Strawberry Hill, Chapter 12

Recommended 8 and up. Raleia Pendle always wished she was from an old-fashioned family from a bygone era who would be involved in every aspect of her life, but instead she has modern (for 1976) hippie parents who keep their distance. Raleia gets a taste of the past by moving to Tidal, ME that was hit by a Tidal Wave in 1911 and is a living museum to the event. She also meets Ian Rutherford a recluse who hasn't left his house since the tidal wave hit.

Transcript

Hello,

This is A.

Le Fay of Sylvanosity and for now I will be sharing chapter 12 of Strawberry Hill and rejoin the Pendle family as they spend the summer in Tidal,

Maine.

Chapter 12.

Rellia still didn't feel right driving through the gate,

But carting Mr.

Rutherford's groceries up his driveway was a real endurance test,

Even harder than running forty laps for the final in gym class.

The extra weight of the A volume of her encyclopedia didn't help.

Her blood beeped like a drum in her temples.

Her hands hurt from gripping the handles.

There was a pulling ache in her thighs and her arms turned to jelly,

But she kept right on going.

Rutherford wasn't going to hand her any of that women are frail nonsense.

She seared at the house to keep her mind off her body.

The white paint didn't so much as have a heat blister.

The rust-colored trim was smooth and unchipped.

The windows looked like shiny plates of black glass.

Nobody's house looked that good.

Back home a gutter hung across her bedroom window,

Waiting for Max to keep his promise to fix it.

The side of their house that faced the afternoon sun was pocked like the surface of a cooking pancake.

Just before you turn it.

Each window carried a film of dust.

Their blue trim had faded into grey.

More and more of the sidewalk leading up to the front door disappeared into the lawn each year.

Her house looked like it belonged to the Addams family when she compared it to Mr.

Rutherford's own.

His belonged in one of those fancy architectural magazines that proclaim,

Your house can be this beautiful.

Who believed them?

Raya was so wrapped up in her study at the house that she didn't even hear Rutherford come out.

Let me take that,

He said,

As he took the crate from her.

Her arms felt like they'd float right off and drift up to the clouds.

She watched Mr.

Rutherford go into the house.

He carried the crate as if it were stuffed with pillows.

Who paints your house?

Raya asked as she came into the kitchen.

Rutherford put a box of baking soda into the cupboard.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

He looked as if he'd just swallowed a spoonful of the soda.

You are the most peculiar?

Young lady with such odd questions.

What's so weird about that question?

He turned around and folded his arms over his chest.

In my day,

Children didn't even speak to adults unless they were spoken to.

Oh,

Right.

Raya sneered.

She'd heard about that little custom in the Little House and the Prairie books.

It seemed to be as useless as some of their rules about women.

Well,

Things are different now.

Good point.

I suppose that idea went out when men stopped wearing spats and young ladies stopped carrying parasols.

His words sent Raya to a park with vast green spaces,

With a small pond dotted with lily pads and little sailboats.

Men and women sauntered around the pond arm in arm,

Parasols twirling in the sun.

Raya,

Where have you drifted off to?

Oh,

And various,

Raya smiled,

Saying,

I was just thinking about a park with couples walking around a pond.

So that's it,

Is it?

You're a lover of the past.

He made it sound like she had some rare,

Disgusting disease.

And I kind of felt like that way sometimes.

Raya had no right to make her feel guilty about liking the past anyway.

After all,

He was still living in it.

Well,

Aren't you?

He started to put his canned goods away in a tiny pantry next to the back door.

Whatever gave you that idea?

He frowned.

Living up here all by yourself?

Isn't it a great way to live in the past?

Raya shrugged.

I'm not trying to live in the past,

Young lady.

His voice took on a sharp tone that made Raya cringe.

I'm living here to be alone.

Raya took a sidestep toward the door.

Then maybe I should go.

Well,

Then maybe you should.

He looked down at her.

His eyes narrowed.

Was he mad?

Raya wondered,

And she saw a smile forming on his lips.

That wasn't a funny joke.

It wasn't a joke at all.

It was the truth.

He went back to the crate.

I was just beginning to think you were fearless.

Most children would have run screaming from this house that both start,

Eyes so much as frowned.

What makes you think that?

Do you really believe you and your young gentleman friends are the first set of ruffians to come peeking into my windows?

He laughed.

I've gone through several generations of nosy little brats.

I'm not trying to be nosy.

