Flora

From the cabinet radio’s big speakers came the sound of the ocean going in and out against mournful, eerie background music. A twelve-year-old boy, Julian, whose parents have died, has become the ward of his aunt who lives on an island. You could tell at once from the aunt’s voice that she isn’t going to be much comfort. She is an old maid wedded to her solitary schedule. She paints pottery with island scenes and sells it to the tourists, and her pet words are livelihood and self-sufficient. When she speaks of Julian’s parents it sounds as though they have gone and died on purpose so she would be stuck with him. But a boy his age is lucky to get to live beside the ocean, she keeps reminding him, and he will have to be self-sufficient and find ways to amuse himself during the day while she earns their livelihood.

Julian takes long walks against the mournful, eerie background music, missing his parents, until one day he comes upon a ruined beach cottage with DANGER and DO NOT TRESPASS signs all around it. An old fisherman tells him there was a bad fire years ago and then the property kept changing owners who never got around to rebuilding it and now it’s going to be torn down because it’s become a hazard for children who want to play in it.

Of course, as soon as the fisherman leaves, Julian picks his way through the ruins and discovers to his delight and surprise that there is an old couple living quite happily in one small undestroyed room. They are just as delighted and surprised by him. Their names are Ethan and Peg, and they can’t get enough of him. They want to know everything about his life and all about his parents, even the sad parts, and they tell him his aunt can’t help but come to cherish him, he is such a fine boy. They once had a fine boy his age who died in the fire when this cottage belonged to them. The boy’s name was Luke. Soon the cottage will be torn down and they will have to leave, they tell Julian, but it has been a privilege to stay on for as long as they have in this place where Luke was last alive.

Julian visits them every day. He is so eager to go out in the morning that his aunt grows curious and asks what he has been up to. She praises him for being so self-sufficient. He doesn’t mention the ruined cottage because she might forbid him to go there, but he says he is really getting to love the ocean and he hopes he’s not upsetting her schedule too much. And she says no, she’s getting used to having him around and then confesses in a softer, new voice, “In fact, Julian, I would miss you if you weren’t here.”

At this point Flora buried her face in her hands and wailed.

Then the day comes when he heads for the cottage and you can tell by the urgency of the music that this time it is going to be different. The cottage has been demolished at daybreak. The old fisherman is on the scene and Julian asks him, “Did they get the old couple out safely?” “What old couple?” the old fisherman asks. Julian tells him about Ethan and Peg, whose son, Luke, was killed in the cottage fire. “Son, are you joshing me?” asks the old man. He tells Julian that all three of those people were burned to death in that fire back in the 1890s, the son and the father and mother. Everybody on the island knew the story and Julian must have picked it up from some old-timer who got the facts slightly wrong.

“But I saw them,” says Julian. “I saw Ethan and Peg. We talked.”

“Sorry, son, that won’t wash with me. I grew up on this island and I remember how they looked when they found them. Try it on some newcomer.”

Then Julian describes the couple, and finally the old fisherman says, “Lord, if that don’t sound exactly like I remember them. Even down to his sideburns—they called them muttonchops in those days—and her way of asking people all about their business. But look here, son, there are some things beyond rational explaining. You say they were kind to you and got you through a bad time. Well, if I were you I would be grateful for that, but I would keep it to myself.”

THE THEME MUSIC swelled, and now the announcer was reminding us that this program had been brought to us by a wine “made in California for enjoyment throughout the world.”

“Want to turn it off?” Flora asked. “Or would you like to listen to something else?”

“No, no, turn it off. And don’t turn any lights on.”

“Okay.” Flora wafted through the gloaming, and the orange fan-shaped panel on the big console went dark. Already the days were getting shorter. You could tell the difference between now and when we had listened to the program about the girl who becomes a mannequin. Then, as though she was intent on obeying my unspoken wishes as well, Flora returned to her end of the sofa and reassumed her knee-hugging position.

“Were you scared?” she asked.

“No. Were you?”

“Not scared, no.” Her face merged into the surrounding blue dusk, but you could still make out the dark outline of her hair. She was close enough so I could smell her shampoo mingled with the perspiration at the nape of her neck. “I just thought it was perfect. How about you?”

“I did, too.”

As darkness filled the room, we floated companionably in our separate thoughts. I was still enveloped by the kind voices of Ethan and Peg, and even the softening aunt, and vibrating with the strange possibilities aroused in me by the program.

“Oh, Helen, please tell me you haven’t been too bored this summer.”

“Not too bored,” I conceded.

May 21, 1944

Dear Flora,

How sweet of you to remember me with a Mother’s Day card. This is the first chance I have had to sit at my desk in relative quiet and answer your letter tucked inside it. Goodness, child! I hope I am up to all your faith in me.

Helen is spending Sunday with a favorite friend. She went home from church with him. And Harry is dashing around getting ready to drive over the mountain to Tennessee for a summer job. He’s going to manage a construction crew for some top-priority war work at Oak Ridge. It’s called the Manhattan Project and Harry says it’s amazing how the minute you drop the name to the Ration Board they are all over themselves to shower you with permits for anything you want. It was one of those word-of-mouth opportunities that came about through our rector. The chaplain out at the Episcopal Academy had signed on, and he told Father McFall (our rector) that they were desperately looking for responsible people used to exercising authority who didn’t have to work during the summer months. I haven’t seen my son so excited for years. He can’t wait to leave.

Now, Flora, where to start? You say you have no faith in yourself and you are afraid when you go out into the world people will “find you out.” What are you afraid they’ll find out? That you have no faith in yourself? Well, think what you’d be like if you did have faith in yourself and then act as though you are this person. The way she presents herself. The way she walks, enters a room, what she says—and what she does not say. I cannot stress the latter part enough. “Spoken word is slave; unspoken is master,” as the old adage goes. Just keep in mind that people do not read minds. They judge by what they see and hear, and you are a well-favored young woman with a modest, unaffected voice. Just let those two things work for you. You will be surprised how far they’ll carry you. Hold yourself like someone who sets value on her person and remember that a simple, courteous response will get you through practically anything. You don’t need to be witty (some people just aren’t gifted that way) or tell private things about yourself or your family.

You warm this old heart the way you lavish praise on me, but I am basically just a country girl without much education who has tried to keep her dignity and make the most of the cards dealt her. As I sit at this handsome desk my son restored for me and look around me on this quiet afternoon (and yet the world is at war) in our safe house on top of this mountain, I am astonished that things have turned out for me as well as they have. And my wish for you, Flora, is that when you reach my age you will be able to say the same—and much more!

Yours truly,

Honora Anstruther

XIX.

Dear Rachel,