[anne of green gables] come back home (part iii)
Title: Come Back Home
Fandom: Anne of Green Gables
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and the occasional thematic violence; possible trigger-y depictions of war)
Summary: AU. Walter survives Courcelette. In a way.
Notes: On the amount of research I did: to quote daniellafromage, "More than some, less than she should have." My apologies for any mistakes or general WTF-ery. Chapter titles are linked to whatever I took them from.
part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v
third one between
~
Una has never been busier in her life.
It's odd, she thinks, that she should spend so long lamenting her lack of purpose and direction, and then suddenly find herself saddled with a hundred obligations within a few months. She has her piano lessons, the Junior Red meetings, taking care of Bruce, and any spare time now is given to Walter. For the first time, sleep comes easily, stealing over her exhausted body without any struggle. It's a relief.
April turns to May, and Una knows the first mayflowers are blooming somewhere in Rainbow Valley. In a few days, Walter will bring them to Mrs. Blythe - the ground is becoming firmer now that the rain has stopped, and walking is not such a chore for him.
She shakes her head as though she can physically scatter her thoughts. There's work to be done - a Junior Reds meeting later in the week, although there isn't much to do anymore - they've stopped putting on concerts or speaking at recruitment meetings. There are too many rumors - of men scarred inside and out, even worse than Walter - men who tremble and cannot stop, who refuse to speak at all. Besides - most of the men who could go have already gone.
Which leaves sock-making, mostly. That job falls to Una; she suspects she's the only one of the Junior Reds that actually enjoys knitting. There's something pleasantly mindless about it, and she can let her thoughts wander.
Not that she has much to think about - her train of thought these days only ever seems to go in one particular direction, and lately, even thinking about Walter Blythe makes her nervous. Or excited. She can't quite tell. It's a welcome distraction, she supposes - thinking about how Walter hadn't pulled away when she touched his hand helps distract her from the fact that Jerry and Carl aren't writing as often, and Bruce keeps asking questions she doesn't have answers for.
On Monday, Rilla Blythe invites her to town again.
"Today's not a good day," she admits as they walk through the streets.
Una blinks. "What? Why?"
"Walter's been trying to read the newspaper," Rilla murmurs. "Since talking with you - he's been feeling a bit better, and he thought he could do it. But he went up to his room, and hasn't come out all day. I think - I heard him crying."
Una's heart wrings in sympathy - for Walter and for the Blythes. "It must be hard. For all of you."
Rilla nods. "I won't ask what you two talk about," she says, in one of her startling displays of perception. "But Una, we're his family. I wish he would talk to us, too."
Una wishes she had something she could toy with, to avoid meeting Rilla's eyes. "He doesn't want to upset any of you."
Rilla raises an eyebrow. "He'd rather upset you?"
Oh, when did Rilla become so - concerned with other people? She had always been more observant than people gave her credit for, but at least she'd been too self-absorbed to voice her concerns. But no - part of Una is grateful, she supposes, that Rilla cares.
"I suppose - because I'm older," Una lies. She feels guilty for invoking Rilla's age - after all, how many times had Jerry and Faith kept her out of the loop, because she was younger than them? But Una is not ready to tell Rilla - anything.
Rilla sighs. "When will I ever be old enough for anyone? I'm not a baby. I'm practically - " here she breaks off, and Una gets the feeling that Rilla is keeping secrets, too. "I'm different."
You're still innocent, Una wants to say, but she doesn't. Rilla is sweet and Rilla is caring, but there is so much she doesn't know, of loss and guilt. Una will not deny her own naivete, but she is nowhere near as sheltered as Rilla. She suddenly understands what Walter means when he says he wants to protect her.
"He'll tell you," Una says. "I'm sure."
Rilla lets it go, and turns the conversation to the Junior Reds - "Irene Howard is talking of coming back - even after she said she'd never return to a society that 'snubbed' her so awfully - but the Lowbridge crowd has had enough of her, apparently."
Una allows herself a smile. She doesn't like Irene Howard any more than Rilla does, but she has never been one to voice her opinions, either.
"She called you hateful once, if you can believe that. Honestly. I don't think you've been rude to anyone in your life."
Una flushes. She thinks perhaps she knows what Irene was talking about - at a Sunday school concert, she had lost her temper and had been rather - curt - with Irene. And Irene's opinion doesn't bother Una very much, but the fact that Irene talks about her stings.
"Did that upset you?" Rilla asks. "I'm sorry. I won't give her the satisfaction of repeating the things she says. I simply have to complain every now and then, though. I can't tell anyone else, you know. Well, maybe Walter, but - not now. And everyone else - Nan and Di and Mother and Susan - even Miss Oliver - just laugh and cast it up to me that I used to be friends with her. You're so good, Una. If you're judging me, I can't tell."
"I'm not," Una assures her. What room does she have to judge anyone? "We all - do that, at times. Jerry is still friends with Bertie Shakespeare Drew."
The last part slips out before she can stop herself. She immediately berates herself - who Jerry is friends with is none of her business - and it's foolish of her to hold on to the memory of Bertie smashing her first batch of unburnt cookies. (Jerry swore up and down that Bertie hadn't meant to; Una had to admit it was silly of her to put the trays on the floor.) Besides, it's not as though the Glen thinks highly of her friendship with Mary Vance.
To her surprise, though, Rilla laughs. "Jem is, too. I suppose - for all that he's bothersome - he's not malicious." She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, we're back on the subject of malicious people again. When was the last time I talked about something happy? I can't say."
"What about Jims?"
Rilla waves the suggestion away. "I don't want to gush about him. I simply can't stand people talking about their babies. I refuse to bore anyone with all of his little milestones. Oh! Are you going to the MacAllisters' party?"
Una frowns. "I don't think so. I can't dance."
Rilla shrugs. "But you could come. And - see people."
Una laughs gently. "It's all right. I'm busy at home, anyway." It's not entirely a lie, although Una has given up her responsibilities before to attend some dance or another. But that was before, when there was still Shirley to keep her company, and Di to sit with when they ate ices and cake, and the vague hope that Walter would take some time to talk to her between dances. And all of that is gone, now.
Rilla seems to read her thoughts. "If you say so. But don't stay home because of Walter. He might be away"
"Why?" Una asks. She immediately bites her tongue, hoping she hadn't spoken too quickly.
"There's a long weekend coming up. Di thought it would be nice if he visited her at Redmond, and Mother agrees."
"That's good," Una says. "Isn't it?"
Rilla shrugs. "I suppose. He can see some of his old friends." She gives Una an odd, sideways look. "Do you know Alice Parker?"
Of course Una knows Alice Parker - the Parkers invite the Blythes to all of their social doings, and where Nan and Jem Blythe go, Jerry and Faith go, and where Jerry and Faith go, Una and Carl tag along by default. Alice is lovely and sweet and beautiful, and gossips have murmured about her and Walter ever since he taught at Lowbridge - the parties they attended together, what a picturesque couple they made, how nice it would be if the doctors' children were romantically involved. Una hates herself for caring.
"Yes" is all she says. Rilla is still looking at her, as though she's expecting another response. "She's nice."
"Mm," Rilla says. "Well, anyway, she's at Redmond, too." She chews her lip. "I suppose I'm worried. Di and Nan just don't - they don't understand him like I - we - do."
"Perhaps it's good that he's visiting them," Una points out, against her more emotional response. "Then they can learn to understand."
"Mm," Rilla says, again. "Have you heard from Shirley?" The question comes out of the blue.
Una blinks. "Yes. I had a letter a few days ago. Why?"
"No reason," Rilla says. "Hmmm."
"'Hmmm' what?"
"Nothing," she says. "Just thinking."
~
Bruce comes home one day with the rosy triumph of someone who has achieved something that they have waited a long time to do.
"The mayflowers are blooming," he announces. "And I get to pick them this year."
"With Walter," John Meredith calls, entering the house behind his son. He smiles when he sees Una in the kitchen, making lunch. "We went up to Ingleside. Bruce was quite - enthusiastic about fulfilling Jem's duty, so Walter invited him on the search. After lunch," he adds to Bruce, who is idling by the door, as though he expects to set off at any minute.
"What were you doing at Ingleside?" Una asks.
"I was bringing him some of my books," her father says. "I thought he'd like the writings of St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, some of the Catholic writings on contrition. I would've lent him the works of St. Paul, too, but they're on loan to Elder Clow, and..."
Una decides to speak up before he delves into a detailed list of all the books he has ever lent anyone since coming to the Glen. "That's good. Lunch is almost done, if you'd like."
He gives her one of his usual, not-entirely-there smiles. "Ah, Una, what would we do without you?" He pauses, then comes over to gently place a hand on her shoulder. "You're becoming a wonderful lady. Your mother would be proud."
Una doesn't know what to say to that. Father rarely talks about Mother. "Thank you."
"She was always doing what she could for others," he says. "Always thinking about them." Her father gives her a searching look, his voice becoming serious. "Walter said you two have been talking. He says you've been very kind to him."
Una flushes, looks down. "I'm only - trying to listen."
"Sometimes," John Meredith says, his voice returning to its usual dreamy tone, "that's all a human being really desires. To be heard, understood." He blinks. "I should write my sermon before I forget it. Will you take Bruce back to Ingleside?"
"Of course," Una says. "Bruce, come eat your lunch. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go looking for mayflowers."
Bruce finishes in record time, and pulls at her sleeve as she tries to eat. "Can we go yet?"
Una nearly chokes down the rest of her food. "All right, all right. Go put your jacket on."
Bruce practically drags her down the hill to the road to Ingleside, chattering all the while.
"It's a good thing I'm nine now," he says as they approach the big house. "Then I can go and take Jem's place, and maybe he can come back. Is Europe very far?"
Una bites her lip to keep from laughing - or perhaps crying. If only Bruce knew that it doesn't work that way; that hundreds of thousands of men have gone and only a few have come back. Perhaps only a few will. She shivers, then puts a smile on for her brother.
Susan greets them at the door. "I knew you'd be back, you munchkin," she says, patting Bruce's face. Bruce basks in her attention; he is still young enough to enjoy maternal affection. "Walter!" she calls. "Bruce is back. And Una is with him." She clucks her tongue. "Honestly, as if you two don't see enough of each other."
Una knows that Susan doesn't always mean half of what she says, but still she quails in nervousness. Does Susan - disapprove - of her, somehow? Don't be ridiculous, she scolds herself. She has been friends with the Blythes for a decade now; Susan would have said something if she truly didn't like her.
"Father was busy," Una says, trying not to sound too defensive.
Susan shrugs. "I suppose anything that gets him out of the house is well enough. When the doctor's new automobile comes in, I expect he'll be gallivanting around as much as he used to - "
"Susan," Walter says as he comes in, his voice a warning. Then his eyes fall on Una. "Una!"
"Yes, those are our names," Susan grumbles, taking her leave. "Don't stay out too long. Your leg will get a pain, or so the doctor tells me."
"Father's busy," Una says, accidentally squeezing Bruce's hand so tightly that he gives a yelp. "So I brought Bruce instead."
"I'm glad," Walter says, his voice warm. "Shall we?"
