The Stone Frigate

by Kate Armstrong

  In March, deep snow was piled high all around the campus. During a rare spare in my schedule, I left Massey Library and leaned my body into the biting wind, intent on getting back to the Frigate for a forty-five-minute nap. I wore my greatcoat — a full-length, double-breasted winter coat — over my battle blouse tunic. The flaps on my cadet astrakhan faux-fur hat covered my ears. Navigating the uneven, icy path, I looked up and saw Jane Quigley approaching me, still on charge, running gingerly on the slippery surface.

  “Jane!” I called out. She stopped at attention and stared ahead. I rushed over to her, grateful that the wind was coming off the lake into my face, not hers. “I have no right to ask, but could we talk inside for a moment.”

  “I prefer not,” she said, eyes front.

  “Please?” I asked. “Just one minute.”

  Inside the library foyer, we walked silently straight into the women’s washroom.

  “Jane,” I said, her name catching in my throat as she looked me in the eyes. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to speak alone.”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She laughed derisively. “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise. I’m sure you know the whole story by now.”

  “Yeah, Geoff told me,” she said. “So, I gave you revenge?”

  “I wanted things to be fair. I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I needed to say it to your face. I’m so sorry.”

  “So, would you do it again?”

  Her question caught me off guard. After a split second, I nodded. “I would. I did it because I couldn’t live with the hypocrisy and unfairness. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out for yourself.”

  “Jane, I can’t take it back. You were innocent in it.”

  “Funny that you say it like that,” she said wearily. “Because I’m not innocent, am I? I did it. I knew the rules. We could have waited. I could have kept my secret to myself. You didn’t make up the story.”

  “He shouldn’t have started up with you. You were off limits.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I wish I never told you. But it could’ve been worse. We could have been caught. At least this way, he saved face.”

  “Every single cadet makes choices and does things around here that are against the rules. It’s a matter of who gets caught and who gets punished. I’ve been punished so often that I hate myself for being a part of your being caught and punished.” My minute was running out. “How many days do you have left?”

  “A few more days. I’ll finish out this year and then decide if I’ll quit,” she said.

  “Jane, I wish the best for you. I’m glad I had the chance to say sorry.”

  “I should get going.”

  “Me too,” I said, standing awkwardly, not knowing how to end it. She pulled off her glove and I shook her cool hand. “Don’t laugh, but if there is anything I can ever do to make this up to you, please let me know.”

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  That night I had a visit from Penny Miller. She was enraged and wanted to know if I was going to turn her in for sleeping in the Frigate with Nigel. We argued.

  “What are you really doing here?” I asked. I stood up and turned to her with my fists clenched at my sides.

  “I want you to know that I know. People know you’re a hypocrite for turning them in.”

  “No. Hypocrite’s your forte,” I said. “You live here common-law and pretend to be following the rules.”

  “I’m not pretending anything. You’re the one who invited a first year here and tricked her into telling her secrets so that you could punish Geoff for what he did to you and Jake!” she said, raising her voice.

  “Oh my god. How could I trick someone into telling me a secret that I didn’t know about?”

  “Well, then, what really happened?”

  I opened my mouth and clapped it shut. “Just go.” I pulled the door open.

  “Not before —”

  “Out.” I pointed out the door. She glared at me and spun on her heel. I closed the door behind her, turned out the lights, and lay down.

  Soon another knock sounded on my door. I didn’t answer. The door opened a crack and Richie poked his face in, his body backlit by the hall lights.

  “I’m here, Holbrook,” I said, my voice hoarse. Meg and Richie came in.

  “Watch your eyes,” said Meg. I squinted as she flicked on the lights.

  “You have balls, Armstrong. I’ll give you that,” Richie said. I stared at him, my stomach in knots. “Shit, girl. No wonder you’ve been acting so weird.”

  “Are we still friends?” I fought the tears spilling over my lower lids.

