Finding the North Star

CHAPTER 4 SETTLING IN

"You can put your clothes in the chest of drawers," said Tóta placing a lantern on the chair next to the bed in the little upstairs room next to her own. "Leave a drawer for Mary. She's going to sleep downstairs for now on a cot in the kitchen."

When she was alone Becky sat on the bed and gave it an experimental bounce while Kip retreated under it claiming his usual place. She changed into her nightie and snuggled under the patchwork quilt. She would unpack tomorrow.

The next morning Becky pulled back the curtains, letting the sunlight in. The window looked out over the front yard where chickens scratched about in the dirt after worms or gobbled down the slugs hiding in the late flowering geraniums.

Tóta appeared on the porch and began throwing handfuls of corn to the hens.

Chickens would be an easy place to start doing chores and learning about a farm. Becky pulled on her clothes and went downstairs.

Mary was already up and sitting at the table, a full mug of cold looking tea in front of her. Her face blank and hard to read, she looked pale as if she hadn't slept a wink. When Tóta came back in from feeding the chickens she frowned and took the mug, dumping the contents into the slop bucket.

She refilled it and put it back in front of Mary. "Drink," she said sternly.

Mary blew on it and took a sip. "Well Becky, it seems we are not going to England . . . at least not till next spring at any rate."

"Why not?" Becky pulled back a chair and sat down. She could hardly contain herself and had to sit on her hands so she wouldn't appear too excited. She tried to sound cross, "Well?"

"I will tell you soon enough . . . I have to get used to it myself. For now, just say that I . . . we need to stay a while."

So she had been right last night – Tóta had most likely persuaded Mary into not going. Becky tucked into the plate of pancakes not concerned at all with reasons. She was simply happy they were to stay. Next spring felt like a lifetime away and a lot could happen between now and then.

That afternoon Tóta showed Becky how to look after the hens and collect the eggs. It wasn't long – only a few days – before she learned all the hiding places where the hens laid their eggs. And she soon could identify individual chickens – the ones who were grumpy and pecked like mad when their eggs were taken, and the more docile birds who fled rather than put up a fight.

Becky could have been more worried about Mary especially as the older girl seemed to withdraw from having any contact with everyone except for her grandmother, but Becky became so involved and busy with farm life that she forgot. Mary definitely wasn't ill, in fact she seemed to blossom and looked healthier than ever.

Besides, as Mary and her grandmother became more and more secretive, talking in their language while they sewed or baked together, Becky started spending time with Hamish.

One afternoon, not long after they arrived, Becky was making up a fire for Hamish in the parlour. He sat at his little writing desk tucked in the one corner where the light streamed in, watching her and giving advice in fire lighting.

"I am going to write to your aunt as she may not know about your father . . . that's it, make a little pyramid of kindling . . . And I want to tell her that you are well cared for and happy. You are happy aren't you Rebecca?"

Becky paused, a strip of kindling in her hand. "I am very happy," she beamed. She didn't want to raise the spectre of leaving the farm. The less it was talked about the quicker it would be forgotten . . . maybe forgotten altogether. "Er, nothing else?"

Hamish turned his attention to the letter, "I believe that's sufficient."

Becky sat back, watching the flames catch the kindling then curl around the carefully placed logs. So no mention of next year then.

She began to rise early, earlier than she ever had, waking with the first stirrings of the house – usually when Grandpa Hamish stepped on the loose, creaky floorboard outside her bedroom door; or when Tóta rattled dishes in the kitchen as she prepared hot water for washing and for tea.

All of her belongings had now been sorted. Apart from the Welsh Dresser – which after being shoved into the barn had indeed become a favourite roosting spot for the hens – the great big heap that sat so dauntingly in the yard on that first evening had been whittled down. Of the stuff she no longer needed, only two piles remained. One was things that might be worth something, the other was items that had little or no value and were to be given away.

Hamish took her out with the big farm horse and the cart loaded up with chairs, beds and mattresses. It only took one outing. He seemed to know what the various farmers round and about wanted; who needed a bed for a growing child, or was in need of some pots and pans.

Becky might suggest, when the proper time came, her mother's dresser could be cleaned up and put into the farm kitchen. Perhaps around Christmas. The old sideboard was always dressed up for the season with bundles of evergreen and berries . . . Tóta would love it.

October came in with frosty mornings and Becky had to wear woollen gloves when she went searching for eggs. But come afternoon when she had finished her chores and when the heat of the Indian summer turned the landscape to a burnished copper, she and Kip would take themselves off. Kip needed lots of breaks with the heat and there were several beaver ponds where they could sit and cool down. Overhead, Becky watched migrating ducks and geese form long straggly lines in the sky as they headed south. She had seen them arrive in the spring – years ago it seemed now – back when she had a father.

When she returned – ruddy cheeked and tired – for supper, she ate like she didn't know when her next meal would be.

"I will have to be taking out that dress soon," Tóta remarked one evening as they cleared the dishes, "or make you a new one. Yes, that's what I'll do. And some trousers as well." She screwed one eye shut, put her hands on her hips, and gave Becky a once over.

Becky held her arms wide as she was used to doing when getting measured for a new dress. "Don't you have a tape measure?"

"Nope, don't need one. This is enough."

A couple of days later, Tóta gave her a new dress and some red trousers made from a worn Hudson's Bay blanket. They fit perfectly.

Being busy helped Becky forget how much she missed her father. But with each new thing that she accomplished or learned, she realized how she longed to tell him about it. Although in her own way, she did.

She found it easiest to talk to him on her walks with Kip when no one was around.

"We polished the horse brasses today . . . me and Hamish . . . sitting outside in the sun. They looked so beautiful Dad when we finished. You should've seen them."

I have, and they were wonderful!

"I've been thinking . . . "

I know, you'd like to start school again.

"There's one in the village, not too far away."

You never liked school much before.

"Well, I want to try harder and do really well. Also, I'd like to make some new

friends."

Sounds like a good plan.

Becky began to run along the dirt track her arms held wide, "I'll ask Hamish tomorrow . . . we're going to work on the tack together."

Hamish was the one to ask. Although Tóta had done nothing unkind, she had not gone out of her way to get close to Becky either. With Hamish it was different.