Flying With Amelia

by Anne Degrace

  I’m so glad you liked your scarf. I don’t suppose you could have a photograph taken and send it to me? I would surely send you mine. I feel as if I’ve known you forever, so it seems strange that I don’t really know what you look like. In fact, I will take the first step and go down to Archer’s first thing and get one taken. I hope you won’t be disappointed.

  Very fondly,

  Peggy

  February 24

  Dear Martin,

  I haven’t heard from you. Was it silly of me to include my photograph? Have you decided you’d rather not continue writing? I wait for your letters. The day one comes is a red-letter day, and everything looks brighter while I’m going about my day at the Herald, knowing it is waiting on my bureau in my room for me to come back and read it again. Knowing there is a new letter keeps me closer to you. That may be something I shouldn’t admit, but I promised at the beginning to be forthright and honest and so I will be, whatever the cost.

  Yours,

  Peggy

  March 15

  Dear Peggy,

  I am so sorry! First off, I have to tell you how happy I was to get your photograph, and how beautiful you look — even more than I had imagined. And I’ll be truthful too I feel the same way about our correspondence. Circumstances are such that I did not receive your letter for some time, as I’ve been in transit, but I can’t tell you how glad I was when the postmaster forwarded it to me. And then I was unable to write to you as I lacked even the price of a stamp! A great deal has happened. You can see from the postmark that I’m now in British Columbia. I’ll try to explain.

  Mrs. Wolyniak’s widowed brother took a stroke and she went to Estevan to care for him. I think in truth the winter took a lot out of her, and when she received the bank foreclosure notice that was the last straw, and so in a way she welcomed the chance to care for someone else and left with hardly a look of regret for what she was leaving behind. Of course, I had to leave as well and with no prospects and very little money I did what other men in my position are doing and caught the train, albeit with a ticket rather than hopping a boxcar as so many men are forced to do.

  The last of my money was stolen while I was staying at the YMCA. I had my wallet tucked into my shoes and was sleeping on the bottom bunk with my hands resting on the laces, unwilling to sleep with my shoes on as I was advised to do. In my exhaustion I didn’t feel the slip of leather beneath my fingers. Imagine the surprise of the thief when, along with a good pair of shoes, he found all of my savings, paltry though it was! And so there I was without shoes or money or a bed for the night. This circumstance eventually led me to the Salvation Army and another pair of shoes (that don’t fit so well) and then to a relief camp, where we are preparing ground for a road. The days are long and the pay is poor: twenty cents a day! We work six and a half days a week and live in shacks. But we are fed, more or less, and if I can save enough for a suit of clothes I may be presentable enough to apply for teaching positions. As it is, stamps and even paper are a luxury, let alone a new suit.

  I know it sounds like I’m crying a sad tale, and certainly I’m not physically suited to hard labour but I’m getting stronger, and I suppose that’s a good thing, the silver lining as it were. But there are sadder tales than mine. The fellow in the next bunk lost everything in the stock market crash, including his wife and children who left him for someone who hadn’t been so unlucky. I can see that to fall so hard and so very far has been hard on him. He has a bewildered look, and he’s far worse on the crew than I am, earning him derision from those for whom this is just one more hardship in a progression of hardships. But at least the other fellows send money back to a family they hope someday to see again when the economy improves, and as for me, I suppose I have you.

  Your letters mean more to me than ever, Peggy, and I hope you don’t find me so down and out as to lose interest in writing. You can write to me now at the address on the back of the envelope, care of the Sally Ann. I’m sorry I’m not able to include a photograph. I’d have taken a new one if I could, or at least sent you the old one I carried of Marjorie and I before our parents died, but that was lost with my wallet and my shoes. And Marjorie? Regina was where I went first, but she and her husband had moved, no forwarding address. As I think I mentioned, we never talked much after our parents passed away, as they did within just a few months of one another as it so often goes. And so West I went, and here I am.

  Do please write, Peggy dear, and I will respond as best I can and with all optimism that we will someday meet, and that all of these hard times will be behind us.

  Yours always,

  Martin

  April 10

  Oh, poor, dear Martin —

  What troubles you’ve had! Your letter was a very long time finding me, for one thing because you must have forgotten my new address and sent it to my old (Sally rescued it from the clutches of Mrs. Doane, who would have marked it Return to Sender, the old cow) and since the postmark was well after the date on the letter, I imagine you had some trouble getting it mailed. But it’s here now, and that’s what’s important. Whatever happens, I promise to be there for you. I don’t mind in the least that you’re down and out (I mean, I don’t mind as far as my feelings for you are concerned. I do mind that things are not going well for you). I have come to know the man you are, as I’d hoped I would, and so your circumstances are a trial, not a measure of worth. As for a photograph, looks are not so important as the heart, no matter what Sally says (she did suggest you might have one eye and a club foot. She’s like that, placing great importance on looks and money both, and has wiled Mr. Finding Efficiencies so that she is now his personal secretary. But she did bring me your letter, so I won’t be too catty except to say that she can be a right minx when she puts her mind to it).