~
Walter leads them on a path that Una has never visited before. The branches of the trees here hang low - so low that even Una has to duck slightly. Walter's face twists in pain as he bends to pass under them. Una wants to ask if he is all right, or comfort him somehow, but there is a sort of determination on his face that tells her that such a thing would not be wise.
"Jem showed me where the flowers bloom," he says. "Before he left."
"And you showed Shirley," Una muses. It's only an aside comment, but Walter gives her an odd look.
"Yes." It's an unusually curt answer.
They walk in silence for a while longer, with only the chirping of the birds and Bruce's oblivious humming to accompany them. Walter seems to be lost in thought, and Una has learned that it is best to let him think, and then speak.
"Here," Walter finally says.
The grove is thick with green, carpeted in sweetgrass and encircled by leafy trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy created by the leaves and branches. There's something secret about this place. Una doesn't feel right speaking in anything above a whisper.
Bruce senses it too. "Thank you for showing me this," he murmurs to Walter.
"Of course," Walter says. "Here, why don't you go look for some flowers? Picking them is a bit - difficult - for me, now."
Bruce quickly acquiesces, hurrying off to hunt for the blossoms at the base of the trees, between the mossy stones.
"He's glad to help," Una says quietly. "He told me he'd like to go to Europe and take Jem's place."
Walter's face twitches, but he nods. "His heart is in the right place."
Una bites her lip. "You don't think the war will last that long." Bruce will be eighteen in - nine years, she calculates. It seems so far off, but then - three have already passed, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. Perhaps the war will drag on. How can any of them know?
"No," Walter says slowly. "It must end - for no one wants to be fighting it anymore. I think soon someone will give up, simply out of exhaustion. But 'soon' is - relative. Especially - afterwards." He shakes his head. "Perhaps we could talk about something else today."
"Of course," Una says. She pauses, trying to find a new topic. "Have you written a poem about this place?"
Walter's mouth quirks in a smile. "How did you guess?"
"It's beautiful," she murmurs. "How could you have not?" She looks around, at the peaceful loveliness of it. "Oh!"
There is a tiny patch of mayflowers, blooming only a little ways ahead. Una picks a flower, twirling it between her fingers. "Here's - " She turns around and stops.
Walter is looking at her, staring as though he's never seen her before. For a moment Una wonders if she has made some terrible trespass, but no, there's something distant in his eyes, as though he has gone off to another one of his worlds.
"Walter?"
He blinks and comes back. "Sorry. I only - I was reminded of something."
By what? Una wonders, spinning the flower idly. "Something pleasant?"
"A bit," he says, his face thoughtful. "You were right, you know."
"About what?"
"Things surviving." He looks at her. "There's still beauty in the world, sometimes. But - it's still hard."
"I know," Una says softly. "I think - it will always be so. But things heal. You know that - now."
"Rilla told me you heard from Shirley," Walter says abruptly.
"Yes," Una says, confused. Is Shirley not writing to the Blythes? It is the only reason she can fathom for why they all seem so interested in her correspondence with him. "He's doing - well enough."
"He doesn't write much," Walter says. "Only to Susan, and she won't tell us what he says."
Una shrugs. She and Shirley have always been friends, the quiet ones in their loud families. When he had gone to Queen's, she had cried a little before sleep at the thought that soon he would be just as accomplished as their siblings, would leave her behind. She wouldn't betray his confidences, though, not even to Walter or Rilla.
"It's hard," she says. "Being - in his place. I think he's used to not saying much."
Walter gives her a sideways look. "You know him better than we do," he says, a bit ruefully.
Una smiles at the memories suddenly drifting through her mind. "We always ended up together, I suppose," she says. "Because we were so quiet."
Walter touches her hand, just for a moment. "We forgot about you two, didn't we?" he asks.
"Only sometimes," Una says quickly, not wanting to make him feel guilty. "It was all right. I didn't much like the things Faith and Jerry and Carl liked, anyway. Shirley and I - understand each other, in that sort of way. That's all. That's why I hear from him more often, I suppose. He does miss all of you - he's said so."
"You miss him."
Una blinks. "Of course I do. I miss - everyone."
Walter watches her for a moment, then turns away. They fall quiet, listening to Bruce's cries of delight whenever he finds a patch of flowers. Una feels that she must say something to break the odd silence - for this silence does feel odd, not the comfortable quiet that they usually share.
"Thank you, by the way," Una murmurs.
Walter turns at her, blinks. "For what?"
"Bringing me here," she says. "I know - it was always such a secret, for you and Jem and Shirley. Thank you for letting me in."
Walter looks at her, right in the eye. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. "Perhaps I should have done so earlier."
a little bit of good
~
Walter sighs, looking down at the mess strewn about his bed. He had never been quite as neat as Shirley, nor as disorganized as Jem - always occupying the medium between them. But no one who could see Walter's room in this moment would know it.
He'd debated and deliberated for days over Di's letter, worried and fretted like Jem before his Queen's entrance exam. No one in the house seemed to notice, withdrawn as Walter is, which is well enough. He doesn't want to upset them further, and for once, his worry is only a common one. It would be good, he think, to see Di again, to try and fix all that is strange between them. If it can be fixed. Perhaps this is a part of growing up. They are adults now, with their own lives and paths, and if they are only going to diverge, then - then that is that.
But no, Walter doesn't want to accept that. Di, who he has always shared everything with. The two of them shared almost a soul, and if Walter cannot fight the war, fight his own nightmares, then he must at least fight for that.
And so he had written, telling her that he would come, in a few weeks' time during her long weekend.
Which leaves the question of what to bring. It is too early to pack, but - perhaps if he manages to get his luggage in order, his mind will clear as well. He and Di had parted on good terms, but there is still something strange between them. So much she doesn't understand. Perhaps they'll be able to fix it - or perhaps they'll spent the weekend in cold, awkward silence.
But there will be Nan, Walter adds. And Alice. How odd - that all his male friends are have gone. As they must.
Not all the men had gone, of course. Some had stayed, stubbornly refusing to enlist even as they were presented with hundreds of white feathers, letters that Walter is sure were even more malicious than those he'd received. One fellow, Arthur Baker, had walked campus one day with all the feathers he'd received pinned to his coat, enough to nearly cover the front. Walter still doesn't know if he admires him or thinks him an idiot.
For Arthur Baker will never have to know what Walter knows, now. Perhaps he is wiser for that, but Walter knows that if he sees him on the campus, they will not be able to talk, not as friends. For Walter went, after all, and Arthur didn't.
Perhaps fearing war is not the cowardice - perhaps it is the doing of the things that Walter has done. But then - he thinks of Bruce Meredith in the mayflower grove, his laughter as he searches for flowers, sees Una holding a flower between her fingers. It had reminded him so strongly of an almost-forgotten dream that he'd been frozen, for a moment.
But unlike in his dream, there had been no shells, no mines, no danger lurking beneath the sweetgrass. And that is how it will stay. So perhaps he has done a - little - bit of good, after all. And perhaps they'll see that, when he returns to Redmond.
He shakes his head. Several of his old clothes don't quite fit anymore - he has gained muscle from training and digging and running and dragging sandbags, and has lost weight from two years of rations and nerves. He won't ask Mother or Susan to adjust them, though. He thinks maybe he can - God knows there were no mothers to stitch up rips in their uniforms at the front.
It would be good to do - something, anyway. Lately he has been feeling oddly irritated and jumpy, for no reason that he can explain. It's not from the nightmares or the lingering pain of war - no, that is something bone-deep, that exhausts him from the inside out. This is closer to the surface, like needles pricking at his skin. He supposes it's better than - the other - but it's no more pleasant by any stretch. He can't pinpoint the source, either - and as Dad and Jem always say, you have to know the problem to find the cure. He thinks it started that day with Una and Bruce, in Rainbow Valley - but then, what could have upset him? Perhaps it is one of his odd premonitions. The Allies have begun their Spring Offensive. Maybe - maybe something is about to go wrong. Jem or Shirley - no, he won't think like that. Maybe this has nothing to do with that at all.
Nothing at all, he reassures himself, holding up a pair of trousers that are almost abominably short. He shakes his head. When was the last time anyone had sorted through his clothes?
~
Una doesn't look well, when she comes up to Ingleside. She has been away for a while - busy, she said, the last time they'd spoken. He can see that she wasn't lying. Strands of dark hair are unwinding from her braid, which itself is rather crooked and loose. There are faint shadows under her eyes.
Still, when she sees him, she smiles. Walter feels something inside him warm. Una is like that, he's found. He never feels quite as terrible around her.
They end up ambling through Rainbow Valley, settling beneath the Tree Lovers. Una doesn't say much, and Walter finds himself sneaking glances at her occasionally.
"You're not all right," he observes finally, when the silence is too much to bear.
Una jumps slightly, as though startled. Then she gives a little laugh and leans against the entwined trees. "I'm sorry."
He shakes his head, and moves to take her hand. It is only a simple gesture of friendship, one that is becoming familiar, comfortable to him. Una's hands are always cold, though they warm in his grasp. The tips of her fingers are rough from housework - it had surprised him the first time. His sisters - even Faith - worked their minds, not their hands. Now, though, he knows her hands, the ridges of her fingers and the softness at the base of her wrists, as well as he knows his own.
"Tell me."
Una sighs, but does not pull away. "Things are - overwhelming. Jerry and Carl - " she shrugs. "It's hard."
Her words are simple, but Walter can see the fears, the sleepless nights, reflected in her face. Una expresses herself best without words.
"They'll come through," he says, giving her hand a quick squeeze.
"Oh, Walter," she sighs. "Please don't lie."
He pauses for a moment, unsure how much to tell. All his stories - always they have been his own, never anything that could touch her brothers or his.
"I don't know if much will come of this Spring Offensive," he admits. "Every time - they tell us it's the final push, this one battle that will send them over the edge. But…"
He feels Una's fingers press into his palm. "But?"
"But. It never quite turns out that way." He tugs at their joined hands to motion towards his leg. "The battle I was injured in. They sent us over the top, running straight at the other side. I survived that, but then - there was the gas, and the shelling. And at night there's the raids. You think - you think maybe you're safe, for a while, but - you never really are." He tilts his head at her. "But the rains should have stopped. So there will be less mud." He knows it's not much of a comfort.
Una nods. "I see." She turns to peer at him. "It's like that every day?"
"For years."
She doesn't look away, and he thinks perhaps she understands all that he has left unsaid, in their conversations - the waiting, not for a battle or for reprieve, but for the shell to finally fall, for the gas to finally come at eat at their skin, their bones. He has escaped that, but her brothers have not. Her hand remains steady in his.
"Oh, Walter," she says, even softer than before.
He leans his head on Una's shoulder, and after a moment, her head comes down to rest against his. He briefly wonders if this makes him weak - leaning on her the way Faith leans on Jem, Nan to Jerry. He should be supporting her, that's what he's always been told. But no - they are holding each other up, letting their burdens be carried across where their shoulders touch.
~
The coming of the mail today is not pleasant.
