The May fundraiser was coming off on the third of the month at the King barn and the King family, minus Felicity and Felix, arrived promptly at the start of the fundraiser. Janet King, whose sympathies did not coincide with those of the war effort, and was, as such, much discussed in Avonlea parlours, was there as well. The term “conscientious objector” had not yet reached Avonlea ears, but it did indeed apply to Janet. She felt that her “duty” to the war effort had irrevocably ended when Felix had come home Christmas Eve. She did nothing to encourage the war and only attended the fundraisers in order to avoid a family squabble. With a pleasant, yet strained smile on her face, Janet sailed through the poisonous smiles of Clara Potts and the thinly veiled insinuations of Mabel Sloane and Eulalie Bugle.
It was well into the evening when Gourney MacDonald and Clara Potts stood atop the wooden stage together. There were khaki clad boys all over the barn and outside, asking for a dance and a kiss from each girl they encountered.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gourney MacDonald announced. “It is my great pleasure to announce that the village of Avonlea has raised a total of sixty-two dollars this evening.” Polite, pleased applause followed Gourney’s announcement.
Clara Potts, feeling herself very much out of the centre of everyone’s attention, took over where Gourney left off. “All of this money will directly benefit our efforts to keep our boys well-fed and give them the strength they so need to fight off those nasty Germans!” More, even louder applause followed Clara’s announcement and, much pleased with herself, she let Gourney continue.
“Your generosity to our boys speaks well of Avonlea, the Island, Canada and the Empire. However, though our sacrifice is great and our donation large, there will be a never-ending need for supplies and provisions as long as this war continues. What Mrs. Clara Potts and I propose may sound a wee bit shocking to you all, but please keep in mind that it’s all for our lads in Europe. We propose to hold an auction right here. Lads and lasses will bid on a kiss from the lad or lass of their choosing.”
A chorus of gasps sprung up from the direction of Hetty King, Rachel Lynde, Mabel Sloane and Eulalie Bugle, along with various gasps from several different corners of the room. “It’s sheer indecency, that’s what.”
“Godless auctioning,” deplored Eulalie Bugle.
“You can’t be serious, Gourney,” Bert Potts said.
“We most certainly are serious, Bert,” Clara Potts said. “Do we have any volunteers?”
Clara needn’t have asked. Almost immediately, the young people in Avonlea were raising their hands, volunteering their kisses for the war. All of the young people except Cecily King, who stood still in between her parents, taking turns looking at them, wanting them to help her decide what to do. Her mother stared straight in front of her, never looking at her daughter. Her father’s kind brown eyes held a look that let Cecily know that she must decide this for herself. She knew her mother disagreed with the war. But the rest of her family? How could she choose? Before she knew what was happening, her aunt Hetty was before her.
“Cecily King,” Hetty said. “As much as I disagree with this uncouth exhibition of brazen vulgarity, I have to say that the very essence of the King name depends upon ya, child. Hurry up and volunteer, girl.”
“Hetty King,” Janet said to her in a measured, determined tone. “You are not selling my child.”
“I’m not proposing selling her, Janet. I’m merely saying that I want to know what will become of the respect that this community has for the Kings if she doesn’t show support for the war.”
Janet was unable to respond, for Gourney’s voice rang out. All attention shifted to the stage. “It seems we have a donation from every young lad and every maiden lass in Avonlea,” he announced proudly.
“Except Cecily King,” Clara Potts added, noticing that Cecily’s name did not appear on the list Gourney held in his hands.
All eyes turned off the stage and onto Cecily and the room was very quiet. She looked at her father and then her mother, who wore a forced expression of indifference. She looked at Clara Potts and her smug, expectant face, Gourney MacDonald’s watery eyes, the eyes of everyone in Avonlea, all ready to break out into a new round of gossip about her family. The King name had been pounded into her head since her earliest memories. She had been brought up to revere it and to take pride in it, although pride was foreign to Cecily’s nature. She couldn’t deny it. She was a King. She had a duty. But she also had her mother. She felt her face getting hot. Not hot like consumption, but suffocating, warm heat. She thought of Felix and Elbert. It must be right, she told herself. It must be right somewhere. If all of my neighbours and friends think so. It has to be.
As many times as she had received a telegram from the War Office, as many times as she had sung Amazing Grace in her clear, bell-like soprano at a memorial service for a dead son of Avonlea, she always knew that somewhere it had to be right; there was good in it. Truth could come out of it, she had been told. Truth and beauty out of a white slip on a yellow-hued telegram. “I’ll do it,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll-I’ll do it.”
“Hooray for the Kings!” someone shouted.
She felt so sucked in. She walked to the stage, the heat in the room rising. She heard voices calling out. She found herself planting a kiss on the cheek of a young man with dark blond hair. Was he a soldier? She never saw his face. Cecily found herself kissing Felix’s cheek in the parlour and being held against the stiff, coarse material of his khaki uniform. “I’ll be back before Thanksgiving, sis. Don’t cry.”
The small band in the corner of the room began playing "Alexander’s Ragtime Band" and more dancing started. She stepped down from the stage, her head pounding in time with the syncopation of the song.