  Meg stepped closer. “We’ve just heard the rumours and came to let you know —”

  Richie cut her off. “You’re my friend right now, but if you don’t start spilling your guts and bring us up to speed with what the hell happened, you’re getting your ass kicked.”

  “I’ll make tea,” Meg offered.

  “Fuck the tea. Start talking, Armstrong,” Richie said, throwing himself down on the foot of my bed.

  35

  POSTER CHILD

  A period of unhappiness began. I wasn’t seeing Jake at all — we were still taking a break. I felt exposed, not knowing who knew the role I’d played in the Hampstead debacle. I poured my anxious energy into hitting the books. In May, Adam and I stood together in front of the year-end marks posted on the notice board in Mackenzie Building.

  “How can we be tied for first place with a seventy percent overall average? This place is nuts,” I said.

  “Who cares? First is first. My marks won’t matter. I’m going to fly helicopters for a living.” Adam grinned.

  “I should have gone pilot when I had the chance,” I said.

  Things were going well on the pilot trial for women; sixteen of the first twenty-five women had passed training and were being posted for two-year flying assignments in squadrons to complete the final phase of the assessment.

  A few days later, Adam, Richie, and I sauntered back to the same notice boards in Mackenzie Building. Our fourth-year bar slate positions were posted. The fall-term bar slate was the most competitive and representative of each cadet’s status and standing within the class. The squadron appointments were self-contained, a competition amongst squadron peers, based on performance reviews and academic, military, and athletic accomplishments. The wing appointments drew from the entire class.

  I didn’t have high hopes. I’d be lucky to get two bars.

  I was shocked to read my name and see a three-bar position listed beside it: aide-de-camp to the commandant. Richie and Adam were already hugging and backslapping beside me. We all had three-bar positions. Meg did, as well. She would be the deputy cadet squadron leader. That was a feather in her cap.

  “Holy shit! Can you believe it?” Richie said to Adam. “I’m the fucking recruit flight CFL and you’re going to be the CSTO.”

  “We are going to terrorize some rooks!” Adam yelled. I laughed watching Adam flex his muscles like some kind of tough guy — he was the nicest guy ever. I had a feeling the job of cadet squadron training officer might terrorize him more than he would terrorize the recruits.

  “I’m going to choose the best rook flight wake-up song ever!” exclaimed Richie.

  “Congratulations, guys,” I said.

  “Oh yeah? How about you as Aide-de-Camp Armstrong,” Richie said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah! You little shit,” Adam piped in.

  “I know. Trust me, no one is more surprised than me.”

  “The key to success, Armstrong-style,” Richie joked, “is to get into so much trouble that you meet the commandant, almost get kicked out, and end up working for him in one of the plummest jobs in the wing.” He added, “Oh, did I mention that he created the job
for her?”

  “I doubt that!” I said. It was true that the cadet aide-de-camp bar position was brand new starting next year. It may have existed in the past, but not within recent memory. General Pratt had a full-time regular-force captain as his official ADC.

  That night we went to Bill and Alfie’s pub for celebratory drinks. While we waited for the others to arrive, Richie and I were rehashing the fall term bar slate.

  “So, I’m curious. What do you think about Penny Miller being the only woman to get four bars?” Richie said, taking a sip of his beer.

  “She’s always been lucky?”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “How prestigious is it to manage the yearbook?” I laughed.

  “Four bars are four bars. She got the nod from the establishment.”

  “I guess, as far as they were giving the nod. None of the senior leadership roles in the wing went to women,” I said. With a start that made Richie jump, I slapped myself on the side of the head. “Whoa! You just made me realize! She’s a poster child. Truth. Duty. Valour.”

  “Don’t get caught,” he chimed in.

  “Exactly. Don’t cause trouble. Pretend that everything is fine. Don’t complain. Don’t be a threat. Work hard. Stay under the radar. She played the game. She kept quiet, didn’t speak out, didn’t draw attention to herself. She was rewarded for that. It’s a totally different set of rules than for you guys.”

