are just worms.

  Grandfather: So animals that are pretty and friendly are worth more than animals that are ugly and grumpy? Does that apply to people? Are good-looking people (I could use myself as an example in this respect) …

  Grandmother:

  (A sound where she makes a little explosion come out of her mouth but I don’t know how to write that.)

  Grandfather: If I could just continue without audience heckling. Are good-looking and friendly people worth more than hideous grumps?

  CURTAIN.

  And it was all complicated again.

  May 22

  VIVISECTION: The Final Scene

  (Thank Goodness for that!)

  Mill House, breakfast table, rain pattering on windows.

  (I don’t really remember if it was raining but I thought the scene needed a bit more description. It was probably raining. It seemed to rain part of almost every day at Mill House.)

  Brownie, lying on floor under table, ever hopeful of falling scraps.

  Props: porridge, kidneys, cats, etc. etc.

  The CG: I am stumped. I still don’t want guinea pigs to be hurt but I sometimes cut worms in half by mistake when I’m digging in the garden and that doesn’t even save anyone from diphtheria but it doesn’t make me feel too bad, and slapping mosquitoes I don’t care about one bit. So I give up.

  Grandfather: Top marks! Very well done, Dorothy!

  The CG:?

  Grandfather: You have discovered that you can hold a strong position even if it is inconsistent. Remember, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” Somebody clever said that.

  Grandmother: Does this mean that our daily discussion of vivisection is over?

  The CG: Yes, please.

  Grandmother: Thank heavens.

  CURTAIN.

  Grandmother wasn’t the only one who was happy that topic was over. The difference between guinea pigs and worms was starting to make me feel as though I had hobgoblins in my head. I have remembered Grandfather’s quotation though, hoping I would get a chance to use it on somebody, say, like Irene Rudge, but I probably won’t get a chance because now she will never talk to me again.

  May 23

  You might think that all I did at Mill House was eat breakfast and discuss vivisection. But every day was full. For one thing there were some other lessons. Mrs. Hawkins did not hold with learning with the newspaper so she set me Sums, but not every day. Of course she sent Millie and Owen to school and they were jealous as can be. With the work that Miss Caughey brings me home I don’t seem too far behind.

  Then there was gathering eggs and tending to the rabbits and digging in the garden. There was cutting out scones for Mrs. Hawkins. There was exploring, inside and out.

  There were The Three Musketeers with murders and hangings and poisonings and swords to be repaired.

  There was Grandfather’s fossil collection (I pretended to be learning Science with them but really I just liked arranging families. The Trilobite Family: mother, father and the baby Bites. The Ammonites: Mister, Missus, Auntie and the seven children.) There was an ongoing jigsaw puzzle on a table in the parlour and there was always somebody willing to play ludo or checkers.

  I also spent a lot of time playing the piano. Somebody forgot to tell them that I was supposed to practise the piano, so I didn’t play one scale while I was there. Instead I played my favourite way, which is all on the black keys with the pedal down. The black keys always sound good and a bit mysterious. When I play on the black keys I can imagine myself riding across the moors on a coal-black horse, with my flaxen hair streaming out behind me (when I play the black keys my hair magically becomes long and flaxen), wrapped in a shawl. I ride like the wind and the black keys gallop beneath me. At Mill House nobody minded how long my black-key rides went on. Grandmother even told me that playing on the black keys is called the “pentatonic scale.” So I guess I like the C scale, which has no sharps and flats, and the pentatonic scale, which is nothing but sharps and flats. It is the scales in between that are tiresome.

  What else went on at Mill House? There was reading, at all times of the day and in all different places. Mill House was messy with reading. There were always newspapers and illustrated papers lying about and books lying on chairs. Sometimes two people would be reading the same book and there was a great to-do when somebody took it away. There were leaves and pencils and crochet hooks stuck in as bookmarks. Once there was a shoelace. There was even a book in the WC! It was called The Blue Fairy Book. While I was at Mill House I read all the stories in that book. You would think they would be about fairies but mostly they weren’t. Some were tricky and some were peculiar and some were really scary. The scariest one was about a man with a blue beard (which should have been funny — think of the Jumblies with their green heads and blue hands — but wasn’t, because he kept chopping his wives’ heads off).

  Mill House was also messy with talk. Some days it was like a train station, with so many people dropping by. People from the village, friends of G&G, relatives, and all of them liked to talk. At home grown-up talk seems to come in little packages like “What you say when the Vicar comes to tea” or “Father and Charles discuss politics,” but at Mill House talk bounced around, hopping from one thing to another, getting lost, being found again, making people cross or making them laugh. The odd time I was alone in the parlour I felt as though the talk was still echoing, or floating down like dust to settle on the settee and the piano.

  May 24

  I blotched this page once and recopied it and now I’ve just blotched it again but I’m NOT going to copy it out again.

  May 25

  Phoebe came over today. We played jacks and she told me that Irene told Leah that she was “too plain to be pretty and too pretty to be plain” and then when Leah’s feelings were hurt she said she meant it as a compliment. Then Phoebe said did I want to go down to the Old Market
but Mother said I wasn’t allowed to go without an adult and she didn’t have time to come with us. So we played a bit more, but I was just having trouble being cheery and when Phoebe sat on the bed she messed it up and I just couldn’t help my brain from thinking about how soon would she go so that I could tidy it up, even though I didn’t want her to go.

  I am grumpy. I want to jump out of my skin and run away to the Hills of the Chankly Bore, which is where the Jumblies visit.

  May 26

  I don’t like the way I am. I don’t like waking up in the night, afraid, but I can’t even remember what was going on in my dream. I don’t like the feeling of being outside myself. I’m talking to Phoebe or Mother or Asquith and all of a sudden I’m in some other corner of the room looking at myself. This is not a very good description. I know I’m supposed to be writing about what happened on the Titanic but I don’t know how to start. I know Miss Caughey believes that writing about it will help me, but she’s wrong.

  But she’s right about “The Jumblies” being cheerful. When I cannot go back to sleep at night I say the poem over and over.

  The water it soon came in, it did;

  The water it soon came in.

  So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet

  In a pinky paper all folded neat;

  And they fastened it down with a pin.

  And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;

  And each of them said, “How wise we are!

  Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,

  Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,

  While round in our sieve we spin.”