Be My Love Read online

  Dedication

  For Maria Chavez

  and

  Sophie and Charlotte Taylor

  Epigraph

  The past is a foreign country;

  they do things differently there.

  —L. P. HARTLEY

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Grand’s Family Tree

  Chapter One: The Beginning of Summer, 1951

  Chapter Two: Waiting for Una

  Chapter Three: Nancy and George

  Chapter Four: A Secret

  Chapter Five: The First Week

  Chapter Six: Bev

  Chapter Seven: Waiting for David

  Chapter Eight: Pals

  Chapter Nine: The Kiss (1)

  Chapter Ten: The Letter

  Chapter Eleven: A Lost Sheep

  Chapter Twelve: At the Lighthouse

  Chapter Thirteen: Two Confessions

  Chapter Fourteen: Telling Una

  Chapter Fifteen: Another Secret

  Chapter Sixteen: The Kiss (2)

  Chapter Seventeen: A Year Later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Kit Pearson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Grand’s Family Tree

  * Daniel married Esther Meyer after the death of his first wife, Una.

  Chapter One

  The Beginning of Summer, 1951

  Maisie and her mother were in the car at the Victoria boat terminal. People were starting to board the steamer, but Mum just sat there. “Oh, pickle, how I’ll miss you!” she kept saying.

  Maisie tried to be patient. She would miss her tired, sad mum. But she could hardly wait to get away from her.

  “Mum, I should go,” she said again.

  Her mother wiped her eyes, then finally opened the door and helped Maisie load up. In one hand she held her small suitcase. In the other she balanced a hamper on wheels. It was filled with the items Granny had requested: Indian chutney, Marmite, British magazines, a set of towels, bars of Yardley soap, packets of humbugs, gardening gloves, a new yellow slicker for Grand, and a huge bag of Scottish steel cut oats. After they’d driven down from Duncan to Victoria early that morning, Mum and Maisie had spent hours ticking off the items on Granny’s list.

  “Be careful not to tip the hamper—the jars are on top,” warned Mum. “Oh, my darling girl . . . what will I do without you?”

  “I have to board,” said Maisie quickly. She kissed her mother one more time. “I love you, Mum. See you in August!”

  “Oh, how I love you, pickle!”

  Maisie turned to wave from the top of the gangplank. What a miserable summer her mother was going to have! Maisie shuddered at the thought of the silence that would seep into every corner of the rectory.

  But that wasn’t her fault! She needed a break. This was her time now, the best time of the year: almost the whole summer without her parents, before they arrived on the island for the last two weeks of the holidays.

  Maisie waved again from the deck. She knew her mother would stand there until the steamer was out of sight, but after Maisie blew a kiss, she turned her back. Then she hurried to the front of the boat so she could keep watch all the way to the island.

  What a relief to feel the cool sea breeze lift her hair! All week it had been so hot that Maisie had slept on a cot in the basement. Yesterday, at her graduation from grade nine, she had sweltered in her black gown. She and Jim had poked each other so much that the principal frowned, but they didn’t care. School was done with! No one could make them stay after class or write lines—after the ceremony they were free.

  Jim . . . Maisie’s face burned. All year he had been her good chum. They sat across from each other at the back of the classroom, constantly getting scolded for whispering and playing secret games of cards. Some of the sillier girls said he was Maisie’s boyfriend, but he wasn’t. He was just a friend: handy for taking to school dances without the tension of being on a real “date.”

  All Maisie’s other friends at her small junior high school were girls, and most of them had been together since grade one. Maisie was constantly attending birthday parties or movies with Lindy or Betty or Ruth or Dawna. They knew and accepted one another.

  Lately, however, the girls had changed. Just because they were about to enter high school, they tried to mirror the teenagers in magazines and movies. All they wanted to talk about were Jimmy Stewart and Betty Grable and the latest hairstyles and who had a crush on whom.

  Maisie pretended to be interested in all these things, but she really couldn’t give a fig about them. But then had come last night’s party and what had happened afterwards . . .

