the rest. Queen Elizabeth II, “our gracious Queen,” and her husband, Prince Philip. Their portraits greet you in the foyer of every Canadian school here and abroad. The Queen and Prince Philip, your old friends. Your godparents, in a way.
Hi, Your Majesty. Madeleine stares up at the Queen and thinks, this will be my last year in Brownies. This spring, I will fly up to Girl Guides. There is the congenial sense that the Queen has heard her and serenely agrees, “Why yes, Madeleine, it is high time you flew up to Guides.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mike has strolled away and hoisted himself onto a window ledge to get a better look. She joins him and he hops down and gives her a boost. She gazes in. “I wonder which one is my classroom.”
“This one is.”
“It is not, Mike.”
This classroom has the alphabet marching in block letters above the blackboard, and happy numbers skipping hand in hand. It is obviously the kindergarten classroom. The pile of pastel-coloured nap mats in the corner clinches it. Madeleine is going into grade four, you do not have naps on mats in grade four. Mike is going into grade seven.
“Due to my superior intelligence,” he says suavely.
“Due to it’s automatic when you’re turning twelve,” she says with withering sarcasm. Mike never withers.
“You have to pass first, stunned one.”
“Like wow, man,” she drawls, “you passed. How womantic, how positively gwoovy,” snapping her fingers and swaggering like a beatnik, “Hey Daddyo.”
Mike laughs. “Do Elvis.”
She swivels her hips, wrinkling her brow over the microphone, dropping her voice, dribbling it like a basketball, “‘We-hell it’s won foh the money, two foh the show….’”
“Do Barbie!” he yells, giggling furiously—it’s so easy to make her go crazy. Madeleine goes up on tiptoes, sticks out her chest, points her hands and totters about with a plastic face and mechanically blinking eyes. “Oh Ken, can you pick up my handkerchief for me, please?” she simpers. “I cannot bend my legs, I cannot bend my arms, eek! Oh Ken, save me. My hero!” Mike takes out an imaginary machine gun and Barbie dies in a hail of bullets.
Madeleine gets up. “Hey Mike, want me to do Sylvester? ‘Thufferin’ Thuckotash!’ Want me to do Elmer Fudd? ‘A hunting we wiw go, a hunting we wiw go—’”
But Mike takes off around the corner of the building. She follows. They run around the whole school three times, then they run to the teeter-totters and hang over the steel bar on their stomachs.
“Hop on,” says Mike, and they teeter-totter violently while Madeleine hangs on for dear life, not complaining about the bumps, laughing every time she wants to cry, “Ow!”
He abandons the teeter-totter. Madeleine crashes onto her tailbone, laughs and follows, convinced her bum is flashing visible cartoon pain behind her. He has climbed halfway up the mesh of the baseball backstop by the time she reaches it. “Come on men, follow me,” he cries, making explosion sounds, pulling a pin from a grenade with his teeth, “I need ammo!” and she tosses up a bandolier of bullets, “Thanks, corporal,” he calls through the hell of battle—normally Madeleine is just a private, she swells with pride.
“Sarge!” she yells, “look out!”
Mike turns to see a Japanese soldier clambering up after him. Madeleine takes aim and snipes. “Got him!” she yells and, as the Nazi tumbles to his death,
“Auf Wiedersehen!”
“He was a Jap,” says Mike, “not a Kraut.”
“Mike!” says Madeleine. “Don’t say Jap and Kraut, we’re not allowed.”
Mike’s head snaps to one side. “I’m hit!” His grip loosens and he half-tumbles down the mesh, bleeding, dying.
“Sarge! I’ll save you!” She slides down the backstop, fingers and toes skimming the metal links, and releases her hold an impressive eight feet from the ground, tuck and roll. “It doesn’t hurt,” she announces
Hi, Your Majesty. Madeleine stares up at the Queen and thinks, this will be my last year in Brownies. This spring, I will fly up to Girl Guides. There is the congenial sense that the Queen has heard her and serenely agrees, “Why yes, Madeleine, it is high time you flew up to Guides.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mike has strolled away and hoisted himself onto a window ledge to get a better look. She joins him and he hops down and gives her a boost. She gazes in. “I wonder which one is my classroom.”
“This one is.”
“It is not, Mike.”
This classroom has the alphabet marching in block letters above the blackboard, and happy numbers skipping hand in hand. It is obviously the kindergarten classroom. The pile of pastel-coloured nap mats in the corner clinches it. Madeleine is going into grade four, you do not have naps on mats in grade four. Mike is going into grade seven.
“Due to my superior intelligence,” he says suavely.
“Due to it’s automatic when you’re turning twelve,” she says with withering sarcasm. Mike never withers.
“You have to pass first, stunned one.”
“Like wow, man,” she drawls, “you passed. How womantic, how positively gwoovy,” snapping her fingers and swaggering like a beatnik, “Hey Daddyo.”
Mike laughs. “Do Elvis.”
She swivels her hips, wrinkling her brow over the microphone, dropping her voice, dribbling it like a basketball, “‘We-hell it’s won foh the money, two foh the show….’”
“Do Barbie!” he yells, giggling furiously—it’s so easy to make her go crazy. Madeleine goes up on tiptoes, sticks out her chest, points her hands and totters about with a plastic face and mechanically blinking eyes. “Oh Ken, can you pick up my handkerchief for me, please?” she simpers. “I cannot bend my legs, I cannot bend my arms, eek! Oh Ken, save me. My hero!” Mike takes out an imaginary machine gun and Barbie dies in a hail of bullets.
Madeleine gets up. “Hey Mike, want me to do Sylvester? ‘Thufferin’ Thuckotash!’ Want me to do Elmer Fudd? ‘A hunting we wiw go, a hunting we wiw go—’”
But Mike takes off around the corner of the building. She follows. They run around the whole school three times, then they run to the teeter-totters and hang over the steel bar on their stomachs.
“Hop on,” says Mike, and they teeter-totter violently while Madeleine hangs on for dear life, not complaining about the bumps, laughing every time she wants to cry, “Ow!”
He abandons the teeter-totter. Madeleine crashes onto her tailbone, laughs and follows, convinced her bum is flashing visible cartoon pain behind her. He has climbed halfway up the mesh of the baseball backstop by the time she reaches it. “Come on men, follow me,” he cries, making explosion sounds, pulling a pin from a grenade with his teeth, “I need ammo!” and she tosses up a bandolier of bullets, “Thanks, corporal,” he calls through the hell of battle—normally Madeleine is just a private, she swells with pride.
“Sarge!” she yells, “look out!”
Mike turns to see a Japanese soldier clambering up after him. Madeleine takes aim and snipes. “Got him!” she yells and, as the Nazi tumbles to his death,
“Auf Wiedersehen!”
“He was a Jap,” says Mike, “not a Kraut.”
“Mike!” says Madeleine. “Don’t say Jap and Kraut, we’re not allowed.”
Mike’s head snaps to one side. “I’m hit!” His grip loosens and he half-tumbles down the mesh, bleeding, dying.
“Sarge! I’ll save you!” She slides down the backstop, fingers and toes skimming the metal links, and releases her hold an impressive eight feet from the ground, tuck and roll. “It doesn’t hurt,” she announces
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