The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  26

  SECOND CHANCES

  Truth, duty, valour. Don’t get caught. I avoided the limelight with new fervour. The idea of Blackwood storming around town looking for me had frightened me. I couldn’t trust the system and I had been naive to think that rules were applied objectively.

  In an effort to stay out of harm’s way, I re-created my room as a local tea emporium. One of the first-year guys lent me a teal and yellow windsurfer sail to tie to my ceiling pipes, and I added throw pillows in the bay windows and a few potted ferns. It worked. I had a lot of visitors, mostly the first-year women but also a few men.

  Penny Miller, my classmate from Eight Squadron, was my most frequent visitor. Penny was thin and walked with her hips forward like a supermodel, but on her the overall effect was more like an old woman walking into a strong wind. I looked up to her, and more than once someone suggested, “If you could be more ladylike, like Penny, you’d be more attractive and in less trouble all the time.” But I couldn’t. We were opposite in nearly every way and, outside of RMC, would have been unlikely friends. At first I found it curious that she was willing to come all the way over to the Frigate to study with me, but once she admitted her crush on Nigel Maxwell, it made more sense. When they started to date, I saw less of Penny, and I saw more of Meg again after she broke up with Richie.

  Christmas exams came and went and I passed everything, but my academic performance remained unremarkable, even though I was studying commerce this year. I couldn’t seem to shake my academic entropy and eagerly left my books lying open unattended whenever someone stopped by to visit. I told myself that I’d do some serious studying later, a time that never came.

  In the new year, Blackwood became the cadet wing training officer and moved across the square to live in Wing HQ. He seemed to lose interest, or perhaps opportunity, in making me miserable. I was assigned a new room facing Navy Bay, and college life settled into a near peace.

  A message came down from Norwalk that I was scheduled to travel to NDHQ in Ottawa on Saturday, January 23, for a photo shoot. I’d been chosen as the female cadet to model every uniform combination for the RMC clothing stores catalogue.

  I felt a flash of pride at being chosen, which was quickly dashed in the next section of the travel order. The male model, and my travel companion, would be Third Year Louis Arsenault. Only Blackwood would have been worse.

  We took an early morning staff car to Ottawa, complete with a driver, all our uniforms and accoutrements loading down the trunk. I didn’t make any social effort toward Arsenault, which he reciprocated. We spoke barely ten words the whole way.

  The seemingly endless combinations of uniform were captured on film by four thirty. I watched Arsenault interact amicably with the photographer and found myself liking him a bit better despite my determination to hate him. A few times, I stopped myself just in time from speaking to him. When we arrived back in Kingston later that evening, there was a new easiness to our mutual silence.

  “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he said in parting.

  “Same here.”

  “Well, good night, Kate.”

  “Night,” I said, feeling off-kilter at his display of near friendliness.

  On March 2, I sat down for dinner at a table with three guys in third year. They chatted and laughed together congenially.

  One of the guys caught my eye, stuck out his hand, and said, “Excuse me. My name’s Bud Dalton. Would you mind sharing your opinion with us?”

  “Sure. I always seem to have one.” I smiled and shook his hand, introducing myself.

  “Well, Jake here,” Bud said, poking a guy from Seven Squadron, “is turning twenty tomorrow. He won’t go out to celebrate because it’s a school night. What do you think?”

  “Well, I’d say that if I was allowed to go out on a weeknight, I would go. Especially for my birthday,” I said. It was a third-year privilege to sign out during the week and miss study hours.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Bud.

  The good-looking guy, soon to be the birthday boy, rolled his eyes and laughed. I was struck by his huge smile and sexy gap-toothed grin. “I’m Jake Tatham, the stick in the mud. This is Jimmy Tolbert.” He thumbed at the other friend. “So? First class of women, eh? How’s that been for you?”

  “More fun than the brochure said,” I deadpanned. They surprised me with their warm laughter. They were new to RMC this year from Royal Roads Military College in Victoria.

