had had nothing to worry about. His Northside sojourn proved he was the richest of cream. Within two months of his arrival, he was the Morrison that everyone knew. He dated the prettiest girls, captained the rugby and tennis teams, pulled off a ninety average, was named valedictorian. Given his looks and talents, how could he not excel? He won over everyone he met — boys, girls, teachers, parents. Only I had been immune. And maybe Goatee.
The next day, I visited another puzzle book destination: the old two-room schoolhouse on Stewart Street, a building long since made into a residence, and expanded both up and back. The front of the structure held its original square shape, a pair of solid entrance doors and a set of wide wooden steps. The owners had even installed a brass school bell (fixed in place) in the small open-sided bell enclosure that rose above the center peak of the roof. I sketched and photographed the building, and imagined Molly’s text for her illustration asking her readers to guess at the building’s original function. The answer page could show the school in its prime, the small yard filled with children in antique clothes turning hoops, or playing ball with thin bats and undersized baseball gloves.
Another day, I checked out a restaurant called The Stables, located on the outskirts of Rose Park. The building, once an early Rose Park landowner’s lavish stables, now filled its mahoganytrimmed, tiled horse stalls with diners sitting on built-in banquettes. Bridles and saddles and English prints of hunting scenes featured in the decor, roast beef (not fox, horse, or hound) was the specialty of the house, and the waitresses wore riding habits, including jodhpurs and boots. The restaurant had a loyal, if old-school, clientele — my parents were known to have eaten there — but to me, at first, from the outside, it seemed too obvious a site for inclusion in the puzzle book, too lacking in anything hidden. Until I noticed an adjacent gas station called Smithy’s, the small back building of which was constructed of old-looking brick. Or was it just dirty brick? Closer examination revealed the brick to be both old and dirty, and the matching old and dirty man who worked there confirmed my suspicion that the Smithy moniker came, not from any past or present proprietor’s surname, but from the site’s original function as a blacksmith’s workshop. “There’s not many around here knows that anymore,” he said. I thanked him for sharing his knowledge, and rode home feeling quite the clever child.
On the afternoon my parents were expected back from England, I walked Tup, took him into the big house, left a welcome note on the hall table, and went solo to a four o’clock movie, an English period piece awash in gorgeous scenery, elegant houses, Empire-waisted dresses, and articulate, witty characters speaking in plummy accents. Afterwards, I stopped in at the Market to buy some watercress, white bread, and butter for my dinner, and ran into my mother standing in front of the prepared food counter. Her appearance gave no hint of recent airplane disembarkation — every hair was in place, her lipstick refreshed, her clothes unwrinkled.
I said, in a bad English accent, “What would Madam fancy for dinner this evening?”
She turned. “Blithe! How are you? How was Tup? You look pale. And you sound funny. Are you all right?”
“Tup and I are fine. How was London?”
“Marvellous. We had a wonderful time.”
“Good. What are you buying?”
She pointed to the contents of her cart — a bag of prewashed lettuce and some mineral water — and patted her belly. “Just salad tonight for me after all those restaurant meals, but I think I’ll take some chicken curry for your father. You know how he likes a nice curry.” To the counter man, she said, “One serving of curry, please.”
The man packed and weighed her order. I tried to think of an exit line that wouldn’t sound abrupt, and she said, “Noel sends his love.”
Doubtful. “How is he?”
“He took me to a lovely restaurant and gave me a superb lunch, and afterwards we went gallery-hopping — it was the perfect afternoon.”
Of course it was.
“How was your week?” Mom said. “Have you gone out and met people?”
I went for a bicycle ride after dinner and deviated from my usual route around the neighbourhood to run along Hillside Road, the street where the Hennessy family had lived when I was young. The small house I remembered looked the same — neat and well-kept — as it had when I’d walked by it every day on my way to elementary school. Whether any Hennessys still lived there, or how many, I couldn’t tell, nor was I very curious to know. I rode around a few more blocks, made my way home, and coasted into the driveway behind Dad and Tup, who appeared to be headed for the coach house. Dad turned when I called him, and held up a covered plate. “I’ve brought you some leftover food,” he said.
I jumped off the bike and wheeled it up the driveway next to him. “Thanks. Good trip?”
“Busy. A little tiring. But productive.”
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