Travelling Light Read Free Page A

children who’d once lived at their address.
    To make it worse, their housekeeper, Marie-Ange, had gone back to the Gaspé after her brother was killed in a fire. She had not returned, and a new woman, Mrs. O’Brien, had arrived in a taxi with her suitcase only one hour before the Ormondes left for the airport.
    Ross and Anna watched from the living room window as she got out of the cab. “Ugly old hag!” Anna whispered.
    The first Sunday their parents were away, Mrs. O’Brien took them to Mass at her own parish in Verdun instead of their church, the Ascension of Our Lord, in Westmount. “I’ve a daughter whom I have to keep an eye on,” Mrs. O’Brien explained.
    It took three buses to get to Verdun from Westmount. On the steps outside the church after nine o’clock Mass, they were introduced to Mrs. O’Brien’s daughter, Joan. Ross thought she looked too old to be anyone’s daughter. Her hair was orange and black. She was clutching a handbag, and a missal.
    â€œSo these are the Ormondes!” Joan said. “Aren’t they sweet?”
    People were already going into the church for the ten o’clock Mass. Joan dropped the missal into her purse and took out cigarettes and matches. Her slip showed beneath the hem of her dress. A button dangled from the front of her coat.
    â€œAh, Joan, can’t you make the effort, at least?” said Mrs. O’Brien, plucking off the loose button and nodding at two old people entering the church.
    â€œLook at you,” she said, turning back to Joan, who had lit a cigarette.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with me?” Joan said.
    Cigarette ash dribbled onto her coat and her mother swiped at it, leaving a streak of grey on the cloth.
    â€œDid you go out last night?” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Were you alone? Did you have company?”
    â€œNo, I was watching the game. Were you?” Joan said, looking at Ross.
    â€œSure,” he answered. He always watched the Saturday night game. The Canadiens were the greatest hockey team in the world, and Beliveau was the best player.
    â€œI thought Monsieur Tremblay might call,” Joan said to her mother.
    â€œHe didn’t though, did he. Get him out of your silly head, my girl!” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Come, I don’t like this smoking in front of church.”
    They trooped down the steps and began walking to the O’Briens’ flat. Ross had never been in Verdun before. The rows of three-decker houses were made of brick the colour of dried blood. In a few of the small, square front yards, crocuses were poking up through crusts of snow.
    Mrs. O’Brien went into a corner shop and Joan turned to Ross. “Don’t you miss your parents?”
    He did. He worried a lot about them. They might never return. There could be a plane crash.
    â€œThey have to go away,” said Anna sharply. “Daddy has to go to conferences.”
    Joan laughed.
    Mrs. O’Brien came out of the shop with a big bottle of ginger ale. Anna walked on ahead with the housekeeper and Joan and Ross followed a few steps behind.
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Joan said, “I didn’t like it either. I used to hate her for going away to look after other kids. I was put with neighbours and they were not very nice.”
    They had to climb a steep outside staircase. The O’Briens’ flat was on the third floor. It was dark inside, warm, and smelled of linoleum. There was a green velvet sofa in the living room, an old-fashioned radio, and a tinted photograph of Pope Pius XI.
    â€œSit here and I’ll bring your ginger ale,” said Mrs. O’Brien.
    Joan took off her coat, sat down, and patted the space beside her on the sofa. “Come sit. Don’t be shy!” she said.
    Anna ignored her and sat down in an armchair. Ross sat on the sofa. Joan’s perfume smelled like lemons. Her red nail polish was chipped. She wore a yellow dress