  “I gotta admit, I like having you girls here,” said Jake. “Makes it feel more like regular university.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch,” I teased.

  “I’m just glad that I didn’t end up in the Frigate.” He pointed at my navy-blue second-year shoulder patch.

  “To tell the truth, I love living in the Frigate.”

  They guffawed. “Come on!” Jimmy roared. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “Have you even been there?”

  They all shook their head. “Nope,” said Jake. “I guess we haven’t.”

  “Come check it out sometime,” I said, smiling directly at Jake.

  At lunch the next day, I scanned the Seven Squadron tables for Jake and spotted him on the other side of the dining hall. After announcements, I said to Richie, “See you in class.” When I reached Jake, he was headed for the exit and I squeezed his elbow.

  “Happy birthday,” I said. I gave him a big smile when he turned around, and then I reversed my course back across the dining hall to my normal exit.

  At lunch about a week later, Richie stared at me. “What the fuck is going on with you?” he demanded.

  I tried to look baffled. “What are you talking about, Holbrook?”

  He took a big mouthful, looked up, elbow on the table, and shook his fork at me. “Something is up. I’m gonna figure it out,” he said through the food in his mouth.

  “If only Mr. Theroux could see you now.” I smiled and wagged my head.

  He shrugged and chewed while he scanned the dining hall. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Eat your chicken,” I replied.

  A week later, an unfamiliar knock sounded on my door, and I called out casually to come in.

  The door opened slowly and Jake stood there. I leapt up, pulled him in, and shut the door behind him. He stood rigidly to one side, frozen in place with a startled look on his face and hands raised in the international sign of surrender.

  “Sorry! There’s a backstory. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said cheerfully. I took a breath and waited to see what he’d say.

  “I … I thought I’d take you up on your invitation to come check out the Frigate. Hope I didn’t come at a bad time.” I shook my head and his shoulders relaxed. “Is it okay if I stay for tea?” he asked.

  “More than okay.” My hands trembled as I poured.

  Three weeks after I’d fallen in love with Jake, we lay on crisp sheets in a hotel room in Kingston, naked and spooning. He was treating me to an overnight away for my birthday. It was our first time being alone together — and naked.

  “What are you thinking about? I can hear your mind racing,” Jake whispered as he nuzzled into my neck.

  “I finally feel like a grown-up,” I said. My mind flashed to one year before, when I was in Eddie Byrne’s room celebrating my nineteenth birthday.

  “What else are you thinking?” Jake asked.

  “Now that we’ve been together, I’m wondering how we’ll last at the college without being allowed to touch. And I’m wondering when I get to be naked with you again.” We had already agreed to never have sex on the college grounds; it would be too dangerous.

  “You’re naked with me now,” he said.

  “It’s just that I can already feel how hard it’ll be to leave here.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The waiting will make our time together like this all the more delicious. And in the meantime, we can just mingle.”

  “Mingle?”

>   “Combine or bring together two things. Mingle. Not technically sex. Mingling. Second-best option. I don’t believe there is a rule at the college against mingling.”

  I rolled over and looked into his eyes. We kissed again.

  “Does this fit the definition of mingling?” I asked.

  “Not quite.”

  We made love again.

  On April Fool’s Day, Jake invited me to join him for Easter with his family in Streetsville. I bounced on the balls of my feet and said, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “April Fools,” he said. I crash-landed my last jump and my face fell.

  “Really?” I said.

  “April Fools,” he said again, slapping his knee.

  “Crap, Jake. Which is it?” I snapped angrily. “Am I invited or not?”

  “Whoa. Yes, you’re invited. I see you’re taking this very seriously.” He dwarfed me in a bear hug.

  For the first time in two years, I was going home to be with a family for a holiday weekend. Once our plans were set, I wondered why nobody commented on the lightness of my step or noticed my good-natured enjoyment of the littlest things in life.