  “She is the opposite of you. You pushed back, spoke up, played basketball with the boys. It’s not like you wanted to be controversial — you just couldn’t help it,” he said, laughing.

  “How am I so controversial?”

  “Well … let’s just say that I’ve seen the history book on the suffragettes openly displayed on your bookshelf.”

  “I’m not a feminist.” In that moment, I believed this to be true.

  “I know. Don’t worry,” he said.

  The graduation parade for the Class of 1983, the last class with balls, dragged on into a third hour. There were extensive awards, both academic and military, and lengthy speeches by dignitary guests, reviewing officers, and college administration. Only the presentation of the top awards remained, and then it would finally be over. The LCWB would be outta here.

  “The Victor van der Smissen–Ridout Memorial Award,” droned the master of ceremonies through the loudspeakers, “is awarded to the graduating cadet deemed to represent the highest moral, intellectual, and physical standards of a cadet at the Royal Military College of Canada. This award is especially prestigious because the recipient is determined by a secret ballot of all cadets.

  “This year’s Victor van der Smissen–Ridout Award is presented to … Fourth Year Geoff Hampstead of Seven Squadron. Fourth Year Geoff Hampstead has morally demonstrated the depths of his values this year with his public display of personal integrity, intellectually he has achieved academic excellence, and physically he led the RMC hockey team in a victorious season as goalie. Congratulations!”

  General Pratt beamed as he shook Geoff’s hand for the photo. My knees wobbled in disbelief.

  At Jake’s graduation ball, I groaned and looked out over the sea of people dressed in black tie — military mess kits, tuxedoes, ball gowns, and scarlet uniforms — for the occasion.

  “Let it go,” Jake said, and gave me an extra twirl in his arms that lifted my feet slightly off the dance floor. We had reconciled earlier in the spring and I felt more in love with him than ever. “I think you’re beautiful. That’s all that matters.”

  “I would give anything to be wearing a ball gown and have my hair done in an updo tonight,” I sighed. “But all that matters is that you’re happy.”

  “I’m having a blast,” he confirmed, as he squeezed me closer. “Okay, don’t look. Geoff and Jane are behind us. I’ll turn you. Don’t make it obvious that you’re looking.” He swung me around. “Okay, look now.”

  Geoff and Jane were dancing together. Jane was stunningly beautiful in a black ball gown, her dark hair rolled into a chignon.

  “What the —” I sputtered. Jake squeezed me tighter against him and steered me back into the flow of the dance away from them.

  “She quit,” Jake said.

  “She did? When?”

  “Sometime since exams. They’re engaged and getting married later in the fall.”

  “Oh Jesus,” I said. “I hope that’s what she really wants.”

  “She seems happy enough to me. They’re the prince and princess of the ball.”

  “They get the happy ending, and next year I’ll be living here without you.” I sighed into his ear as the music stopped.

  “I have news. I was going to wait, but now seems like a good time. My dad’s been helping me look and I’ve landed a job as an engineer with the Urban Transportation Development Corporation, right here in Kingston. They’re building a rapid transit system called the SkyTrain for the Vancouver Expo in the summer of 1986. I’m not leaving town!”

  I yelped. We kissed in public for the first time. We waltzed off the edge of the dance floor to rejoin his parents.

  “I see you’ve broken the news,” said his dad.

  I lunged at him and hugged him tight in his chair. “Thank you,” I said and kissed his cheek.

  At dawn, the end of an era was marked at sunrise on the parade square. I stood bleary eyed beside Jake and his parents on the red bleachers and smiled on command for the traditional graduating class sunrise photo of all the graduates and guests who had stayed up all night at the grad party. The last class with balls experienced their final moment as gentleman cadets. The Royal Military College of Canada was now an entirely coed institution.

  The sun rose on a new day at the college.