  Here is my advice for when times are tough (at least, it’s what I do): think of Amelia. She found her dream and pursued it, no matter what, achieving what others only dream of. If she can fly around the world, as she plans to, then surely you and I can overcome these obstacles and find our dreams.

  And now that I have received your letter I will admit (in all forthrightness and truth) that my dream (besides flying around the world, which will take some doing as I have not quite the resources of Miss Earhart) is that we will meet in person. If we keep this firmly in mind, I believe we can achieve it.

  With great affection,

  Peggy

  April 13

  Dearest Peg,

  We have called a general strike! We are now, and have been for some time, all part of the Relief Camp Worker’s Union, every last one of us here. There has been unrest and outright agitation building, and while I have never in my life been a political person (content, rather, to read about current events rather than partake in them) I am of the mind that enough is enough. If Bennett spent one day in our camp he would see the desperation of the men and he would take concrete action, rather than debating solutions in Parliament that have nothing to do with the plight of the unemployed or their families.

  Two days ago Morris, the fellow I mentioned had lost fortune and family in the crash of ’29, was found hanging from a rafter. I don’t think he could face a strike, and hadn’t the strength to march as we will have to do. I hope he found peace. For the rest of us, no one slept, as it brought it home to all of us just how close the fate of Morris is to our own futures. Good men can only take so much.

  Tomorrow we will congregate in the streets of Vancouver, in the manner of many such demonstrations that occurred before I arrived. Public support is high for our cause. We’ll win, I feel sure of it.

  You can see I am now writing around the margins of the page as it’s my last piece of paper for now. It’s the thought of you that keeps me going most days. I have saved almost five dollars, and have hidden it away in a place no one will find it. I am planning my escape, into the wild blue, just lik
e your Amelia, and I promise I will come to you, one way or another.

  With love, my Peg,

  Martin

  May 19

  Dear Martin,

  I am so glad you are keeping a vision of a brighter future close to your heart. Think of me, too, waiting to make a future with you, if that’s what’s in store for us, and I hope that it is. For my part, optimism hasn’t been easy, since I have now lost my job with the Herald, which has been sold lock, stock, and barrel to Mr. Profit-at-Any-Price, or Mr. Cradle-Snatcher, however you want to call him (Sally is not twenty, and he is fifty if he’s a day). I am very much at loose ends and applying for work wherever I can, and it’s looking like a waitress at the Tasty Delight may be the best I can muster. It’s that or move home, and that option is about as far away as I can get from flying around the world on an airplane, so I will hold out as long as I can.

  Some days it feels just like reading the paper as the type is being set: everything is going in reverse, it seems. I can’t help feeling that if you could just hold it up to a mirror, you could see clearly what’s spelled out there and know how to make it right. It’s obvious that somebody, somewhere, is doing things backwards.

  I think about the way we met, and the railcars of food, that generosity from the East to the West. I wonder if in the future Canada will remember this, how generous the generally poor Maritimers were in a time of need. I think it must always be the poor who best understand the poorer.

  I am in my room by the week, now. Write as soon as you can.

  All my love,

  Peg

  May 28

  Dearest Peg,

  We are just days from leaving, and I am excited with the power of the thing. Two hundred of us are on to Ottawa by rail to bring our plight face to face with the decision-makers in Parliament. To talk to that scoundrel Bennett in person! We hope to gather numbers as we go, so that when we arrive we will be thousands, all bringing the message that action must be taken now.

  It is a terrible thing for men to ask for relief for their families. Having to cash in food or clothing vouchers is almost as bad as not having food. For some, going away to work in the camps spares them that humiliation. Everyone with his hand out must bear the burden of poverty along with humiliation, and is too often made to feel less than human by relief officers. These are the things we’ve been talking about every night by lamplight, listing our grievances, choosing our spokesmen. We want forty cents an hour, and a five day work week. We want the right to vote in provincial and federal elections. How many Canadians even know that relief camp workers cannot? It feels good to be taking action, to be doing something. It’s like an animal thing, the feeling in the camp tonight. Crouching. Waiting.

  It will take us some time to get to Ottawa, but dearest Peg, I will write whenever I can. We have scheduled stops to rest and to eat, and in one of those I’ll beg a stamp and send you a letter. When this is all over I hope to find enough work, perhaps in Ottawa, to come the last leg and see you. You are the light at the end of the tunnel for me, as I hope I will be for you. If I could, I’d give you everything. I’d give you an airplane, so you could fly as high as you wanted, and I’d be there when you landed, with a big bouquet of roses and the biggest kiss you ever had.

  Love always,

  Martin

  June 6

  Martin, my dear,

  I am coming to Ottawa. There is nothing for me in Yarmouth. I have sold the little bit of jewellery I had to Sally, who bought it out of sympathy, but I don’t care. I have enough money for the train fare. You must write me as soon as you can and tell me the date you expect to arrive in Ottawa. I’ll be waiting anxiously for your letter! I will meet you at Parliament Hill, which I hear is not too far from the train station and in any case, easy enough to spot.

  I’ll get work with the Ottawa Citizen; Mr. Brougham gave me a letter of introduction, although I feel sure it was Sally’s good word that got it for me. You’ll be able to tutor the sons of ambassadors to foreign countries, and the daughters of politicians. We’ll make a good life.