There are no letters from Jem or Shirley, nor from Ken or Carl (Jerry writes only to Nan, at Redmond). Perhaps they don't even know he's home, yet. Rilla hums in disappointment, but masks it quickly and busies herself with feeding Jims. Susan mutters darkly about the kind of conditions Shirley must be in, if he has no time to write her.
For Walter, there is only a circular and a letter addressed in his own hand. The circular is a check - a neat sum for the reprinting of "The Piper" to sell war bonds in the United States. The slip of paper feels too light for something that makes him feel so heavy. He can't buy anything with this money, he thinks. Money he earned encouraging men to fight this war. He's as bad as the men in the recruitment offices and the girls passing out white feathers.
The checks come more often than he'd expected, too. Perhaps he'll never have to complete his degree. Certainly the magazines would accept more poetry from him - but then, the poetry he writes now - And when the moon rose redly in the east, I killed a stripling boy - well. He doesn't think anyone will want to read it, even when the war is over.
The next is the letter, addressed to one of the men in his battalion. He had only meant to ask how things were, try to reach out as best he can. But it's been returned, and there is no stamp to mark some kind of postal mishap. So his comrade has gone west, then. He ought to have expected it.
Rilla nods at the envelope. "Who's it from?"
"Returned," he murmurs, setting it aside. Perhaps it's something in his face that gives it away, for Rilla's face falls and she busies herself with her own mail.
He picks up the circular and turns it over and over, in his hands, thinks of his other poems. One in particular sticks in his mind. He could never send it to the Spectator, or any magazine of that like. But there are some publications, he knows, that may be more receptive. And isn't that what he wants? For people to understand?
Maybe it is time to tell them.
a love with intuition
~
"Tell me something nice," Una suggests, one day.
Walter blinks at her, and for a moment she thinks she's said it quite wrongly. She decides to rephrase: "Try to think of something nice. And then tell me." She bites her lip, decides to offer him one of her secrets in trade. "My mother used to do this with me, on days when I was upset."
Walter's face softens. "Were you upset often?"
"Oh," Una sighs. "I suppose. It wasn't that so many terrible things happened, it was just so easy to make me - well." She turns to him. "You know."
"I do," Walter says. "Jem used to become quite defensive when Mary Vance made you and Faith upset."
"I think that was more for Faith's benefit than mine," Una says, laughing a little. It is easy to laugh when they reminisce. Not so much when they think about the future.
Walter does not smile, and Una feels an old, familiar pang. While gossip has only ever linked Walter to Alice Parker in Lowbridge, Una has occasionally caught Walter looking at her sister as if - as if - well. It is not something Una likes to dwell on.
"Maybe so," Walter admits. "But I did think she was unnecessarily cruel, sometimes."
"Oh, don't talk about Mary Vance that way," Una says. "She was my first real friend, you know. And she's never meant to be unkind."
Walter ducks his head. "I won't speak ill of her anymore," he promises, though Una notices he doesn't change his opinion. But she knows well that the Blythes don't get along with Mary - for the Blythes are sweet, the Blythes are kind, but the Blythes are also just a little bit snobbish, in their well-meaning way. She doesn't say anything.
"Something nice," Walter repeats. He cracks half a smile. "I won't be sarcastic, for your sake." He pauses, then sighs. "I never was sarcastic. A bad habit I picked up from some of my comrades, I suppose. But - they were good men. Are good men. Even the Germans, maybe," he adds.
"Do you mean that?" Una asks.
"Sometimes…we could hear the other side, waiting with us. Singing or talking or praying."
"It's hard to think of them doing things like that," Una says softly. "But then - I suppose it's hard for them to imagine us - you - in the same way."
"When I first arrived," Walter says, "they hadn't figured out how to move us around very well. We sat and waited, for so - so long. We'd get bored. And it seemed - pointless, to fight, when all of us were so d - so tired." Una wonders why he bothers to censor himself - there is no word the Meredith children didn't learn from Mary Vance.
"Sometimes they'd let us run out - quickly - to recover our casualties," Walter says. "And we'd do the same for them. The officers would look the other way, and I think - I think that was quite nice. A nice thing."
He is speaking faster now, the memories coming to the surface. Una touches his hand to let him know that she is still listening.
"We were all strangers, you know. Just - thrown together. We owed each other nothing. But still we worked together. We protected each other."
"Jerry wrote that you should have gotten a V.C. for saving that man, that time," Una murmurs. She remembers reading his letter and thrilling - quietly - at the image of Walter, noble and brave, as gallant as a hero in the old stories. That is who I love, she had thought, letting herself get caught up in her girlish fantasy for a moment. It's odd - but no, she thinks she can understand a little more, now - that he takes no pride in it.
Walter, to her surprise, flushes slightly. He shakes his head. "It was nothing that other men weren't doing, every day. For both sides."
Una tilts her head at him. "It's funny," she says slowly, thinking of the letters from her brothers and Shirley. "None of you seem to - hate - the Germans very much. We all thought you did, somehow."
Una supposes she never really had. Sometimes she pictures them as they are in the posters and silent pictures, all beastly and ready to drag her away to some horrid fate, and true, it sends terrible shivers down her spine, and she stitches and bakes with the conviction that they cannot, must not, win.
They frighten her and they worry her, but still she feels an odd sort of guilt every time she tries to hate them, tries to pretend that they aren't writing home and receiving socks from their families in Berlin or Munich or one of those strange European cities, that they don't have anyone waiting for them - Una has always had a soft heart.
Walter turns to look at her, and she feels a shiver go down her spine at the look in his eyes. "How could we?" he asks quietly. "When they're not so different from us at all. It's - ironic, I suppose," he says, some of his old literary studies vocabulary slipping through, as though he's discussing a particularly fascinating novel. "We were supposed to be fighting against them - but Una - honestly - I think we hated them the least."
~
Dear Una,
Thanks for all your letters. Sorry I haven't written as often as I should, and if I made you worry. I'm all right, I guess. As Susan said (and is probably still saying), flying is clean work - in its own way. Not much like being a bird, I'm afraid. There's something rather - lonely about being up here. Maybe after the war, we can go up in groups, and that will make it better. But I guess it's exciting to think that we've made it up here at all. Sorry, you know I've never been good with words.
I'm always glad to hear from you, and I hope all is well. I used to say that it's hardest for the mothers and daughters and sisters, but now, I'm not sure. I can't tell you everything I've seen, Una. I don't know if Walter's told you, either. I'll be blunt and say it's harder for us. But that doesn't make the waiting any easier, I know.
I hope you'll keep writing.
Shirley
~
Dear Una,
Things are still the same 'round here. I'm all nice and settled in, and there are times when I don't miss home so much - or at least, I'm so busy I don't have time to miss home. And there are nice things about being over here, too. Some of the soldiers recuperating here are very kind and funny - you wouldn't think they were in a war at all. But then sometimes, when they go to sleep - it's a rather different story. But they keep going, somehow, and I think - how wonderful humans can be, sometimes. It's all that keeps me going some days.
Jem came back on leave and I saw him for a while. We walked around and it was quite nice. I always thought we'd see England together, although - not like this, I suppose. He's not quite the same, and it's frightening - is that the word I want to use? No, not frightening. But sometimes I think - well, never mind. He hadn't heard that Walter was injured and sent back - I had to tell him. He's glad, though, that Walter is safe now.
How is everything at home? Rosemary writes often, but Father never as much as he should - absentminded as ever, I suppose. Walter's letters are so horribly short, too. I wonder if he'll go back to Redmond, now that he's home. It will be easier for him to get into classes, at any rate! See, I can still be jolly, on occasion.
Where was I? What I meant to write was that it's up to you, my dear, to tell me all the goings-on, if you can. How tall Bruce must be now! It's hard to think that life is going on there without me. Ah, but now I sound like some of my patients.
I have to go now - this is the only spare moment I've had all week. By the time I send this, it'll probably be ages later. But please give all my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce as always, and say hello to Ingleside for me.
Love,
Faith
~
May fades into June, the almost overwhelming lush of hazy, warm days. Walter's birthday is at the very end of May, on the edge of summer. They spend it quietly; Susan makes as rich a cake as she can with her ration supply. Una agonizes over a gift, spending several sleepless nights on it, working by moonlight and the occasional lamp (one of Una's secret fears is that she will leave a lamp burning and wake up with the house on fire). Still, by Walter's birthday, Una has put together a pamphlet of pressed flowers and poems she'd copied from her father's books, and - with the panicked thought that she should have a contingency plan - knitted a perfectly respectable scarf. His mouth quirks when he sees them and for a second Una thinks she can see - something. Perhaps.
Walter is to leave for Redmond, to visit Nan and Di, he says. Just for the weekend - they're staying on throughout the summer to help with the Red Cross, tacking on a few classes to make up for those they had to give up during the school year.
It takes all of Una's energy not to ask if he's looking forward to seeing Alice Parker, as well.
"Why didn't you ever go to Redmond?" he asks one day, in the parlor at Ingleside. Rilla is playing with Jims, trying to provoke a smile from him. She looks up when Walter asks the question.
"Not all of us want to spend our days with 'ologies and 'isms," she scolds gently.
Una is grateful for the excuse. She doesn't wish to admit the real reason to Walter. It seems foolish and silly, when presented to someone like him.
Walter gives a slight smile. "You can't tell us you still think of nothing but having fun, Rilla-my-Rilla."
"No," Rilla admits. "But my goals still don't involve having a degree." She blushes as she says this, for a reason Una cannot quite figure. Walter seems to be in on the secret, however - he smiles at Rilla as she goes back to fussing over Jims. The smile is fondly amused, but there's something else - a sadness. It is a look that is becoming familiar on his face.
Then he turns to her, and Una wishes she had brought her knitting, for she needs something to watch, to help her avoid eye contact. She feels very vulnerable without any distractions.
"I don't suppose there was anything I liked doing enough," she says. She doesn't add that, like Rilla, she doesn't quite aspire to anything that requires a degree, either.
"You like teaching piano," Rilla says, not taking her eyes off Jims.
Una shrugs. She does, but not in the manner of grand passion that drives Jem to medicine or Walter to poetry. She likes to play the piano, and she likes children, and she likes to help people - it's more the combination of those things than the occupation itself, she supposes.
She does not say any of those things and lets the topic slip her by. "Are you going to return to Redmond, Walter?"
Walter, who has been letting Jims pull at his hair, frowns. "Why?"
Una shifts, feeling awkward at his own discomfort. "I had a letter from Faith, and she was just wondering. That's all," she tries to reassure him.
He looks down at his hands, empty now that Jims has crawled back to Rilla. "I don't know. Not yet."
"I think you'd still be a good English professor," Rilla offers. "Ow! Jims!"
Walter looks alarmed. "Rilla?"
"He bit my nose!" Rilla gasps, a hand over the injured body part.
Walter chuckles - a real chuckle, and it is perhaps because of this that Rilla does not take offense to his amusement. "I'll go hand him off to Susan." He scoops up Jims and carries him off while the child makes sounds that sound suspiciously like laughter.
"He's good with Jims," Una notes. A brief thought comes to her mind, he would be a good father, and then she stamps it out.
Rilla props her hand on her chin. "Better than I am - sometimes," she says. "I've become much better with children. Do you think I'd be a good mother?"
