The Diary of Lucy Maud

The Diary of Lucy Maud

It was another sleepy afternoon in Port Carling. I was sitting in my parents' bookshop sorting through the donated stacks as I did every Sunday. It always makes me sad to see so many stories, so many hours of enjoyment simply shoved in a box, left for donations.

Today’s haul wasn’t anything remarkable. There were yellowed romance novels, multiple copies of last year's bestseller, a smattering of guides to fishing and boating. About what you would expect in cottage country. On occasion you could find a gem. Tales where you could go whaling with Melville, journey to fantastical places with Verne, examine the intricacies of society with Orwell, or just enjoy a good old-fashioned tale with Wilder.

Todays gem, much to my delight was a worn, well-read (based on the spine) early addition of Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables. This was always a favourite of mine as I have always been a dreamer, a slight oddball and of course a red head. Smiling with guarded enthusiasm I tucked the book off to the side while I finished my work.

Four o'| clock finally came, and my sister arrived to relieve me for the day. As usual she sauntered in ten minutes late, sat down behind the counter, put her feet up and pulled out her phone. She has never had an interest in the written word, and I have long given up trying to light that flame. I wished her a good evening, to which I got a slight nod and a sound that I choose to interpret as “you too”.

I grabbed my jacket and my new treasure and made my way down to the rocky outcropping overlooking the locks where the three lakes come together. There was one particular spot that I am sure nature had carved out specifically for me. It hugged my body and protected me from being seen by anyone taking a stroll on the path behind. I could smell the cool lake air, hear the wind in the pines and the mournful call of the loons. It is truly a magical place and it is all mine.

As I settle back into my private nook, preparing to walk the red shores of Prince Edward Island with my favourite fictional heroine, the wind suddenly changes giving me a chill that is unusual for August. I wrapped my jacket tighter and nestled into my rock nest.

I pull out my prize and couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship of the tome. It is grass green leather embossed with lily of the valley. There is a small but ornate brass clasp securing Anne and her adventures safely inside.

I smile and with the reverence due to such an extraordinary creation., I carefully open the book. I close my eyes and travel in my mind to Avonlea. When I open my eyes, I gasp. Someone has desecrated this work of genius and carved out its insides! What kind of monster would have ever committed such an atrocity? I sit back for a moment and collect my thoughts, trying to sort through my feelings of shock, anger and sadness. Eventually I land on, as my heroine would, curiosity. Carefully and somewhat begrudgingly I take out the small black leather-bound book that someone had felt significant enough to entomb in such a precious artefact. The cover was very old and cracked with age. There was nothing special about it. It was a thin piece of leather keeping its contents bound. I was almost afraid to unwind it as the years had made it brittle, easily broken. My doubts were quickly overruled by my frustration and by my Anne- like curiosity. I painstakingly loosened the small tie and gingerly opened the notebook. As I read the first page, I dropped the small volume in shock and watched it tumble down the rock face landing precariously close to the shore of the lake. Without taking a moment to think of my own safety I scrambled down the rocks and snatched it up, rescuing it from being lost to the lake. Hands shaking, I again opened the aged notebook. I had to sit back on the damp moss as I reread the preface.

To my darling Lucy Maud

Your imagination is endless, and your talent is without comparison.

Share your gift with the world girl.

Love always, Auntie Marilla.

I blinked hard and read it again. Then again and again. I was in possession of LM Montgomery’s personal notebook. I was sure of it! I carefully flipped through the pages scrolling through a poem here, an idea there, then a pencil drawing of a young girl with freckles and braided hair. Beside it read Ann. As if an afterthought, in a different pen, the name was crossed out and replaced with Anne.

I was numb. Was this really what it appeared?

I clambered back up the rock face and grabbed my jacket. I tore off down the road and in my haste stumbled twice as I made my way to my grandfather's’ workshop. Grandpa has long since retired and spends his time now transforming lumber into gorgeous furniture. His attention to detail is something long ago lost by most.

In his youth he was a literary fanatic. As a child I spent hours sitting on a dusty stool listening to his slow measured tone while he lovingly sanded what would become a clock or a table and recounted some of the adventures of Peter Pan, Oliver Twist, Sherlock Holmes and King Arthur to name a few. I attribute my love of literature to those memories. Those times we spent together is why he called his bookshop “Maggie’s Musings”

I knew in my heart that if my discovery was what I thought, he would know. Not only that but the attention it would surely bring to the shop may boost our struggling little business in this age of e-books.

