“I’m smart.” Lily instantly regretted her flip remark and added, “I’m smart about people. I like them.”
“Well, you’ll have to be smart with Ed Parsons. He doesn’t like school. His father told me Ed would be the first of his boys to have more than a grade eight education, and he’s upset that we’re making Ed repeat his school year. But the rule is you must pass an English comprehension test to enter the matriculation year and Ed failed it.”
“I plan to go to teachers’ college next year. Tutoring Mr. Parsons will give me some practice.”
Lily agreed to the twenty-five-cent hourly rate and arranged to meet Ed after school. He arrived at the end of the school day just as the other students were piling out to smoke or hurry to part-time jobs. They cast knowing glances at him as though he were there to fetch his sweetheart, not to be tutored in English. Lily play-acted the part by handing her bag of books to Ed. The ruse seemed to work. He had deep-set blue-black eyes that reminded her of anthracite. His dark stubble, short-cropped black hair, and six-foot stature made him look more adult than his classmates, but he was actually a year older than Lily.
“I’m the dolt on the notice board,” he said with a sarcastic edge.
“What did you find difficult on the test?” Lily asked.
“I had one hour to answer questions after reading a passage from a book. I panicked and wrote whatever nonsense came into my head. I’m no scholar.”
“That’s not true! You’re almost through high school and that’s more than your brothers achieved. Don’t you want to graduate with a diploma?”
Ed’s eyes became iridescent with moisture. “Everyone in the school will know that I need special help.”
“Look, as soon as the bell rings and the students have cleared out, come to my classroom. If someone asks why you’re there, say you’ve come to carry my books.”
Ed shrugged and gave Lily an appraising look that embarrassed her. She ignored the flirtatious look in his eyes.
“English is just words, and words make up stories. People from Cape Breton make up their own stories. But you need to be able to read and hear a story and know what you’ve read and heard. Panic cuts concentration. I know that. Let’s start with stories and leave grammar out.” She pulled out a book that had taken several days to find amongst the old-fashioned British Annuals, which Lily considered boring.
Lily opened the book and handed it to Ed. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Ed asked.
“You’re to write the first paragraph on the board and then read it. The only way to improve your illegible handwriting is to have you read what you’ve written. Let’s start here.”
Ed groaned as Lily handed him a piece of chalk. She stood beside him as he scribbled the words on the board. Lily had chosen an adventure story about a young stowaway being tied to the mast of a ship. At the end of the first hour, they were well into the story and Ed had seemed to enjoy it.
“Were you ever tied up as a boy and not able to free yourself?” Lily asked while Ed was doing his best to write the words legibly. She recalled Beth tying her to a tree when she was six years old, and then running into the house when a storm hit. Although Beth had been practising slipknots, the knot would not budge, and Lily, terrified, was left with a deep fear of storms. “I wonder if your older brothers did mean things. I’m sure you got your share of torture, being the youngest of six boys. Or maybe boys are not as cruel as girls.” She shivered, recalling the enormous claps of thunder and the zigzag flashes she was sure would strike her tree.
“I don’t think being tied to a mast or a tree is torture,” Ed said.
“I guess boys from Glace Bay are pretty tough. You’re lucky if your brothers weren’t mean.”
“My brothers were rough, but they never beat me up. We used to have wrestling matches in the parlour that drove my mom crazy. Always worried we’d damage her furniture.”
“Mothers are like that,” Lily said. “But your parents have your best interests at heart. That’s why they want you to get your diploma.”
A janitor was spreading septic-smelling sawdust down the aisles and sweeping it up with a wide broom just as Ed dropped a piece of chalk in Lily’s cleavage. His action was so quick she almost didn’t notice, but felt the hard lump at her bodice. The janitor witnessed her furious slap on Ed’s cheek. Ed slouched away embarrassed, and Lily muttered, “I hope I never see you again, Ed Parsons!”
Both Lily and Beth had dreams of being on the stage. While they were at Sydney Academy, they buried their rivalry and joined the same theatre group. The school play for the year was Macbeth. Beth gave a star performance as Lady Macbeth while Lily played a minor character. However, once in Truro at teachers’ college, Lily tried out for the lead female role in the school play that had been written by the drama teacher.
It was during the auditions when Lily noticed a fair-skinned handsome young man constructing the props. She went off stage and introduced herself. James Barnaby blushed as he described himself as the school handyman. Unlike Ed Parsons, who was all bravado, Barnaby — as he liked to be called — exuded a quiet confidence. He laughed, saying he was constructing the stage for a formidable actress. They talked awhile before he returned to sawing and hammering the pieces of wood. At each rehearsal Lily chatted with Barnaby, hoping he might wait around and ask her out. But before each practice session ended, he would rush off without explanation.
The night of the sellout performance, Barnaby stood in the wings with an ear-to-ear grin as Lily bowed to a standing ovation. The Sunday after her acting debut, Lily took advantage of the crisp fall day to relax. It was her custom on weekends to take an early morning walk to explore different neighbourhoods. She was pleased and surprised when Barnaby caught up with her.
“Are you following me?” she asked, not disguising her pleasure at seeing him.
“I’m not following you. I’m trying to catch up,” Barnaby said blushing. They walked along silently, stopping on a road where the houses looked like unfinished repair projects. One single-storey house was still waiting to be clad. Loose insulation flapped haplessly in the breeze.
Lily suddenly turned to Barnaby, looking perplexed. “The drama teacher told me you studied medicine. So why are you at teachers’ college?”
“You were asking the teacher about me?” Barnaby asked with a smile, raising an eyebrow.
Lily blushed this time.
“I’ll need to teach for a year or two to earn enough to start a specialty in surgery,” Barnaby explained. “I had a scholarship for my first degree.”
Lily had a pang of anguish, feeling her life was so much easier than Barnaby’s. My scholarship is a source of pride, but not essential to my going to teachers’ college, she thought, as she returned Barnaby’s smile.
He gestured toward the flapping tarpaper. “That’s what I call a do-it-yourself project. I grew up in a house like that. My father died before he could finish the exterior. A teacher’s salary won’t be enough to finish a surgery internship. Fortunately, my father taught me basic carpentry skills and that’s what I do in my spare time. Surgery is a good choice for a handyman.”
“You do have your life well planned,” Lily said, aware now of why Barnaby rushed off after rehearsals.
“My father at least lived to see me become the junior lightweight boxing champion,” Barnaby said. “He taught me to box and how never to lose a match.”
Lily’s eyebrows popped up in surprise at this statement. Barnaby shot her a boyish grin.
“He also instructed me how to be a gentleman in the ring.”
Lily smiled. “You seem more cherubic than pugnacious, Barnaby, with those pink cheeks.”
Barnaby gripped her arms gently and swivelled her around