“They called her Dot. And it seems to me that if you are so interested in Morse code, we could call you Dot from now on. What do you think?”
Her mother pressed the corner of her napkin to her lips. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“If it was good enough for my grandmother,” he said, “it’s good enough for our daughter.”
“Well,” she said after a moment, “if Dorothy is Dot, then Margaret, with all her exhausting energy and running around, must be Dash.”
All of them howled with laughter at that.
“What about Gus?” Dot asked.
“I just want to be Gus,” he told them.
Her mother held up her hands. “Now, now. I am only being silly. Dorothy and Margaret are perfectly beautiful names. We won’t have any of that nonsense in this house.”
To her disappointment and the girls’ delight, the nicknames had stuck. Everyone but their mother and schoolteachers used them after that day. As far as Dot could remember, the only time their mother ever called them by their nicknames was the night she proposed the idea.
Even now, most people knew them as Dot and Dash, though they were seventeen.
The sound of Mr. Meier’s engine starting up brought Dot back to the present.
“What was the problem?” she asked when Dash turned off the car.
“I must have bumped the battery post,” she replied, wiping her hands on the cloth hanging from her waist. “All’s good now. Fan belt’s perfect. Not too tight to break the bearings, just enough to fix that squeal. Mr. Meier will be happy.”
Dot closed her book and rose, glad to go. “I hope he pays you this time.”
“He doesn’t need to pay me,” Dash said, hauling open the garage door. The rain had eased off, and the last rays of sunshine burst through, resulting in a glorious rainbow. “If Sam was here instead of marching through England, he would have fixed it. It’s the least I can do.”
War was constantly in the news, more sobering by the day, and the mention of Sam Meier brought it all back. The Germans had capturedEurope and set their sights on Britain. Then, in December, the conflict had come to America on the wings of Japanese dive bombers—theAichi D3A, Dash had informed her, since she had recently developed an interest in identifying airplanes—and the Allies breathed a sigh of relief when the horrific bombing of Pearl Harbour forced the Americans into the fight as well. Sam Meier, Gus, and Fred had left to join the fight a year before that happened. In fact, most of the boys from school had signed up and shipped out, making it more and more difficult for Dot to picture the war as something very far away.
“Still. You should be compensated for your work. A man would be paid,” she insisted as they walked. “How many hours have you spent on that truck so far?”
Dot felt confident about this topic. She was paid for her work, after all. Once a week, six students plodded a mile and a half from the Centre Street School to her house for French lessons, for which each child’s mother paid Dot thirty cents an hour. She could have taught them German as well, but she had decided that was probably a bad idea nowadays. Dot was proud of having her very own savings account, and she visited the bank often to keep a close eye on the figures. So far, the only withdrawals she made were her monthly donations of two dollars to the Red Cross.
“You know, there are other ways to earn money.” Dash kicked a rock down the gravel road. “In the city, I mean. I could do that.”
Dot’s step faltered. “What are you talking about? You’d go to Toronto?”
“Lots of girls are working in the city now that the men are gone. Loads are joining the Wrens or the Women’s Army Corps. I could be a driver with them, or maybe a mechanic.” She bit her lower lip, considering. “Of course, there’s the Air Force, too, but the Wrens have such beautiful uniforms.”
Horrified, Dot grabbed her sister’s arm so she stopped in place. “You’re going to thecity? To join thearmy?”
At least Dash had the good grace to look abashed. “Thinking about it. You could come with me.”
Dot couldn’t honestly say she was surprised, but the thought of Dash leaving filled her with anxiety. She knew her sister was restless. What else was there for a beautiful, lively young woman to do in Oshawa, other than hang out at the Four Corners or dance to a band at the Jubilee? Sure, the head office for General Motors Canada was here, but so far they hadn’t replied to any of Dash’s enquiries about work other than to say she was too young. Which was a ridiculous requisite, Dot felt, since her sister could out-mechanic anyone else, no matter their age. Even more ridiculous was that while GM was ignoring Dash, they had offered Dot a sewing job, and she was exactly the same age. Of course, Dot had declined. Dash pretended GM’s rejection didn’t matter. She said they were only making parts there, not fixing engines, which was what she liked to do. Still, Dot knew it hurt.
Without something like GM to hold Dash’s interest, Dot had secretly feared that her sister might be happier in Toronto. She’d never said anything about that out loud, because if Dash left, what choice would Dot have but to follow? Nothing frightened Dot more than the thought of a busy, noisy city full of strangers—except for a busy, noisy city without Dash.
“You’re not really going to go, are you?”
“Why not? We’re almost adults, Dot. It’s time to do something. Aren’t you bored?”
“No.”
Dash narrowed her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel bad for wanting more.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