I reached his workshop and burst through the door completely out of breath. He looked up from his work and a huge smile broke across his face. “Hello my darling! To what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

Breathlessly, and likely somewhat incoherently, I raced through the events of the day before thrusting the small black book into his strong weathered hands. He observed me for a moment, a clear gleam of amusement in his crinkled eyes. He nodded slightly and sat down on his stool. Carefully, just as I did, he opened the small volume.

His face was unreadable as he carefully went through the aged text, page after delicate page. After what seemed like an eternity, he closed the book and set it carefully on his work bench. He took off his glasses and rubbed the sawdust out of his eyes. I was about to explode with excitement and impatience. He looked at me, expression still unreadable before bursting into a huge grin and belly laugh.

“Well my girl! I don’t know why you brought this to me! You knew what you were looking at. Now, get your coat, we must go see Mr. Wright at the museum!”. It was well past closing hours, but Grandpa and Mr. Wright had been friends since childhood, and it was known that Mr. Wright stayed and studied his charges long past the last visitor.

We arrived at the museum and sure enough in the far-left window, you could see through the curtains that the light in Mr. Wright’s office was still on. Grandpa knocked on the door and after a few minutes, and a rather obvious peek through the curtain, Mr. Wright opened the door with a smile and said “Hello old man! I see you have brought a lovely young lady with you today. This is a nice change from visiting with your ugly mug!” Grandpa laughed. “Good to see you to Chuck.”

Mr. Wright ushered us into the museum and down the hall to his small office. I was on the edge of my seat waiting to ask about the journal, but there were the pleasantries and small talk and the offer of tea before discussing business. Finally Mr. Wright leaned back in his chair and smiled at me. “So, what brings you to my dusty old museum tonight my child?”

I began excitedly retelling of my discovery. I must have been speaking too quickly, or out of order as Grandpa reached over smiling, and put his hand gently on my arm. From there he told the story (with the occasional enthusiastic interjection from myself). Mr. Wright frowned thoughtfully and paused for a sip of tea. “I assume you have brought this artefact for me to examine?” Embarrassed, I fumbled through my bag, pulled out the small volume before handing it to the old scholar.

Mr. Wright took his time examining the outside of the book. The gluing of the spine, the binding of the leather, the small strap. Finally, he opened the book. Much to my frustration he spent an equal amount of time examining the construct of the book from the inside. Eventually he started painfully slowly turning through the pages.

Once he set the book down, a look of awe and wonder settled on his creased face. “I believe you have found a truly unique treasure my dear. One whose existence has been missed by the scholars of history.” He went on to explain that he would like to send it to a colleague in Toronto to verify its authenticity. I listened carefully as Mr. Wright explained that although he was confidant of the notebook’s legitimacy, proper study and tests would have to be completed to be certain.

I was lost in thought, amazed that something so precious had been locked away and thrown into a used book bin. Slowly, I came back to reality as I recognized my grandfather trying to get my attention. “You know what this means right? Technically the book is yours but…” I cut him off. "The book is no more mine than the reflection of the moon on the calm lake." Mr. Wright interjected, “We would like to see it end up in the Green Gables museum in Prince Edward Island if you are willing to part with it. We can negotiate a loan to the bookshop once a summer to give substance to the story of its discovery.” I was speechless. Of course, the book belonged in a museum for all to enjoy. I would never think of any other possible conclusion. Mr. Wright said his goodnights and sent Grandpa and I on our way promising to keep us abreast of any updates from his colleague in Toronto.

After a couple of weeks, I heard the bells chime on the door to the bookshop. It was a Saturday, so I was working with my dad. I looked up and Grandpa was coming through the door, grinning ear to ear. “Maggie, could I have a private word?” Dad looked at us smiling conspiratorially., “What are you two up to?” “I think it’s about time we bring him in the loop.” I said with a wink to Grandpa.

Again, Grandpa saved me from tumbling over my words as he explained the events of the past few weeks to Dad. Finally, he got to the part I was yet to hear. “The museum in PEI has sent a cheque for $20 000 in compensation for returning the journal to its rightful home.”

I was stunned silent. Dad was no, “Why that’s enough to save the shop!” he exclaimed delightedly, before a flash of realization crossed his face. “Of course, it is your money sweetie, it is up to you how to use it.”

I cannot imagine a better conclusion than to keep the shop in our family. This story belongs to us. It belongs here and will be passed on for years to come.