shadow on the wall. I haven’t really convinced myself it was ivy.
Can moonlight make a bunch of leaves turn into the shape of a girl holding a flower?
And that weird mixed-up dream I had last night, I wish I could remember more.
Why do dreams always disappear the minute you wake up?
It’s no good discussing it with Gran–she’d fuss and think I was scared or homesick, and move me downstairs. I love my Secret Garden room, but there is something mysterious going on. Suppose, long ago, someone was unhappy or in trouble. Miss Macready might know if there was a secret. Kids always find things out.
Gran says, “Miss Elisabeth Macready must be at least ninety-six years old. She was a small child when herparents moved here in 1909. That’s certainly the era of
The Secret Garden.
Why don’t I give the Bide Awhile Nursing Home a call, and check about visiting hours?”
“Bide Awhile? What a creepy name for a seniors’ home. That’s like saying, ‘You won’t be here for long.’ What our principal would refer to as ‘sending the wrong message.’”
“I don’t think that was the intention! I’ll get cleaned up and make that call.”
Grandfather and I go for a walk down to the harbor after lunch. Gran stays behind to carry on with the sampler she’s stitching for the library:
Home Sweet Home
, the exact opposite of how I feel about mine right now.
We buy vanilla and chocolate ice-cream cones and eat them sitting on the boardwalk. I have to shoo away the gluttonous seagulls circling over our heads.
“I dreamt about the girl on the ship last night, the one in your father’s story. Did they ever meet again? I hope so. Tell me everything that happened after they got to Canada.”
“Dad told me more than I ever expected to hear him say that day, but there were some things he kept to himself. From what I’ve read about the Home children, they got on with their lives and didn’t talk much about the past. They weren’t all orphans–some were sent awaywithout their parents’ consent; some had parents who were destitute, or who didn’t want them; some were runaways living on the streets of cities like Liverpool and Manchester and London, who were picked up by the authorities and sent overseas. Many children were overworked and underfed. I’m sure some wished they’d stayed in England.
“Dad said that when they finally set foot on Canadian soil, not very far from where we’re sitting now, Katie, they passed through the immigration sheds. A few of the boys were met by farmers and driven off clinging to the sides of carts or buggies, heading into the unknown, while the rest climbed on board the train bound for Toronto and to points west. The girls were on the same train, but traveled in separate carriages. My father said:
“‘I hoped I might catch a glimpse of the girl I’d talked to on the ship. I turned and waved, in case she was looking out of the train window. I wished I’d asked her name, and told her mine. The boy behind elbowed me to hurry up the steps. “Who are you waving at, you daft fool?” he jeered. I put my foot out to trip him.
“‘ “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said.
“‘When we finally arrived in Toronto, we were taken to the Barnardo Home for Boys onFarley Avenue. The minute we were through the doors, they checked us again for lice and disease.
“‘The one disease we all shared was fear. We’d come such a long way, and now we waited for one more destination, waited for what they’d promised us: a family to take us in. Was it going to come true? We’d already heard rumors of boys running away because they’d been badly treated. That night, lying awake in the dormitory, I could hear the sound of muffled weeping.
“‘Next morning Mr. Owen, the superintendent, told me I was going to a farm in Lindsay. He wrote down the address:
Jack Mitchell, Angeline, Lindsay, Ontario.
I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name! I was given a lunch and sent on my
Can moonlight make a bunch of leaves turn into the shape of a girl holding a flower?
And that weird mixed-up dream I had last night, I wish I could remember more.
Why do dreams always disappear the minute you wake up?
It’s no good discussing it with Gran–she’d fuss and think I was scared or homesick, and move me downstairs. I love my Secret Garden room, but there is something mysterious going on. Suppose, long ago, someone was unhappy or in trouble. Miss Macready might know if there was a secret. Kids always find things out.
Gran says, “Miss Elisabeth Macready must be at least ninety-six years old. She was a small child when herparents moved here in 1909. That’s certainly the era of
The Secret Garden.
Why don’t I give the Bide Awhile Nursing Home a call, and check about visiting hours?”
“Bide Awhile? What a creepy name for a seniors’ home. That’s like saying, ‘You won’t be here for long.’ What our principal would refer to as ‘sending the wrong message.’”
“I don’t think that was the intention! I’ll get cleaned up and make that call.”
Grandfather and I go for a walk down to the harbor after lunch. Gran stays behind to carry on with the sampler she’s stitching for the library:
Home Sweet Home
, the exact opposite of how I feel about mine right now.
We buy vanilla and chocolate ice-cream cones and eat them sitting on the boardwalk. I have to shoo away the gluttonous seagulls circling over our heads.
“I dreamt about the girl on the ship last night, the one in your father’s story. Did they ever meet again? I hope so. Tell me everything that happened after they got to Canada.”
“Dad told me more than I ever expected to hear him say that day, but there were some things he kept to himself. From what I’ve read about the Home children, they got on with their lives and didn’t talk much about the past. They weren’t all orphans–some were sent awaywithout their parents’ consent; some had parents who were destitute, or who didn’t want them; some were runaways living on the streets of cities like Liverpool and Manchester and London, who were picked up by the authorities and sent overseas. Many children were overworked and underfed. I’m sure some wished they’d stayed in England.
“Dad said that when they finally set foot on Canadian soil, not very far from where we’re sitting now, Katie, they passed through the immigration sheds. A few of the boys were met by farmers and driven off clinging to the sides of carts or buggies, heading into the unknown, while the rest climbed on board the train bound for Toronto and to points west. The girls were on the same train, but traveled in separate carriages. My father said:
“‘I hoped I might catch a glimpse of the girl I’d talked to on the ship. I turned and waved, in case she was looking out of the train window. I wished I’d asked her name, and told her mine. The boy behind elbowed me to hurry up the steps. “Who are you waving at, you daft fool?” he jeered. I put my foot out to trip him.
“‘ “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said.
“‘When we finally arrived in Toronto, we were taken to the Barnardo Home for Boys onFarley Avenue. The minute we were through the doors, they checked us again for lice and disease.
“‘The one disease we all shared was fear. We’d come such a long way, and now we waited for one more destination, waited for what they’d promised us: a family to take us in. Was it going to come true? We’d already heard rumors of boys running away because they’d been badly treated. That night, lying awake in the dormitory, I could hear the sound of muffled weeping.
“‘Next morning Mr. Owen, the superintendent, told me I was going to a farm in Lindsay. He wrote down the address:
Jack Mitchell, Angeline, Lindsay, Ontario.
I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name! I was given a lunch and sent on my
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