And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
Walter had died a week ago and Gilbert didn’t want to go home. He sat at his desk and pretended to himself there was another prescription to write or that he’d told John Campbell to call round when he could, there might be something Gilbert could do for his bad hip, something he’d seen in a medical journal, the receipt for a liniment that truly was better than the salve old Mrs. Thelma Morrison stirred up of an evening, more efficacious and less likely to advertise his arrival with the rank scent of ramps crushed in tallow.
It was a lie.
There was no work yet to be done that would keep him, unless there was some queer version of mercy at play that would deliver a fisherman with a hook deep in his palm, calling for finesse and patience, the lamp lit against the dark.
It was quiet, the voices in the harbor hushed or still, and there was nothing more for him to do but admit the truth.
He simply didn’t want to go home.
It was not that the house would be empty, though that would be its own grief he knew. To go home to Ingleside and find no lamp lit against the dusk, no Anne on the sofa with a basket of mending and a book marked with a frayed scrap of ribbon, no Susan banging about in the kitchen, no Rilla dandling Jims on her knee, cheeks pink with a self-righteous spite as she complained about her Junior Reds, so much like her mother had been at the same age. The rooms all too big, the silence too loud.
And agony and yet, a surcease.
The house was full. Anne and her suffering, her grey eyes dark, her hair dressed very simply, beyond any attempt at vanity, drifted from the sitting room to their bedroom, aimless or beyond settling. Susan, cooking up whatever she thought might tempt one of them to take more than a few bites, catching herself about to mention Walter every third sentence, Miss Cornelia coming by with a basket of baked goods Gilbert would bring on his rounds to prevent wasting the food that no one in the house would eat. Rilla with her sisters, Nan and Di home from the college, all three reminding Gilbert of nothing more than a wilted nosegay, Nan and Rilla’s eyes reddened from weeping, Di’s lips bitten, chapped, her bright hair bundled back in an old-fashioned snood she’d have previously mocked in amused derision, the littlest Meredith girl sitting beside them, too thin, too pale. She’d been in love with Walter, that was clear now, and it was no longer charming or worth shaking his head over ruefully.
So many broken hearts. None he could fix.
Jem didn’t know yet, nor Shirley. He and Anne had agreed not to cable or write either of them. There was nothing they could do but grieve for their brother but that grief might be a distraction they could ill afford. The girls hadn’t argued as he’d expected and it was Rilla who’d spoken up, saying Let him be alive a little longer then while Nan crumpled up the letter she’d been writing to Jerry Meredith.
She would have been telling him about Walter. She wouldn’t risk him, nor the rare chance that he’d come across Shirley or Jem and mention Walter’s death. It was impossible to think Jerry would simply run into Jem in the trenches, except that stranger things had happened and Walter, his inquisitive little boy with his mother’s eyes, had been lost to them. His name on a telegram was all they’d get unless some officer in his battalion had the wherewithal to pack up his few remaining personal belongings and send them back to Ingleside on a ship that didn’t get sunk crossing the Atlantic.
Impossible.
Real.
His office was a place of relative respite. Walter had spent little time there, not interested in doctoring, not like Jem or Di, and so he couldn’t haunt it. There were charts to review and journals to leaf through, and no one came who wanted him to be anything else other than Doctor Blythe.
Not Dad. Not Gil dear.
His own parents, thank God, were dead. Marilla too and Mrs. Rachel.
The clock ticked. He’d have to leave soon enough.
The face that peered in through the door after the briefest, smartest rap, was not one he’d have ever expected.
“I was sent to fetch you, but we can go the long way back,” Mary Vance said. In the failing light of evening, her queer, pale eyes gleamed like the stones he’d liked to skip across Willowmere when he’d idled on the way home from Green Gables. There was a sturdiness to her shoulders and the set of her chin that had become reassuring to a man who now lived in a house of wraiths. She was twenty-three, just a year younger than Jem, a woman grown and not a girl, though she’d no pretense to vanity in her person or tone. Practical and imperturbable, she was one of the few people he could think of he needn’t take care of.
“Mrs. Blythe sent you?” he asked. He tried not to hope Anne had worried enough to speak of it.
“Mrs. Elliott,” Mary shrugged. She knew he would be disappointed, but she wouldn’t lie. “Said you’d soon be needing a doctor yourself if you missed your supper and she doesn’t think highly of Susan’s fish pie in any case.”
“Fish pie,” Gilbert repeated, getting up from his chair and reaching for his overcoat. He ought to be made of sterner stuff, the autumn only just beginning, but he’d been cold at the marrow since he’d learned of his son’s death.
“Mackerel. Had a good catch, down at the cove. I s’pose old Susan thought as long as it was pie, you’d like it,” Mary replied. She smiled, not coaxing but wry, suddenly reminded him of his mother. Neither was much given to effusiveness or cossetting.
“Susan’s not old and it’s not kind to say it,” Gilbert said.
“But it’s not too rude to hear it,” Mary countered. “She was born old, Miss Baker, and if you told her that, she’d be proud of it.”
He laughed then, a startled, almost choked sound he hadn’t known he was capable of, but she’d been so apt and so matter-of-fact…
“You’re quite observant, you’d make a good doctor,” he said.
“Maybe. Not for the likes of me, all that education. And I’m too blunt,” she replied.
“A nurse then,” Gilbert said.
“The War won’t last forever,” she said. “When it’s over, it won’t all be an agony. Sickbeds and wounds to be stitched. There’ll be other lives to live. Work to do. Dreams, for the ones who put stock in such things.”
“Not for everyone,” he said. His boy, gone away, his voice silenced. It hurt worse than little Joy, who’d never asked just one more question, Papa, at bedtime, before Jem had convinced him to call Gil Dad or Father, who’d never made him notice the dappled light of the woods or made him laugh calming Rilla down from her rage at being called Spider.
“No,” Mary said and Gilbert braced himself for the consolation. The balance. Walter died with honor. He’d had his poem read round the world. He’d made his peace with it.
It happened. People died young.
Ruby Gillis.
Kenneth West.
Captain Jim’s lost Margaret.
Walter Blythe.
“Mrs. Elliott will have my hide if I don’t get you back before she leaves and Marshall gets antsy left to his own devices,” Mary said. She pulled a very large, very clean white handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and handed it to him. “But we can still take the long way back. I’ll manage the driving.”
“Marigold needs a light hand,” Gilbert said.
“I’ll manage, Doctor Blythe. You needn’t worry about me,” Mary said. She gave him another sharp look. “I’ll take the hankie back before we’re at Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe and old Susan won’t be bothered. And Rilla’s war-baby said a half-dozen new words today, so they’re in decent spirits. It’s just the pie you’ve got to choke down.”
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