It's not quite a non-sequitur, but it's enough out of the blue that Una blinks. "You?"
She doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but Rilla looks hurt. "Yes, me. I'm much less - silly, aren't I? Don't you think?"
There's something strangely serious in her eyes, and Una doesn't have the heart to tease, or be anything but honest. "Of course."
Rilla hugs her arms to herself for a moment. "Jem and Shirley still write to me like I'm a baby," she sighs. "Sometimes I think maybe I've fooled myself into thinking I'm more grown-up."
"Just think," Una says. "Before the war, we never spoke. Now - I think we're friends."
Rilla looks almost offended. "Of course we're friends, you - you goose."
Una's mouth opens. No one has ever called her a goose before. And then she has to laugh, and then the two of them are laughing together, and it feels like breathing out after holding it in for so long.
"How am I the goose?" she finally asks, when they both calm down. "You know you'd be a fine mother, Rilla."
Rilla looks embarrassed. "It's just - something - I've been thinking about, lately. Don't you wonder, sometimes?"
No, Una does not wonder. Somehow - deep within her bones - she knows she would be a good mother, if only somebody would want her. She would love her children as well as her own mother did, in Una's almost-faded memories. It is perhaps one of the only things she had never questioned.
Until, of course, the war.
"A little," she murmurs. "It's a while off yet, though, isn't it?"
Rilla hums a bit. "You're already twenty."
This stings, a bit. Yes, she is twenty. Twenty years old, and no boy has ever looked twice at her. "Ah, not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla."
Rilla flushes delicately, as she is wont to do. "Yes, but - Walter!"
"Jims is taking a nap," he tells Rilla, and then he sits back down and they continue as normal.
Only - perhaps it is her imagination, wishful thinking, a seed of hope planted by Rilla's talk of children and marriage - but she thinks Walter glances at her every so often, a look on his face that she cannot pinpoint.
and i wind up a bit further away
~
The weather is fine the day Walter departs for Redmond. It is - eerily - similar to the day he left for Valcartier, he realizes - the sky blue and deep and cloudless, the air warm and all the flowers in the bloom of summer.
But no, this time is different. He is not going so far away. And this time, he knows he is coming back.
He's made the trip to Redmond several times before, but still everyone has gathered to see him off. Mother and Dad hug him close - Susan's is brief but crushing - Rilla leans her chin on his shoulder for a moment and whispers, "Take care."
Dog Monday nudges at his hands, his nose wet.
"Silly dog," Susan says. "He thinks Walter's going back to see Little Jem."
Walter bends down slightly - a twinge of pain goes through his back and his knees - and gives Dog Monday a pat. He feels ashamed that he cannot give the poor dog some hope, and then vaguely foolish for being ashamed.
Mr. and Mrs. Meredith have not come, but Una has. She takes his hand, just the way she had when he returned, just the way she had when he left the first time.
"It'll be all right," she murmurs. Walter feels the strangest pang, an odd hurt in his chest. It's only for a few days, but - he'll miss her. "I'll see you soon."
"You will," he says, and she smiles - the faintest hint of one, as is her way, but a smile nevertheless. It's a sweet expression, he thinks. He wishes she had more reason to use it.
The train arrives and he gets on with relative ease. It is almost shameful, that he needs help to balance his bag and his cane, as he tries to lift himself from the platform. But then he inhales and lets it go. This is his life, now.
He settles in his seat and turns to watch everyone on the platform. They are all huddled there, just like the day he left - no, not like the day he left. He searches for the little differences: Dad and Mothers' faces are not sorrowful or pale; Susan is more concentrated on keeping her kerchief from flying away than his departure.
Rilla and Una, though, are still standing together. Rilla is - Rilla - but somehow he finds himself watching Una, as the train grinds and begins to pull away from the station.
He keeps remembering, somehow, her words from the other day: not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla. It's true, he knows: no one in the whole of the Island is quite as pretty as his little sister. Still, it has made him - think. What was it that he had overheard Miss Cornelia say, once? "Una Meredith will never be pretty, but she is sweet."
He had agreed with her then, but - it's because he has been spending so much time with her lately, he supposes, that it's bothering him now. Una, with her kind smiles and understanding words. He wishes he could tell her that he's come to think of her as quite pretty, likes her smile better than the golden looks of all the girls in his poems - but there is no way to tell her that without admitting that he'd overheard their conversation. And Una, he has discerned, does not wish for pity.
The train winds away until they are nothing more than specks, then they are out of sight completely. Just like before.
~
"Walter, over here!"
By the time the train arrives in Kingsport, Walter is exhausted - but it is an ordinary, everyday exhaustion, not the kind that comes from his thoughts and his nightmares - and so it is all right.
Nan and Di are standing together on the platform, Di waving her arms over her head, Nan standing away as though embarrassed to be seen with her. Walter manages a smile and heads over to them, his bag weighing down his left side, his cane holding up his right.
"I'm so glad you're here," Di whispers. Nan doesn't say a thing, but she smiles and Walter is glad to be with them.
"We've asked Alice Parker 'round for the evening," Di says as they pile into the cab - for a moment Walter struggles, then Nan realizes what is happening and helps push him into the vehicle. "Just the Island gang."
"That's nice," Walter says, automatically. They had been close friends, as children and when he went to teach at Lowbridge - she had been as upset as his family when he received a white feather - but God, had he even written to her when he was at the front? Why can't he remember?
"I hope you don't mind being stuck with us girls," Nan says, and Walter shakes his head. He knows all the men - all the men in their circle - have gone to fight. And he would not want to see them, anyway.
"We've moved," Di says. "I wrote you about that, didn't I?" Walter notices that they are not heading in the direction where their old boardinghouse was. "Well, us and Faith - but she's gone now. I hope we don't have to give the place up," she adds with a sigh. "It's harder with just the two of us, and it's the dearest little house. Oh, well."
She had written to him about it, but Walter finds he can barely remember the letter. It had been - just one of many he'd received, recovering in that hospital in England, one that he'd read and forgotten, lost in the haze of all he had just escaped.
Nan crinkles her nose. "Oh, don't say 'oh, well.' I'd like to keep the place as long as possible - it's impossible to go back to boardinghouses once you've had your own place."
They laugh and Walter smiles, but it doesn't seem to be enough - they both turn to look at him and go silent. They remain so for the rest of the trip home.
~
Di is right - the house they're renting is sweet, a tiny thing tucked away from main roads and grown over with flowers and vines. Walter thinks he'd like to live in a place like this, someday - small and quiet. He has lost his taste for noise and vibrancy, he's found.
"We'll have to find a new boarder soon," she says, fumbling with the door - "It's a tricky old thing" - although Walter can't be sure if she's talking to him or Nan. "I thought we could ask Louise, from the Red Cross group - "
"She's so fussy," Nan sniffs. "It would be like living with Susan."
"Well, the way you clean, having a Susan around would be helpful," Di says. Nan sticks her tongue out at her. It all seems odd, exaggerated - like they're putting a show on for him.
"We'll put you up in Faith's room," Di continues. "She had it to herself - Nan and I thought we'd might as well share - so you can sleep in there for the weekend."
They let him alone to put his things away - really just his bag, with his clothes and his notebooks.
He can see why they had given this room to Faith - it has a large window, sunshine lighting up the whole room, and the limb of a tree reaching across the view, almost inviting the room's inhabitant to climb it. He can see her, in Rainbow Valley, scrambling up the Tree Lovers or the Naked Lady with no regards to their sanctity.
They had all been so happy, then.
Well, perhaps not all of them - he remembers Una's stories, the little wistful smile on her face as she talked about the days before Rosemary joined their family. What is she doing, now? Perhaps giving one of her piano lessons. Or talking with Rilla. Or - well, it does not matter, does it?
With a shake of his head, he tucks his bag in the corner and goes out to join his sisters.
~
Alice Parker comes over as promised, balancing a pie on her arm as she struggles with her bag. She attempts to give Walter a hug, but nearly falls over in the attempt.
"For heaven's sake," Nan says with a laugh. "Put your things down first. He'll be here all weekend, Alice."
"It's only that it's been so long," Alice says, looking at him with her blue, blue eyes. "I haven't heard from you in ages."
Walter shifts uncomfortably. "I've been busy."
"Oh, I'm sure," Alice says quickly. "I've barely heard from Andy, since he's - gone." She tilts her head at Walter. "I suppose you never saw him 'over there,' did you?"
He shakes his head mutely. Why people think that? That they're all together, laughing and joking and romping through the trenches as though it's all some childhood game? They're tossed together with men they would have never spoken to, if not for the war, men from towns Walter had never heard of and cities on the opposite side of the continent.
But they do not know that.
Alice is as cheerful and dimpled as ever, although sometimes her smile falters, and Walter knows she has worries and fears, too. Every now and then, she catches him watching her and touches his hand. It doesn't quite warm him, but it is - nice.
"I worried about you," she says quietly, when Nan and Di are setting up the piano to sing. "I suppose I've always felt responsible for you - " her mouth quirks " - ever since I had to save you from my brother and Fred Johnson."
Walter gives a short laugh, but it comes out easily. "I'm fine."
"But your leg - and your skin - " her hand comes up, and Walter pulls back before she can touch him. Then he feels foolish. Perhaps she hadn't meant to do that at all.
"It's healed," he says quickly. "And - I've gotten used to it."
Alice leans her chin on her hand. "How different you are," she muses. "I read 'The Piper,' you know. I don't believe I'm talking to the Walter that wrote it."
He shrugs, tracing a pattern on the carpet with his shoe. "No, I suppose I'm not."
Alice nods and when she turns to Walter, there are tears in her eyes. "What do you suppose Andy will be like? All our friends?"
Walter opens his mouth, then closes it. What can he say? He feels useless and weak when faced with their expectations. He suddenly misses Una, wishes he could press his palms into hers to steady himself.
Thankfully he is saved by Di and Nan, who have found the sheet music. They gather around the piano and sing as though it is any party, the kind they always used to attend together. Di's arm is around his waist and it is almost like old times.
Almost.
NOTES AND STUFF
chapter ten: As we get a little more into the characters talking about the war, I feel the need to point out that my views (particularly on WWI) aren't necessarily those expressed here. I personally was always weirded out by the nationalism in the book, but I also want to keep the characters in line with the general attitudes at the time (although by 1917, the war wasn't as popular as LMM would have you think). Also, the line of poetry in the third part is from "The Aftermath" by L.M. Montgomery. Also-also, I subscribe to the theory that "The Piper" was basically LMM's stand-in for "In Flanders Fields" - so while I kept the text that LMM published in The Blythes Are Quoted, I took the surrounding events (the use of the poem to sell bonds and boost morale, etc) from what John McCrae experienced with the publication of "In Flanders Fields." I'm also a bit fuzzy on 1910s copyright law/whether or not Walter would get paid for the poem to be reprinted at all. (I sort of decided that he would get paid if the reprint was for profit - i.e., selling war bonds, but that could be wrong.) Apologies for the likely inaccuracy, and just repeat to yourself, "It's just a fanfic, it's just a fanfic," please!
continue
Fandom: Anne of Green Gables
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and the occasional thematic violence; possible trigger-y depictions of war)
Summary: AU. Walter survives Courcelette. In a way.
