In a Field of Blue

by Liviero, Gemma

  I took Samuel in my arms, my tears evaporating as I climbed up to sit beside Jerome. I think by that stage we had lost all other senses but the will to get Samuel and ourselves to safety. There was no certainty that we would even be able to leave without being stopped by Germans. Jerome kept looking up the road expecting to see Edgar, but there was no telling where he might have gone, and if he was even alive.

  We would head toward Hazebrouck, which others had said was safe, though at the time we had no way of knowing if it was still fortified by the Allies. Mira stumbled slightly as she commenced the journey, and Jerome climbed down to check her hooves while I surveyed the area, searching for Germans with guns and hoping for some magical sign to guide us to safety.

  On the horizon the sun was rising to greet the carnage of the day. I turned to take one last look behind me at the house and orchard that had been my first real home, where Helene and I had discovered a life we had once dreamed about. It was hard to leave my sister behind and wonder if she would receive a burial. I felt I was abandoning her in some way. As Jerome climbed back atop the trap, I was distracted by a figure stumbling toward us. I pulled at Jerome’s arm, and he peered in the direction I was pointing, suddenly recognizing the bundle of bloodied rags in the man’s arms.

  Jerome rushed forward, taking Helene from Edgar as he was about to fall, exhausted, covered in ash. Edgar sat down and put his face in his hands.

  “He came back,” Helene said through a weak smile as Jerome carried her to the trap. I placed Samuel in the basket in the back and helped Edgar up from the ground. I wanted to cry for joy, but the urgency of the situation allowed no time to rejoice or reminisce or discover how he found her.

  Edgar climbed up onto the seat beside Jerome while I sat alongside Helene in the back, holding her hand, with Samuel between us, squinting at the day. The trap rattled over holes in the road overused by many vehicles as we headed toward the south. Our immediate plan was to find refuge and treatment for Helene. I kept looking at her and believing in miracles. But it was no miracle. We had Edgar to thank for her return.

  Helene spoke to me, her eyes fluttering open and shut, but her words did not make sense. Her skin was like fire to touch, and she was bleeding heavily, the skirts of her garment soaked. I leaned in to hear what she was whispering.

  “We are all together.”

  “Yes,” I whispered back, and she fell into sleep despite the noise and the dips and bumps in the road.

  Edgar turned often to look at her and the road behind us. He seemed more focused and present than I had seen him previously, and he directed Jerome along a route he knew of. We reached a village where many others had also camped in crude shelters and beds, to seek refuge briefly. Local people from the village handed out mugs of water and home-baked biscuits. I was given directions to find a doctor, and I walked through the town ankle deep in mud and under a sprinkling of rain that had just begun to fall.

  I found the doctor frantically attending to others in a makeshift tent set up in a field behind a small church. I was shocked at the amount of wounded on the ground, waiting for treatment: women, children, soldiers, and the elderly. The work for one doctor was impossible. The nurse there said that there were army men on their way to help take survivors elsewhere, and they would also be bringing more food and nurses. I felt hopeful then. I told her about my sister. She said to bring Helene and the doctor would try his best to see her. She left me to continue her rounds to check the patients.

  Jerome was watching anxiously for my return, and Edgar was now in the back of the trap, one arm cradling the baby and his other hand gripping Helene’s.

  When Edgar looked up I saw the tears that had cut a pathway through the mud that caked across his face. As he raised his hand to wipe them, Helene’s hand fell away from his limply.

  “What is it?” I said, pushing past Jerome.

  Helene lay still, her eyes closed. I climbed into the trap and put my face to hers, but I could not feel her breath. Her skin was cold under my touch, and the raindrops that were falling heavily now pelted mercilessly at her face. I leaned over her protectively.

  “We have to take her to the doctor now!”

  “No,” said Jerome, standing beside the trap and reaching in to gently encircle my wrist with his large hand. I wrenched my arm away to gather my thoughts, to take in what had happened.

  I stared at my sister, who had been there since I was small, who had been my mother and my best friend. I refused to believe I had lost her. There had been too much loss already. My body trembled, and my heart ached like it had never done before. With her hand tightly in mine, I closed my eyes and prayed for her beautiful soul.

  Edgar sat cross-legged and soaked with rain, tenderly cradling the child in his arms and protecting his tiny face from the rain. I now recognized his loss, his illness, and his sacrifice amongst this wreckage that had become our lives.

  He passed Samuel to Jerome, who rocked the baby tenderly, and Edgar pulled me toward him. I sobbed into his chest. He was a victim like us, too. Not only had he lost the woman I believe he loved more than anyone, but pieces of his spirit had been left on the battlefields. I had no hate in my heart, only love then for the man who had loved my sister and who, I would come to learn, would never love another.

  RUDY

  1922

  CHAPTER 28

  It was Sally, Peggy’s niece, writing to Edgar, describing her new home and the walking parties in Canada: The silence is breathtaking! Edgar had read out to me from her letter and held up a flower she had plucked during a tour. The connection to the words in his book I felt too strong to ignore, and the confirmation of my hunch, I felt, would be waiting at the port of Le Havre.

