that bungalow and really go inside. You get it from the real estate office and Frankie and I will go to Wong’s and get him to make up a picnic lunch and we’ll go back and have a picnic there. Do let’s.”
So Mother and I went to the Chinese café and got a picnic lunch and a thermos from Wong, and Father went to Bellamy’s for the key. We drove up the hill again and got out. Father unlocked the door and we all went in.
Mrs. Broom had made a neat business of leaving the house, just as she had of going into it. There was none of the litter and exhaustion of an empty and deserted dwelling. Just a neat little, square little, scrubbed little bungalow, with a fireplace, and book-shelves made specially for Hetty Dorval, and two bedrooms, a bathroom of sorts, and a kitchen; and in front, a broad porch overlooking the river. I did not work up any sentiment about the room that could look and had looked so warm and confiding. It seemed better to me as itwas that sunny day with Mother and Father, more comfortable, although it is true that without the presence of Hetty and all that surrounded her the place felt emptier than empty. To begin with, I think that Mother had wanted to exorcise the bungalow completely, superimposing on my youthful memory which she and Father could not share, the picture of us three together there, dispelling the memory of her little daughter and the stranger. Then she fell in love with the bungalow, and Father played right into her hands.
“Bellamy tells me,” he said, shoving his hat back, “that the place could be bought for a song. They want to wind up the old Absalom estate and they’d almost give it away.”
Mother whirled round and her eyes sparkled. “Then give it to me, Frank! I want it! I adore it! Let’s have it!”
“Whatever for? Don’t you like the ranch? Your mother doesn’t like her old home, Frankie!”
“Darling, don’t be
so
silly! You know I love the ranch. But when you and I are old, old people and we don’t want to work any more, wouldn’t it be lovely to have this little bungalow on the hill-side!”
“Listen to your mother!” said Father smiling. “Thinks I’m made of money.”
“And then we could rent it and make some money in the meantime,” said Mother in jerks, pulling and pushing at a window.
The bungalow was a true log house, and the windows slid in grooves, to open. But the windows had grown into their places, so we pushed and pulled until we had them all open and the wind blew freely through.
“
There!”
said Mother, waving her hands to the wind as if to say “Come on,” and I knew exactly what she was doing. She was blowing Hetty Dorval right out of the house.
We sat down on the porch and ate Wong’s lunch and Mother said, “The thing about this place, Frank, is that you don’t have to buy the hills opposite. They’re all yours. No one’s ever going to use them – look, there’s the train!”
The melancholy hoot of the train creeping along beside the river below on its long journey across a continent was the only sign of the outside world, and comfortably remote. Here life would be very simple. Nothing and no one could complicate life here, Mother was saying. Couldn’t they? (“I will
not
complicate my life!”)
When we finished lunch we fell silent, and Father lay down on the flat boards and went to sleep. He could sleep anywhere. On a long rough run he could stretch his length on the running board of his car and sleep, and then drive on refreshed. He was famous for it.
We drove rather silently back to Lytton. We took the thermos back to Wong who stood outside his café in the bright sunshine. His grandchildren played near the door. Wong was an old fat Chinaman whose father was one of the Chinese who mined for gold in the Fraser and in the Cariboo country in the early sixties. Wong was born up country and he still spoke perversely among the risen generation the kind of English that his father spoke.
“What for you go away,
So Mother and I went to the Chinese café and got a picnic lunch and a thermos from Wong, and Father went to Bellamy’s for the key. We drove up the hill again and got out. Father unlocked the door and we all went in.
Mrs. Broom had made a neat business of leaving the house, just as she had of going into it. There was none of the litter and exhaustion of an empty and deserted dwelling. Just a neat little, square little, scrubbed little bungalow, with a fireplace, and book-shelves made specially for Hetty Dorval, and two bedrooms, a bathroom of sorts, and a kitchen; and in front, a broad porch overlooking the river. I did not work up any sentiment about the room that could look and had looked so warm and confiding. It seemed better to me as itwas that sunny day with Mother and Father, more comfortable, although it is true that without the presence of Hetty and all that surrounded her the place felt emptier than empty. To begin with, I think that Mother had wanted to exorcise the bungalow completely, superimposing on my youthful memory which she and Father could not share, the picture of us three together there, dispelling the memory of her little daughter and the stranger. Then she fell in love with the bungalow, and Father played right into her hands.
“Bellamy tells me,” he said, shoving his hat back, “that the place could be bought for a song. They want to wind up the old Absalom estate and they’d almost give it away.”
Mother whirled round and her eyes sparkled. “Then give it to me, Frank! I want it! I adore it! Let’s have it!”
“Whatever for? Don’t you like the ranch? Your mother doesn’t like her old home, Frankie!”
“Darling, don’t be
so
silly! You know I love the ranch. But when you and I are old, old people and we don’t want to work any more, wouldn’t it be lovely to have this little bungalow on the hill-side!”
“Listen to your mother!” said Father smiling. “Thinks I’m made of money.”
“And then we could rent it and make some money in the meantime,” said Mother in jerks, pulling and pushing at a window.
The bungalow was a true log house, and the windows slid in grooves, to open. But the windows had grown into their places, so we pushed and pulled until we had them all open and the wind blew freely through.
“
There!”
said Mother, waving her hands to the wind as if to say “Come on,” and I knew exactly what she was doing. She was blowing Hetty Dorval right out of the house.
We sat down on the porch and ate Wong’s lunch and Mother said, “The thing about this place, Frank, is that you don’t have to buy the hills opposite. They’re all yours. No one’s ever going to use them – look, there’s the train!”
The melancholy hoot of the train creeping along beside the river below on its long journey across a continent was the only sign of the outside world, and comfortably remote. Here life would be very simple. Nothing and no one could complicate life here, Mother was saying. Couldn’t they? (“I will
not
complicate my life!”)
When we finished lunch we fell silent, and Father lay down on the flat boards and went to sleep. He could sleep anywhere. On a long rough run he could stretch his length on the running board of his car and sleep, and then drive on refreshed. He was famous for it.
We drove rather silently back to Lytton. We took the thermos back to Wong who stood outside his café in the bright sunshine. His grandchildren played near the door. Wong was an old fat Chinaman whose father was one of the Chinese who mined for gold in the Fraser and in the Cariboo country in the early sixties. Wong was born up country and he still spoke perversely among the risen generation the kind of English that his father spoke.
“What for you go away,
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