  Until then, love,

  Peg

  June 14

  Dear Peg,

  I received your letter the day before we left, and I can’t begin to tell you how happy I was. But first, I’ll catch you up. It’s been quite a trip so far. In Kamloops there wasn’t nearly enough food for the lot of us, but the citizens were generous and before long we had mustered food enough for all. I was weary of being with so many men, and so after we had eaten I walked down a street and rested under a tree — and a little girl of about four years of age brought me flowers! In Golden, there was even a reception for us. It made me feel proud of what we were doing, knowing that ordinary people sympathized, were proud of us, even.

  Later, two fellows turned up drunk and were told they could not continue on with us, and then even later we found out that one was an agent of the police, planted there to discredit us. But it has been a heartening experience crossing the county so far: our numbers have risen by a thousand, and at every siding those who can’t join us cheer. One woman met us with a bathtub full of beef stew! We are, for the most part, in good spirits, the act of doing something so much better than the dull resignation of before.

  So it is all very exciting, although when the train went through Connaught Tunnel en route to Calgary (seven miles!) I have never felt so closed in, and wasn’t at all sure I wouldn’t faint with the choking stench of smoke and dust and when we came out of it, I leaned so far out the doorway, filling my lungs with mountain air, that I had to be pulled back or lose my balance and fall under the wheels.

  We are now in Regina, and the train has been stopped, but we don’t yet know why. Most think the Mounties are here as an escort, and that we will be on our way soon. I don’t know if this will reach you, but I will make a pledge: whatever happens, I’ll meet you at Parliament Hill on Dominion Day, for I will surely have arrived by then. If you aren’t there, I will come every single day and look for you. I can’t wait to see your sweet face in person. From here on, I believe in my heart that everything will be different.

  Love forever,

  Martin

  PEGGY ANN MCGRATH sits on her suitcase beside the big iron gates at the entrance to Parliament Hill. She watches a bus go down Wellington Street and marvels at all the people packed inside. Everything here is larger, faster, louder. As she watches the long shadows stretch across the lawn, the Peace Tower chimes six o’clock, beginning with a singsong sixteen notes, and then six to mark the hour. Her train chugged in at 3:17; she last ate at noon. She’s hungry, but she’s unwilling to move, afraid she may have missed him, that perhaps he waited for her and gave up, afraid that as soon as she leaves, he’ll come. It is, after all, July 3; she has arrived two full days later than she’d intended, the train having been held up twice, and for hours, by a freight car derailment farther down the track. She decides to wait until the sun dips below the buildings, and then she will walk to the address Sally has given her, some distant aunt who had suggested where a room might be available in a good house for a single young woman. At least the summer sun is still high. She sets her mouth; she will wait as long as she can.

  There is no sign of the On to Ottawa men, no sign of demonstrations of any kind. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this: the city going about its business as usual, full of its self-importance, as if nothing was going on anywhere in the world that required attention. She thinks of the lady with the bathtub full of stew, meeting the hungry men as the train ground to a halt. She thinks of the letters to the editor she typed at the Herald, letters of outrage at this or that, but action, some sort of action. It’s important to take some sort of action. She wants to shake the people on the street, shouting: do you know what’s happening? Don’t you read the papers?

  The air smells of automobiles and sulphur. S
he remembers the matchbox on the mantle at home, from the E.B. Eddy Company in Hull. Just across the river from Ottawa, her mother would say, laughing. The devil’s never far away from the politicians, that’s for sure.

  She found a newspaper on the train and snatched it up, hoping for news, but the front page was missing. Instead, she read ads for shoes and wigs and men’s suits, thinking of Martin and their new life together. If she can’t get on at the Citizen she’ll get a job straight off as a waitress or a cleaner. It doesn’t matter what. And she’ll buy him a suit with her first earnings, something with swagger, so he can get himself a good job. But first they’ll go out for a big meal, roast beef or turkey. She’s heard you can get a full dinner with all the trimmings at a place on Clarence Street for twenty-five cents.

  What if he doesn’t recognize her? What if he sees her sitting there and walks right by, unable to recognize her from her photograph in which, after all, she had tilted her head for the photographer so as to hide her double chin, and in which the softer light removed the hard angle of her nose and cast shadows below her eyebrows making it look as if her eyelashes were long and thick instead of barely noticeable. In the photograph, her close-mouthed smile is winsome, worldly; in real life, she covers her mouth with her hand when she laughs, a reflex after years of teasing for her overlapping teeth. She crosses and uncrosses her legs in their threadbare stockings. They are nice legs, anyway. She longs to take off her stockings in the Ottawa summer heat, which shows no signs of abating with day’s end. She thinks of the afternoon breeze you could always count on, drifting up Water Street from the harbour.

  If there had been a demonstration, wouldn’t there be some sign, still? What if they weren’t yet here? Should she come back every day? For how long? Isn’t it possible that she and Martin could continually miss one another for days on end? She doesn’t even know what he looks like. Could she pass him again and again, and not recognize him? She feels the rise of panic, the sting of tears.