  36

  REALITY CHECK

  During summer leave back in Abbotsford, my mother and I wore kid gloves with each other, but after prolonged time together, cracks started to show. Even though we had never had another conversation about my abuse since I had initially told her when I was nine, I understood now that my brother Robert had emigrated to Australia to get away from me and the potential consequences, and that my mother still blamed me. I blamed myself, too. But that didn’t stop me from being angry with her for all the other stuff.

  “Why do you constantly have to call it camp?” I snapped.

  “Well, it’s confusing. You’re still called a cadet, so what do I know?”

  “Is it so hard to remember to say RMC? It’s just RMC. That’s it.”

  “Robert was invited to attend Royal Roads, you know. He even went to Victoria one weekend to visit and they offered him a scholarship. But he decided it wasn’t for him. Anyhow, he was getting straight As at UBC until he left. Such a shame he didn’t finish.”

  “Yes, Mom, I know.” I’m on a scholarship, too. Not to mention that I’ll be the first person in our family to graduate from university.

  Near the end of the two-week visit, sitting alone with my mother on the back deck having pink lemonade in a moment of ceasefire, I took a risk and told her how excited I was about becoming aide-de-camp to General Pratt.

  “Why would he choose you?” she said, swirling the ice cubes in her glass.

  “He likes me?” I felt the punch in my gut. Wasn’t she pleased that I had distinguished myself and achieved something? I was a pioneer helping to lead women into the new world.

  “How did you meet him? Does he even know you?”

  “Oh, what’s the point?” I said indignantly and stood up.

  My mother looked up at me and smiled. Her eyes were icy hard, without a hint of warmness. “Here now, sit down, there’s no reason to give up trying to do well,” she admonished. “My job as a mother is to make sure you don’t get too big for your britches, that’s all. No one likes a gloater.”

  I stood there humiliated. I wanted her approval and she knew it. She was never going to give it.

  “Well, congratulations, you’re getting an A in motherhood.”

  “There’s no need to be rude abo
ut it,” she snapped.

  “There’s no need to get angry about it,” I snapped back.

  “If anyone’s an angry person, it’s you,” she spat.

  “Do you think it’s genetic?” I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of my mother’s rage. I tossed the remains of my drink on the lawn and went inside.

  Jake picked me up at the Ottawa airport. On the way to Kingston, I told him about my fights with my mother. He listened and didn’t say much.

  “Since you’re already in a bad mood, this is probably a good time to take a look at the yearbook — it’s on the back seat — and check out Brian Floyd.”

  I opened the book. “What a slimeball. Even his graduation photo looks evil, like a vampire.”

  “Read it out loud,” Jake said. I started reading and soon came to the offensive part:

  Always a strict military man who would rather die than be out of step, Brian entered his fourth year in fine style. He seemed to develop a strange fetish about the smell of fish. Some say he could sniff it out from behind closed doors. Brian was team captain of the RMC rugby club and personified all that was clean and courteous about the game. He was a true gentleman in almost every sense of the word except for being a belligerent chauvinist.

  “Sick, eh?” Jake said. “He’s fucking proud of being misogynist.”

  “Fuck him. Let’s talk about happy stuff. Tell me more about your new job and the apartment. I can’t wait to see it.” I tossed the yearbook in the back seat.

  Jake’s apartment building was a three-storey walk-up built in the 1950s. “Oh my god. This place is adorable,” I exclaimed as I stood in the doorway. He had decorated it as a bachelor pad, right down to the coffee table he’d made with a piece of glass set over two large empty wire spools.

  He scooped me up and carried me right into the bedroom. “King-sized waterbed inspired by a visit to your sister,” he said, dropping me down onto it.

  37

  TIGERS

  Fourth Year. I woke up on the first morning back in my room, directly above the recruit hallway, at 05:30 hours to “Every Breath You Take” by The Police. I held my pillow over my head. It went on forever. It was so loud I could feel the vibration of the speakers. I was going to kill Holbrook. This is not the best recruit flight song ever, Richie.