What are you trying,

Raya?

To be my friend?

You make it sound awful.

It's not awful,

Are you?

He pulled the book out.

I don't recall ordering any books.

Raya was confused.

How could he say he was awful?

He certainly wasn't friendly,

But he wasn't exactly unfriendly either.

How can you say that about yourself?

Why no.

He didn't even blink as he tapped the book.

Is this yours?

Taking the book,

Raya said,

Yes,

But you're not awful.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

He smiled.

But wait until you know me better.

Was he secretly a murderer or something?

Raya was half worried and half curious,

But in the back of her mind she thought he was just playing with her.

Maybe he got some excitement out of making her nervous.

He'd done it before and smiled.

She'd kept a close watch on him.

He wasn't going to fool her.

Changing the subject to show she wasn't going to fall for his bait,

Raya handed him the book,

Saying,

It's an encyclopaedia.

I thought you might like to read it.

An encyclopaedia?

He opened the book,

Then looked at her.

Unsure of how to explain why she'd brought the book,

Raya said the first thing that came to mind.

Did you know they have Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Actor?

For picture shows,

Raya nodded.

I hated them.

They were always so jumpy and fake,

The pianist clanking away like he was inside a carousel.

Dreadful.

Simply dreadful.

They have their own sound now.

Really.

They fit through the book,

Scanning the pages.

And colour.

Colour?

He stared at her.

I suppose that started with colour photography.

Raya nodded.

This was exactly what she'd hoped for.

The two of them would talk and imagine,

And it'd be like the conversations people used to have in the parlour over tea and biscuits,

No shouting over the TV to be heard.

Rutherford stared off.

I wish I had a coloured photograph.

Of?

Of your business.

He slammed the book shut and handed it to her.

You tell me what else you've got in that book of yours while I put the rest of these away.

Raya felt like she was talking through a revolving door.

One minute Rutherford would be open,

And she thought she could walk through into his life.

Then the door would turn,

And she'd be stuck.

She wasn't outside and apart from him,

But she wasn't exactly inside his life either.

It was like getting trapped between two panels of glass,

With no way to go back or go forward.

She had half a mind to hammer those doors with her fists until they shattered.

She didn't want to tell him about the encyclopedia.

She wanted to talk to him.

Really talk.

It made her shake on the inside to think of it,

But she said,

I wish I had a photograph of my baby sister.

No?

He held his back to her as he poured rice into a canister on the counter.

She died when she was just three days old.

Raya put his hands on the counter as if he had to brace himself.

That's awful,

Raya.

The hospital took my picture on the day I was born.

I've always wondered why they didn't take Mayettas.

They bowed his head.

Perhaps they were waiting until she gained her strength,

But that time never came.

He fell silent as Raya felt as if she had to keep talking,

Like something would cave in if she stopped.

The doctor wouldn't even let me touch her.

I know what's mean to say,

But I felt I was looking at a baby animal in a zoo.

I could only see her through the glass.

Rutherford stood in front of the sink and stared out the window as he said,

Time certainly do change.

When my father was a young boy,

I took pictures of infants who had died to remember them by.

And now,

Raya thought,

You don't even get your picture taken unless people think you're going to live.

Everything is backwards nowadays.

Sitting down at the kitchen table,

Rutherford said,

What else do you have in there?

He tapped the book on the table.

Raya opened the book,

But she didn't feel like reading.

So she asked,

Do you have a brothers and sisters?

Too many.

How many is that?

I lost count after the seventh one.

Come on.

Raya was beginning to catch on to Rutherford's jokes.

He wasn't like most people.

He didn't giggle when he told a joke,

Like Tick always did.

Tiny would have raised an eyebrow or watched with pursed lips to see when you'd laughed.

Max always wrinkled or winked or something lame like that.

Not Ian Rutherford.

He treated a joke like it was a weather report.

He just said it.

No facial quirks.

No fancy delivery.

My mother had eleven children.

She gave birth,

Handed them over to the wetness,

Spent a month in bed.

They went back to her whirlwind schedule of garden luncheons and temperance meetings.

Raya imagined Mrs.

Rutherford in a bed the size of a children's waiting pool propped up on a raft of pillows.

Her long flowing gown ended in lace around her hands and neck.

Her skin would be pale,

But she'd smile as a nanny in a frilly apron brought her a chubby smiling baby and a monogrammed blanket.

