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“Oh, Diana,” Anne cooed, looking at the small photograph Diana had brought with her all the way from Prince Edward Island, “he’s simply stupendous!”
“I’ve always thought so,” Diana admitted shyly, tugging a grey lock behind her left ear and admiring the photograph. It was of Charles, her first great-grandchild, sitting among the memorabilia of his babyhood and grinning for the camera. He had a small black curl pasted to his forehead, and rather looked like one of Rose O'Neil’s little Kewpie confections.
Anne Cordelia’s daughter had married hastily during the high years of the twenties and was now living out the Depression with unclear eyes – her marriage to Charles’ father was just one of those consequences. She was living with Diana and the widowed Anne and Diana preferred not to say the man’s name aloud in the presence of anyone. Anne thought of him with distaste as she looked at that gorgeous baby. Poor mite. He deserved better.
Anne’s own tribe was far-flung now, producing only seven grandchildren. She did not have the honorific of great-grandmama yet, though with the ugly rattling timbre of another war on the horizon, she expected the twins’ eldest girls to start clinging to their beaux. She did not want to imagine re-living the horror of loss yet the power of it nipped constantly at her heels. That was another facet of being aged – you remembered quite clearly your deepest hurts but they were often tempered by your fondest wishes.
That was the amazing fact of time passing by. Anne and Diana were grandmothers; where once photographs were great luxuries they’re now simple to obtain, easily stuffed into the pockets of youths and easily carried off across endless ocean spans. Time waited for none of them. It was the ultimate leveler.
But she and Diana were hanging on, still happy, still working hard to make a difference in the world, still happy to be influencing the events around them and the people who were dearest to them. Though, admittedly, at this stage in their lives something of the impulsive willfulness they had as children had gone out of their lives.
Which was what made Anne, with her creaking knees, sit up and say, “Diana, I think it’s time we visited the nearest fairy bower. It’s been ages since we went looking for magic.”
“Shall we tell Gil and Fred we’re going?”
“They should be able to know where it is we’ve run off to,” she said. Diana carefully stood up and Anne reached for her cane as they abandoned their tea set. The world beyond was much more interesting than the enveloping four walls of the aging Rainbow Valley.
***
The sky was an agreeable shade of blue that seemed to highlight the liveliness of Anne’s eyes. Diana wondered at her friend’s zest for life, even at her age, even after losing Walter and watching her children leave. Flighty little Rilla had gone with her husband for a more profitable job in Calgary, bobbing her hair and becoming enamored of motion pictures as she did. All of Anne’s children had their imperfections, as did Diana’s three. But while Diana had her own grey clouds but nothing comparable to a dead child. She dared not bring him up in Anne’s presence.
They finally found the clearing, a ring of white paper-thin blossoms in the tall grass, and made to sit down among them. Lying on their backs, staring at the clouds, Diana suddenly felt as if she were ten years old and again enjoying the unspoiled wilderness around her - until an enormous silver plane flew over their heads. Both women gaped at it; they knew it belonged to the new squadron of airmen down at the military base, which had been on high alert since Hitler had threatened London. What had been an age of wonderment, a hopeful time of passionate dreams when it came to flight had petered out into frightening practicality. Those war birds would be dropping bombs on German targets soon.
Anne’s eyes were clouded; Diana watched her and, kindred as they were, understood instantly that she was remembering poor Walter, sacrificing himself as a matter of pride in a dirty trench. Walter, destroying his fine artistic soul because his fellows were doing the same, and saw him as a coward for being rejected from the service.
“Diana?” Anne said suddenly.
“Yes, Anne?”
“Do you think they’d let an old woman like me fly a plane?"
Diana’s jaw dropped. Of course, women flyers were everywhere. But they were sixty years between herself and the young aviatrixes who had captured America’s imagination five years before. “You would have to ask the fellows at the air field for advice,” she said nervously.
Anne’s smile turned quite. “I am going to find a book about instrument reading and I will check over every single chapter until I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Truly, Anne?”
She grinned. “Oh, truly. And I shall be the first woman to fly to Mexico with only my dearest and most bosom of companions beside me.”
“Bosom of companions? Mercy’s sake!” Diana gasped. “You don’t mean to ask me to do it?”
Anne grinned. “I do believe that we could use a break from the toil and little terrible smallness of the world. What better way than to take flight?”
“They might try to recruit his into the army.”
Anne made a sour face. “I wouldn’t let them.”
She looked up at the enormous peach tree. They lay at its crotch, watching its heavy fruit sway over their heads.
“I believe that I’ll try to climb that tree!”
“Anne, you couldn’t possibly,” said Diana. “…Could you?”
Anne grinned and climbed to her feet. “I don’t need to worry about a bad thigh if I use my knees and elbows.”
She made it halfway up, settling on a thick, sturdy branch. Diana, delighted by her example, followed her up. Watching the sun rise, golden and large, over the hills was enough to make them both feel as if Anne’s dreams were completely tangible.
Their bodies, not so much. Anne’s grandson Matthew came out to rescue them both with a ladder when their knees wouldn’t cooperate.
Anne, naturally, told him that she meant for it to happen. After all, a sunset was better when it was shared.