  Sally, who had once had a brief romance with Edgar—who stole her attention away from Laurence, much to Peggy’s relief—had caught the eye of a wealthy Canadian businessman who owned property in the Lakelands, France, and other regions across the Atlantic. She and her husband had made the decision to settle permanently in Canada a year before war broke out. Edgar and Sally had remained in contact.

  Are there bears? A seemingly irrelevant and innocent question once posed by Samuel now held significance. Samuel’s fear of bears came not from the books I read, but from his experiences, I know now.

  At the port, I’ll admit, it was dishonest to hand across Roland’s business card and pass myself off as his clerk, but at this point I don’t think anyone could blame me for such harmless fraud. My story was that I sought to distribute a large amount of money to someone who had emigrated, but I needed to locate their destination. The discovery of their names would be a monumental leap closer to the gold at the end of the rainbow and would of course affirm my suspicion. It would also alleviate some of the doubts I had on the train heading toward the coast that the clues—a child’s words, a piece of poetry, and a pressed flower—were nothing more than rash hope.

  The port officer at Le Havre went in search of the manifest dated the week after the marriage certificate, but after surveying several lists, he could find no passengers with the surname of Watts. I asked him to try searching in later weeks; but again this was to no avail. I was about to leave when I thought to ask if I could search the manifest myself. The man seemed wary at first, if not mildly offended at the implication he was not capable. It was irregular to do this, he said, except in a police investigation, but he reluctantly slid the large volume of names across the counter. I think that had I asked for anything else, he might well have called his supervisor, but I fortunately did not have to take up much more of his time.

  It is difficult to put into words the excitement that ran through me as I ran my finger down the looped, tidy handwriting and recognized several names: Mariette and Jerome and Samuel Lavier on a ship bound for Southampton. The age of “Jerome,” just as I suspected, was the same age as Edgar. I had found my pot of gold, or at the very least in what vicinity it was potentially located. Edgar had used Jerome’s identity and somehow changed the age on the pap
er. Of course, a man thought to be dead could not suddenly appear alive, though it is doubtful that many of the missing soldiers would have been searched for at the port of Le Havre. Edgar had always been careful and meticulous, his workbooks so exact and painstakingly calligraphic. He would have been the same with providing falsified documents if need be.

  “Is this the ship’s only destination?” I asked the officer, who then checked his records.

  He shook his head. “That one went all the way to Halifax, Canada.”

  Excited and motivated by my discovery, I booked a hotel nearby to wait for the next ship. During that time I sent a letter to my mother to say that I still had much work to do in my search, that the process was longer than I expected, though without noting any details. I did not want to give her any more worry or hope, but neither did I wish for Laurence to learn the particulars of my quest. I did not want to provoke him, nor did I trust him. His part in some of this was still in question. Another letter was posted also, marked confidential, to Roland to advise him on the direction of my pursuits in case I was not heard of again. At least someone would know what I had found so far, should something happen to me.

  Aboard a ship days later, and with the salty breezes whipping my face, I followed Canada into an icy winter. During the weeklong journey from France, I’d had time to reflect on the mystery so far. From the clues provided, I believed there was a strong possibility that “Uncle Fabien” was alive. And from Samuel’s recognition, he was Edgar. But was he really Samuel’s father? There were other questions of a more self-doubting, personal nature. Had Edgar died and Mariette returned with the child in the hope of discovering a replacement only to find me a disappointment, a poor second to someone such as Edgar? I tried not to dwell too far from the quest at hand, to find them both, regardless of their feelings or mine, but the closer I had got to Canada’s coastline, the more nervous and skeptical I had become, and I wondered if I was simply chasing ghosts.

  From the train window onward, the great vastness of Canada threatened to swallow me up, with its stretches of remote wilderness between train stations and formidable mountain peaks that pierced through the clouds. If Edgar chose to be lost, here would be the place; the task of finding him seemed overwhelming at that point without knowing what still lay ahead of me. I clung to the thought of Sally, my starting point at least.

  I’d heard stories of an untamed landscape, of bears roaming through streets, and of deadly winter storms and avalanches, but upon arriving in Calgary, I was surprised to find the most civilized of cities. I walked along its wide streets and tidy square buildings, and like most cities it bustled orderly with business and industry. There was the oily smell of new roads, the ringing of trams, and, persistently in the background, the distant hammerings and engines from construction. Despite the streets busy with motorcars, as they were in Manchester, the sky seemed broader here, and the scent in the air was also of new beginnings. There was a diversity of passersby in various colors, backgrounds, and apparel, including several mounted police, and I heard the collective tones of several accents and languages.

  Upon inquiry the station attendant handed me a directory to look up Sally’s address; then for less than a mile, I followed the route directed, as wind and sleet whipped around my legs and the sun attempted also to burn color onto my face. I knocked on the front door of the redbrick structure, and an older lady answered.

