Work Text:
September, 1923
There was something terribly wrong with Mum. Jims knew this to be a certainty because Grandfather Gilbert had come all the way from the Island and Ingleside and brought Grandmother Anne with him. It was fine, at first; they came in and shed their coats and sat in the parlour with Jims and Mum and had tea on Mum's Sunday China, which was very elegant and covered in little flowers that Aunt Persis knew the name for but Jims did not. They had even brought him a new model aeroplane to build, so that was all right. The kind that came in a kit, and that Jims could spread across the floor the better to assess the pieces.
But the aeroplane pieces apparently hurt the unsuspecting feet of grown-ups if they stepped on them, so eventually Jims gathered all the pieces up carefully in a box and spread them out on the kitchen table, instead.
So, that was where he sat to examine the model aeroplane pieces, with Grandfather Gilbert helping. The table wasn't ideal, because it had a crack down the middle and the surface sloped. This meant the crack tended to eat things. Things like crumbs and those little sticky-up bits that held the wings in place on model aeroplanes. On the other hand, it was a whole afternoon with Grandfather Gilbert and it had been ages since Jims had had one of those. Even if Jims was better at the aeroplane assemblage than he was. Funny how that worked; They'd laughed lots over it.
Anyway, that had been fine. They'd built the aeroplane and had more tea, and Grandmother Anne had got in jellied eels 'specially for Jims. He knew they were for him because Mum was always fretting what the Rosedale Presbyterian Women would think of the eels and not buying them. This was confusing, because the Rosedale Presbyterian Women went to church with Mum and as far as Jims could tell, church was supposed to be nice to you, but he'd never pressed the point. Eels were, like model aeroplanes, for special occasions.
But then they had shut Mum up in her room and Jims had been bundled out of the house with Aunt Persis for the day, and that just wasn't right. The last time Jims had been sent away from home, Mother Elizabeth had been Having A Baby, and just look how that had turned out. Well, it had got Jims back to Mum, and he'd missed her, so that part had been all right, but it had also left him without Mother Elizabeth and made his father Terribly Upset, which was less good. Also, there had been a distinct lack of a baby, and Jims remembered that Grandfather Gilbert had been an awful colour for days afterwards. Mum had cried lots, too. All of which led Jims to suppose that unspeakable things were being enacted at the house on Whitehall Ave, even now. He tugged on his aunt's hand to convey this, but she didn't seem to understand. She thought he was tired,and crushed him to her side so that he could lean against her for support. Aunt Persis smelled not unpleasantly of lemon, ink and old books, and for a moment Jims let himself settle against her, because maybe this was how she intended to take him home to Maple St. That might be all right. But then minutes passed and it became apparent that they were still walking the wrong direction – by quite a lot, to Jims's mind – so he had to squirm to get out of her arms.
They were at the corner of South Drive when Jims rocked back on his feet, spun round and made a dart in the direction of Maple Street. It didn't work, mostly because Aunt Persis turned out to have extra-long arms, sort of like the Long-Armed Wailing Monster that sometimes appeared when Jims was trying to escape his bath or shun his vegetables.
Anyway, she caught him by the collar with a laugh and said, 'Not that way, darling.'
The hand holding him hostage somehow transitioned from shirt collar to shoulders and pinioned Jims not unaffectionately to her side. This rendered him, effectively, a prisoner, which seemed incredibly unfair, considering that if Mum was going to die of a baby, too, he should at least be allowed to see it. And her. At the very least he should be allowed to tell her goodbye. Still, it was difficult to escape the arm around his shoulder. There was nothing for it but to lean against Aunt Persis' side, and inhale the lemon, ink and books smell of her, along with the occasional piece of cat fur. He could make another bid for freedom when they got to the tram stop, he supposed.
Only they didn't stop at the tram stop, which in Jims's book, was patently unfair. How else was he supposed to escape and get home to Mum to tell her goodbye before the baby killed her, or they both died, or whatever it was that was happening happened? Instead, they walked on, and it was an awfully long walk by Jims's reckoning, along Yonge St, not talking much because of the noise of the traffic. They were just past Rosedale station when Jims stopped the first time, twisting under Aunt Persis' arm, and craning his neck the better to see where they were.