  I instantly loved Jake’s parents and his three younger brothers. For the weekend, I was set up in a basement room with a cot, right next door to Jake’s old room, which he had shared with his next younger brother and was sharing again for the weekend. Jake came to visit me each night and we slept together on the floor, wrapped in a quilt made by his grandmother. He would get up before dawn and go back to his own bed.

  By the time we drove back to Kingston on Monday afternoon, I was sure that Jake was my guy. He was so attractive to me, and funny and creative and interesting. The rest of my life had finally begun; I’d found true love at the perfect age and my place in the family of my dreams. I pictured myself as Kate Tatham, having children with Jake, spending summers at the family cottage on the Lake of Bays, and creating a lifetime of rapturous photo albums together.

  Just six more years of my military officer career stood between us and wedded bliss. Jake was attending RMC as a Reserve Entry Training Plan cadet. This meant that he had paid his own way to attend the college and had no military commitment after graduation. I wasn’t sure yet how that would complicate our future lives.

  27

  BILL AND ALFIE’S

  Late in April, I whirled into a tailspin of panic. I barged into Richie’s room after dinner one night and he flew out of his chair, knocking a pile of books to the floor.

  “What the fuck?” he protested. “You’re lucky I’m not naked.”

  “Oh my god. You study naked?”

  “No, but I could’ve been.” We squared off, hands on our hips, staring at each other. “Besides, who the fuck are you? And what do you want?”

  “Touché. I haven’t been around much but I’m ready to change all that. Have you been to the library to look at old exams yet?” I asked.

  “No. We still have two weeks until exams, so calm down,” he replied as he squatted to gather up his books.

  “Come with me to the library tomorrow after class and make copies of the old exams? We could study together.”

  “Oh, so now we’re buddies again? I haven’t seen you outside of class in months and now you need me.” He scowled.

  “It’s true. I haven’t been on charge this term.” We both laughed. I flopped onto my knees in front of him, hands clasped together beseechingly. He struggled to keep a stern look on his face.

  “Can you forgive me?” I said. “I fell in love. I seem to remember a certain time last year when I lost my two best friends in one fell swoop to the same disease.”

  “Touché,” he said. He extended his hand and pulled us both to our feet. “Why wait until tomorrow? Let’s go now.”

  Soon we were in the library ransacking old exam binders. My briefcase was brimming by the time I lugged it back to the Frigate.

  Next evening, Richie threw another old exam onto the growing stack on the floor. “Holy shit. I was hoping to find a bunch of common questions that we could solve and memorize, but there are no common questions. Even worse, I don’t know most of these answers. I’m screwed.”

  “Let’s go to the pub,” I said.

  “Hell, yeah. Drink tonight. Tomorrow we start serious studies.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s Thursday. If we hurry, we can catch the end of Hill Street Blues.”

  We ran to Bill and Alfie’s, the college hole-in-the-wall pub out back of the New Gym, and caught our breath at the bar. Richie turned to me. “Thirty-five minutes until closing. I say … four beers each?” He waved to catch the attention of the bartender without waiting for my answer.

  After closing, we half staggered and half jogged our way home, laughing loudly. Richie stopped dead in his tracks and hollered “Hey!” at the clock tower, and Hey hey echoed back at us. We galumphed up the Frigate stairs and into my room. We were still laughing when someone knocked on my door. I opened it with a flourish.

  “Hullo!” I said to Mr. Harbottle. He was a serious sort of cadet, with a great deal of confidence in his future success as an officer. For the moment, he was the second-slate cadet squadron training officer of the Frigate. For some reason, Blackwood stood next to him.

  “Miss Armstrong,” said Mr. Harbottle, “you’re being inappropriately loud. It’s after lights out. Other people are trying to sleep. You were making too much noise in the hallway and in your room just now. Keep it down.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Richie. He had made himself at home on my bed, stocky legs straight out in front of him and back against the wall. He had a blank look on his face. I turned back to Mr. Harbottle.