Notes: On the amount of research I did: to quote daniellafromage, "More than some, less than she should have." My apologies for any mistakes or general WTF-ery. Chapter titles are linked to whatever I took them from.
part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v
third one between
~
Una has never been busier in her life.
It's odd, she thinks, that she should spend so long lamenting her lack of purpose and direction, and then suddenly find herself saddled with a hundred obligations within a few months. She has her piano lessons, the Junior Red meetings, taking care of Bruce, and any spare time now is given to Walter. For the first time, sleep comes easily, stealing over her exhausted body without any struggle. It's a relief.
April turns to May, and Una knows the first mayflowers are blooming somewhere in Rainbow Valley. In a few days, Walter will bring them to Mrs. Blythe - the ground is becoming firmer now that the rain has stopped, and walking is not such a chore for him.
She shakes her head as though she can physically scatter her thoughts. There's work to be done - a Junior Reds meeting later in the week, although there isn't much to do anymore - they've stopped putting on concerts or speaking at recruitment meetings. There are too many rumors - of men scarred inside and out, even worse than Walter - men who tremble and cannot stop, who refuse to speak at all. Besides - most of the men who could go have already gone.
Which leaves sock-making, mostly. That job falls to Una; she suspects she's the only one of the Junior Reds that actually enjoys knitting. There's something pleasantly mindless about it, and she can let her thoughts wander.
Not that she has much to think about - her train of thought these days only ever seems to go in one particular direction, and lately, even thinking about Walter Blythe makes her nervous. Or excited. She can't quite tell. It's a welcome distraction, she supposes - thinking about how Walter hadn't pulled away when she touched his hand helps distract her from the fact that Jerry and Carl aren't writing as often, and Bruce keeps asking questions she doesn't have answers for.
On Monday, Rilla Blythe invites her to town again.
"Today's not a good day," she admits as they walk through the streets.
Una blinks. "What? Why?"
"Walter's been trying to read the newspaper," Rilla murmurs. "Since talking with you - he's been feeling a bit better, and he thought he could do it. But he went up to his room, and hasn't come out all day. I think - I heard him crying."
Una's heart wrings in sympathy - for Walter and for the Blythes. "It must be hard. For all of you."
Rilla nods. "I won't ask what you two talk about," she says, in one of her startling displays of perception. "But Una, we're his family. I wish he would talk to us, too."
Una wishes she had something she could toy with, to avoid meeting Rilla's eyes. "He doesn't want to upset any of you."
Rilla raises an eyebrow. "He'd rather upset you?"
Oh, when did Rilla become so - concerned with other people? She had always been more observant than people gave her credit for, but at least she'd been too self-absorbed to voice her concerns. But no - part of Una is grateful, she supposes, that Rilla cares.
"I suppose - because I'm older," Una lies. She feels guilty for invoking Rilla's age - after all, how many times had Jerry and Faith kept her out of the loop, because she was younger than them? But Una is not ready to tell Rilla - anything.
Rilla sighs. "When will I ever be old enough for anyone? I'm not a baby. I'm practically - " here she breaks off, and Una gets the feeling that Rilla is keeping secrets, too. "I'm different."
You're still innocent, Una wants to say, but she doesn't. Rilla is sweet and Rilla is caring, but there is so much she doesn't know, of loss and guilt. Una will not deny her own naivete, but she is nowhere near as sheltered as Rilla. She suddenly understands what Walter means when he says he wants to protect her.
"He'll tell you," Una says. "I'm sure."
Rilla lets it go, and turns the conversation to the Junior Reds - "Irene Howard is talking of coming back - even after she said she'd never return to a society that 'snubbed' her so awfully - but the Lowbridge crowd has had enough of her, apparently."
Una allows herself a smile. She doesn't like Irene Howard any more than Rilla does, but she has never been one to voice her opinions, either.
"She called you hateful once, if you can believe that. Honestly. I don't think you've been rude to anyone in your life."
Una flushes. She thinks perhaps she knows what Irene was talking about - at a Sunday school concert, she had lost her temper and had been rather - curt - with Irene. And Irene's opinion doesn't bother Una very much, but the fact that Irene talks about her stings.
"Did that upset you?" Rilla asks. "I'm sorry. I won't give her the satisfaction of repeating the things she says. I simply have to complain every now and then, though. I can't tell anyone else, you know. Well, maybe Walter, but - not now. And everyone else - Nan and Di and Mother and Susan - even Miss Oliver - just laugh and cast it up to me that I used to be friends with her. You're so good, Una. If you're judging me, I can't tell."
"I'm not," Una assures her. What room does she have to judge anyone? "We all - do that, at times. Jerry is still friends with Bertie Shakespeare Drew."
The last part slips out before she can stop herself. She immediately berates herself - who Jerry is friends with is none of her business - and it's foolish of her to hold on to the memory of Bertie smashing her first batch of unburnt cookies. (Jerry swore up and down that Bertie hadn't meant to; Una had to admit it was silly of her to put the trays on the floor.) Besides, it's not as though the Glen thinks highly of her friendship with Mary Vance.
To her surprise, though, Rilla laughs. "Jem is, too. I suppose - for all that he's bothersome - he's not malicious." She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, we're back on the subject of malicious people again. When was the last time I talked about something happy? I can't say."
"What about Jims?"
Rilla waves the suggestion away. "I don't want to gush about him. I simply can't stand people talking about their babies. I refuse to bore anyone with all of his little milestones. Oh! Are you going to the MacAllisters' party?"
Una frowns. "I don't think so. I can't dance."
Rilla shrugs. "But you could come. And - see people."
Una laughs gently. "It's all right. I'm busy at home, anyway." It's not entirely a lie, although Una has given up her responsibilities before to attend some dance or another. But that was before, when there was still Shirley to keep her company, and Di to sit with when they ate ices and cake, and the vague hope that Walter would take some time to talk to her between dances. And all of that is gone, now.
Rilla seems to read her thoughts. "If you say so. But don't stay home because of Walter. He might be away"
"Why?" Una asks. She immediately bites her tongue, hoping she hadn't spoken too quickly.
"There's a long weekend coming up. Di thought it would be nice if he visited her at Redmond, and Mother agrees."
"That's good," Una says. "Isn't it?"
Rilla shrugs. "I suppose. He can see some of his old friends." She gives Una an odd, sideways look. "Do you know Alice Parker?"
Of course Una knows Alice Parker - the Parkers invite the Blythes to all of their social doings, and where Nan and Jem Blythe go, Jerry and Faith go, and where Jerry and Faith go, Una and Carl tag along by default. Alice is lovely and sweet and beautiful, and gossips have murmured about her and Walter ever since he taught at Lowbridge - the parties they attended together, what a picturesque couple they made, how nice it would be if the doctors' children were romantically involved. Una hates herself for caring.
"Yes" is all she says. Rilla is still looking at her, as though she's expecting another response. "She's nice."
"Mm," Rilla says. "Well, anyway, she's at Redmond, too." She chews her lip. "I suppose I'm worried. Di and Nan just don't - they don't understand him like I - we - do."
"Perhaps it's good that he's visiting them," Una points out, against her more emotional response. "Then they can learn to understand."
"Mm," Rilla says, again. "Have you heard from Shirley?" The question comes out of the blue.
Una blinks. "Yes. I had a letter a few days ago. Why?"
"No reason," Rilla says. "Hmmm."
"'Hmmm' what?"
"Nothing," she says. "Just thinking."
~
Bruce comes home one day with the rosy triumph of someone who has achieved something that they have waited a long time to do.
"The mayflowers are blooming," he announces. "And I get to pick them this year."
"With Walter," John Meredith calls, entering the house behind his son. He smiles when he sees Una in the kitchen, making lunch. "We went up to Ingleside. Bruce was quite - enthusiastic about fulfilling Jem's duty, so Walter invited him on the search. After lunch," he adds to Bruce, who is idling by the door, as though he expects to set off at any minute.
"What were you doing at Ingleside?" Una asks.
"I was bringing him some of my books," her father says. "I thought he'd like the writings of St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, some of the Catholic writings on contrition. I would've lent him the works of St. Paul, too, but they're on loan to Elder Clow, and..."
Una decides to speak up before he delves into a detailed list of all the books he has ever lent anyone since coming to the Glen. "That's good. Lunch is almost done, if you'd like."
He gives her one of his usual, not-entirely-there smiles. "Ah, Una, what would we do without you?" He pauses, then comes over to gently place a hand on her shoulder. "You're becoming a wonderful lady. Your mother would be proud."
Una doesn't know what to say to that. Father rarely talks about Mother. "Thank you."
"She was always doing what she could for others," he says. "Always thinking about them." Her father gives her a searching look, his voice becoming serious. "Walter said you two have been talking. He says you've been very kind to him."
Una flushes, looks down. "I'm only - trying to listen."
"Sometimes," John Meredith says, his voice returning to its usual dreamy tone, "that's all a human being really desires. To be heard, understood." He blinks. "I should write my sermon before I forget it. Will you take Bruce back to Ingleside?"
"Of course," Una says. "Bruce, come eat your lunch. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go looking for mayflowers."
Bruce finishes in record time, and pulls at her sleeve as she tries to eat. "Can we go yet?"
Una nearly chokes down the rest of her food. "All right, all right. Go put your jacket on."
Bruce practically drags her down the hill to the road to Ingleside, chattering all the while.
"It's a good thing I'm nine now," he says as they approach the big house. "Then I can go and take Jem's place, and maybe he can come back. Is Europe very far?"
Una bites her lip to keep from laughing - or perhaps crying. If only Bruce knew that it doesn't work that way; that hundreds of thousands of men have gone and only a few have come back. Perhaps only a few will. She shivers, then puts a smile on for her brother.
Susan greets them at the door. "I knew you'd be back, you munchkin," she says, patting Bruce's face. Bruce basks in her attention; he is still young enough to enjoy maternal affection. "Walter!" she calls. "Bruce is back. And Una is with him." She clucks her tongue. "Honestly, as if you two don't see enough of each other."
Una knows that Susan doesn't always mean half of what she says, but still she quails in nervousness. Does Susan - disapprove - of her, somehow? Don't be ridiculous, she scolds herself. She has been friends with the Blythes for a decade now; Susan would have said something if she truly didn't like her.
"Father was busy," Una says, trying not to sound too defensive.
Susan shrugs. "I suppose anything that gets him out of the house is well enough. When the doctor's new automobile comes in, I expect he'll be gallivanting around as much as he used to - "
"Susan," Walter says as he comes in, his voice a warning. Then his eyes fall on Una. "Una!"
"Yes, those are our names," Susan grumbles, taking her leave. "Don't stay out too long. Your leg will get a pain, or so the doctor tells me."
"Father's busy," Una says, accidentally squeezing Bruce's hand so tightly that he gives a yelp. "So I brought Bruce instead."
"I'm glad," Walter says, his voice warm. "Shall we?"
