Very quickly, college life returned to its normal frenzied state. The recruits were being terrorized by Richie and Adam, the rest of the wing had returned, and our academic year — the grind of classes, studying, and exams — had begun.
The commandant’s garden party took place in the second week of September. The weather was perfect and the garden was in full bloom. Most of the men attending were in uniform, and the women wore elaborate hats and flowing dresses.
My role was simple: be personable, ensure people were having a good time, fill in the gaps by engaging in conversation with anyone who seemed uncomfortable or out of place, and above all else, anticipate any needs that General Pratt might have during the party, including ensuring that his drink was topped up. I couldn’t believe my luck and was looking forward to my role as the general’s aide-de-camp throughout the coming year.
One evening, I was invited to a family dinner with General and Mrs. Pratt and their two sons, who attended civilian universities, in their home, the commandant’s residence. The general handed me a glass of white wine to sip while he finished making dinner with his wife, Martha.
We dined formally, eating rack of lamb and roast vegetables off fine china, using silver flatware, with monogrammed linen napkins in our laps. This is how I want my home life to be.
“So, Kate. How do you feel about attending an RCR mess dinner with me in Ottawa next week?” General Pratt asked. The Royal Canadian Regiment is the senior infantry regiment in the Canadian Army, and the general was considered its de facto godfather.
“I would be honoured, sir.”
“I think it’s time to try and win over some of the strong opponents of lady cadets at the college,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Martha placed her silverware on the edge of her plate. “You are not possibly taking Kate into that den of vipers alone!” Both of her sons laughed.
“She won’t be alone. She’ll be at the head table with me. Bob Bennett invited me to be the guest speaker. I made my acceptance conditional on bringing one of my ADCs to be hosted personally by him,” he said with a grin.
“Howell!” she said. “I thought you liked Kate? Bob is top curmudgeon in the dinosaur league against women cadets.”
“Well, then, I’ll beg your indulgence to take a run at him with my most valuable asset,” he said, looking steadily at me. “Miss Armstrong, if anyone can sway his opinion, it’s you. Are you game to give it a shot?”
“Yes, sir, of course. Although, I honestly don’t understand what I could possibly say or do to convince him.”
“I know General Bennett. I know you. Just be yourself.”
“My ceaselessly frustrating self, sir?” I asked.
“If you’re talking about nearly being late for parade practice because your haircut took longer than expected, no, don’t be that self. Be your charming, witty, somewhat brash self. General Bennett is always quoting the closing lines from Colonel Nicholson’s 1973 article ‘Where Have All the Tigers Gone?’ It reads, ‘Please, let us accept, cherish and develop, along with the nice, manageable pussycats, at least a few TIGERS.’ I’m going to give him a chance to put his money where his mouth is. You have earned your place as a tiger cub.”
The mess dinner took place in Ottawa the following Friday night. I was prepared for a gruff reception, but General Bob Bennett was very charming.
“So, how did you first meet General Pratt?” he asked while the salad course was being served.
“Honestly, sir, I got into so much trouble last year that I was almost kicked out. I met General Pratt one step from the curb,” I said, trying to impress him with my forthrightness and not really thinking it through.
“What did you do?” he asked, shifting toward me expectantly.
I cringed. “I prefer not to say, sir.”
“Well, you must have done something right for him to turn around and make you his ADC,” he said, graciously letting me off the hook. “What’s been the hardest part about being a female cadet?”
I paused and looked at him for a moment. He raised his eyebrows. “Damn the torpedoes, sir?” I asked.
“Damn the torpedoes.” He nodded.
“It’s been the attitude of the guys. I’ve managed to make it through the college curriculum well enough, but the guys have made it really tough. It’s like they gave me all the rules, made me train hard for game day, and then benched me for the season.”
“Sounds frustrating.”
“Kind of. But other than that, it’s been good, sir.”
He broke into a raucous laugh, loud enough to turn heads. General Pratt looked my way and smiled.
“Still, there must be some advantages to being a woman at RMC?” General Bennett asked.
“Well, I can think of one,” I said. “I can spin my skirt around and remove the fraust off the back of my uniform without needing to ask for help like the guys wearing pants.”
He laughed again. “Why do I get the feeling that a hundred years from now men will be standing in the kitchen wearing aprons and asking, ‘How did we ever let ourselves get in this situation?’”
“Rest easy, sir. We just want to be respected as equals. Women aren’t trying to take over, we just want our rightful chance to play alongside the guys.”
“I have a feeling we’ll see about that,” he said.
After the formal dinner, General Bennett and I teamed up as partners in three rounds of crud. Once he had gone home for the evening, I stayed with General Pratt and a band of drunken RCR officers. We played crud late into the night.
The next morning, I arrived at General Pratt’s door a few moments before 08:00 hours to let him know that the staff car for our drive back to Kingston had arrived and to collect his luggage. I looked at my watch and knocked on the door at precisely 08:00 hours, as pre-arranged.