* * *
The same song played on the gramophone in a parlour in Halifax and Clive Pettibone sat next to it, watching the needle. At the beginning of their marriage, Muriel Stacey Pettibone had had to become accustomed to Clive’s quirks of formality that he imposed upon his family, one of them being that the Pettibones always dressed for dinner. Next to the gramophone stood a large map of Western Europe. Clive had been following the battles eagerly and pointed out all of the strategic errors that both sides made. Clive, clad in blue tails, turned his attention from the gramophone and stared sternly across the room at his son, seeing his own chiselled, handsome features cast in a darker mould. Jessica had often asked how two people who looked so much alike could possibly disagree about everything so passionately. Morgan and Izzy resembled his dead wife in features, but every look, every gesture, every expression and inflection of face and voice were Jessica’s. That way of turning his head was hers. He had her way of quickly darting his eyes around the room. He had her mouth, and it set itself in the same way when the owner heard something displeasing, such as it did then. Jessica’s mouth and Clive’s cheeks turned as red as Arthur’s vest as Clive put forth his argument.
“Do you think I don’t know the effects of this war, young man? I see the coffins being loaded on the ships in the harbour-”
“Yes, isn’t it ironic that they put the boys to fill them with on the same boat?”
“That is the sacrifice.”
“Oh, yes, the ‘sacrifice.’ Where would the war effort be if it weren’t for the word ‘sacrifice’ being pushed down everyone’s throat? You ought to come to the hospital sometime, Father, and have a look at the injured soldiers. You’d get your eyes full of a sacrifice.”
“They know it’s for the good of the country.”
“Is it your contention that England is winning the war, Father?”
Morgan was doodling in his sketchbook, wanting to toss his itchy collar into the fireplace. He listened to the debate half-interested. It was the same since the end of the previous August. It had got to be rather dull. Where was his blue drawing pencil? Ha! I’d like to see Father skirt around what Arthur just threw at him. The French girl should have blue eyes. I wonder why Muriel or Izzy doesn’t come out and shush them with tea. Yes, blue eyes. Cecily King had beautiful blue eyes.
Some imp made him give King George the look that Sara Stanley had in her eyes when she told a story. That was how Clive had guessed. He had seen the proud, unswerving austerity of Hetty King in Tsar Nicholas II, the patient, simple serenity of Alec King in Woodrow Wilson. Kaiser Wilhelm was a mischievous scamp, like the Davey Keith of not so long ago, or a juvenile Felix King. And Lloyd George--was he--was that Gus Pike’s smile?
Morgan was in awe of how his brother stood up to his father. It seemed so easy once you got started and Arthur had had nearly twenty-five years of practice. Morgan hadn’t the Pettibone or Hepworth temper and exercised his displeasure in what occurred around him in his caricatures of people. He was openly responsible for some wickedly clever send-ups of arrogant students that had appeared in the Dalhousie publication and sent the entire university rocking with laughter. His father knew the political drawings were his and Morgan knew that he knew it. The knowledge had made Clive somehow more gruff and austere. He couldn’t shut out the yelling, so he made drawings of his brother and father. When he was satisfied in his portrayal of his father as an authoritative Hun and his brother a mad doctor, he flipped the page and worked on a sketch he was using as the basis for a sculpture he planned to make.
Izzy Pettibone, however, had no trouble making her opinions known. She emerged from the kitchen, a fierce expression on her face, and proceeded to slam a pot onto the table. She went back into the kitchen, came out again, and slammed another pot on the table. She repeated the procedure a few times before Clive and Arthur took notice of her. “You need help, Iz?” Arthur asked.
“No,” she said before she slammed down another pot.
“Izzy!” Clive scolded.
“War, war, war!” she said, picking up a pot and slamming it down again. “That’s all you ever talk about anymore. I am so tired of you two antagonising each other. You know you don’t agree! Why can’t you both just shut up? I am sick of hearing about this war! I am sick of reading about it, I am sick of people talking about it, and I am sick and tired of you two fighting about it. You don’t even act like you even care about each other!”
“Young lady,” Clive said. “I advise you to calm down and refrain from making a similar display of yourself in the future.”
Izzy folded her hands over the back of a chair. “We were starting to be a family again. Before this all started,” she said softly.
Clive and Arthur looked down at their shoes. They had been making each other so mad that they hadn’t considered what it was doing to Izzy. Their arguments had been hard on both of them, so much so that Arthur hadn’t set foot in Halifax for nearly five months. Muriel appeared from the kitchen then and held Izzy’s shoulders in her arms. “Why don’t we all come have dinner now?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Izzy responded and walked out of the room.
Muriel had always tried to remain neutral in the disagreements Clive had with any of his children and stayed silent until someone crossed the line. Muriel threw down the towel she held in her hand. “For pity’s sake,” she said. “How long is this senseless bickering going to continue? This war is tearing this family apart!” With that, Muriel walked out of the room as well. Clive rose and followed her into his study.
Muriel stood next to Clive’s desk and looked at the photographs of the family that Clive kept in a bookcase. She heard her husband’s voice behind her. “Arthur was a difficult child, Muriel. He’s always been temperamental and opinionated--”
“Oh, Clive. It’s not just Arthur. You have to take your share of the responsibility for what happened tonight. Both of you, for the sake of the family, put aside your differences while you’re together. Please. It’s not right that you should keep upsetting Izzy like this and I am going to put my foot down. There will be no more discussions of the war at mealtime or an hour before or after we sit down together. And if you and Arthur are so pigheaded that you can’t find something else to talk about during that time, then don’t say anything to each other at all!”