~
Walter leads them on a path that Una has never visited before. The branches of the trees here hang low - so low that even Una has to duck slightly. Walter's face twists in pain as he bends to pass under them. Una wants to ask if he is all right, or comfort him somehow, but there is a sort of determination on his face that tells her that such a thing would not be wise.
"Jem showed me where the flowers bloom," he says. "Before he left."
"And you showed Shirley," Una muses. It's only an aside comment, but Walter gives her an odd look.
"Yes." It's an unusually curt answer.
They walk in silence for a while longer, with only the chirping of the birds and Bruce's oblivious humming to accompany them. Walter seems to be lost in thought, and Una has learned that it is best to let him think, and then speak.
"Here," Walter finally says.
The grove is thick with green, carpeted in sweetgrass and encircled by leafy trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy created by the leaves and branches. There's something secret about this place. Una doesn't feel right speaking in anything above a whisper.
Bruce senses it too. "Thank you for showing me this," he murmurs to Walter.
"Of course," Walter says. "Here, why don't you go look for some flowers? Picking them is a bit - difficult - for me, now."
Bruce quickly acquiesces, hurrying off to hunt for the blossoms at the base of the trees, between the mossy stones.
"He's glad to help," Una says quietly. "He told me he'd like to go to Europe and take Jem's place."
Walter's face twitches, but he nods. "His heart is in the right place."
Una bites her lip. "You don't think the war will last that long." Bruce will be eighteen in - nine years, she calculates. It seems so far off, but then - three have already passed, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. Perhaps the war will drag on. How can any of them know?
"No," Walter says slowly. "It must end - for no one wants to be fighting it anymore. I think soon someone will give up, simply out of exhaustion. But 'soon' is - relative. Especially - afterwards." He shakes his head. "Perhaps we could talk about something else today."
"Of course," Una says. She pauses, trying to find a new topic. "Have you written a poem about this place?"
Walter's mouth quirks in a smile. "How did you guess?"
"It's beautiful," she murmurs. "How could you have not?" She looks around, at the peaceful loveliness of it. "Oh!"
There is a tiny patch of mayflowers, blooming only a little ways ahead. Una picks a flower, twirling it between her fingers. "Here's - " She turns around and stops.
Walter is looking at her, staring as though he's never seen her before. For a moment Una wonders if she has made some terrible trespass, but no, there's something distant in his eyes, as though he has gone off to another one of his worlds.
"Walter?"
He blinks and comes back. "Sorry. I only - I was reminded of something."
By what? Una wonders, spinning the flower idly. "Something pleasant?"
"A bit," he says, his face thoughtful. "You were right, you know."
"About what?"
"Things surviving." He looks at her. "There's still beauty in the world, sometimes. But - it's still hard."
"I know," Una says softly. "I think - it will always be so. But things heal. You know that - now."
"Rilla told me you heard from Shirley," Walter says abruptly.
"Yes," Una says, confused. Is Shirley not writing to the Blythes? It is the only reason she can fathom for why they all seem so interested in her correspondence with him. "He's doing - well enough."
"He doesn't write much," Walter says. "Only to Susan, and she won't tell us what he says."
Una shrugs. She and Shirley have always been friends, the quiet ones in their loud families. When he had gone to Queen's, she had cried a little before sleep at the thought that soon he would be just as accomplished as their siblings, would leave her behind. She wouldn't betray his confidences, though, not even to Walter or Rilla.
"It's hard," she says. "Being - in his place. I think he's used to not saying much."
Walter gives her a sideways look. "You know him better than we do," he says, a bit ruefully.
Una smiles at the memories suddenly drifting through her mind. "We always ended up together, I suppose," she says. "Because we were so quiet."
Walter touches her hand, just for a moment. "We forgot about you two, didn't we?" he asks.
"Only sometimes," Una says quickly, not wanting to make him feel guilty. "It was all right. I didn't much like the things Faith and Jerry and Carl liked, anyway. Shirley and I - understand each other, in that sort of way. That's all. That's why I hear from him more often, I suppose. He does miss all of you - he's said so."
"You miss him."
Una blinks. "Of course I do. I miss - everyone."
Walter watches her for a moment, then turns away. They fall quiet, listening to Bruce's cries of delight whenever he finds a patch of flowers. Una feels that she must say something to break the odd silence - for this silence does feel odd, not the comfortable quiet that they usually share.
"Thank you, by the way," Una murmurs.
Walter turns at her, blinks. "For what?"
"Bringing me here," she says. "I know - it was always such a secret, for you and Jem and Shirley. Thank you for letting me in."
Walter looks at her, right in the eye. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. "Perhaps I should have done so earlier."
a little bit of good
~
Walter sighs, looking down at the mess strewn about his bed. He had never been quite as neat as Shirley, nor as disorganized as Jem - always occupying the medium between them. But no one who could see Walter's room in this moment would know it.
He'd debated and deliberated for days over Di's letter, worried and fretted like Jem before his Queen's entrance exam. No one in the house seemed to notice, withdrawn as Walter is, which is well enough. He doesn't want to upset them further, and for once, his worry is only a common one. It would be good, he think, to see Di again, to try and fix all that is strange between them. If it can be fixed. Perhaps this is a part of growing up. They are adults now, with their own lives and paths, and if they are only going to diverge, then - then that is that.
But no, Walter doesn't want to accept that. Di, who he has always shared everything with. The two of them shared almost a soul, and if Walter cannot fight the war, fight his own nightmares, then he must at least fight for that.
And so he had written, telling her that he would come, in a few weeks' time during her long weekend.
Which leaves the question of what to bring. It is too early to pack, but - perhaps if he manages to get his luggage in order, his mind will clear as well. He and Di had parted on good terms, but there is still something strange between them. So much she doesn't understand. Perhaps they'll be able to fix it - or perhaps they'll spent the weekend in cold, awkward silence.
But there will be Nan, Walter adds. And Alice. How odd - that all his male friends are have gone. As they must.
Not all the men had gone, of course. Some had stayed, stubbornly refusing to enlist even as they were presented with hundreds of white feathers, letters that Walter is sure were even more malicious than those he'd received. One fellow, Arthur Baker, had walked campus one day with all the feathers he'd received pinned to his coat, enough to nearly cover the front. Walter still doesn't know if he admires him or thinks him an idiot.
For Arthur Baker will never have to know what Walter knows, now. Perhaps he is wiser for that, but Walter knows that if he sees him on the campus, they will not be able to talk, not as friends. For Walter went, after all, and Arthur didn't.
Perhaps fearing war is not the cowardice - perhaps it is the doing of the things that Walter has done. But then - he thinks of Bruce Meredith in the mayflower grove, his laughter as he searches for flowers, sees Una holding a flower between her fingers. It had reminded him so strongly of an almost-forgotten dream that he'd been frozen, for a moment.
But unlike in his dream, there had been no shells, no mines, no danger lurking beneath the sweetgrass. And that is how it will stay. So perhaps he has done a - little - bit of good, after all. And perhaps they'll see that, when he returns to Redmond.
He shakes his head. Several of his old clothes don't quite fit anymore - he has gained muscle from training and digging and running and dragging sandbags, and has lost weight from two years of rations and nerves. He won't ask Mother or Susan to adjust them, though. He thinks maybe he can - God knows there were no mothers to stitch up rips in their uniforms at the front.
It would be good to do - something, anyway. Lately he has been feeling oddly irritated and jumpy, for no reason that he can explain. It's not from the nightmares or the lingering pain of war - no, that is something bone-deep, that exhausts him from the inside out. This is closer to the surface, like needles pricking at his skin. He supposes it's better than - the other - but it's no more pleasant by any stretch. He can't pinpoint the source, either - and as Dad and Jem always say, you have to know the problem to find the cure. He thinks it started that day with Una and Bruce, in Rainbow Valley - but then, what could have upset him? Perhaps it is one of his odd premonitions. The Allies have begun their Spring Offensive. Maybe - maybe something is about to go wrong. Jem or Shirley - no, he won't think like that. Maybe this has nothing to do with that at all.
Nothing at all, he reassures himself, holding up a pair of trousers that are almost abominably short. He shakes his head. When was the last time anyone had sorted through his clothes?
~
Una doesn't look well, when she comes up to Ingleside. She has been away for a while - busy, she said, the last time they'd spoken. He can see that she wasn't lying. Strands of dark hair are unwinding from her braid, which itself is rather crooked and loose. There are faint shadows under her eyes.
Still, when she sees him, she smiles. Walter feels something inside him warm. Una is like that, he's found. He never feels quite as terrible around her.
They end up ambling through Rainbow Valley, settling beneath the Tree Lovers. Una doesn't say much, and Walter finds himself sneaking glances at her occasionally.
"You're not all right," he observes finally, when the silence is too much to bear.
Una jumps slightly, as though startled. Then she gives a little laugh and leans against the entwined trees. "I'm sorry."
He shakes his head, and moves to take her hand. It is only a simple gesture of friendship, one that is becoming familiar, comfortable to him. Una's hands are always cold, though they warm in his grasp. The tips of her fingers are rough from housework - it had surprised him the first time. His sisters - even Faith - worked their minds, not their hands. Now, though, he knows her hands, the ridges of her fingers and the softness at the base of her wrists, as well as he knows his own.
"Tell me."
Una sighs, but does not pull away. "Things are - overwhelming. Jerry and Carl - " she shrugs. "It's hard."
Her words are simple, but Walter can see the fears, the sleepless nights, reflected in her face. Una expresses herself best without words.
"They'll come through," he says, giving her hand a quick squeeze.
"Oh, Walter," she sighs. "Please don't lie."
He pauses for a moment, unsure how much to tell. All his stories - always they have been his own, never anything that could touch her brothers or his.
"I don't know if much will come of this Spring Offensive," he admits. "Every time - they tell us it's the final push, this one battle that will send them over the edge. But…"
He feels Una's fingers press into his palm. "But?"
"But. It never quite turns out that way." He tugs at their joined hands to motion towards his leg. "The battle I was injured in. They sent us over the top, running straight at the other side. I survived that, but then - there was the gas, and the shelling. And at night there's the raids. You think - you think maybe you're safe, for a while, but - you never really are." He tilts his head at her. "But the rains should have stopped. So there will be less mud." He knows it's not much of a comfort.
Una nods. "I see." She turns to peer at him. "It's like that every day?"
"For years."
She doesn't look away, and he thinks perhaps she understands all that he has left unsaid, in their conversations - the waiting, not for a battle or for reprieve, but for the shell to finally fall, for the gas to finally come at eat at their skin, their bones. He has escaped that, but her brothers have not. Her hand remains steady in his.
"Oh, Walter," she says, even softer than before.
He leans his head on Una's shoulder, and after a moment, her head comes down to rest against his. He briefly wonders if this makes him weak - leaning on her the way Faith leans on Jem, Nan to Jerry. He should be supporting her, that's what he's always been told. But no - they are holding each other up, letting their burdens be carried across where their shoulders touch.
~
The coming of the mail today is not pleasant.