  Don’t think about it! In her mind, Maisie gathered up all her embarrassment about Jim, wrapped it in a tight ball, and threw it into the swirling water.

  There! She didn’t have to think about anyone at school for two whole months. Anyway, none of them were real friends. Her only real friend was her cousin Una. She never changed. And very shortly Maisie was going to see her!

  The boat sliced like a huge swan through the calm sea, passing the many islands between Victoria and Vancouver. Gulls wheeled overhead, and seals poked up their dark heads, then sank below the waves. The sky was a boundless blue.

  Maisie watched impatiently as the steamer docked at Valencia Island and people got off and on. Finally they rounded the point and headed into the choppy water of the pass. As they approached Kingfisher Island, Maisie thirstily drank in every detail: its steep sides blanketed with dark firs, the few houses dotted along the shore, and the lighthouse on the distant point. Her eager gaze found the store, hotel, gas station, and hall that made up the tiny village.

  She strained her eyes to see who was waiting on the wharf. Yes, there they were! Granny, in slacks as usual, held a cigarette and bounced with excitement. Grand stood quietly beside her, the sun glinting on his glasses.

  But where was the usual family crowd? Where were Polly and Chester and little Clary, and Maud and Uncle Daniel and Aunt Esther? Most important, where was Una?

  “Yoo-hoo! Maisie!” sang out Granny. Grand waved beside her.

  “Yoo-hoo! Granny!”

  They always did this. Maisie grinned as the steamer edged up to the end of the wharf. She was home.

  “It’s my bonny wee girl!” cried Granny, kissing Maisie again and again.

  Maisie picked up Granny’s tiny figure, making her shriek. “It’s my bonny wee granny!”

  Grand pecked her on the cheek and said quietly, “Welcome back, my dear child.”

  As usual, Maisie wanted to stroke his perfectly round bald head. “But where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Oh, chickie, don’t you remember? They all had to stay in Vancouver for the weekend to go to Esther’s brother’s funeral on Monday. I told you that last week on the phone.”

  Granny must have told Mum, not her. “Even Una had to go?”

  “Of course! Ben was her great-uncle, after all.”

  Grand took the hamper. “I suppose he would be called her step-great-uncle, since Esther is her step-grandmother.”

  “Oh, don’t be so pedantic, Rand. Whatever he was, Ben was very fond of Una. What a nice man he was, and what a tragedy he went so soon! Rachel and David must be devastated.”

  Maisie mumbled a reply, trying to conceal her disappointment.

  “Don’t worry, chickie.” Granny put her arm around Maisie as they walked along the dusty road to the rectory. “You’ll see Una on Tuesday, and until then we have you all to ourselves! There’s roast chicken for dinner, with strawberry shortcake for dessert—your favourites.”

  That was more cheerful. So was Granny�
��s non-stop chatter. You didn’t have to really listen to her; Grand probably hadn’t for years. Her chirpy words were as soothing and safe as a warm bath after coming in from the cold.

  * * *

  The rectory was a simple brown-shingled house with a green roof. Outside were perfectly stacked piles of wood and tidy rows of vegetables and flowers, fenced against the deer. Maisie stepped inside and inhaled the usual delicious odours of damp wood and lavender. She helped Granny wheel the hamper to the kitchen.

  “My favourite soap—how lovely!” exclaimed Granny, as if she hadn’t requested that they buy it. “And we’re just running out of oats. I keep asking Mr. Wynne to order them, but he says that everyone prefers rolled oats. But what’s this?” She held up an envelope full of money.

  “That’s the change from your cheque,” Maisie told her.

  “But I told your mother to keep the change! The Lord knows she and Gregor need every cent they can get these days . . .”

  Maisie shrugged. “Well, you know how Mum is—she insisted on giving it to you.”

  She fled from Granny’s tut-tutting and carried her suitcase up to her room under the eaves.