Then Raya's dreary dream took on an odd turn.

Suddenly the enormous bed was filled with children,

Some still babies,

Others squirming toddlers.

Two little boys even chased each other along the edge of the bed,

Squealing.

What chaos eleven children would be!

Chaos?

Rutherford laughed.

Raya must have spoken out loud without intending to.

She blushed.

Not in our household.

She was up by six fifteen and washed,

Dressed and at the breakfast table by six forty five or you were sentenced to the chair.

Your mother threatened to electrocute you?

Electrocute?

He frowned.

Her house was one of the first in Rockbridge to be wired for electricity,

But I failed to see the connection between being sent to the corner and being electrocuted.

Oh,

Raya,

You said sentenced to the chair.

It sounded like you meant being sentenced to the electric chair.

The what?

Electric chair.

You know,

Raya realized he didn't.

There was no way he could.

They didn't electrocute criminals way back when.

If you're sentenced to death,

You get electrocuted.

Rutherford winced.

Our whole hanging was barbaric.

He shook his head.

No,

My mother didn't threaten to kill us.

She just saw to it that our life was a living hell.

Piano lessons,

Elocution lessons,

Lawn tennis,

Latin,

Painting.

I'm surprised we didn't have a tutor for table manners.

Sounds like you were busy.

Raya smiled.

She would love to learn how to play the piano or to speak Latin,

But he made it sound like it was as bad as having to feed the chickens,

Milk a cow,

And clean the pig pen.

Raya asked for piano lessons and Max said,

What are you going to do with that?

Play Carnegie Hall?

Go right ahead.

It's your money.

What kind of parent would make their kids pay for their own lessons?

Raya's kind,

That's what.

I would have liked to have piano lessons.

My more piano lessons my sister Gabriel took to the harp,

Albert and Dennis more violin.

We also had a viola,

A cello,

A flute,

Oboe,

Clarinet,

French horn,

And trumpet in the Rutherford family orchestra.

Raya smiled to think of all those children gathered around the piano in a beautiful room with 12 foot windows hung with thick velvet curtains.

There would be a highly polished wood floor and molded plaster walls to reflect the exquisite sound of the music.

It would carry throughout the whole palatial house,

Then out onto the lawn ornamented with carefully planned gardens and sculptured hedges.

That must have been divine.

Divine.

Have you ever been to the symphony?

Raya hugged her head.

I've heard them.

I have my own record collection.

That's all she could afford.

Her allowance was $2.

50 a week and it did make room for symphony tickets.

Well,

Why they leave off most of those records is a tuning process.

Everyone tunes their instrument before they begin to play.

It sounds a bit like every animal in the African jungle clearing their throats at the same time.

His comment made her think of lions and tigers and monkeys and tuxedos clearing their throats for an ostrich conductor.

She had to laugh.

Yes,

Rutherford smiled.

Well,

Our family sounded quite a bit like that even when they weren't tuning our instruments.

The only one of us who could carry a tune at all was my sister Ruth.

She played the flute constanta.

She wandered through the house with the thing.

We called her the Pied Piper,

At least when Mother wasn't around.

Ruth had quite a few dents on her flute from whacking us on the head with it.

We're calling her that.

A house filled with flute music.

It would be like living in the forest of Shakespeare's A Midsummer's Night Dream.

Fairies twittering in the eaves.

It would be grand.

But the cocks with her flute sounded kind of harsh.

You didn't get along with your sister?

I rarely spoke to her.

It was my brother Dennis who was always taunting her.

I stayed to myself.

I preferred the garden to anything else.

It was quiet there.

Our main floor flower garden was fenced in by hedges.

The rest of the world was a million miles away as far as I was concerned.

There were no recitals or recitations or lawn parties.

No coquettish young women bearing their eyes at me.

Recitations!

It sounded like something you did to a person whose heart had stopped.

He cleared his throat,

Then said in a deep,

Floating voice,

Though still on ravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than all rhyme.

He returned to his own slightly scratchy voice.

Geat ode to on a grition urn.

Recitation presiding.

Rarely agat it.

It sounded cool to have people reciting poetry in speeches.

That would be fabulous.

They could have violin music and candles.

Oh well,

Maybe they should have stuck with flute music.

It would have been great.

Why do an ode to an urn?

An urn?

Well,

I doubt it still contained anyone's remains when he saw it.

But if it did,

All the better.