'Auto catch your fancy?' asked Aunt Persis, and what with the autos and horses all mixed together, Jims supposed it wasn't an unfair question. It was also easier to agree than explain that Mum was dying and the world was conspiring to keep Jims away from her, so he jabbed his finger in the direction of a passing Cadillac.
'Very nice,' said Aunt Persis, approvingly, which surprised Jims, because so far it had yet to occur to him that girls noticed things like autos.
'Better than your Grandfather Gil's, do you think?'
That was such an interesting question that for a moment Jims almost forgot that Mum was dying of the baby and stood on Yonge St considering it.
'No,' he said finally, loyally. 'I don't think so.'
'Me either,' said Aunt Persis, and they started on walking again.
But now she had got Jims noticing the autos, and it seemed important to keep a sort of log of them, because he might be able to convince one of them to take him home. That suited Aunt Persis fine, and thereafter they stopped sporadically to take a tally of passing motors.
This accounted for how they got as far as a tea room on Yorkville Avenue before Jims fully realised what was happening. After the autumnal coldness of the September mid-morning, the little shop with its impressively tiled floor and elegantly rounded tables was almost stuffy. Jims was unceremoniously unburdened of his coat and gloves while crouching low, the better to inspect the elaborate coil of the table legs. He thought he might just be able to slip through one of them and thence scamper his way to the door. He'd have to do without his coat, of course, seeing as how Aunt Persis was even now holding it hostage, but…No, that wouldn't work. There were too many tables between Jims and the door. Though he should crawl ever so fast, odds favoured his colliding with one of them, and then Aunt Persis would insist on hustling him to the local doctor's surgery, which was probably where he'd be when, inevitably, Mum died. This was a terrible thought. Jims sat down hard on the floor. Aunt Persis had the grace to presume he'd only lost his balance.
'All right?' she asked, helping him up again.
Gently she manoeuvred Jims towards the counter with its display of finely coiffed cakes. It wasn't that they were particularly interesting, but Jims had walked an awful long way, and he couldn't help being hungry. Perhaps there was a way of escaping with confectionery in hand…He eyed fondant rosebuds and curls of royal icing judiciously, trying to assess what would be most portable. The fruit tartlets were out of the question, because he couldn't possibly run and eat one, and anyway, they'd be a mess of custard and pastry if he tried to eat them without a fork. And then, always supposing Mum didn't die, she'd be cross about having to get the custard off his shirt cuffs. And if she did die, which seemed altogether more likely, then probably no one would ever get the custard out of his shirt cuffs ever again, and Jims would be a laughing stock at school. Unless Aunt Persis remembered to do it. Somehow, though, Jims couldn't picture Aunt Persis interacting with a laundry machine. He was under the distinct impression that, being a grown up, she had no need of such things. Which left him still undecided on the vexed question of what, if anything to take on his pilgrimage homeward.
He was just deciding he'd better not risk anything after all and seize this current opening to weave through tables and chairs to the door, when Aunt Persis said something to the woman at the counter about cocoa and gingerbread and proceeded to manoeuvre Jims back to their table.
'Are you sure you're all right?' said Aunt Persis as she helped Jim into his chair.
It had the same coiled legs as the table, and if Jims twisted around in it, he could rock it backwards, a detail he filed away for when, inevitably, he made his grand escape. He thought the arrival of the cocoa and gingerbread might be a good window of opportunity. It was a shame he was never going to get even a taste of them, but Jims squared his shoulders resolutely. He'd just have to come back, that was all.
'Only,' Aunt Persis wsaid, 'you've gone awfully quiet.'
Jims nodded. There was a sugar bowl in the centre of the table. Jims helped himself to it and began systematically reorganising the contents so that they formed a pyramid. This was the part where Aunt Persis was supposed to admonish him for meddling. Jims knew this because it was what other adults did. Susan Baker, for instance, would be horrified. Also Madrun, resident housekeeper and dragon of the Maple St kitchen, who somehow managed to make the singsong lilt of her accent – Welsh, Cap called it – sound positively menacing when she deemed it necessary.
Aunt Persis leaned across the table and said, 'I'd put that one there. More stability.'
To prove her point, she gingerly relocated one of the more precarious sugar cubes. It left little golden crystals behind on her fingers. It was all so unlikely that Jims forgot for a moment to worry about Mum dying of the baby to goggle at his aunt.
