Читать книгу The Great Laundry Adventure - Margie Rutledge - Страница 6

The first laundry adventure happened by accident, which is how these things usually begin. Jacob’s hockey practice had been cancelled because of rain, so the family had a little open time on their hands. The parents were in the kitchen making out a grocery list, and Ernest had blasted through the kitchen so many times on his horse Brownie, plastic wheels roaring like a spaceship taking off, that the mother had said, “Brian!” and the father had said, “Everybody upstairs, go get dressed! Right now!” Being ordered to get dressed without help from their parents was something that happened only on the weekends when the children were too noisy or bickered too much. It was a punishment that would sometimes keep the children busy for hours in the era before the thirteen baskets. The parents still used it with the added: “And make your beds too!”

Each person in the family had his own basket, though for some reason all the clothes were still kept in the parents’ bedroom. The rest of the baskets were full of sheets and towels and miscellaneous stuff that no one knew what to do with. Ernest by now had crawled inside one of these miscellaneous baskets and had tied an old apron around his neck like a superhero cape.

“Apper dapper apper do!” Ernest was shouting as he attempted to bury himself under the miscellaneous stuff in the basket.

“Ernest, stop yelling. You’re going to make everybody crazy,” Jacob said as he peered into the basket. “Hey, do you want me to bury you?”

“Yeah,” shouted Ernest. “Apper dapper apper do!”

“Why are you saying that?”

“The monkey told me to. I need to say it, you need to say it. Apper dapper apper do! Jacob, get inside the basket too!”

Jacob clambered into the basket with Ernest, and it felt really good. It was fun jumping around in the laundry, and it was especially fun shouting “Apper dapper apper do!”

Abigail had been in her room painting her fingernails, but the noise was too much for her. As she entered her parents’ bedroom she saw Jacob and Ernest jumping up and down in a basket, shouting “Apper dapper apper do!” All of a sudden the basket tipped over and the boys fell quiet. She rushed to see if they were all right, but all she could see were aprons and more aprons spilling out of the basket. Her brothers must be buried deeper inside. She started to crawl into the basket, calling, “Jacob, Ernest!” She could hear her brothers, calling to her from a great distance, saying “Apper dapper apper do!” Suddenly, she felt as if she were falling, and then she tumbled out of the bottom of the basket directly onto Jacob. Jacob let out a bloodcurdling scream and distracted all three of them momentarily from the fact that they were no longer in their parents’ bedroom.

They were in a field of soft, wild grass on a prairie. They knew it had to be a prairie because the sky was so big. It looked a lot like Kansas from The Wizard of Oz, except for the fact it was in colour, not in black and white.

“We’re not in Toronto anymore, Jacob,” Ernest said.

“Oh my . . .” Abigail didn’t know what to say.

“Now, I don’t think we should be frightened. We’ve read a lot of books about things like this happening and most of these stories come out pretty well,” said Jacob, more trying to convince himself than the others.

“I’ve read more books than you have, Jacob.” Abigail now knew what to say. “I think I should be in charge.”

“You’re always in charge.” Jacob took a deep breath and was about to remind Abigail about the last pirate game that had ended so poorly when Ernest yelled.

“Look.”

The children both turned abruptly. Ernest pointed at an old farmhouse with a wraparound porch which sat not thirty feet from where the children had landed. As soon as they saw the farmhouse, they knew it was from another time. They were silent.

A boy of about twelve came out the front door and stood on the porch step. He was wearing a white Stetson hat and looked to be chewing a toothpick. After a minute or so, another younger boy came out. He seemed about eight years old, and he too was wearing a Stetson hat.

“Shore is still,” said the younger boy.

“Yup,” said the other one.

Abigail and Jacob recognized the accent. They were in Texas.

“Nothin’ to see or hear for miles,” commented the younger one.

“Nope,” said the other one.

The boys were looking directly at our children, who were, in turn, looking at one another.

“We’re invisible,” announced Ernest.

“Invisible?” said Jacob, slightly choking on the word. “Is that all right?”

“I don’t think we have much choice in the matter,” Abigail pointed out. “Shh!”

“If they can’t see us, they probably can’t hear us either,” said Ernest.

“No, I want to hear what they’re saying,” said Abigail.

“We’ll bring ’em over to the southeast pasture. I think they’re safer from coyotes there,” the older boy was saying.

“Coyotes?” gasped Jacob, choking and blanching.

“I know what to do with coyotes,” said Ernest.

