If I Die Before I Wake

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Toronto, Ontario, 1918

  August 1918

  September 1918

  October 1918

  November 1918

  December 1918

  January 1919

  February 1919

  March 1919

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Toronto, Ontario,

  1918

  August 1918

  Saturday, August 3, 1918

  My 12th birthday

  Fanny and I came down the stairs together this morning and stood still in the dining room doorway while the family all sang “Happy Birthday” to us. Theo was too excited to stay on his chair but the rest waited for us to come and be hugged, which we did.

  On my way down, though, I had been hoping against hope that I would not find another one of those little square diaries with skimpy square pages, all dated, wrapped up at my place. If I did, I was going to tell Father I refused to do it any longer, no matter how much my penmanship needs improvement.

  Father gave Fanny and me our first two on our eighth birthday and told us to write in them every night before we went to sleep. When I was eight, I loved it. The pages were plenty big enough then, but after four years, filling in one of those squinched-up sheets every night with the weather and the tedious things I did became a boring CHORE. There was never enough room to record anything that really mattered. Now that we are turning twelve, I felt strong enough to mutiny.

  When I faced the parcels piled at my place, though, I saw no square, diary-sized package. There were two that looked book-shaped but one was too small and the other much too big.

  “You start first, Fee,” Aunt said. “You are the older sister.”

  “Only by twelve minutes,” Fan muttered.

  Everyone but Jo ignored her. Jo, who was also born second, reached out and patted her hand comfortingly. “Everyone saves the best till last,” she said.

  Ha!

  I pushed the parcels that looked like books to one side and opened the gifts from Jemma, Jo and Theo first. Jemma’s was a box of watercolours, Jo’s a sketch pad and drawing pencils and Theo’s a box of sugared almonds, his favourite sweet. I said he could help himself and he grabbed a fat fistful before Aunt could stop him and crammed them all into his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s.

  Everyone laughed. Grandmother had not come downstairs yet so I had to go on to the gifts I had left unopened.

  The smaller package turned out to be a copy of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, with love from Aunt. I was pleased.

  But the card tucked under the ribbon on the second one read, For Fiona Rose Macgregor, to record her 13th year, with love from her father.

  Father watched me read the words and laughed out loud. “Oh, Fee, you should see your face.”

  “You look as though you expect it to bite you or smell bad,” Jemma said.

  “I don’t want to write in one of those diaries any longer,” I burst out. I could not look at Father in case he was hurt, but I was determined.

  “Open it before you decide. I think you just might like this one,” he said.

  Under the wrapping paper, I found this lovely book. It is much bigger than those others and it has a ribbon to mark my place. The paper is nicer, too. And the pages are not lined and dated but totally blank. They leave you free to write whatever you please. You can write one sentence or three pages. You can have a big life or a little one. What’s more, you can skip days when there is nothing worth writing.

  But I think I’ll try not to skip.

  Then, before I could speak, Aunt settled the thing. She said she wished I had known my mother better. “Ruth was so like you, Fee,” she said. “She loved to write, too. If only our papa had made us keep a diary and you could read hers, you would find her to be a true kindred spirit.”

  I said all right, I would do it.

  Fanny was not about to be skipped over. “How about me?” she asked. “It’s my birthday, too, remember.”

  “You are more like me,” Aunt said. “You prefer deeds to words. You will notice you did not get a diary this year.”

  Fan had followed my lead and already opened a penny whistle from Jemma, the same paper and pencils from Jo and sticks of barley sugar from Theo. She put them in her pocket, out of his reach.

  “You’ve had enough, piglet,” she said.

  Then she looked at her book-shaped package. Both of us had taken for granted that it was her diary. We so often are given identical gifts. But hers was a different shape. She tore off the wrapping and cheered up. It was a copy of The Moffat Standard Canadian Cook Book. Her card read, For Francesca Ruth Macgregor, with which to practise making mouth-watering dishes for her family, with love from Father.

  Fanny beamed down at it. She looked like a simpleton. “I do love cooking,” she said, “and I did hate writing in those little diaries every night. I made my writing scrawl to get it over with.”

  She jumped up and kissed Father. Why does she always have to beat me to it when it comes to being nice?

  Then Father said we should get dressed and come outdoors to get our next present. I wanted to know what it was but Fanny ran for the stairs so I tore after her. When we came down, the front door was open and everybody but Grandmother was waiting in front of the house with our most totally surprising gift — a tandem bicycle!

  “We are decidedly jealous,“ Jemma teased.

  “We’ll need to borrow it,” Jo added. “Often.”

  Fan and I each have an old bicycle and have known how to ride since we turned nine. So we mastered the new one in about five minutes and took off, flying around the block and back. The best part is that we can hear what we say to each other as we speed along without needing to shout across a space. It has a basket on the back for holding sweaters or parcels.

  Aunt got it second-hand from a woman who used to ride on it with her blind husband who died. She told Aunt that the bicycle would much enjoy being ridden by two young things.