“Enter,” he called.
I walked in, scanning the room for him, and stopped dead in my tracks. General Pratt stood off to the side, out of view of the hallway, in his underwear.
I shrieked and turned my back. “Oh my god, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Come in, and close the door,” he said.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” I exclaimed. “I’ll send the driver up in ten minutes to collect your bags.” I rushed out, closed the door, fled to the stairwell, and hid behind the landing door to catch my breath. Fuck! Did I make a mistake or had he meant for me to see him in his tighty-whities?
On the drive back to Kingston, General Pratt seemed pleased, chatting about trivial things as if I hadn’t just seen him in his underwear. Then his tone became more serious. “General Bennett pulled me aside at the end of the evening and said he was sufficiently impressed by you to give way on his long-held position that women have no place at RMC. Well done, Miss Armstrong.”
“Thank you, sir. I was impressed by him, as well.” I turned my attention to the bare autumn trees passing by outside the car. The landscape looked brown and dead. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.
“Wakey-wakey, Miss Armstrong,” said General Pratt, rousing me from a dreamless nap. The staff car was stopped behind his residence back at the college. “I was beginning to take you for dead.”
“I’m sorry, sir!”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re in my good books at the moment.”
I jumped out, rushed around the car, opened his door, and saluted as he eased himself out of the seat. I closed the car door and watched him walk away.
38
CHERISHED
Late in November, lounging around in Jake’s apartment over weekend morning coffee, I broached the subject of the looming Christmas ball, which was the next Saturday evening. Jake would not commit to attending as my date.
“We’ve been over this so many times. I don’t want to go back to the college so soon,” he griped. “And, besides, won’t you technically be working that evening as an aide-de-camp?”
“I’m working,” I said, “and I have to bring a date. It’s no fun to attend this st
uff without you. It’s the last formal function before exam routine and you haven’t come out all year.”
“I haven’t been to a single function?”
“Nothing. Not one.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll go.” He went into the kitchen. I could hear him toss the dregs of his coffee forcefully into the sink.
“We don’t do anything fun anymore,” I said. “If I want to see you, I have to come over here.”
He popped his head out and scowled at me. “Come on,” he said. “Not this again.”
Just when I had expected things between us to be better than ever, with Jake working as a civilian engineer in town and my freedom as a fourth year to spend nights in his apartment, we seemed to have lost our gift of playful conversation. I was plagued by doubt and insecurity, which made me short tempered and prone to grumbling about the smallest perceived slight. Something was going wrong, but I was unable to articulate it. And I didn’t have time to figure it out. Christmas exams were upon me.
In January, first-term marks were posted. Macroeconomics: 51 percent. I stared at the mark, as cadets jostled me on all sides, trying to read their grades off the list. I was going to lose my bars. I went back to my room and sat in shock.
The summons came before noon.
“Academic restrictions,” General Pratt said succinctly.
“Yes, sir.” I knew this meant being ineligible for a bar position as a fourth-year. I would be a senior cadet, or s/c, which had the nickname of slasher.
“I didn’t know you were in such difficulty. How much time do you spend at Mr. Tatham’s apartment?”
“Less time than you’d think, sir. It’s not that. It’s the calculus.”
“How the hell did you pass first-year engineering?”
“To be honest, sir, I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “The calculus module system definitely saved me and I had help from a tutor.”
“What was your rationale for choosing commerce as a major, if you struggle with math?”
“I wanted to study something practical, sir, something with career potential.”
“Well, your career potential choice has landed you on academic restrictions. You’ve lost your aide-de-camp position. This term, you’ll be a senior cadet.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Sir, I’m sorry if I’ve let you down. I know you stood up for me and gave me this chance.”
He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and waved aside my apology. “Do you have someone to help you this term?”
“Yes, sir. I am going to ask Matthew Coleman.”
“Good choice,” he said. Matthew was a third year who was studying in the honours economics and commerce program; we were classmates in macro.
“How was your Christmas break?” the general asked.
“To be honest, it was fairly miserable. I was worried about my macro results. Not that my worrying changed anything. And you, sir?” I asked.
“Well,” he drawled, “it was delightful. We attended Jane Quigley and Geoff Hampstead’s wedding in Oakville.”
I grimaced.
General Pratt looked at me with a neutral expression. “Let’s part on good terms. Stay the course and put last year behind us. Are we on the same page?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m sorry to see you go. It’s really too bad,” he said.
I smiled bleakly. He rose to see me out. When we reached the door, he faced me and took both my hands in his as though we were about to pronounce our wedding vows. A knot of discomfort twisted in my stomach. I flashed to a vision of him in his underwear.
“Martha and I consider you like the daughter we never had,” he said. “This doesn’t change that. We can remain close.”
“Thank you, sir. I would love that. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me,” I said. He leaned forward and kissed my face, his lips brushing the edge of mine. I pulled back and dropped his hands.
