Jane of Lantern Hill (1937)

Chapter 20

"Let's entertain, my Jane. A very old friend of mine, Dr Arnett, is in Charlottetown. I'd like to invite him out for supper and a night. Can we manage it?"

"Of course. But we must get a bed for the guestroom. We've got the chest of drawers and the looking-glass and the wash-stand, but no bed. You know we heard Little Donalds had a bed to sell."

"I'll see to all that. But about the supper, Jane? Shall we be extravagant? Shall we buy a chicken . . . two chickens . . . from Mrs Jimmy John? If we do, can you cook them?"

"Of course. Oh, let me plan it, dad! We'll have cold chicken and potato salad. I know exactly how Mary made potato salad . . . I've often helped her peel the potatoes . . . and hot biscuits . . . you must get me a can of Flewell's Baking Powder at the Corners, dad . . . Flewell's, mind . . . it's the only one you can rely on" . . . already Jane was an authority on baking powders . . . "and wild strawberries and cream. Min and I found a bed of wild strawberries down the hill yesterday. We ate a lot but we left plenty."  

Unluckily Aunt Irene came the very afternoon they were expecting Dr Arnett. She passed them in her car as Jane and her father were carrying an iron bedstead up the lane. Dad had bought it from Little Donald and Little Donald had left it at the end of the lane because he was in too much of a hurry to bring it all the way. It was a windy day, and Jane had her head tied up in an old shawl of Aunt Matilda Jollie's because she had had a slight toothache the night before. Aunt Irene looked quite horrified but kissed them both as they came into the yard.  

"So you've bought old Tillie Jollie's house, 'Drew? What a funny little place! Well, I think you might have spoken to me about it first."

"Jane wanted it kept a secret . . . Jane loves secrets," dad explained lightly.

"Oh, Jane's secretive enough," said Aunt Irene, shaking a finger tenderly at Jane. "I hope it's only 'secretive' . . . but I do think you're a little inclined to be sly."

Aunt Irene was smiling, but there was an edge to her voice. Jane thought she would almost prefer grandmother's venom. You didn't have to look as if you liked that.

"If I had known I would have advised against it strongly, Andrew. I hear you paid four hundred for it. Jimmy John simply cheated you. Four hundred for a little old shack like this! Three would have been enough."

"But the view, Irene . . . the view. The extra hundred was for the view."

"You're so impractical, Andrew," shaking a laughing finger at him in his turn. At least, you felt the finger laughed. "Jane, you'll have to hold the purse-strings. If you don't, your father will be penniless by the fall."

"Oh, I think we'll be able to make both ends meet, Irene. If not, we'll pull them as close together as possible. Jane's a famous little manager. She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth not the bread of idleness."

"Oh, Jane!" Aunt Irene was kindly amused over Jane. "If you had to have a house, 'Drew, why didn't you get one near town? There's a lovely bungalow out at Keppock . . . you could have rented it for the summer. I could have been near you then to help . . . and advise. . . ."

"We like the north shore best. Jane and I are both owls of the desert and pelicans of the wilderness. But we both like onions so we hit it off together. Why, we've even hung the pictures without quarrelling. That's phenomenal, you know."  

"It isn't any joking matter, Andrew." Aunt Irene was almost plaintive. "How about your food supplies?"

"Jane digs clams," said dad solemnly.

"Clams! Do you expect to live on clams?"

"Why, Aunt Irene, the fishman calls every week and the butcher from the Corners comes twice a week," said Jane indignantly.

"Darrrling!" Aunt Irene became patronizing in an instant. She patronized everything . . . the guest-room and the ruffled curtains of yellow net Jane was so proud of . . . "a dear little closet," she called it sweetly. . . . She patronized the garden . . . "such a darling old-fashioned spot, isn't it, Jane?" . . . She patronized the boot-shelf. . . . "Really, Aunt Matilda Jollie had all the conveniences, hadn't she, lovey?"

The only thing she didn't patronize was the Apostle spoons. There was something acid in her sweetness when she spoke of them. 

"I always think mother intended I should have them, 'Drew."

"She gave them to Robin," said 'Drew quietly.

Jane felt a tingle go over her. This was the first time she had heard dad mention mother's name.  

"But when she left . . ."

"We won't discuss it, Irene, if you please."

"Of course not, dear one. I understand. Forgive me. And now, Jane lovey, I'll borrow an apron and help you get ready for Dr Arnett. Bless her little heart, trying to get ready for company all by herself."

Aunt Irene was amused at her . . . Aunt Irene was laughing at her. Jane was furious and helpless. Aunt Irene took smiling charge. The chickens were already cooked and the salad was already made but she insisted on making the biscuits and slicing the chickens and she would not hear of Jane going for wild strawberries.

"Luckily I brought a pie with me. I knew Andrew would like it. Men like something substantial, you know, lovey."

This maddened Jane. She vowed in her heart that she would learn pie-making in a week's time. Meanwhile she could only submit. When Dr Arnett came, Aunt Irene, a smiling and gracious hostess, made him welcome. Aunt Irene, still more smiling and gracious, sat at the head of the table and poured the tea and was charmed because Dr Arnett took a second helping of potato salad. Both men enjoyed the pie. Dad told Aunt Irene she was the best pie-maker in Canada.  

"Eating is not such bad fun after all," said dad, with a faint air of surprise, as if he had just discovered the fact, thanks to the pie. Bitterness overflowed the heart of Jane. At that moment she could cheerfully have torn everybody in pieces.

Aunt Irene helped Jane wash the dishes before she went away. Jane thanked her stars that she and Min had walked to Lantern Corners three days before and bought towels. What would Aunt Irene have said if she had had to wipe dishes with an undervest?

"I have to go now, lovey . . . I want to get home before dark. I do wish you were nearer me . . . but I'll come out as often as I can. I don't know what your mother would have done without me many a time, poor child. 'Drew and Dr Arnett are off to the shore. . . . I daresay they'll argue and shout at each other there most of the night. Andrew shouldn't leave you here alone like this. But men are like that . . . so thoughtless."  

And Jane adored being left alone. It was so lovely to have a chance to talk to yourself.

"I don't mind it, Aunt Irene. And I love Lantern Hill."

"You're easily pleased" . . . as if she were a dear little fool to be so easily pleased. Somehow Aunt Irene had the most extraordinary knack of making you feel that what you liked or thought or did was of small account. And how Jane did resent her airs of authority in dad's house! Had she acted that way when mother was with dad? If she had . . .

"I've brought you a cushion for your living-room, lovey. . . ."

"It's a kitchen," said Jane.

. . . "And I'll bring my old chintz chair the next time I come--for the spare-room."

Jane, remembering the "dear little closet," permitted herself one satisfaction.

"I think there'll hardly be room for it," she said.

She eyed the cushion malevolently when Aunt Irene had gone. It was so new and gorgeous it made everything look faded and countrified.  

"I think I'll stow it away on the boot-shelf," said Jane with a relish.