Woo’s winter quarters were in my furnace room. She had two sunny windows; a narrow lawn lay between them and the street. People walked up Simcoe when they went to the Park, especially to see Woo in her window—not children only. A war cripple whom my sister massaged told Lizzie, “I come down Simcoe Street because of a jolly little monkey in a window there.” A cranky old woman who was walked daily by two elderly spinster daughters, coy as Woo, always paused to commiserate with “the poor little captive!” Children begged, “This way, please, Gran, so we can see the monkey.” Woo grimaced at them all. She loved admiration, but pretended to respond with blasé indifference.
When summer came I moved Woo into a garden shed at the back to sleep. She sat in her cherry tree all day. Her street audience were angry. They said, “Is the monkey dead?”
“No, I have moved her to the back garden for the summer.” Muttering something sour, of which I heard “selfish, greedy”, they stalked by my house, morosely glowering at Woo’s empty window.
Woo was no more than eighteen inches high when she stood upright, not twelve when she sat with her spine hooped monkey-wise. Yet this little bundle of activity wedged herself into the consciousness of the entire neighbourhood. I, twenty times her size, owner of an apartment house, payer of taxes, did not make such an imprint on my locality as my monkey did. In every house was a human not unlike me. No other house in the district had a monkey. My house was known as the “monkey house”.
Woo loved summer quarters; her sleeping-box was nailed to the shed wall. She could open and shut the door of her shed at will. She tore shingles off the roof, smashed her drinking cup through the window, undermined the foundations, ripped boards off the floor hunting for earwigs. No dog except her beloved Ginger Pop was allowed to enter her shed, no cat, no fowl whatsoever, no human being but me. My sisters tried it once—this is what happened:
I was ill, tucked in bed down at Lizzie’s house. Lizzie loved to fuss over sick people, even cheerfully accepting care of furnace, beasts, and tenants as part of your cure.
She returned from doing my evening chores. “That evil creature has ripped the woollies from her sleeping-box and she will not let me go into her shed to tack them up again! What shall I do?”
“Let her sleep cold.”
“No, Milly, no! Woo is tropical,” protested my sister. “She will surely take a chill. Oh, dear! If only the beast hadn’t such rows and rows of teeth when she is mad!”
“I’ll tackle her—Woo likes me,” boasted Alice and sailed forth armed with banana, egg, and candy.
Alice did not come back. Dark came. Lizzie was about to make a trip of investigation when Alice came in pink and riled. “Huh! A monkey’s prisoner! Never thought I would be that!”
“What happened?”
“Woo grabbed the banana—while she was eating it I went into her house. The creature shut the door on me, held it fast, making evil faces if I tried to open it. I wondered how long it would be before anyone missed me—and my children waiting for their tea, the poor little things!”
“How did you get out?”
“Candy in my pocket. I pushed the door a crack open and flung the candy wide—Woo tore—I bolted. Children hungry because of the senseless whim of a gibberer! Milly, why must you . . . .”
We all laughed. Nobody could really hate that merry creature Woo; her pranks warmed our spinster middle-aged lives.
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