On the way back to the Frigate, I felt devastated that I’d blown my chance to be his ADC for the remainder of the year. I had to make a conscious effort to lift my legs and place one foot in front of the other. Did he really try to kiss me? I had a real affection for General Pratt, but not like that. More like for a father. He was so old. He couldn’t possibly think that I would ever like him like that. The idea of it confused and repulsed me, coupled with a strange sense of invincibility, like he would look out for me if he liked me. The bold part of me wanted to cast the near kiss in this light. But the quieter, scared part of me knew the truth. If he actually tried anything more and crossed the line, I was terrified of what could happen to me. Not from any desire for him, far from it. Rather, my family experience had shown me the catastrophic price to pay for refusing. I had the same sick feeling in my gut thinking about it.
The halls were chaotic as the biannual room shuffle took place. I was staying in the same room this term. I closed my door on the excitement. My military college career had just passed its zenith and everyone was moving on without me. If I failed macro, would that mean my mother had been right about me after all? What else would I do? I had no other plan for my life, and I couldn’t come back here.
By mid-February, my tutoring sessions with Matthew Coleman were making the difference. My relationship with Jake continued to be fraught, and I spent more and more time with Matthew. Our friendship quickly grew beyond just being buddies in class and during study hours, expanding to include going to town to run errands together and going out for meals and chumming together at “mandatory fun” events. Looking back now, I see it was an emotional affair. I was still too young to understand that carnal fidelity was not the most powerful aspect of being faithful.
One evening during a study session in my room, as we sat a little too close together, Matthew admitted he had a crush on me. I panicked and quickly reminded him about Jake.
Matthew said, “But he doesn’t cherish you, Kate. You deserve better treatment.”
The next Saturday, Jake picked me up and as we drove to his place, I was fighting tears the whole way. When he opened the door, I stumbled into his apartment and threw myself on the couch.
“Why are you so upset?” Jake asked, sitting down close to me. “What’s happened?”
“I want to be cherished,” I sobbed irrationally. I thought back to high school and the only time my dad had ever interfered or given me relationship advice. Gary had stood me up one night, and while I sat in my room waiting for him to show up, Dad had come to talk to me. It was a rare moment, one when I felt he actually cared enough about me to speak up.
“If he treats you like this when he’s courting you, imagine how he’ll treat you when he takes you for granted,” he had said. “It’s not good.” He seemed to know what he was talking about. I had fought with Gary but never took a stand and was quick to make it all okay. Now, Dad’s words made more sense to me.
“Someone told me that I deserve to be cherished.” I stared at the floor.
“Was it that Matthew guy?” Jake leapt to his feet and started pacing around the apartment.
“I spend so much time trying to force you to do stuff. It doesn’t feel natural anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” Jake stood stock-still, looking down at me.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t do anything. It’s almost Valentine’s Day. Just sleep on it. You’ll feel better if you rest,” he said. He crouched down in front of me to make eye contact.
I reached out and stroked his hair.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Can you please take me home?”
For the next six weeks, I spent more and more time alone. I broke up with Jake and had a brief relationship with Matthew, but that didn’t solve anything. I was a mess and missed Jake and doubted my decision, which made me clingy and insecure and jealous with Matthew. When we broke up, my sense of isolation became acute. It was like nobody noticed that I had disappeared. My mother’s voice, her awful teasing game, came back
to haunt me. If only Kate were here, she’d enjoy her last few months at RMC. In truth, my classmates were just as busy with their own lives as I had been preoccupied with mine. As a senior cadet on academic restrictions, I had no official duties except to study and pass all my courses, so I was one step removed from day-to-day college life. I studied more than ever but struggled to make headway.
One Sunday in the middle of April, well after lights out, someone pounded on my door.
“Who is it?” I asked, disoriented. I had been in a deep sleep.
“Jake,” he whispered.
“Hold on,” I said. Shit. I don’t want him to see me like this. I look terrible. I threw on my housecoat and looked in the mirror.
It was only two weeks until final exams. Until now I had refused to see Jake, but I found myself opening the door with a sense of longing. Once he was inside and the door was closed, he turned to face me.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed. The left side of his face was purple and his eye was swollen half shut.
“I was beaten up and robbed.”
“When? Where?” I gestured for him to take a seat, but he continued to stand.
“Friday night, behind the Prince George Hotel,” he said. “I was drunk and the guys must have been watching me at the bar. They jumped me on the way to my car. They took my wallet and then knocked me down. One guy kicked me in the face.”
“Oh my god, Jake,” I said. “Are you okay? Have you been to hospital? You could have a concussion.”
“I got checked out. I’m fine — except that I miss you so much.” He pulled his left hand out from behind his back and extended a bouquet of pink carnations.
I held his gaze and said nothing as a wave of guilt washed over me. “You could have lost your eye.” I took the flowers and filled a mug of water for them.
“Kate, I’ve been such an idiot. Please, give us another chance. I want to be with you.”
The Stone Frigate Page 22