“No, you don’t!” cried Jacob.

“Aline!” called one of the boys on the porch.

“SHH!” hissed Abigail.

“He doesn’t know a thing about coyotes,” said Jacob.

“Stop it!” ordered Abigail.

“Aline!” called the other boy.

“Just a minute,” came a girl’s voice from inside the house.

“Mema was Aline,” recalled Abigail. “That was her name.”

“Mema?” asked Ernest.

“Grandpa’s mother,” said Abigail. “She died before you were born, Ernest.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Jacob.

“What is it, Garland?” A girl stepped out the front door. She seemed to be between the two boys in age, but the most startling aspect of her appearance was her apron. She was wearing Ernest’s superhero apron and Ernest wasn’t. The girl gazed out over the prairie, directly at our children.

Our children stared back at her.

“She isn’t old,” said Ernest.

“We’re in the past, Ernest,” said Abigail.

“We’re time travelling. We’re really time travelling!” said Ernest, realizing it for the first time.

“Everything E. Nesbit wrote was true,” said Jacob.

“Maybe not everything, Jacob,” said Abigail with a slightly superior tone in her voice. Those who knew her would tell you Abigail was a little uneasy with what was going on.

“Ohmygosh, the apple sauce is running over.” Aline hurried back into the house.

“Raymond, you go saddle up. Aline, we’ll be back by supper,” said the older boy.

“Garland . . .” Aline’s voice called from inside.

“Afternoon, sister,” said Garland, walking away from the house. “The men have work to do. Father’ll have our hides if any more of the herd goes missing.” He disappeared into the barn with his brother.

“Let’s go with the cowboys, Jacob,” suggested Ernest.

“How are we going to do that? We can’t run behind the horses, and we can’t get on the horses without them knowing it. And we’re invisible,” said Jacob.

“We’ll figure it out. Come on.” Ernest grabbed his brother’s hand to pull him toward the barn.

“Oh, no!” The children heard a wail from inside the house.

“What’s wrong with Mema?” said Abigail.

“I want to fight coyotes. Hurry up, you guys!” cried Ernest.

“They’re not going to fight the coyotes, Ernest. They’re going to move the cattle,” said Jacob.

“Right. Well, let’s do that then,” proposed Ernest, tugging at Jacob persistently.

Jacob shook himself free. “I don’t know about you, but this being invisible makes me a little nervous. Not to mention going into the past. We don’t know what’s happened or how it works or anything.”

“I’m going with the cowboys,” announced Ernest.

“You’re wearing your pyjamas,” said Abigail.

“I’m invisible,” said Ernest.

“Maybe not for long. Who knows?” said Jacob.

“What’s the point of time travelling if we can’t do something fun?” asked Ernest. “They’re going to ride away.”

Garland and Raymond had led their horses out of the barn, ready to mount and ride off.

Ernest started after them. Abigail grabbed him.

“I want danger and excitement,” Ernest declared, trying to pull away from his sister. “I want to see some cows!”

“Stop!” cried Abigail, holding fast to her brother. “We’ve never even been to the corner store to buy candy without a grown-up. And here we are in the middle of Texas a long time in the past—we don’t know how long ago—and you want to go fight coyotes and they’re not going to fight coyotes and I don’t hardly know who those people are and the answer is NO!”

“Grrr,” growled Ernest with his fiercest animal growl.

“At least we know Mema,” said Abigail, in an effort to calm down.

“Here they come,” announced Jacob as Raymond and Garland rode right at them.

Neither the horses nor the cowboys saw the children standing in front of them. Abigail, Jacob and Ernest jumped aside.

“I sure wish sister would learn to cook,” Raymond was saying.

“Yup,” agreed Garland.

Just as Garland’s horse passed by, Ernest lunged for a stirrup, but Abigail held him back. The cowboys rode off in silence.

“Grrr,” repeated Ernest.

“Stop it,” said Abigail.

“The most exciting event in my life turns out to be the most boring. I want to go with the cowboys,” Ernest insisted.

“Maybe we can have a different kind of adventure,” suggested Abigail, without being sure.

“A sissy adventure,” sighed Ernest.

“I can’t believe that the first time we leave the house without Mommy and Daddy, we leave in our pyjamas,” moaned Abigail.

“At least nobody can see us,” said Jacob, realizing the advantage of invisibility.

“Shhh!” shushed Abigail. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” said Jacob. “It’s quieter even than Muskoka.”

