Kia ora koutou,
Late autumn in 2022 and I see another autumn, a long room, varnished wooden walls, a table, some chairs, what used to be called a Colonial couch down one end. There’s a woman sitting on the couch reading and across from her, sitting on a wooden chair, her feet on a brick in the open oven, sits a girl, aged around nine, reading.
Her mother must have blacked the stove today. The smell of the blacking stuff lingers but its not bad because her mother opens all the windows wide when she cleans the stove. The blacking smell mixes with the smell of wood and coal burning in the grate. When her mother cleans the stove she wears an old shirt on over her clothes and scrunches all her hair into an old cap. She wears old gloves and she uses pieces of old towels to put the blacking on and a pair of old woollen socks on her hands to polish it.
Emily of New Moon by LM Montgomery is the first ‘long’ book the girl has ever read. Up till now she has only read short stories. She had not realised that long stories existed. The teacher says, when asked, that long stories are for older children but then she says, ‘Just this once.’
There’s about a quarter of the book still to go. She reads quickly, she always reads quickly, her mother reads quickly too. It took the girl a while to realise that some people read slowly and there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, she thinks, there’s a lot to be said for reading slowly because when you read slowly the book lasts longer. She can’t do it for long though. Her eyes and her brain want the story, want to know what happens – does Emily live happily ever after?
‘Another five minutes,’ her mother’s voice from behind her. ‘You’ve got school tomorrow.’
The girl reads on. If she keeps very quiet her mother might forget she’s there. Her mother gets caught up in books and forgets the time. Only at night though. She never forgets during the day. Her mother doesn’t have a watch but there’s a clock on the mantelpiece over the stove although her mother knows without looking when the girl should be home from school, she knows when to get up from the couch and start cooking their tea.
Her mother had looked at Emily of New Moon, read the first few paragraphs, said as she passed it back, ‘You like it?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl.
‘Why?’
‘Its long.’
‘Long. And?’
‘And its about a girl.’
‘A girl?’
‘Called Emily. And New Moon’s a farm somewhere called Prince Edward Island and the father dies.’
‘That’s right,’ said her mother, ‘and there’s an Aunt Elizabeth and an Aunt Laura.’
‘You’ve read it?’
Her mother nodded.
‘Did you like it?’
‘I did then,’ her mother said.
The girl settles back to the book and her mother goes back to hers. The room is quiet except for the occasional spark and hiss from the stove. The girl snuggles her feet on the warm brick in the oven.
‘Five more minutes,’ her mother says.
Renée