  From one window she could see the glittering sea across the road, and from the other the dark firs at the back. There was her narrow bed, covered with the yellow quilt Granny had made for her when she was born. MAIREAD JEAN STAFFORD, DECEMBER 10, 1936 was embroidered on it. There were her comics and her childhood books, including her complete set of Nancy Drews. There was her chest of drawers. On top were a brush and mirror, their silver backs engraved with MJM, for “Mairead Jean MacGregor,” Maisie’s great-grandmother from Scotland.

  Maisie picked up the mirror. Granny kept the back polished, but the glass was pitted and streaky. Maisie frowned at her own chubby face and wild curls, then put down the mirror quickly, wondering as usual what her namesake had been like. One day Granny was going to take her to Scotland to visit her family home.

  In a few minutes Maisie had unpacked all her clothes. Every summer she brought the same things: two pairs of jeans, two pairs of shorts, T-shirts, a few sweaters and blouses, and underwear. Mum always tried to sneak in a skirt, and Maisie always took it out. That’s what the summer was for: to be free of the skirts and dresses she had to wear to school.

  On the island the only time she had to wear a skirt was to church or special occasions. Maisie always wore an old kilt in the MacGregor tartan, which had once belonged to her father. She grinned at it in the closet as she hung up her jacket. A kilt was much more fun to wear than a skirt. When she was younger, she used to pretend she was Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  She raced downstairs. The kitchen smelled of baking chicken.

  “May I help?” asked Maisie.

  “Eventually you can—but aren’t you going for your swim first?” Maisie’s annual ritual was to plunge into the sea as soon as she arrived.

  “I can’t!” moaned Maisie.

  “Oh, poor bairn, have you got your monthlies? Never mind . . . you have all summer to swim. Here—you can shell the peas.”

  Maisie took them out to the back stoop and went through the familiar motions of splitting pods and scraping the tender green peas into a pot. A raven gurgled, and she could hear the whistle of the departing steamer. Even though she wouldn’t see Una until Tuesday, she was at peace.

  * * *

  Granny and Grand had lived in the rectory for over thirty years. He had been born on the island. Granny met him when she and her parents and older sister moved here from Stirling, when Granny was thirteen.

  “Your grandfather and I went to school together, but we didn’t get along then,” Granny had told Maisie. “I thought Rand was too quiet, and he thought I was too chatty!”

  Grand had gone to theological college in Vancouver, and when he returned to the island to be a curate at the church, he became, as Granny said, “seduced” by her friend Mildred, with whom Granny was in constant competition.

  “Once I realized what Mildred was up to, I moved right in,” she said. “She didn’t have a chance. She had to settle for Walter, who is such a stick of a man. He may be a doctor, but Rand is far more intelligent.”

  Maisie and Grand were constantly amused at the rivalry between “Mrs. Doctor Cunningham” and Granny. They were always one-upping each other, from who had the smartest son to who grew the largest pumpkin.

  Granny was certainly a better cook than Mrs. Cunningham. Maisie had often eaten there, and the meals were stodgy. Tonight she finished her second helping of shortcake and tried to resist asking for a third. Food was such a comfort—especially when it was this good. At home they ate endless dinners of beans on toast to save money.

  “You won’t believe what Mildred told me at the store this morning!” said Granny.

  “Here we go,” said Grand, winking at Maisie.

  As usual, Granny ignored him. “She’s going to order some new snoods.”

  “What’s a snood?” asked Maisie.

  “Don’t you remember? It’s a long net to keep your hair out of the way. We all wore them during the war, but it’s 1951! No one wears snoods anymore. I told Mildred she should cut her hair shorter, and then she wouldn’t need one, but of course she won’t listen to me.”

  Maisie helped clear the table and make the tea. “Now, chickie, tell us about your dear father,” said Granny, when they were settled in the living room.

  Here it was: the question for which Maisie had been steeling herself all evening. “Dad’s just the same,” she mumbled.