He prattled on about how things should stay the same in a rapidly changing world.

And a dead body in the mix of things would just remind him of how silly he was being.

Life can't go on without change.

This from a hermit,

I thought.

But she said,

I've never read Geat.

He always makes me think of someone coughing up blood.

Heavens,

Why?

He closed his eyes.

Never mind.

You're referring to his death and tuberculosis,

Rayya nodded.

Rutherford added.

A horrible death.

But I suppose it made his poetry all the richer.

He knew his life would be short so he paid particular attention to things.

Saw what we normally wouldn't.

Truth was Rayya didn't read Geat's because she couldn't understand him.

It was like reading another language when she picked up all poetry.

The poet said things like Pinion and Sylvan and Epi-something or other.

Rutherford slapped the table then jumped to his feet.

Well,

How about a game of Cribbage?

Cribbage was so boring Rayya had to think of something else they could do.

She latched onto the idea of photographs again.

Do you have any photographs of your family?

He stood in silence for a moment,

Not really even focusing his eyes on anything.

Then he nodded,

Saying,

You would admire a man when you first came in.

In the hallway,

Rayya stood up.

She loved those photographs.

I remember the one of those women playing croquette in the garden.

If it weren't your garden.

And my sister's.

Rutherford led the way into the small hallway leading to the room Rayya called the library.

But it was really just a parlor.

Are any of them Ruth?

They turned the corner and Rutherford pointed to the woman,

Waiting her turn with a glass in her hand.

And there she is with her ever-present glass of slightly spiky tea.

Spiked?

Rayya drank,

Ruth drank her tea with a touch of bourbon.

Women drank back then?

He laughed.

To whom believe history books and rumors Rayya?

Yes,

Women drank back then.

My mother and her own words found it simply abominable that a woman would do such a thing.

But as Ruth used to say,

It keeps the spirits up.

Rayya looked at the woman in the picture.

At first she thought the frown on her face was out of boredom.

Croquette isn't exactly croquet.

Isn't exactly a great game.

But then she thought maybe she was sad.

Ruth wasn't happy?

Rutherford shrugged.

We didn't talk much.

I suppose she was happy enough.

He started looking at the other pictures as Rayya thought.

What exactly would it mean to be happy enough?

To cry yourself to sleep at night?

To smile?

To enjoy the day?

This is Dennis.

He pointed to a man in a dark suit sitting on a wrought iron chair smoking.

And here's Gabrielle,

The baby,

The family.

She stood in front of a rosebush,

A butt in her hand.

The dress she wore was unbelievable.

There were three tiers of ruffles and even ribbons to keep you tying for hours if they all came undone.

There were little sinkholes in her cheeks.

She was smiling so hard.

She looks happy.

She was.

Any time I saw her,

I was laughing at telling a joke.

Gabby knew how to keep things light.

Staring at the smiling little girl,

Rayya realized that the picture was probably taken over sixty years ago and that the girl was an old woman by now with wrinkled skin and a stooped back.

The thought gave her an eerie feeling.

To get rid of it,

She tried to learn something else.

You sure have a lot of pictures.

He bobbed his head,

Saying,

I suppose.

He laughed as if he was remembering something that made him happy.

My mother was probably furious with me for taking all of this.

Probably.

Rutherford's eyes narrowed.

She made him angry again.

He was so fickle.

Tick would probably be just like him in his old age.

My mother and I never spoke after I left Rothbridge.

Never?

Rayya thought.

Sometimes she wished Max would just disappear,

But not forever.

She did want him to come back some day,

So he could see how well she did without him.

I'm sorry to hear that.

Rutherford walked past her to go into the library.

So am I.

He sounded so depressed and Rayya knew it was her fault,

So she hurried into the room to find some way to cheer him up.

She scanned the room.

There was a book popped open like a teepee on the table by the velvety chair.

She could ask him what he was reading.

How lame.

The rug in front of the fireplace didn't have so much as a fleck of soot on it.

She could compliment him on keeping it so clean.

Yeah,

Right.

Then she saw the portrait on the mantelpiece.

She could have asked him who it was,

But she didn't really have to.

The face was familiar to her.

The dark hair,

Combed shiny,

Then pulled up on top of her head in a loose bun.

The slightly pointy chin and wide cheeks.

Ray had seen that face in the firelight as she imagined the inside of the house when they first passed and on the way into town.

She'd seen that face in the woman who came through the gate at the end of the driveway.