“Imagine, coming on an adventure and discovering quiet,” said Ernest, unhappily. But Ernest began to concentrate upon the silence: he couldn’t help it.

The Toronto children had never heard quiet that deep or long, from horizon to horizon. It felt uncomfortable at first, to be in the midst of all that silence, and then it started to feel marvellous and free, like swimming in a lake when the water is no longer cold. Abigail, Jacob and Ernest just had to lie down in the wispy prairie grass and watch the clouds, flat-bottomed and puffy on the top, languidly float by. They didn’t think about the clouds or the stillness or where they were; they didn’t think at all. It was divine.

And then, on the wind, as if it was an act of the imagination, a note was heard, followed by another and another and another, until it was clear that there was music somewhere, somewhere in the distance.

The children lay in the grass and listened. The tunes were unfamiliar, and the haunting, airy sound was unlike any sound they’d ever heard before.

They heard the screen door gently close, followed by the briefest sound of footsteps, then nothing but the music.

When Ernest sat up, he saw the girl, Aline, his great-grandmother, walk across the grassy field and stop. She stood still to listen to the music on the breeze.

Silently, all three rose and started walking toward Aline. She held her head tilted up against the breeze, her eyes closed to let the air and the music wash over her. When she opened her eyes, Abigail felt she could see a deep longing in Aline’s face, a yearning for sounds beyond the horizon. Then the moment ended.

Aline turned her head and caught sight of figures approaching her. She let out a cry.

Abigail, Jacob and Ernest stopped moving and let out cries (or rather gasps) of their own; they hadn’t expected to be seen.

Abigail was closest to Aline, and the girls couldn’t help but stare at one another. They were about the same age and the same height, with the same clear and lively eyes, though Aline’s were velvet brown.

“Mother’s gonna kill me for comin’ out without a bonnet,” said Aline, starting to fidget with her apron. The apron was a gooey mess of applesauce and what looked like soapsuds.

“Who are you?” she asked.

No one knew what to say. There was a silence. Finally Abigail spoke: “My brothers and I are travelling.”

“Y’all are not from around here?” asked Aline, noticing the difference in accent right away.

“No,” said Jacob.

“Golly, for a second I thought y’all were escaped convicts in those uniforms,” said Aline, in a most kindhearted way.

“Our blue cozies,” said Ernest, referring to the blue flannel pyjamas their mother had made them last Christmas.

“We left this morning in a hurry,” explained Jacob.

“Goodness,” said Aline.

“It’s so embarrassing,” said Abigail.

“Don’t you worry ’bout your gear. I sure don’t mind. I’m Aline.”

“I’m Ernest, and this is Jacob and Abigail,” said Ernest.

There was another silence, disturbed only by the barely audible music. The four children listened for a moment.

“What kind of music is that?” asked Jacob.

“Isn’t it beautiful? It’s from a Victrola over at the Currie place, ’bout a mile from here,” said Aline.

“A Victrola?” said Ernest, who didn’t recognize the word.

“You wind it up and it plays music, but music somebody else played in the past. The music isn’t alive. I’m not very good at explaining.”

“The music is recorded,” said Jacob.

“That’s right. Some people call it a phonograph. It’s brand new. I heard it first last week when my brothers and I went over. Now they play it almost every day. I love it,” said Aline.

“Maybe you could ask your parents to buy you one,” suggested Ernest.

“No, we need our money for other things. Mother an’ Father have gone to see a man about some cattle feed,” said Aline.

“And they left you here alone?” asked Abigail, unable to hide her shock.

“They’ll only be gone a couple days. Golly, Mother’ll kill me if I freckle up. I’ve got to go inside,” announced Aline.

“Freckle up?” asked Jacob.

“You know, ruin my complexion. I’ll never find a husband then.”

Abigail remembered that her mother told her Mema (Aline) had married at sixteen. The couple had eloped to the next county and married secretly. Aline didn’t tell her parents about the wedding until a few days later.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a husband,” said Abigail, feeling a little strange that a girl her own age would even be thinking about such things. But Aline was her great-grandmother, and it was a different time.

“I worry about it,” said Aline as she started towards the house.

Ernest slipped his hand into hers. Jacob would have taken her other hand, but the mess of applesauce and soapsuds on her apron looked really sickening.

“Y’all hungry?” asked Aline.

Jacob was definitely not, but Ernest answered, “We’re always hungry!”

“Well, I can look after y’all,” said Aline. “Not to insult you in the least, but y’all look as if you could do with a little lookin’ after.”