  Since we positively flew, I have named it Pegasus, the flying horse from the Greek myth. I love giving things just the right names. When we came back in, our little brother said, “You never ate breakfast.”

  Everyone laughed. I had not felt one bit hungry until then, but suddenly I was famished. Yet, even though I began to eat, I was still remembering what Aunt had said about my diary keeping.

  Did she mean I like words better than deeds? If so, she is absolutely right. I would certainly rather read a book than peel a potato. Fanny, on the other hand, claims she actually enjoys household chores. She loves baking and making things tidy. She told me once that she even likes ironing! And dusting!! She also said that polishing furniture was as satisfying as washing children’s faces and dressing them up.

  I don’t like that job either. We are forever being told to tidy up Theo, who can get dirty just sitting still. I love my brother but I don’t enjoy washing him.

  Aunt is right about my longing to know more about my mother, too. Even if she had not died, how eagerly I would snatch up a book written by her when she was my age. She would probably put in all sorts of secrets, private things, her sorrows and her joys. I decided, then and there, that I would write this journal for the daughter I will have someday.

  I told Father that I would make my new diary a letter to my daughter and he smiled and said, “You’ll be writing more than one page a day, in that case. I’m glad I chose a larger book fo
r you. Let me know when you are ready for Volume Two.”

  Fanny’s second book was a manual of household hints. She started leafing through instantly, pleased as punch with the dullest stuff you could imagine. How to get coffee stains out of your skirt. How to get spruce gum out of a child’s hair. How to make raspberry vinegar.

  I had stopped listening to her when Father spoke to me in a quiet voice.

  “After looking over what you wrote last year, Fee, your aunt and I agreed that you needed more space to let your talent for writing flower. You must know you have a real gift,” he said.

  His words ran through my head like shining stars. Let your talent for writing flower.… You have a real gift.

  Aunt agreed with him. I looked over at her and when our eyes met, she smiled and nodded. I decided, at that very moment, that they must believe I had actually shown some talent. I have never told them, but it is my dream to become a writer when I grow up.

  One of my dreams anyway. I have others sometimes.

  I could not think of a word to say back to them so I grabbed my Jane Austen book up to hide my face. I am afraid it looks a bit dull, not enough conversation. I hate books in which pages are a solid block of small print. Have you noticed, Daughter, that I am putting in conversation for you? Well, for myself, too. I did not like rereading my old diaries because I wrote everything on the page in one solid slab — except for the edge bits, which I stuck in later. I had to do it that way because each page was so small and you could only use one a day.

  Back to the subject of Jane Austen’s book, Aunt says Mother claimed she wanted to be just like Elizabeth Bennet, so I plan to read it and see what I think of E.

  Later in the same morning

  I can’t believe how much I’ve written already. Reams! I wonder what a “ream” is. I wrote that much the minute I got up to Fan’s and my room after breakfast. Then the postman came with cards for us. They were flowery and too gushy but they contained two one-dollar bills for each of us. They were from Father’s old aunts who live out west. They have not seen us for years so it was really kind of them. I have stowed my riches away in my ribbon drawer.

  I should tell about each of my family in here, one by one, so my daughter will know what everyone was like before she was born. It’ll be like listing the Cast of Characters. I like books that start out that way, and plays, too. If I forget who somebody is, I can turn back and check. Not that I am likely to forget anyone in this book.

  Cast of Characters

  Father: David George Macgregor

  Aunt: Rose Mary Smithson

  Grandmother: Dorcas Joanna Macgregor

  Jo: Josephine Mary Macgregor

  Jemma: Jemima Amy Macgregor

  Fee: Fiona Rose Macgregor

  Fanny: Francesca Ruth Macgregor

  Theo: Theodore David Macgregor

  Pixie: Aunt’s old Boston bull terrier

  Those are the characters who live in our house, my immediate family members. I will leave other relations out unless they come into my story.

  Until this minute, I never thought of my life as a story. I like the notion. I hope it is as good as Pride and Prejudice. Better even.

  Describing Father is not easy. Telling what he looks like is simple enough, though. He has brown hair with grey bits at the sides. He has dark brown eyes. He wears glasses when he reads. He has a great smile although he does not smile over nothing. He has nice ears with a red pencil almost always behind one of them. He is six feet tall when he has his shoes on. He limps when he walks because he was injured in the Boer War and he uses a cane when he is tired and his leg troubles him. But the hard part comes when I think about his personality.

  How much he has changed since Theo was born and Mother died! That was five years ago. I suppose we all changed at that time, but Father used to laugh so much more and tell us riddles and sing. He hardly ever does those things now. I know that he loves us as much as ever but he is more solemn.

  Partly he broods about his friends who have gone to war while he could not go because of his limp.

  I must try to get to know him better. He always has such piles of schoolwork to do, though, and so many meetings to attend now that he is head of the English Department. But I must not give up before I’ve even started.

  I should go on and describe Aunt next but I need to think about her a while first.

