in his hunting tilt because he himself did not need it stoked, and the air inside the tilt grew damp as well as cold, from their breath and the condensed vapour from their own bodies, and by the time they arrived home Wayne had a racking cough that sounded like a high groan when he breathed in. His mother kept him home from school and boiled water in her big kettle all day to make steam in the house, and bundled him up in his father’s chair, and together they ate toast and listened to the radio.
The first and second postcards from Thomasina came together, from the south of France: one had Picasso’s
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon
on it, because Thomasina was staying in a hotel in Avignon.
“I had to take a break from teachers’ college, Wayne,” Thomasina wrote. “It is so boring. We have to study statistics. I would much rather study people and history. I think you could graduate without even knowing where all the countries are. I decided to do two semesters at a time and travel between. This is where Picasso found his models for the famous painting on the card.”
Treadway, on his way in and out of the kitchen with armloads of spruce, asked, “What kind of postcard is that to send a child?” He picked it up and studied it. “Naked women?”
“It’s Picasso,” Jacinta said.
“Are they even women? What are they wearing on their faces?”
“What are statistics, Dad?”
“Statistics, son, are facts. Facts connected with numbers. For example, the population of Croydon Harbour is 217. You add or lose a number here or there for a death or a birth, but give or take a half a dozen numbers you know where you stand. There are more interesting questions in science, but it wouldn’t hurt Thomasina Baikie to stay in one place and learn a statistic or two.”
The second postcard was a photograph of the Pont d’Avignon.
“This bridge was built in the eleven hundreds,” Thomasina wrote. “There’s only part of it left, but imagine it standing that long. It’s not the magpie bridge, Wayne, but wings still helped build it. Angel wings. There was a boy about your age. I forget his name but angels told him to build the bridge. He was able to lift massive stones, and he built it. There’s a famous song about this bridge — maybe you’ll learn it one day in French class.”
“What is that woman trying to put in Wayne’s head?” Treadway was covered in spruce shavings. A layer of cold, sweet air from outdoors clung to him.
“Maybe you should put those away,” Jacinta told Wayne. “Do you want a tin?” She gave him a Peek Freans shortbread tin and Wayne put Thomasina’s cards in it.
“Thomasina is liable to run out of money and get stuck in one of those places,” Treadway said. “Some people have an awfully funny way of going on.”
7
Elizaveta Kirilovna
W AYNE LOVED SYMMETRY , and so he loved grade three when his teacher taught about three-dimensional geometric shapes. One night while Jacinta was bottling rhubarb he asked her, “Have we got any of those wire things with paper on them that you close garbage bags with?”
“Twist ties?”
“You close garbage bags with them.”
Jacinta was fishing Mason jar lids out of her pot with a pair of tongs. “Look in the garbage-bag box.”
“Have we got any bread that isn’t homemade?”
“Your dad’s.” Treadway used store-bought bread for his toast every night at nine o’clock.
“I only need a couple of slices.”
“Behind the bologna.” Jacinta was waiting for the lids to pop down on two dozen jars. She liked it when the lids popped. She liked the definite, abrupt sound that meant no one in her family would get botulism. She liked the shiny jars on the counter, shoulder to shoulder. The accomplishment of it. Treadway might get lost out on the trapline. If he did, there would be jars of food. She filled and arranged the jars and washed the rhubarb pot and put away the sugar and cloves and the extra raisins. By the time she looked at Wayne
The first and second postcards from Thomasina came together, from the south of France: one had Picasso’s
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon
on it, because Thomasina was staying in a hotel in Avignon.
“I had to take a break from teachers’ college, Wayne,” Thomasina wrote. “It is so boring. We have to study statistics. I would much rather study people and history. I think you could graduate without even knowing where all the countries are. I decided to do two semesters at a time and travel between. This is where Picasso found his models for the famous painting on the card.”
Treadway, on his way in and out of the kitchen with armloads of spruce, asked, “What kind of postcard is that to send a child?” He picked it up and studied it. “Naked women?”
“It’s Picasso,” Jacinta said.
“Are they even women? What are they wearing on their faces?”
“What are statistics, Dad?”
“Statistics, son, are facts. Facts connected with numbers. For example, the population of Croydon Harbour is 217. You add or lose a number here or there for a death or a birth, but give or take a half a dozen numbers you know where you stand. There are more interesting questions in science, but it wouldn’t hurt Thomasina Baikie to stay in one place and learn a statistic or two.”
The second postcard was a photograph of the Pont d’Avignon.
“This bridge was built in the eleven hundreds,” Thomasina wrote. “There’s only part of it left, but imagine it standing that long. It’s not the magpie bridge, Wayne, but wings still helped build it. Angel wings. There was a boy about your age. I forget his name but angels told him to build the bridge. He was able to lift massive stones, and he built it. There’s a famous song about this bridge — maybe you’ll learn it one day in French class.”
“What is that woman trying to put in Wayne’s head?” Treadway was covered in spruce shavings. A layer of cold, sweet air from outdoors clung to him.
“Maybe you should put those away,” Jacinta told Wayne. “Do you want a tin?” She gave him a Peek Freans shortbread tin and Wayne put Thomasina’s cards in it.
“Thomasina is liable to run out of money and get stuck in one of those places,” Treadway said. “Some people have an awfully funny way of going on.”
7
Elizaveta Kirilovna
W AYNE LOVED SYMMETRY , and so he loved grade three when his teacher taught about three-dimensional geometric shapes. One night while Jacinta was bottling rhubarb he asked her, “Have we got any of those wire things with paper on them that you close garbage bags with?”
“Twist ties?”
“You close garbage bags with them.”
Jacinta was fishing Mason jar lids out of her pot with a pair of tongs. “Look in the garbage-bag box.”
“Have we got any bread that isn’t homemade?”
“Your dad’s.” Treadway used store-bought bread for his toast every night at nine o’clock.
“I only need a couple of slices.”
“Behind the bologna.” Jacinta was waiting for the lids to pop down on two dozen jars. She liked it when the lids popped. She liked the definite, abrupt sound that meant no one in her family would get botulism. She liked the shiny jars on the counter, shoulder to shoulder. The accomplishment of it. Treadway might get lost out on the trapline. If he did, there would be jars of food. She filled and arranged the jars and washed the rhubarb pot and put away the sugar and cloves and the extra raisins. By the time she looked at Wayne
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