  I gave her my name and waited just inside the entryway. It did not take long for the same woman to return to lead me into an elegantly furnished drawing room with a large window that overlooked the street. Everything was new and modern and airy, but there were elements of England everywhere: a painting of the English Lakelands, Royal Crown china, and a Union Jack that hung across the foyer wall.

  I waited, and Sally sped into the room and into my arms.

  “What on earth?” she said.

  “I’m sorry; I meant to write.” Though the real truth was that if my suspicion was right, I did not want the risk of Edgar, if indeed he did not want to be found, fleeing ahead of my arrival. I had to see her myself if I was to learn the full truth.

  “You are lucky to find me home. I have many friends here to call on for various reasons. But alas, the weather might keep everyone indoors today.”

  After the usual greeting niceties about my mother, her aunt, and childhood memories, we took our tea and sandwiches in the drawing room. She had grown even more handsome than I remembered. She had a sweet oval face and a splattering of ginger freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her strawberry-gold hair was clasped on one side and hung thickly over one shoulder. She wore a fashionable dress, above the ankles but only slightly shorter than I’d seen her wear before as a young girl, and I noticed a hat and coat on the stand behind her that matched.

  “Robert is currently in Europe on business. You must have passed him on the way.”

  She laughed at her own joke but seemed a little nervous also, and very talkative. She told me about her husband, about his brief stint in the navy before turning his head to commercial property development and the opportunities in Alberta that seemed limitless if one, like he, had money. Sally had grown up mostly remote from city life, and had not taken to London, but she had relished the idea of starting a new life in Canada, as well as learning her new task of bookkeeping.

  For the whole time I was there, Sally talked constantly, in fact so much so I felt it strange that she had not yet asked why I had arrived.

  “It is wonderful to see you, but I am not just here for a friendly visit,” I said, interrupting her. “There is much more to it, I’m afraid.”

  She viewed me thoughtfully then, her mouth partly open, as she waited for something she knew was coming.

  “I’m looking for my brother.”

  She frowned a little and gripped tightly her fingers in her lap.

  “I’m not sure who you mean. Laurence was living in London last I heard. Edgar is missing in France. I was so sorry to learn that . . .”

  Sally was always quite innocent, no more so than she was then, failing to sound convincing.

  “Sally . . .”

  She stood up suddenly and walked across the room toward the window, her back to me.

  “I told him you would search. I told him that to leave people without answers is probably the worst thing, worse than the news of death, but he . . .”

  My heart beat fast, and I felt a rush of blood to my head. I stood up, unable to sit still from the excitement I felt and a jumble of questions that threatened to burst out all at once. I walked close to her. Color had risen in her cheeks, and though teary, she also appeared relieved, her hands no longer gripping tensely, the weight of this knowledge now passed on to me.

  I caught her gently by the shoulders and looked deeply into her tear-filled eyes before she dropped her head with shame.

  “I’m sorry, but he made us promise, and when he explained his reasons . . . we couldn’t.”

  I would come to learn those reasons, but the news alone that he had traveled here, that he was alive, was enough for that very moment.

  I pulled her toward me, and she sobbed, and I wanted to yell and rejoice and scream across the Atlantic to let my mother know. I held her for a time, and then she pulled away and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief I produced, and we sat down again.

  It was then she told me things, and I listened, absorbing every nuance, looking for pieces of the story that required scrutiny, examining her every word.

  She said that Edgar arrived, just like I had, unannounced, with his wife, Mariette, and young baby. Sally’s husband, Robert, was home at the time. Edgar had deserted the army; that description cut me deeply because it was at odds with the person I had grown up with. I had never seen Edgar fear or fail at anything, and it was a difficult scene to try and picture. Edgar, it seems, had let the army think he was dead, but according to Sally, he had also believed the war would never end.

  “Why did he come to you?”

  “He tru
sted me and needed my help. We were old friends, as you know. He wanted a reference for work, information, and they needed money, too, for a fresh start. And I can tell you that they paid every cent back. He sent money as soon as he was able.

  “Robert was reluctant to help him at first. My husband wanted him to return, do the honorable thing, hand himself in to the military authorities, but after we had spent some time with him, we realized that he had suffered enough. Even Robert, big, opinionated Robert, if you remember him well, was quite full of pity.”

  She looked at me as if she wanted to say something else or expected a question at this point.

  “They stayed here for a fortnight. I helped the young woman with the baby, even gave them an engraved silver spoon for Samuel. Such a sweet wee baby! Robert tried to find them a place to live and somewhere to work. Edgar was adamant that he did not want to be around people, and it became clear why.”

  “How so?”

  “I will get to that in a moment. Robert was telling him that he knew of some government land grants being offered up north to immigrants. And then one night they just vanished.”

  Yet again, I felt a sense of loss, but more like abandonment this time, knowing that he had not died, that he had willingly left me behind.

  Sally could see the shift in my mood.

  “He is here somewhere. Of that I’m sure.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”