There are no letters from Jem or Shirley, nor from Ken or Carl (Jerry writes only to Nan, at Redmond). Perhaps they don't even know he's home, yet. Rilla hums in disappointment, but masks it quickly and busies herself with feeding Jims. Susan mutters darkly about the kind of conditions Shirley must be in, if he has no time to write her.
For Walter, there is only a circular and a letter addressed in his own hand. The circular is a check - a neat sum for the reprinting of "The Piper" to sell war bonds in the United States. The slip of paper feels too light for something that makes him feel so heavy. He can't buy anything with this money, he thinks. Money he earned encouraging men to fight this war. He's as bad as the men in the recruitment offices and the girls passing out white feathers.
The checks come more often than he'd expected, too. Perhaps he'll never have to complete his degree. Certainly the magazines would accept more poetry from him - but then, the poetry he writes now - And when the moon rose redly in the east, I killed a stripling boy - well. He doesn't think anyone will want to read it, even when the war is over.
The next is the letter, addressed to one of the men in his battalion. He had only meant to ask how things were, try to reach out as best he can. But it's been returned, and there is no stamp to mark some kind of postal mishap. So his comrade has gone west, then. He ought to have expected it.
Rilla nods at the envelope. "Who's it from?"
"Returned," he murmurs, setting it aside. Perhaps it's something in his face that gives it away, for Rilla's face falls and she busies herself with her own mail.
He picks up the circular and turns it over and over, in his hands, thinks of his other poems. One in particular sticks in his mind. He could never send it to the Spectator, or any magazine of that like. But there are some publications, he knows, that may be more receptive. And isn't that what he wants? For people to understand?
Maybe it is time to tell them.
a love with intuition
~
"Tell me something nice," Una suggests, one day.
Walter blinks at her, and for a moment she thinks she's said it quite wrongly. She decides to rephrase: "Try to think of something nice. And then tell me." She bites her lip, decides to offer him one of her secrets in trade. "My mother used to do this with me, on days when I was upset."
Walter's face softens. "Were you upset often?"
"Oh," Una sighs. "I suppose. It wasn't that so many terrible things happened, it was just so easy to make me - well." She turns to him. "You know."
"I do," Walter says. "Jem used to become quite defensive when Mary Vance made you and Faith upset."
"I think that was more for Faith's benefit than mine," Una says, laughing a little. It is easy to laugh when they reminisce. Not so much when they think about the future.
Walter does not smile, and Una feels an old, familiar pang. While gossip has only ever linked Walter to Alice Parker in Lowbridge, Una has occasionally caught Walter looking at her sister as if - as if - well. It is not something Una likes to dwell on.
"Maybe so," Walter admits. "But I did think she was unnecessarily cruel, sometimes."
"Oh, don't talk about Mary Vance that way," Una says. "She was my first real friend, you know. And she's never meant to be unkind."
Walter ducks his head. "I won't speak ill of her anymore," he promises, though Una notices he doesn't change his opinion. But she knows well that the Blythes don't get along with Mary - for the Blythes are sweet, the Blythes are kind, but the Blythes are also just a little bit snobbish, in their well-meaning way. She doesn't say anything.
"Something nice," Walter repeats. He cracks half a smile. "I won't be sarcastic, for your sake." He pauses, then sighs. "I never was sarcastic. A bad habit I picked up from some of my comrades, I suppose. But - they were good men. Are good men. Even the Germans, maybe," he adds.
"Do you mean that?" Una asks.
"Sometimes…we could hear the other side, waiting with us. Singing or talking or praying."
"It's hard to think of them doing things like that," Una says softly. "But then - I suppose it's hard for them to imagine us - you - in the same way."
"When I first arrived," Walter says, "they hadn't figured out how to move us around very well. We sat and waited, for so - so long. We'd get bored. And it seemed - pointless, to fight, when all of us were so d - so tired." Una wonders why he bothers to censor himself - there is no word the Meredith children didn't learn from Mary Vance.
"Sometimes they'd let us run out - quickly - to recover our casualties," Walter says. "And we'd do the same for them. The officers would look the other way, and I think - I think that was quite nice. A nice thing."
He is speaking faster now, the memories coming to the surface. Una touches his hand to let him know that she is still listening.
"We were all strangers, you know. Just - thrown together. We owed each other nothing. But still we worked together. We protected each other."
"Jerry wrote that you should have gotten a V.C. for saving that man, that time," Una murmurs. She remembers reading his letter and thrilling - quietly - at the image of Walter, noble and brave, as gallant as a hero in the old stories. That is who I love, she had thought, letting herself get caught up in her girlish fantasy for a moment. It's odd - but no, she thinks she can understand a little more, now - that he takes no pride in it.
Walter, to her surprise, flushes slightly. He shakes his head. "It was nothing that other men weren't doing, every day. For both sides."
Una tilts her head at him. "It's funny," she says slowly, thinking of the letters from her brothers and Shirley. "None of you seem to - hate - the Germans very much. We all thought you did, somehow."
Una supposes she never really had. Sometimes she pictures them as they are in the posters and silent pictures, all beastly and ready to drag her away to some horrid fate, and true, it sends terrible shivers down her spine, and she stitches and bakes with the conviction that they cannot, must not, win.
They frighten her and they worry her, but still she feels an odd sort of guilt every time she tries to hate them, tries to pretend that they aren't writing home and receiving socks from their families in Berlin or Munich or one of those strange European cities, that they don't have anyone waiting for them - Una has always had a soft heart.
Walter turns to look at her, and she feels a shiver go down her spine at the look in his eyes. "How could we?" he asks quietly. "When they're not so different from us at all. It's - ironic, I suppose," he says, some of his old literary studies vocabulary slipping through, as though he's discussing a particularly fascinating novel. "We were supposed to be fighting against them - but Una - honestly - I think we hated them the least."
~
Dear Una,
Thanks for all your letters. Sorry I haven't written as often as I should, and if I made you worry. I'm all right, I guess. As Susan said (and is probably still saying), flying is clean work - in its own way. Not much like being a bird, I'm afraid. There's something rather - lonely about being up here. Maybe after the war, we can go up in groups, and that will make it better. But I guess it's exciting to think that we've made it up here at all. Sorry, you know I've never been good with words.
I'm always glad to hear from you, and I hope all is well. I used to say that it's hardest for the mothers and daughters and sisters, but now, I'm not sure. I can't tell you everything I've seen, Una. I don't know if Walter's told you, either. I'll be blunt and say it's harder for us. But that doesn't make the waiting any easier, I know.
I hope you'll keep writing.
Shirley
~
Dear Una,
Things are still the same 'round here. I'm all nice and settled in, and there are times when I don't miss home so much - or at least, I'm so busy I don't have time to miss home. And there are nice things about being over here, too. Some of the soldiers recuperating here are very kind and funny - you wouldn't think they were in a war at all. But then sometimes, when they go to sleep - it's a rather different story. But they keep going, somehow, and I think - how wonderful humans can be, sometimes. It's all that keeps me going some days.
Jem came back on leave and I saw him for a while. We walked around and it was quite nice. I always thought we'd see England together, although - not like this, I suppose. He's not quite the same, and it's frightening - is that the word I want to use? No, not frightening. But sometimes I think - well, never mind. He hadn't heard that Walter was injured and sent back - I had to tell him. He's glad, though, that Walter is safe now.
How is everything at home? Rosemary writes often, but Father never as much as he should - absentminded as ever, I suppose. Walter's letters are so horribly short, too. I wonder if he'll go back to Redmond, now that he's home. It will be easier for him to get into classes, at any rate! See, I can still be jolly, on occasion.
Where was I? What I meant to write was that it's up to you, my dear, to tell me all the goings-on, if you can. How tall Bruce must be now! It's hard to think that life is going on there without me. Ah, but now I sound like some of my patients.
I have to go now - this is the only spare moment I've had all week. By the time I send this, it'll probably be ages later. But please give all my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce as always, and say hello to Ingleside for me.
Love,
Faith
~
May fades into June, the almost overwhelming lush of hazy, warm days. Walter's birthday is at the very end of May, on the edge of summer. They spend it quietly; Susan makes as rich a cake as she can with her ration supply. Una agonizes over a gift, spending several sleepless nights on it, working by moonlight and the occasional lamp (one of Una's secret fears is that she will leave a lamp burning and wake up with the house on fire). Still, by Walter's birthday, Una has put together a pamphlet of pressed flowers and poems she'd copied from her father's books, and - with the panicked thought that she should have a contingency plan - knitted a perfectly respectable scarf. His mouth quirks when he sees them and for a second Una thinks she can see - something. Perhaps.
Walter is to leave for Redmond, to visit Nan and Di, he says. Just for the weekend - they're staying on throughout the summer to help with the Red Cross, tacking on a few classes to make up for those they had to give up during the school year.
It takes all of Una's energy not to ask if he's looking forward to seeing Alice Parker, as well.
"Why didn't you ever go to Redmond?" he asks one day, in the parlor at Ingleside. Rilla is playing with Jims, trying to provoke a smile from him. She looks up when Walter asks the question.
"Not all of us want to spend our days with 'ologies and 'isms," she scolds gently.
Una is grateful for the excuse. She doesn't wish to admit the real reason to Walter. It seems foolish and silly, when presented to someone like him.
Walter gives a slight smile. "You can't tell us you still think of nothing but having fun, Rilla-my-Rilla."
"No," Rilla admits. "But my goals still don't involve having a degree." She blushes as she says this, for a reason Una cannot quite figure. Walter seems to be in on the secret, however - he smiles at Rilla as she goes back to fussing over Jims. The smile is fondly amused, but there's something else - a sadness. It is a look that is becoming familiar on his face.
Then he turns to her, and Una wishes she had brought her knitting, for she needs something to watch, to help her avoid eye contact. She feels very vulnerable without any distractions.
"I don't suppose there was anything I liked doing enough," she says. She doesn't add that, like Rilla, she doesn't quite aspire to anything that requires a degree, either.
"You like teaching piano," Rilla says, not taking her eyes off Jims.
Una shrugs. She does, but not in the manner of grand passion that drives Jem to medicine or Walter to poetry. She likes to play the piano, and she likes children, and she likes to help people - it's more the combination of those things than the occupation itself, she supposes.
She does not say any of those things and lets the topic slip her by. "Are you going to return to Redmond, Walter?"
Walter, who has been letting Jims pull at his hair, frowns. "Why?"
Una shifts, feeling awkward at his own discomfort. "I had a letter from Faith, and she was just wondering. That's all," she tries to reassure him.
He looks down at his hands, empty now that Jims has crawled back to Rilla. "I don't know. Not yet."
"I think you'd still be a good English professor," Rilla offers. "Ow! Jims!"
Walter looks alarmed. "Rilla?"
"He bit my nose!" Rilla gasps, a hand over the injured body part.
Walter chuckles - a real chuckle, and it is perhaps because of this that Rilla does not take offense to his amusement. "I'll go hand him off to Susan." He scoops up Jims and carries him off while the child makes sounds that sound suspiciously like laughter.
"He's good with Jims," Una notes. A brief thought comes to her mind, he would be a good father, and then she stamps it out.
Rilla props her hand on her chin. "Better than I am - sometimes," she says. "I've become much better with children. Do you think I'd be a good mother?"