She offered him a sunburst smile and said, 'I got lucky with that one. Shall I try another?'
Jims nodded without meaning to, and then laughed when the pyramid collapsed on itself.
'Better start again,' said Aunt Persis, offering him a sugar cube. 'Show me where I went wrong. And tell me what the trouble is while you're at it.'
Jims blinked at her perplexedly. There was no point in going in to it, because at the end of the day, he was still going to in a tea room on Yorkville Avenue assembling a sugar cube pyramid and Mum would still be dying of the baby, and it was all much too complicated to go in to with a grown-up.
'I've seenthem, you know,' Aunt Persis said. She had obviously decided Jims was never going to build the sugar cube pyramid because she had taken its reconstruction into her own hands and was laying a foundaiton. Just as well, because Jims was goggling again. Imagine having seen the pyramids.
'Not up close,' said Aunt Persis. 'Anthropological indexers don't generally go to Egypt for the pyramids. But in the middle distance.'
Then, when Jims continued to stare, wide-eyed at her, 'It's not such a great thing. Everyone in the department has seen them at least once.'
It was a great thing to Jims. But he was now more interested in Everyone who had seen these monolithic structures, even from a middle-distance viewpoint, because his aunt had stumbled over the everyone. That wasn't like her. So, she was leaving a detail out.
Normally, that wouldn't be fair, but Jims was also leaving details out, specifically about his mother Dying of the Baby, so he didn't feel he could throw this particular stone. Not according to the Sunday School and Susan Baker Standard of Do Unto Others.
So, what he said instead was that the base of the pyramid was too small for purpose.
'Is it?' asked his aunt. She gestured that he should add pieces.
Jims tacked on more sugar cubes and Aunt Persis said, unaccountably, 'They're going to be all right, you know.'
Jims paused midway through the second pyramid tier to blink at her. Blinked again when his own sugar-sticky hand was enfolded in a larger pair. They weren't at all soft, which was always what Jims expected from Aunt Persis in her elegance, but padded and ridged in funny places, from her indexes, he supposed. Whatever an index was. He had a sort of idea they went in books, but the fact that Aunt Persis wrote them left him imagining a sea of sprawling and untamed words that had to be sorted, possibly through a colander, the way Madrun strained greens.
'How d'you know?' asked Jims, forgetting now that he was supposed to be mcgyvering an escape. The woman from the counter had appeared with the cocoa and gingerbread. There were generous portions of cream on both, and someone had frosted the cocoa with cinnamon. It smelled divine. Like warm, liquid sunshine after the cold of their walk.
'Because,' said Aunt Persis, prodding a mug Jimsward, 'you were born under a particularly lucky star. And because your grandfather is the best doctor there is.'
Jims risked a piece of gingerbread and considered this. It was ginger-molasses, and when he dipped it in the cocoa it went soft and chewy in exactly the right places.
'But,' said Jims, because it had to be said, 'but he was there for Mother Elizabeth, too. And…and that still went wrong.' He frowned, as much over the memory as over the disloyalty he felt at making the admission.
'Yes,' said Aunt Persis, 'but she didn't have your mum's luck. Have you never heard the story of Irene Howard and the odd shoes?'
'No,' said Jims. He did not think it was particularly pertinent to the current circumstance, though. Irene Howard could hardly be as fearsome a thing as a baby. That was, a person couldn't die of an Irene Howard, probably.
'I don't know,' said Aunt Persis grimly, which was how Jims realised he'd said that aloud, too. In spite of himself, Jims relaxed into listening to the story, now and then pausing to munch his gingerbread and sip at the cocoa. It was beautifully rich – much more chocolatey than anything Susan Baker had deigned to give him, certainly richer than any Madrun creation, and it slipped easily down his throat. It really had been a long walk, Jims reasoned, and he'd be no good to Mum if he died of starvation trying to get back to her on his own.
Though he was starting to think he might not have to, after all. Irene Howard sounded quite awful by Aunt Persis's rendition, and if Mum had bested her then she could probably survive the baby. That was probably what Mother Elizabeth's trouble had been; she hadn't got to practice surviving crises on Irene Howard. A smile from Aunt Persis suggested Jims had said this aloud too, and that it had been the right thing to say.