Abigail, Jacob and Ernest accepted the “lookin’ after” as entirely normal. After all, she was their great-grandmother, even if she was only ten years old.

The four children entered the house. It was small and sparsely furnished. The kitchen ran from front to back along one side. On the other side were three curtained doors, leading to what must be three tiny bedrooms. At the front end of the kitchen were a rocker and a couple of more or less comfortable chairs. Hanging from the ceiling was a large wooden frame with a half-finished patchwork quilt. At the back end of the kitchen were a table and five straight-backed chairs, a kerosene stove, a water pump and a rough-looking china cabinet full of dishes.

What caught the children’s attention most, however, were the dirty dishes and bits of old food cluttered beside the water pump and a broom and unemptied dustbin in the middle of the floor. The stove looked like a volcano had just erupted, with a saucepan burnt black and applesauce dripping down the sides of the stove like lava. A bowl with soapy water sat on the floor beside the stove.

“Goodness,” said Aline, “it is a mess.”

“This is what you were yelling about when your brothers were leaving,” said Abigail.

“They have their jobs and I have mine,” sighed Aline.

“We all should have gone with them,” said Ernest.

“Ernest!” said Abigail as she slapped her brother on the shoulder for being so insensitive.

“I don’t want to go with them,” said Aline. “I don’t care one bit about horses and cattle, except as how we make our living. I don’t want to be a boy, but I’m not very good at being a girl.”

“What do you mean ‘being a girl’?” asked Jacob.

“Cooking and cleaning and remembering your bonnet, I don’t do any of those things well,” explained Aline, picking up the broom and dustbin.

“Abigail is a girl, and she doesn’t do any of those things,” said Ernest.

“You don’t either,” said Abigail. “I mean, we’re children. Our parents would never leave us to look after ourselves.”

“Well, on our farm everybody has to help in the ways that they’re supposed to. I’m the only girl. I’ve got to do the girl work.” Aline sighed again.

“In our house we don’t have boy work or girl work,” said Jacob, collecting the dirty dishes. Both Ernest and Abigail joined in with the tidy-up.

“You’re lucky,” said Aline, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs. She seemed to drift off a little. Her three great-grandchildren busied themselves cleaning the kitchen.

As Ernest scraped plates and started washing dishes (he’d never washed a dish in his life), he imagined the cowboys and horses and cattle, and he started feeling let down. This adventure was deeply disappointing.

Abigail felt confused by the situation. It was stupid that girls had to do certain things just because they were girls, but then Aline wasn’t doing anything, and they were doing all her work. She wasn’t looking after them at all. Abigail did not like the direction this adventure was taking either.

As for Jacob, he couldn’t really think of anything but controlling his urge to throw up. He was scraping that gross mess of applesauce off the stove. He didn’t really know why he was doing it, but he was doing it, and in order to control his heaving stomach, he had to make his mind go blank.

Our children worked until the clean-up was nearly finished and Aline sat at the table with the longing expression Abigail had noticed outside, as if she were yearning for the distance. Then suddenly, she announced: “It’s called ‘Little Star’.”

Startled, Abigail, Jacob and Ernest turned from their tasks.

“My poem,” explained Aline, “the one I just came up with.” She began to recite.

A baby star was shining Along the Milky Way. She said I’m tired of twinkling. I wish it would be day.

Her Mama gently tucked her in. She knew it would be best. For little baby stars do need a lot of time to rest.

“Did you just make that up?” asked Jacob.

“Yes, I must have been thinking about y’all in your pyjamas,” explained Aline.

“It didn’t look like you were doing anything. We were doing all the work,” said Ernest.

“We were doing the work that you can see. There are other kinds of work,” Abigail realized all of a sudden.

“I’ve never told anybody one of my poems before, but I want y’all to know them,” said Aline, tenderly.

“Abigail makes up poems,” announced Ernest.

“Ernest!”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Abigail. I’m not,” said Aline. “I’d like to hear one of your poems.”

“Oh, all right,” agreed Abigail. Everyone sat down at the table, and Abigail recited her poem.

A Card Game in the Dark

My family Sits around a barrel Cut in half Upside down Cards thrown all over My brother makes me pick up two With a silly grin on his face My four-year-old brother Beats us again! Nobody else Ever wins.

Night closes in around us The porch light Is burning out The dog whining In the background My brother In a T-shirt and underwear Oh my gosh! He’s won again!

“The poem is a true story,” said Ernest. “About me.”