  Grand shook his head. “I just can’t understand it! Why would Gregor give up the church so suddenly? I’ve written him several letters, but he won’t answer them, and he refuses to talk about it on the phone.”

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened?” asked Granny. “We still don’t know all the details.”

  To keep her voice steady, Maisie spoke to the floor. “On Easter Sunday Dad was lifting the bread and wine, but then his arms started shaking. He put them down and just . . . walked out. Everyone started whispering. Mum and I stood there for a few minutes. We didn’t know what to do. Then Mr. Linden—he’s the warden—told us to go back to the house and said he would ask the organist to play some hymns. We hurried home and found Dad in his study. He wouldn’t look at us. When Mum asked him what happened, he said he was going to stop being a rector and that he didn’t want to say any more about it.”

  “Oh, my poor boy!” Granny wiped her eyes.

  Grand looked puzzled. “I know your mother took your father to a doctor and that he said Gregor was depressed. But what exactly does that mean?”

  “Mum explained it to me. It means that Dad is really, really sad—that he’s been like that for a long time.”

  “It’s the bloody war!” said Granny. “It completely changed him. Gregor was such a happy lad before he went over.”

  “But war saddens everyone,” said Grand. “I know Gregor must have seen some terrible things. So did I, in the First World War. Chester was over, and he’s all right. What did Gregor experience that we didn’t?”

  “Mum asks him sometimes, but he won’t talk about it.”

  “He wasn’t even there for very long,” said Grand. “Only a year.”

  “A year and a half,” said Granny. “The longest time I’ve ever lived through! Did the doctor say how we could help him?”

  “He said that all we can do is wait for Dad to get better. He’s supposed to take a lot of walks, but he doesn’t. He just sits in his study all day and pretends to read, or he sleeps on the sofa. It’s as if he isn’t there!”

  “Is it absolutely final, then?” asked Grand. “Has Gregor handed in his resignation?”

  Maisie nodded.

  “I just can’t believe he’s given it up,” said Grand. “Gregor was a fine rector! He was so good with people, so active—not content just to dabble with books and theology, like me. I had hopes of him becoming a bishop one day.”

  “You’re thinking of him before the war, lovey,�
�� said Granny gently. “You know the poor lad hasn’t been the same since he came back.”

  “Yes . . . but I always thought he would get better, not worse.” Maisie couldn’t bear how disappointed Grand sounded.

  “At least they’re letting you stay in the rectory until Christmas,” said Granny. “But what will you do then?”

  “Find another house, I guess.” Maisie’s voice was getting lower and lower. If only these questions would end! They were like stinging darts.

  “But what will you live on? Gregor will just have to find another job,” said Granny firmly.

  “He can’t work,” said Maisie. “He can barely get up in the morning!” Her voice cracked, and she blinked back tears. She would not cry! “Mum says she’ll find a job. She’s waiting until after the summer. The owner of the craft shop says she’ll hire her.”

  “That won’t bring in much money,” said Granny. “If only your parents could have come with you! It would be much more pleasant for Gregor to be here than moping in his study all day, and I could at least feed them—that would save them money. But when I begged him to come on the phone, he said he wouldn’t until his usual time at the end of the summer.”

  “I asked him, too, but he just kept refusing,” said Grand.

  Maisie listened to their anguish. What right had Dad to make his parents so miserable? She was glad he wasn’t here—he would spoil the whole summer!

  “Well, maybe when he does come, it will cheer him up,” said Grand. “And that doctor can’t know what he’s suffering spiritually. When Gregor’s here, I’ll have a little talk with him.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Granny. “I’m sure once he’s on the island he’ll get over this. He just needs to be back in his childhood home, with lots of fresh air and good food.”

  Maisie couldn’t bear to tell them he wouldn’t get over it. Dad’s deep gloom was never going to be fixed by a “little talk.”

  Granny got up and kissed Maisie on the forehead. “Poor chickie—this is all too much for someone your age. At least we have you here again. Go to bed now and try not to fash yourself about your father.”