The trouble, of course, was that if it all went wrong anyway – if Mum and the baby died – then it was anyone's guess what would happen to Jims. He actually paused midway through a mouthful of gingerbread, little brain whiling and rattling through all the possible outcomes of this scenario.
He frowned over his cocoa, puzzling it out. He didn't want to be disloyal to Grandfather Gilbert, but on the other hand, babies did seem to be a terribly dangerous commodity. And, of course, Cap had been worried, and Jims was pretty sure he knew everything Jims didn't know about how the universe worked. He risked a mouthful of chocolate and decided that the most likely outcome was that he would end up all alone, like Oliver Twist, since obviously Cap wouldn't be allowed to keep him. The world didn't work that way; Little boys were supposed to have mothers. That was why James Anderson had had to reunite Jims and Mum, Jims was certain.
Opposite him, Aunt Persis stuck out her hand to him.
'Look, she said, 'in the unlikely event your grandad is wrong – which I don't think he is – we'd look after you.'
'Really?' said Jims, surprised into giving her hand a squeeze. 'Then I wouldn't go 'way again?'
'No,' said Aunt Persis with great solemnity.
She came round the table, and somehow Jims found that notwithstanding his distaste of hugs, he didn't mind when she eased herself into his chair and lifted Jims onto her knee. She still smelled of old books, ink and the St George st cat, and now also of cocoa, but this was all right.
Her arms were reassuringly warm around his middle as she said, 'That's what aunts are for. Imagine if we let you go now – who would tell you about kinship tables?'
Jims, who had never really care about kinship tables, except inasmuch as his aunt loved them, nestled into her arms and hummed contentedly. Aunt Persis went on, elaborating a list of things she had to ensure never happened, including but not limited to the preservation of the cleanliness of Jims's ears, expanding his knowledge of autos and the Fordian rite of passage that was surviving at least half a dozen near misses with Toronto traffic.
'Though don't,' this with emphasis, 'tell Susan Baker about that last one. It will be our secret, shall it?'
Jims agreed, snuggling deeper into the hug. He hadn't counted on having an aunt, hadn't realised they were allowed to intervene in the event that Dire Crisis should take one's mother away from one. It was reassuring, useful knowledge to have.
'It wasn't bad,' said Jims, with a sudden, guilty pang for the Anderson homestead, and the musically accented English that had lulled him to sleep for two solid years. 'But it wasn't home.'
'I know,' said Aunt Persis. 'Homes can be funny. Sometimes they're less about who's related to who, and more about the people who live in them.'
She swung Jims onto solid ground, and offering him his coat said, 'Shall we see how they're getting on?'
Jims nodded. Aunt Persis bundled him back into his coat, fussing over the togged buttons, and then it was back through the cold, cheeks pink and ears stinging. It snaked under his gloves in spite of his aunt's best effort's to tuck them into his shirt-cuffs, and nipped at his eyes so that they prickled with tears that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Mum was in Grave Danger.
For a while Jims tried to distract himself by counting the little puffs of breath that wreathed his nose, but gave up when the numbers got into double digits. He had more important things to worry about. Like getting home on time to Mum, and making sure she wasn't dead, and the baby too. If there even was a baby. Jims still had doubts. Back past Rosedale, along Crescent, down South Drive, along the Glen Road, onto Elm Ave until it finally, blessedly forked into Maple St. Jims ran the last hundred yards, sleeves flapping forlornly in the February chill, wind whistling past him. On and on until he was clambering up the walk to their own red brick house, barrelling through the door and into the hall, atypically cluttered with the coats, boots and handbags of interloping relatives.
'Jims!' said someone in exclamatory fashion, and then swept him up into a bear hug.
Someone turned out to be Grandmother Anne, smelling residually of lavender-water and something darker and more ominous that Jims couldn't place. One of Grandfather Gil's surgery smells, though, Jims knew that much. On the other hand, when he risked a sideways look at her, she was sort of glowing, so it couldn't be all bad. She hadn't glowed when Mother Elizabeth had died of the baby, he remembered that much.
Aunt Persis had caught him up and was now saying apologetic-sounding things to Grandmother Anne, who didn't appear to be listening. She waved in the direction of the stairs and said, 'I was watching for you. There's someone I think you'd like to meet.'