“I might have guessed that,” said Aline. “I like it. It has a real feeling.”

“Thanks. I have others,” said Abigail.

“So do I,” said Aline.

And so the children sat at the table through the afternoon, exchanging poems and talking. Aline brought out some soda crackers and butter and sugar and the children made themselves a snack. The afternoon passed quickly, though at one point Ernest imagined himself riding with real cowboys, herding cattle instead of sitting at a kitchen table. This adventure confused him: he liked it well enough, but it wasn’t what he really wanted. He wanted motion and excitement.

All of a sudden, a voice came from outside the house. “Sister, you got two boys out here hungry as jackrabbits. We’ll get the horses fed and watered and be in for supper.”

“Oh, no!” cried Aline, “I haven’t done anything.”

“We should go,” said Abigail, who suddenly remembered her parents back in Toronto.

“Won’t y’all stay and visit with my brothers?” said Aline, bustling about to set the table.

“No, thank you,” said Abigail.

“We can be your secret friends,” suggested Ernest.

“Well, y’all are the only ones who know my poems,” said Aline. “I guess that does make us secret friends. Y’all sure about your way back home?”

“I think so,” said Jacob. “Right, Ernest?”

“I can’t remember everything the monkey told me, but . . .”

“Ernest!” interrupted Jacob.

“If y’all get lost, you come right back here. I don’t want you wandering around at night with coyotes on the loose,” warned Aline.

“I forgot about the coyotes,” said Ernest, excitedly.

Abigail, Jacob and Ernest stepped out the front door just as Garland and Raymond were coming out of the barn. As before, our children were invisible to Aline’s brothers.

“They’ll never love us the way Mema does,” said Ernest.

“Is that why Aline sees us and they don’t?” asked Jacob.

Ernest shrugged.

“OK, Ernest, what do we do now?” asked Abigail. “You got us here. Get us home.”

“It’s easy. We just jump up and down and shout ‘Apper dapper apper do’!” said Ernest.

So the three children tramped out into the field, close to where they’d arrived, and they yelled and they jumped and they yelled and they jumped and they yelled “Apper dapper apper do!” ever more loudly, but nothing happened.

“Oh no!” moaned Jacob. The pleasures of the afternoon evaporated. The silence and the music and the poems lost their charms. The calm they’d felt turned into panic.

“We’re trapped here. We’ll never see Mommy and Daddy again,” wailed Abigail.

“We’ll have to start eating meat because we’re in Texas,” said Jacob. (Our children were vegetarians.)

“Huh?” said Ernest.

“We’re more likely to be eaten by the coyotes,” said Abigail.

“What are we going to do?” asked Jacob.

“I can’t remember,” said Ernest miserably.

“Ernest!” said Abigail, her teeth locked shut.

“Something must be different,” said Ernest.

“The apron. You’re not wearing the apron,” said Jacob, recovering himself.

“She’s wearing it!” grimaced Abigail in despair.

“If we go back in there, she’ll see us and they won’t, and they’ll think she’s crazy, and that won’t be nice at all,” figured Jacob.

“She believes in us, they don’t,” said Ernest.

“Let’s go around back and see if we can get her attention,” said Abigail.

“I don’t want to get her into any trouble,” said Jacob. “Especially since she doesn’t have her brothers’ dinner ready.”

Abigail gave Jacob a very cold look.

As they walked around the house, our children could hear Raymond and Garland talking to Aline.

“Let’s just eat the cold chicken,” said one boy.

“I’ll sure be glad when Mother’s back,” said the other.

A big splash was heard and then Aline’s voice: “Not again!”

Just as the children reached the back, Aline rushed out the back door, untying her soaking apron. She wrung it out and pegged it on a clothesline to dry. She was preoccupied and didn’t see her visitors.

When the door slammed behind Aline, Abigail took the apron off the line and tied it, still wet and gooey, around Ernest’s neck. Jacob tried not to look at the apron.

The children hurried away from the house. Just before they started to jump up and down again, Abigail asked her brothers, “Do you think they’ve noticed that we’re gone?”

“Who?” asked Ernest.

“Our parents!” said Abigail and Jacob.

As it happened, the parents did notice the quiet of the house and figured their children were deep in a game. Like most parents, these two loved nothing more than knowing their children were, if briefly, content with one another in companionable imaginary lands. Chaos was held at bay.

“I’d better start the laundry,” the father finally announced. He started up the stairs as the mother tidied up the breakfast dishes.