  After thinking and lunch

  Grandmother gave us her present at lunch. It was a box of handkerchiefs with a flower embroidered in the corner. Fanny’s was identical. Not only that, but they are the exact same handkerchiefs she gave us for Christmas last year. I wonder how many boxes she has stacked up waiting. We thanked her most politely but dared not look at each other in case we burst.

  I must give you a name, Daughter, or you won’t feel real. I will call you Jane in these pages. I just finished reading Jane Eyre and I like that name. It sounds plain and simple, just the way everyone thought Jane Eyre was, but she was not simple at all. She was brave and fiery and romantic. She stood up to lots of hardships. I am sure that you, Jane, will be like her.

  Come to think of it, I believe maybe Aunt is like Jane Eyre — although she has never been in love as far as I know. Certainly she has never fallen head over heels in love with a man like Mr. Rochester. Are there any men like him? (There is some mystery about this but I will put that in later.)

  She is not terribly tall. My older sisters are as tall as she. Her hair is nut brown. “The nut brown maids” they used to call Mother and her when they were young. She has very blue eyes and a grin that makes you grin back. I love her more than anyone, now Mother is gone. But she has a lot to bear raising all of us and standing up to Grandmother, and she does it just the way Jane Eyre would.

  Jane was a teacher, and so was Aunt before she came to live with us. Years ago, she and Mother moved into Toronto to live with their aunt — right across the street from Father’s house — while they finished high school. I bet they both thought he was wonderful.

  If Grandmother were to read this, she would make me cross out I bet. She says betting is wicked. But she is not reading it and she never will if I can help it.

  It was Mother he married. They were wed as soon as she graduated. Jemma and Jo were born two years later while he was away fighting in the Boer War. I’ll tell about them later. That’s when he was wounded and sent back to Canada. Aunt Rose came to help Mother nurse him and tend to the little girls. When he was well enough to go on with his teaching job, Aunt went to Normal School for a year and then left for a teaching job of her own in Alberta.

  She came for Christmas most years but she never stayed long. I used to beg her to but she would just laugh. Until Theo was expected, that is. Things got too much then for Mother to manage, with only Myrtle Bridge to help. Myrtle still comes two mornings a week but she’s slow. Father calls her The Weak Reed. Whenever he says this, Aunt shakes her head at him and says, “Myrtle may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she does her best and I prize her above rubies.”

  Why am I going on about Myrtle? Well, I suppose I will be bound to mention her once in a while, Jane, and you would wonder who she was.

  Mother wrote to Aunt and said she did not know how she could manage. Aunt packed her bag and came. I think my mother had a feeling something was wrong. When she guessed she might die, she asked Aunt to stay and raise her children. Aunt promised, and she has been here ever since.

  Grandmother is next in the list. She will have to wait until later. We are going out to play croquet — even Father.

  After croquet and a glorious birthday dinner

  Jemma won the croquet game but she cheated. Jo accused her of nudging her ball into place with her toe. Jemma does not take such things to heart the way I might. She just laughed and said we were jealous of her tremendous skill.

  Now to Grandmother!

  I will confess to you, Jane, right off the bat, that she is not my favourite person. She has steely grey hair and steely grey eyes to matc
h. Her nose is sharp and so is her voice. Her hands are hard. She wears spectacles all the time. She only laughs AT people and she smiles when she has been proved right about something.

  She’s mean. For instance, this afternoon she saw me curl up with Pride and Prejudice in Father’s big leather chair and right away she called me to come and hold her wool for her. She could have asked Jemma or Jo, seeing it is my birthday, but not she. She had twelve skeins she had bought as a bargain and it took forever. Then she said, “Straighten up those shoulders, Fiona. If you slouch like that, you’ll end up a hunchback.”

  I wanted to tell her my posture was none of her affair but I would be in very hot water if I ever dared speak my mind like that. I just shut my lips so tight they hurt and made my spine stiff as Father’s walking stick.

  Let’s just say, Jane, that I liked Grandmother better when we just visited her. Now that she lives here, she is forever finding fault. Jemma thinks living with her was maybe what killed Grandfather off but I think that is going too far. In our family, Jemma is the one who is famous for going too far.

  Our Smithson grandparents live together in their old farmhouse. They rent the fields to a neighbour now because Grandy is not strong enough to work them any longer. Jo gave him that name when she was small. It just fits him.

  Grandma is not nearly as strict as Grandmother M. Grandmother even tries to boss Aunt around, though she is not a blood relation of Aunt’s. Even Fanny thinks Grandmother is overstepping when she speaks to Aunt the way she does. After all, Mother and Father asked Aunt to come and live with us, but Grandmother just marched in. I should know. I saw it happen.

  It’s a long story but I’ll tell it to you since Fanny is downstairs playing cribbage with Father and I just heard them start a new game.

  It was a year ago, two days after Grandfather’s funeral and I think they expected her to go on living in her own house with her maid. When she appeared at our front door with her portmanteau, I could see Father was taken aback, to put it mildly.