It's not quite a non-sequitur, but it's enough out of the blue that Una blinks. "You?"
She doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but Rilla looks hurt. "Yes, me. I'm much less - silly, aren't I? Don't you think?"
There's something strangely serious in her eyes, and Una doesn't have the heart to tease, or be anything but honest. "Of course."
Rilla hugs her arms to herself for a moment. "Jem and Shirley still write to me like I'm a baby," she sighs. "Sometimes I think maybe I've fooled myself into thinking I'm more grown-up."
"Just think," Una says. "Before the war, we never spoke. Now - I think we're friends."
Rilla looks almost offended. "Of course we're friends, you - you goose."
Una's mouth opens. No one has ever called her a goose before. And then she has to laugh, and then the two of them are laughing together, and it feels like breathing out after holding it in for so long.
"How am I the goose?" she finally asks, when they both calm down. "You know you'd be a fine mother, Rilla."
Rilla looks embarrassed. "It's just - something - I've been thinking about, lately. Don't you wonder, sometimes?"
No, Una does not wonder. Somehow - deep within her bones - she knows she would be a good mother, if only somebody would want her. She would love her children as well as her own mother did, in Una's almost-faded memories. It is perhaps one of the only things she had never questioned.
Until, of course, the war.
"A little," she murmurs. "It's a while off yet, though, isn't it?"
Rilla hums a bit. "You're already twenty."
This stings, a bit. Yes, she is twenty. Twenty years old, and no boy has ever looked twice at her. "Ah, not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla."
Rilla flushes delicately, as she is wont to do. "Yes, but - Walter!"
"Jims is taking a nap," he tells Rilla, and then he sits back down and they continue as normal.
Only - perhaps it is her imagination, wishful thinking, a seed of hope planted by Rilla's talk of children and marriage - but she thinks Walter glances at her every so often, a look on his face that she cannot pinpoint.
and i wind up a bit further away
~
The weather is fine the day Walter departs for Redmond. It is - eerily - similar to the day he left for Valcartier, he realizes - the sky blue and deep and cloudless, the air warm and all the flowers in the bloom of summer.
But no, this time is different. He is not going so far away. And this time, he knows he is coming back.
He's made the trip to Redmond several times before, but still everyone has gathered to see him off. Mother and Dad hug him close - Susan's is brief but crushing - Rilla leans her chin on his shoulder for a moment and whispers, "Take care."
Dog Monday nudges at his hands, his nose wet.
"Silly dog," Susan says. "He thinks Walter's going back to see Little Jem."
Walter bends down slightly - a twinge of pain goes through his back and his knees - and gives Dog Monday a pat. He feels ashamed that he cannot give the poor dog some hope, and then vaguely foolish for being ashamed.
Mr. and Mrs. Meredith have not come, but Una has. She takes his hand, just the way she had when he returned, just the way she had when he left the first time.
"It'll be all right," she murmurs. Walter feels the strangest pang, an odd hurt in his chest. It's only for a few days, but - he'll miss her. "I'll see you soon."
"You will," he says, and she smiles - the faintest hint of one, as is her way, but a smile nevertheless. It's a sweet expression, he thinks. He wishes she had more reason to use it.
The train arrives and he gets on with relative ease. It is almost shameful, that he needs help to balance his bag and his cane, as he tries to lift himself from the platform. But then he inhales and lets it go. This is his life, now.
He settles in his seat and turns to watch everyone on the platform. They are all huddled there, just like the day he left - no, not like the day he left. He searches for the little differences: Dad and Mothers' faces are not sorrowful or pale; Susan is more concentrated on keeping her kerchief from flying away than his departure.
Rilla and Una, though, are still standing together. Rilla is - Rilla - but somehow he finds himself watching Una, as the train grinds and begins to pull away from the station.
He keeps remembering, somehow, her words from the other day: not all of us are as pretty as you, Rilla. It's true, he knows: no one in the whole of the Island is quite as pretty as his little sister. Still, it has made him - think. What was it that he had overheard Miss Cornelia say, once? "Una Meredith will never be pretty, but she is sweet."
He had agreed with her then, but - it's because he has been spending so much time with her lately, he supposes, that it's bothering him now. Una, with her kind smiles and understanding words. He wishes he could tell her that he's come to think of her as quite pretty, likes her smile better than the golden looks of all the girls in his poems - but there is no way to tell her that without admitting that he'd overheard their conversation. And Una, he has discerned, does not wish for pity.
The train winds away until they are nothing more than specks, then they are out of sight completely. Just like before.
~
"Walter, over here!"
By the time the train arrives in Kingsport, Walter is exhausted - but it is an ordinary, everyday exhaustion, not the kind that comes from his thoughts and his nightmares - and so it is all right.
Nan and Di are standing together on the platform, Di waving her arms over her head, Nan standing away as though embarrassed to be seen with her. Walter manages a smile and heads over to them, his bag weighing down his left side, his cane holding up his right.
"I'm so glad you're here," Di whispers. Nan doesn't say a thing, but she smiles and Walter is glad to be with them.
"We've asked Alice Parker 'round for the evening," Di says as they pile into the cab - for a moment Walter struggles, then Nan realizes what is happening and helps push him into the vehicle. "Just the Island gang."
"That's nice," Walter says, automatically. They had been close friends, as children and when he went to teach at Lowbridge - she had been as upset as his family when he received a white feather - but God, had he even written to her when he was at the front? Why can't he remember?
"I hope you don't mind being stuck with us girls," Nan says, and Walter shakes his head. He knows all the men - all the men in their circle - have gone to fight. And he would not want to see them, anyway.
"We've moved," Di says. "I wrote you about that, didn't I?" Walter notices that they are not heading in the direction where their old boardinghouse was. "Well, us and Faith - but she's gone now. I hope we don't have to give the place up," she adds with a sigh. "It's harder with just the two of us, and it's the dearest little house. Oh, well."
She had written to him about it, but Walter finds he can barely remember the letter. It had been - just one of many he'd received, recovering in that hospital in England, one that he'd read and forgotten, lost in the haze of all he had just escaped.
Nan crinkles her nose. "Oh, don't say 'oh, well.' I'd like to keep the place as long as possible - it's impossible to go back to boardinghouses once you've had your own place."
They laugh and Walter smiles, but it doesn't seem to be enough - they both turn to look at him and go silent. They remain so for the rest of the trip home.
~
Di is right - the house they're renting is sweet, a tiny thing tucked away from main roads and grown over with flowers and vines. Walter thinks he'd like to live in a place like this, someday - small and quiet. He has lost his taste for noise and vibrancy, he's found.
"We'll have to find a new boarder soon," she says, fumbling with the door - "It's a tricky old thing" - although Walter can't be sure if she's talking to him or Nan. "I thought we could ask Louise, from the Red Cross group - "
"She's so fussy," Nan sniffs. "It would be like living with Susan."
"Well, the way you clean, having a Susan around would be helpful," Di says. Nan sticks her tongue out at her. It all seems odd, exaggerated - like they're putting a show on for him.
"We'll put you up in Faith's room," Di continues. "She had it to herself - Nan and I thought we'd might as well share - so you can sleep in there for the weekend."
They let him alone to put his things away - really just his bag, with his clothes and his notebooks.
He can see why they had given this room to Faith - it has a large window, sunshine lighting up the whole room, and the limb of a tree reaching across the view, almost inviting the room's inhabitant to climb it. He can see her, in Rainbow Valley, scrambling up the Tree Lovers or the Naked Lady with no regards to their sanctity.
They had all been so happy, then.
Well, perhaps not all of them - he remembers Una's stories, the little wistful smile on her face as she talked about the days before Rosemary joined their family. What is she doing, now? Perhaps giving one of her piano lessons. Or talking with Rilla. Or - well, it does not matter, does it?
With a shake of his head, he tucks his bag in the corner and goes out to join his sisters.
~
Alice Parker comes over as promised, balancing a pie on her arm as she struggles with her bag. She attempts to give Walter a hug, but nearly falls over in the attempt.
"For heaven's sake," Nan says with a laugh. "Put your things down first. He'll be here all weekend, Alice."
"It's only that it's been so long," Alice says, looking at him with her blue, blue eyes. "I haven't heard from you in ages."
Walter shifts uncomfortably. "I've been busy."
"Oh, I'm sure," Alice says quickly. "I've barely heard from Andy, since he's - gone." She tilts her head at Walter. "I suppose you never saw him 'over there,' did you?"
He shakes his head mutely. Why people think that? That they're all together, laughing and joking and romping through the trenches as though it's all some childhood game? They're tossed together with men they would have never spoken to, if not for the war, men from towns Walter had never heard of and cities on the opposite side of the continent.
But they do not know that.
Alice is as cheerful and dimpled as ever, although sometimes her smile falters, and Walter knows she has worries and fears, too. Every now and then, she catches him watching her and touches his hand. It doesn't quite warm him, but it is - nice.
"I worried about you," she says quietly, when Nan and Di are setting up the piano to sing. "I suppose I've always felt responsible for you - " her mouth quirks " - ever since I had to save you from my brother and Fred Johnson."
Walter gives a short laugh, but it comes out easily. "I'm fine."
"But your leg - and your skin - " her hand comes up, and Walter pulls back before she can touch him. Then he feels foolish. Perhaps she hadn't meant to do that at all.
"It's healed," he says quickly. "And - I've gotten used to it."
Alice leans her chin on her hand. "How different you are," she muses. "I read 'The Piper,' you know. I don't believe I'm talking to the Walter that wrote it."
He shrugs, tracing a pattern on the carpet with his shoe. "No, I suppose I'm not."
Alice nods and when she turns to Walter, there are tears in her eyes. "What do you suppose Andy will be like? All our friends?"
Walter opens his mouth, then closes it. What can he say? He feels useless and weak when faced with their expectations. He suddenly misses Una, wishes he could press his palms into hers to steady himself.
Thankfully he is saved by Di and Nan, who have found the sheet music. They gather around the piano and sing as though it is any party, the kind they always used to attend together. Di's arm is around his waist and it is almost like old times.
Almost.
NOTES AND STUFF
chapter ten: As we get a little more into the characters talking about the war, I feel the need to point out that my views (particularly on WWI) aren't necessarily those expressed here. I personally was always weirded out by the nationalism in the book, but I also want to keep the characters in line with the general attitudes at the time (although by 1917, the war wasn't as popular as LMM would have you think). Also, the line of poetry in the third part is from "The Aftermath" by L.M. Montgomery. Also-also, I subscribe to the theory that "The Piper" was basically LMM's stand-in for "In Flanders Fields" - so while I kept the text that LMM published in The Blythes Are Quoted, I took the surrounding events (the use of the poem to sell bonds and boost morale, etc) from what John McCrae experienced with the publication of "In Flanders Fields." I'm also a bit fuzzy on 1910s copyright law/whether or not Walter would get paid for the poem to be reprinted at all. (I sort of decided that he would get paid if the reprint was for profit - i.e., selling war bonds, but that could be wrong.) Apologies for the likely inaccuracy, and just repeat to yourself, "It's just a fanfic, it's just a fanfic," please!
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