  “Oh, fuck off,” I said. “You make noise. I’ve heard you.” I slammed the door in the face of the CSTO and burst out laughing. Seeing that Richie was silent and suddenly white, I opened the door again. Harbottle and Blackwood were still standing there.

  “Step aside, Miss Armstrong,” said Harbottle, and they strode into my room. “I consider your behaviour gross misconduct and unofficer-like. You’re drunk, Miss Armstrong, and will face charges. Mr. Blackwood will act as my witness.” Blackwood stood his ground, silent and poker-faced. “Your CSC will provide further direction in regard to this matter. Good evening.” Then they were gone.

  “Out of the frying pan, into the fire,” I said and plunked myself down in my chair. Richie had not so much as flinched during the entire interaction. “Hey, how come you’re not in trouble?”

  He shrugged. “You kinda stole the show.”

  In the cadet wing commander’s suite a few days later, CWC Fleming, my adjudicator this time, asked, “How many beers did you drink?”

  “Four, Mr. Fleming.”

  “In what amount of time?”

  “About thirty-five minutes, Mr. Fleming.”

  He suppressed a smile and wrote some notes. This will be my last breach parade, ever.

  Mr. Fleming looked up. “Miss Armstrong, I hope you appreciate the severity of your situation. This is no laughing matter,” he said firmly but kindly. “You’re standing here today to answer charges of lack of proper respect for a senior cadet, unofficer-like conduct, and drunk and disorderly.”

  Just tell me my sentence and get me out of here.

  “I find you guilty of lack of proper respect for a senior cadet and unofficer-like conduct. I find you not guilty of being drunk and disorderly. Understand, Miss Armstrong, that if I had found you guilty of the last charge, you would be sent to a residential alcohol rehabilitation centre treatment program. That is a career incident, which would remain on your service record beyond RMC.” He paused again and held my gaze.

  I gasped and heard Holbrook suck in his breath as well. I did not know that.

  “I don’t believe that kind of mar on your career is necessary, under the circumstances. Do you agree with that assessment?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Fleming,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

  Ten days.

  My days on charge were to be served duri
ng Drill Fest, the two weeks of college life considered by some to be the best days of the year, immediately following exam routine. Richie and I walked back to the Frigate together.

  “Close call,” said Richie.

  “No kidding. Can you imagine? I don’t need treatment.” I looked over at Richie. “Do I?”

  We both laughed.

  “I gotta say,” Richie mused, “what impresses me about me is my ability to have all the fun and dodge the bullet every single time. Besides your telling Harbottle to fuck off, I was a worse actor than you that night.”

  “Do you ever have survivor’s remorse?” I asked.

  “Not so far,” he replied. I punched him on the arm.

  The rest of the term passed uneventfully. By some miracle, I was able to avoid any further contact with Blackwood. I wrote and passed all my exams. I served my ten days on charge during Drill Fest, with a few days to spare before the parade to join in some of the fun. Everyone else had been free to spend nights in town, with exams done and no other responsibilities except daily grad parade practice, for the entire two weeks. Soon enough, I was on my way to CFB Borden for my first phase of logistic officer training, happy that Jake was taking his summer phase training in Borden as well. Blackwood had graduated and disappeared without a trace. Never to be seen again. His departure made my anticipation of a summer full of visits to Lake of Bays and my future life at RMC all that much sweeter.

  28

  BAN THE SWEATS

  Third Year. “Running with the Devil” by Van Halen blared through my dreams. I lurched up in bed. It was all starting again.

  I’m getting earplugs this year.

  Cleared in and with leave pass approved for the Labour Day weekend, I set out with Jake early on Friday afternoon for one last weekend at his family cottage on Lake of Bays north of Toronto. We had spent the summer together at CFB Borden completing logistics officer classification phase training and rushing up to the cottage nearly every weekend. We were more in love than ever.