This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Feb. 1, 1941
When S. Jackson Mills found out that his wife had agreed to take a refugee child, without even asking him, his reaction was distinctly unpleasant.
He got the news in the barber shop. The barber, whose wife had also signed her name as one of the hostesses to English children, claimed comradeship with Mr. Mills on this community of interest. Naturally, the relation between the barber and S. Jackson Mills had been on a strictly tonsorial basis heretofore.
“So you’re getting a little orphan, too, Mr. Mills.” said the barber cheerfully. “That’s fine. The little boy you take will certainly come into a good home. We can’t do much for our little one beyond giving her three square meals a day and a quiet bed to sleep in, but my wife was bound to get one, and I guess it’s the least we can do to see that one little child is safely out of Hitler’s way.
“Yes, sir — women certainly can’t bear to think of a child suffering, and my wife had the whole thing doped out before I knew a word, but I’m just as pleased as she is now, though at first I was a bit dubious. We have three of our own, but my wife says one more won’t be any trouble.”
Mr. Mills made an evasive reply, and though he was on his way to his office, went home instead to have it out with his wife.
Mrs. Mills stood firm. It was true. She was getting a seven-year-old boy, whose parents had both been killed and their home destroyed. No, she did not know his name. She had asked for an orphan so she would not have to part with him. Mr. Mills anger was kindled against her, and he paced up and down in his agitation. She must cancel the agreement. It was not legal anyway, without his consent.
“You know I do not like children,” he stormed, “and I tell you, I will not have this child or any other. I need perfect quiet when I come home. I’ll pay the child’s board some place but I will not have him in my house. Now get that clear!”
Mrs. Mills suddenly lost her composure.
“You need quiet — you big spoiled, overfed, selfish juvenile who never grew up. You’ve never done anything for anyone in your life in actual service, at least since I have know you. Oh, yes, you give money. You can’t use all you have so you give some to the Red Cross and the Community Chest. You need quiet, perfect quiet. So does this little boy and he is going to get it. He needs love, too, and he is going to get it — and he needs a home, and I have agreed to take him, and no one can prevent me!”
“Why Mary,” Mr. Mills cried in distress, “what has come over you? You talk wild. Couldn’t you at least have asked me?”
“No,” she said. “No! I was afraid you would talk me down. I knew what you would say. I should, I’ve heard it often enough. You are meeting people all day. As a lawyer you see the seamy side of life. So you must have perfect quiet and no complications. You want to live like a mole, and I have to accept it.
“You are the perfect isolationist. You left your people in England and never even wrote to them. You are decidedly anti-social, and will develop into an Ebenezer Scrooge if something does not happen to you. You say you were fond of your young brother, and helped to take care of him, but he was a tie. He kept you at home when you should have been having a carefree time with boys your own age. You were not unselfish even with him.
“Everyone has to take obligations in this world. And now you are going to help me. This little boy will be a bright spot in our lives, Jackson, and even if he is a care, why shouldn’t we accept that as our war work? And when we are old, we will remember with gratitude that we did this. Try to think of this poor little fellow instead of yourself.”
The guest-children arrived in Cedarville at night. Sleepy, tired, and tearful, they were taken from the train. Mrs. Mills’ little seven-year-old was just a little bundle of grief, but his foster mother soon had him in a warm bath and put to bed, with a teddy bear for company. Sleep at last blotted out his troubles.
Mr. Mills generously made no comment on the behaviour of the little guest, but when Mrs. Mills told him at noon that little Richard was grieving for his sister who had been taken by the barber’s wife, he proposed that they might just as well take the little girl, too. Whether he meant to be sarcastic Mrs. Mills did not know. They could put another bed in the room, and this was done. The barber’s wife had received two children, by some mistake, and so relinquished Richard’s sister without complaint.
Richard grew more contented with his little sister, but was still given to long periods of weeping. Mrs. Mills tried every means for cheering the sad little stranger whose grief for his daddy overshadowed his soul. He had seen too much tragedy for a child and in Mrs. Mills’ heart there grew a fear that the sensitive brain of the child had been permanently injured.
He was like a delicate little plant that had been uprooted. She remembered reading about the little girl who was shocked into silence by what she had seen and spoke no word. Doctors had believed she would regain her speech but she wondered.
During this time of anxiety Jackson Mills made no comment, for which his wife was grateful. There were so many things he might have said, for Richard’s grief infected the house. His little sister’s efforts to comfort him touched everyone’s heart.
The doctor said he would be better when the spring came. The natural resilience of youth would save him. No child of seven had ever succumbed to a broken heart.
Strangely enough, Richard developed a preference for Mr. Mills, and would watch at the window for his coming and the rare smile which brightened his face appeared when Mr. Mills spoke to him. He talked of the boat and the train journey, the Indians he had seen at one station. He enjoyed the stories Mrs. Mills read to him and played games with Anne.
The news from London with its reports of bombs, and the sound of sirens sent him into a state of panic, and so Mrs. Mills was careful not to let him hear it.
One day the climax came. Mrs. Mills gave up hope. Richard had been in Mr. Mills’ den upstairs and came racing down to the kitchen to find Mrs. Mills. His big eyes were shining like stars and he shouted at her:
“I have found my daddy’s picture, Here, in your house. Now I shall never cry again, for there must be someone here who knew my daddy.”
Mrs. Mills tried to calm him. Her worst fears seized her. The child was mentally deranged surely. She phoned for the doctor with a heavy heart. It might be that she would have to part with the poor little fellow.
The doctor examined the picture which Richard brought to him.
“Who is it?” he asked Mrs. Mills.
“It is Mr. Mills’ brother,” she said, “his youngest brother.”
Mr. Mills came in then, and Richard ran to him with the picture in his hand.
“The doctor and Mrs. Mills do not believe me!” he said earnestly. “They think I am raving, but you will believe me. This is my daddy’s picture when he was 10.
“His full name was Anthony Addington Mills and the day he had this picture taken his brother Jack, who was 17, took him in to London and they had dinner at Lyons and went to a pantomime. He told me it was a lovely day and his brother Jack went to America soon after this and must have died there because he wrote only twice. My daddy was always sad when he talked about his brother Jack.”
Jackson Mills sat down and drew the excited child to him, and held him close.
‘Tony’s boy,” he said, when he could speak. “I’m the one who is likely to cry now! If there was anyone in the world I loved it was Tony — Anthony Addington Mills — I taught him to write it before he went to school … and yet I didn’t write …”
“Then you didn’t die!” Richard exclaimed. “Oh! I’m glad you didn’t die. Daddy said you always called him the Nipper, and you said you would find a gold mine in America and bring back a bag of it, and buy him a pony.” Then his bright face clouded over.
“Uncle Jack,” he said hesitatingly, “I’m very happy to find you, but why didn’t you write to my daddy?”
It was then that the doctor and Mrs. Mills went out softly.
