country, but we’re not close enough to the city either. We’re nothing.
Anyway, Mum does all kinds... cleans the church and the supermarket, sometimes picks up work on the till as well, when one of the regular cashiers calls in sick. Nothing permanent or stable, or so she says when she’s too tired to hide her worry.
That’s why Jimmy and I help her in the summer, when we can. I wish I could help her more. I wish I could wipe the worry and sadness from her face. I wish Dad hadn’t died.
Jimmy and I pick berries in the mornings, and if the picking’s good we’ll come back after lunch. Sometimes we get a ride with our neighbors to other patches farther down, because everybody round here picks berries and the patches can get picked out pretty quick.
Jimmy and I have our secret patches of course, deep in the woods that no one knows about. I’m always careful about going to those, because I don’t want someone following me, like the nosy Girton twins.
We don’t actually eat blueberries anymore. Sometimes, if they haven’t been sold and they’re getting kind of mushy and old, Mum will make some jam. But the fresh, plump ones always go to the stall, never for pancakes or pies, or to have out on the porch after dinner, with ice cream. We don’t even have a porch anymore.
I don’t care, though. Not really. Like I said, I hate blueberries now.
It is almost dinnertime when I finally return home, my pail only three quarters full. It’s nearing the end of the season, and it takes a full day’s work or more to pick to the top of pail.
The house is strangely quiet, and the screen door slaps against the wood frame with a lonely echo. I know Jimmy’s gone down the street to Will’s house, but I thought Mum would be home.
I put the pail in the pantry, with the empty cardboard containers and dusty jars of jam. Outside the sun is starting to drop and I can feel the first cool breeze off the river.
I’m thinking Mum must be at the stall, even though she closes up round this time so we can have dinner together. It’s a Friday night, though, and sometimes she stays up late since the cottagers come down for the weekend, after work.
The stall is empty when I reach it, the folding chair tucked inside the little shelter that Jimmy made. It looks like a bad carpentry project, but I know Jimmy was proud of it. I wonder where Mum is.
Since Mum’s not home, it’s up to me to get dinner, and I go for easy, frozen chicken nuggets and chips. Not exactly health food, but I can’t escape the little seed of bitterness that this shouldn’t be my job. I shouldn’t have to make Jimmy eat his peas, should I? Then I feel badly that I’m thinking such things at all.
Jimmy comes home from Will’s and we eat in mostly silence. I tell him he can watch T.V. for twenty minutes before bed, and I begin to wash the dishes.
Just then the screen door slams again, but this time it’s a welcome sound. “Honey, I’m sorry I was so late. I missed the bus back from town, and had to wait for the next one.”
“Why were you in town?” I ask uneasily, and Mum smiles, all mischief and happiness. “I can’t tell you yet... tomorrow maybe, if I get the call.”
What call, I want to ask, but Mum is in the pantry. “Great job picking, Emily! These berries will be put to a good use, I’m sure of it.”
I don’t understand what she means, or the happiness that surrounds her like a bubble. I can’t even say why I don’t like it. I’ve always wanted to see Mum happy, but for some reason I can’t share in it.
The next morning I wake up to the smell of pancakes. That alone makes me lie still, because breakfasts are usually cold cereal and maybe toast. When I venture downstairs, I stop in surprise at the plate of fluffy, blue-dotted pancakes on the table.
Mum looks up and smiles at me. “Jimmy’s still asleep, but why don’t we make a start? Blueberry pancakes! I haven’t
Anyway, Mum does all kinds... cleans the church and the supermarket, sometimes picks up work on the till as well, when one of the regular cashiers calls in sick. Nothing permanent or stable, or so she says when she’s too tired to hide her worry.
That’s why Jimmy and I help her in the summer, when we can. I wish I could help her more. I wish I could wipe the worry and sadness from her face. I wish Dad hadn’t died.
Jimmy and I pick berries in the mornings, and if the picking’s good we’ll come back after lunch. Sometimes we get a ride with our neighbors to other patches farther down, because everybody round here picks berries and the patches can get picked out pretty quick.
Jimmy and I have our secret patches of course, deep in the woods that no one knows about. I’m always careful about going to those, because I don’t want someone following me, like the nosy Girton twins.
We don’t actually eat blueberries anymore. Sometimes, if they haven’t been sold and they’re getting kind of mushy and old, Mum will make some jam. But the fresh, plump ones always go to the stall, never for pancakes or pies, or to have out on the porch after dinner, with ice cream. We don’t even have a porch anymore.
I don’t care, though. Not really. Like I said, I hate blueberries now.
It is almost dinnertime when I finally return home, my pail only three quarters full. It’s nearing the end of the season, and it takes a full day’s work or more to pick to the top of pail.
The house is strangely quiet, and the screen door slaps against the wood frame with a lonely echo. I know Jimmy’s gone down the street to Will’s house, but I thought Mum would be home.
I put the pail in the pantry, with the empty cardboard containers and dusty jars of jam. Outside the sun is starting to drop and I can feel the first cool breeze off the river.
I’m thinking Mum must be at the stall, even though she closes up round this time so we can have dinner together. It’s a Friday night, though, and sometimes she stays up late since the cottagers come down for the weekend, after work.
The stall is empty when I reach it, the folding chair tucked inside the little shelter that Jimmy made. It looks like a bad carpentry project, but I know Jimmy was proud of it. I wonder where Mum is.
Since Mum’s not home, it’s up to me to get dinner, and I go for easy, frozen chicken nuggets and chips. Not exactly health food, but I can’t escape the little seed of bitterness that this shouldn’t be my job. I shouldn’t have to make Jimmy eat his peas, should I? Then I feel badly that I’m thinking such things at all.
Jimmy comes home from Will’s and we eat in mostly silence. I tell him he can watch T.V. for twenty minutes before bed, and I begin to wash the dishes.
Just then the screen door slams again, but this time it’s a welcome sound. “Honey, I’m sorry I was so late. I missed the bus back from town, and had to wait for the next one.”
“Why were you in town?” I ask uneasily, and Mum smiles, all mischief and happiness. “I can’t tell you yet... tomorrow maybe, if I get the call.”
What call, I want to ask, but Mum is in the pantry. “Great job picking, Emily! These berries will be put to a good use, I’m sure of it.”
I don’t understand what she means, or the happiness that surrounds her like a bubble. I can’t even say why I don’t like it. I’ve always wanted to see Mum happy, but for some reason I can’t share in it.
The next morning I wake up to the smell of pancakes. That alone makes me lie still, because breakfasts are usually cold cereal and maybe toast. When I venture downstairs, I stop in surprise at the plate of fluffy, blue-dotted pancakes on the table.
Mum looks up and smiles at me. “Jimmy’s still asleep, but why don’t we make a start? Blueberry pancakes! I haven’t
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