It was her gate.

Did you build the gate for her?

Rutherford whirled around to face Rayya.

Build it?

He seemed shy,

Slow to speak,

Hiding his face and casting his eyes away from Rayya.

No.

It was the reason we looked at the house.

She loved it.

Your wife.

Rayya felt like she almost knew her already.

He nodded,

Then bowed his head.

Callista.

It sounded like a name you'd read in a Keats poem.

She'd be demure and soft-spoken,

Have a laugh like flowing water.

Rutherford put his hand on the mantelpiece.

They should have named her Caesar instead.

Caesar?

Rayya laughed.

Rutherford was smiling,

Not beaming,

Like someone who had just seen a loved one win a race.

She took over whatever she did,

Like a Caesar.

She even tried telling my mother how silver was polished.

My mother,

The walking encyclopedia of do's and don'ts.

She polished your silver?

Rayya was confused.

And ordered you a feud and organized the meals.

Callista was in charge of the kitchen.

She was a maid?

Rayya was disappointed.

Her Callista was a refined woman who wore flowing dresses and read poetry.

She even knew what it meant.

Rutherford scowled.

Rayya tried to bail herself out.

There's nothing wrong with being a maid.

And how would you like to serve meals to other people and have them order you around like some paid slave?

I wouldn't.

Rayya could feel the weight of his anger settling inside her own veins.

I think you should leave now.

I didn't mean anything.

He stepped to the side to show her the door.

You never do.

Don't forget the crate on your way out.

Rayya stomped to the kitchen.

Just once she'd like to leave that stupid house with him in a good mood.

She grabbed the crate,

Then went out the kitchen door to avoid having to see Rutherford again.

Sure.

It wasn't nice to say something bad about his wife,

But she was just surprised,

That's all.

After all,

He was from a family that had its own orchestra and Latin lessons and all that stuff.

Why would he be marrying some maid?

Rayya froze.

That was it.

His family kicked him out for taking a maid for a wife.

And he stole all their goods,

Their beautiful chairs and leather books and photographs.

He was hiding out from his all-powerful rich family.

No,

That couldn't be it.

They were all dead by now.

And so must be Kalista.

Rayya went to the gate,

Opening the door so she could see through the trees onto Main Street down below.

Kalista probably took a basket down the hill into town to buy groceries.

She walked through the gate just as Rayya had imagined when they drove by.

A wide brimmed straw hat to keep out the sun.

A basket over one arm filled with vegetables to sell in the market by the sea.

Kalista would select the finest fruits and maybe a pie or a torte,

Then stop at the general store on the way home.

The very store Rayya had been in not more than two hours before.

It was amazing.

And sad.

Rayya thought as she looked back at the house.

Old man Rutherford probably missed her.

Maybe that was why he was such a cranky old coot.

He missed his wife.

Or did he kill her,

Like the other kids said?

That was ridiculous.

Rutherford might be cranky,

But he wasn't cruel.

There had to be some other story behind his wife's death.

Rayya didn't want to hear it,

Though.

Stories of death were better left untold.

Do you have anyone in your life that you feel a strong desire to be closer to?

Someone like Rutherford and Rayya wants to be a part of his life.

Wants to feel included.

To be understood.

Sometimes there's someone we want to get closer to.

We have great difficulty.

We make them angry when we don't mean to.

We make them sad when we're trying not to.

A lot of times this happens because they have a very different view of life from our own.

And you know,

One of the ways you can get closer to them is to have them explain to you how they see things.

What stories they would like to tell about their lives.

If you listen close enough,

You may learn new things about how best to approach them.

What sort of things make them feel sad or upset.

And if they're a mind to be kind,

They may ask you for stories of your life.

Oftentimes it's when we share stories of our lives that we really connect with those we love.

Sometimes the stories we tell are those we've just heard.

Maybe you would tell the story of Rayya,

Mr.

Rutherford,

To someone you know.

And maybe they can tell you one of their favorite stories.

I know.

Maybe after this recording ends,

You might recall your favorite story out loud in a way to help you fall asleep,

To relax,

To renew,

Or to slip off into sleep.

Whatever the case may be,

I want to thank you for joining me for this chapter of Strawberry Hill by A.

Le Fay.

This has been A.

Le Fay of Sylvanosity.

Thank you.

Reviews

I absolutely loved it I can’t wait to see what happens next !!!
-Eryn