They met at the bottom of the gangway. The woman smiled. She looked relieved too.
“Here’s your grandpa, Benjamin.” But Benjy was already throwing his arms around Mr Johnston’s waist. “He’s been no trouble at all. And no seasickness, eh, Ben? Such a good little sailor!” Then she bent forward over the boy’s head, and whispered, “A bit of homesickness of course. As you’d expect.”
Cameron was looking down at the boy’s head. His face was buried in his grandfather’s stomach. His shoulders were trembling.
“A bit of homesickness.” Yes. You would expect that. That, and more – and worse.
Of course Cameron would never admit it, but I believe – I’m sure – that a wave of sympathy for this boy washed over him. No, not sympathy – empathy, sharing his feelings. He’d left everyone behind. He didn’t know why or for how long or anything. ‘Poor little beggar’ was too weak for what he was.
In this whole story, how often has Cameron cried? Only a few times – not like me. But I think his throat filled up when he felt for Benjy. Because he did something I wouldn’t have expected, and I know this because we learnt it from Benjy himself, years later. He came out of his shell.
He stooped down beside the boy and said to him, “Hallo, Benjy, I’m Cameron. I’m English too. I’m an evacuee too.”
Mr Johnston gently unfastened Benjy’s arms from around his waist and turned Benjy towards Cameron. He didn’t bother introducing them.
“Come on, boys,” he said. “Let’s go get something to eat while we wait for the luggage.”
Of course, food’s wonderful. While they tucked into toasted ham sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes, Mr Johnston kept very quiet. He just leant back in his chair, sipped a coffee, and let Cameron do the talking.
First he found out that Benjy came from the East End of London. Cameron knew there’d been a lot of bombing there, and he asked Benjy a bit about it, but when he could see he didn’t want to talk about the bombs, Cameron talked about himself.
“When I first arrived I felt as if I’d left everything important behind,” he said, man to man to Benjy across the café table. “And I had, in a way. But you know what – however difficult it is here, it’s a kind of war work, when you think about it. Your mum and dad won’t have to be worried about you, especially if you write to them regularly and tell them you’re OK.”
“But what if I’m not?” asked Benjy in a muffled voice.
“You will be. Your granddad’s here and he’ll look after you, won’t you?”
Mr Johnston was nodding steadily. “I will.”
“And if you’re a bit miserable sometimes, which you will be because of being homesick, you must think of positive things to tell them. I write to my mother every week and in between I make notes of funny things to tell her, to cheer her up. Because our mothers miss us as much as we miss them. Sorry. Don’t blub. Look. I’m going to give you something.” He opened his suitcase which was on the floor beside him. “Here’s my favourite book. It’s all about England, and it’s very funny. I’ve had it since I was nine, and I still love it. It’s yours now. It’ll remind you of England, but in a good way. You do read?”
Benjy wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded.
“Good. I’m going to write in it.”
Mr Johnston produced a pen as if by magic.
“I’m going to write, To Benjy from Cameron, a fellow evacuee. Good luck and keep your chin up.” He wrote the message and closed the book. He held it for a moment as if saying goodbye to it and then handed it solemnly to Benjy, who took it and looked at it, his head bent.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re ever so kind.”
“And so say all of us,” murmured Mr Johnston.
After the meal, Cameron stood up, closed his suitcase and put on his jacket. Then he said, “Can we telephone my aunt now?”
“What?” said Mr Johnston. “But you’re getting on a boat and going back home, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Cameron. “I’ve changed my mind.”
They found a phone box in the docks. Mr Johnston gave Cameron some change, and that’s when our ordeal-by-Cameron ended. The phone rang in our flat and I answered it, and it was him, and he said, “Hallo, Lind, it’s your stupid cuzz. Please tell Auntie Alex I’m very sorry and I’m on my way back.” Then he handed the phone to Mr Johnston while I screamed for Mummy, and they had a short conversation mainly about money. (When she hung up, Mummy said, “Another angelic Canadian. Did the original settlers fly here, do you think?” Then she burst into tears, went downstairs, and asked Mr Lynch if he had any brandy.)
Meanwhile Cameron was having a last, short talk with Mr Johnston.
“You said I was a smart boy, but I think you’re a very clever man.”
“Me? Nonsense. I’ve been practically an idiot all my life.”
“Since you ran away, you mean. Did you go back?”
“No. I couldn’t. I had nothing worth going back to.”
“Well, I have. I thought I was a deserter from England but I won’t desert again. Thank you.”
“You’d have got there without me.”
Cameron said quietly, “Maybe. But not without Benjy.”
So Cameron came back to us.
There was a big blazing row and then we forgave him because we were so happy and relieved. Since you couldn’t do telephone calls or telegrams to England in the war, and since running away was not one of the funny things he wanted to put in his letters, Auntie Millie never got wind of it until he told her when he got home. Of course she forgave him too, because he’d done it mostly for her.
Benjy kept in touch with him and that was a friendship that lasted for life.
And meanwhile, we three went on with our war work. We somehow lived through the four more years (two of them without O’F) we had to go before the war in Europe ended in 1945, and we sailed back home to Daddy. We never had much money (and I never got my saddle shoes) but we managed.
Hank stayed on the edge of our lives and stopped worrying the wits out of me because I could see he knew his love was a hopeless passion (as Willie said).
We had some good times and some bad times, and Cameron and I shared them, and became teenagers together. After his adventure he was not so shut in and we got close (sometimes) because, after all, we were the nearest to a brother or sister that we each had. And that’s still true.
The day in December when I was woken up by the newsboy running down Eleventh Street shouting that the Americans had joined the war, was the day I stopped for good and all, not being interested in the news.
We had more wonderful summers at Emma Lake.
Cameron kept up with his music and Mummy did more plays and more pageants and I won an acting prize playing another mother. Mummy made my hair look white with greasepaint and then we had to use kerosene to get it off, and we both passed out from the fumes, and that was just one little, funny thing out of all the big and small things that I remember.
And I can still sing the Canadian national anthem, and I do, when I’m remembering (and nobody’s listening):
“O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love
In all thy sons command!
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The true north, strong and free,
And stand on guard, O Canada!
We stand on guard for thee!
O Canada!
Glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee!”
And it always, always makes me cry.
The End
Post Postscript
Bubbles was still alive when we got home.
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Harry the Poisonous Centipede’s Big Adventure
Harry the Poisonous Centipede Goes to Sea
I, Houdini
The Magic Hare
Maura’s Angel
Stealing Stacey
Tiger, Tiger
The Indian in the Cupboard
Return of the Indian
Secret of the Indian
The Mystery of the Cupboard
Key to the Indian
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Broken Bridge
My Darling Villain
The Writing on the Wall
Melusine, A Mystery
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Uprooted - a Canadian War Story Page 21