“I’ve been bunking wherever. Sometimes I stay with the soldiers down at Exhibition Park. They’ve got tents set up.”
“I got a place with an empty room in it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t suppose you have too much stuff to move in, do you?”
Danny smiled wryly and shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t got much.”
THIRTY-TWO
Living with Mick was like living in the eye of a tornado. Danny felt like he could stand stock-still and Mick would run circles around him. Not physically—though that was true as well—but mentally. Mick loved words. He loved possibilities and what-ifs. He never tired of anything but the act of wasted time. He had more questions than a man had a right to.
Mick brought the newspaper home every day. When he finished reading a page, he passed it to Danny, then quizzed him on the different articles. What did he think? What would he do?
Danny didn’t think along thoughts and possibilities so much as practicality. What Danny found interesting was that the newspaper had emerged from the explosion relatively unscathed. There was hardly any interruption between the event and the next paper out.
When he wasn’t subjecting Danny to lengthy question periods, Mick wrote in relative silence, punctuated by the odd satisfied grunt. His typewriter’s tick tick tick ding! was Danny’s constant companion. So much cigarette smoke haloed Mick’s head that Danny wondered how the man could breathe. Books and papers wobbled in huge stacks, piled from the floor to the top of the desk, and Mick read all of them with such intensity Danny figured another explosion could go off and Mick wouldn’t lose his place. The newspaperman would read, then mutter something like “Well, I’ll be. Who would have thought? Would you look at that?” then get back to his typewriter, and his fingers flew.
The headlines that grabbed most of Mick’s attention were the ones hollering about political change. Especially in Russia. Talk of revolution. Danny didn’t know much about politics and didn’t care to learn, really. But he got a little interested when he recognized some of the same problems on the streets of Halifax. Worker discontent. Unfair wages. Impossibly high unemployment.
Danny kept hammering, building, picking up work where he could. He was lucky to be living in Mick’s comfortable place. Most of the other workers bunked down in the Alexander McKay School, which had somehow survived. Mick never asked for any kind of rent, but Danny needed to make an income, if only to feed himself.
He joined the construction efforts down at the docks, where everything was starting from scratch. The massive Pier 6 was gone. Nothing but a hole. Everything in Halifax Harbour had been decimated, but just as Danny’d thought, that didn’t mean the ocean ships stopped coming. For a while they’d used the Boston port for running supplies, but it wasn’t as convenient as Halifax had been. So as soon as the crews could build the means to take in ships and start supplying them again, they did.
Mick had been right about construction contracts. Big money—something like twenty-one million dollars—eventually came in from the federal government, who recognized the importance of Halifax as a major shipping centre. But the money didn’t seem so big when it jingled in Danny’s threadbare pocket at the end of the week. He worked hard alongside all the other men, putting temporary buildings and docks in place as quickly as possible. And every night those same men trudged home, tired all the way through, to see if there was any food in their own houses.
All across Canada women were being given the vote for the first time, though they hadn’t gotten it yet in Nova Scotia. That was interesting to Danny because it was something different, and because it made him think of Audrey. She’d told him about the suffragettes in London, about the parades and the meetings. It intrigued him. Women had picked up the jobs when men had gone to war. Fighting their own sorts of battles, he thought. They’d kept the country moving, but from what he understood, it hadn’t been fair. Audrey’s sweet little voice had risen with indignation, explaining how women workers were paid a fraction of what the men had been paid. Would all those women keep on working after the war? Probably not, because the men would need their jobs back. Plus, if they didn’t go back home, who would take care of the kids? Who would cook and clean if the women were out working? Seemed only right to let them vote, though.
It had been almost two months since the explosion. Two months of living without Audrey. Every day was divided between trying not to think of her and trying to imagine what she’d be doing if she were still alive.
He still checked the lists out of habit. Antoine’s secretary hadn’t seemed to find the time to include Audrey’s name on either yet, and not seeing her on the Known Dead list gave Danny an impossible hope. One he needed. Every morning he awoke dreaming this might be the day when he’d find her, and she’d come running back to his arms. Every night he went to bed thanking God that she hadn’t shown up on the Known Dead lists.
Two months was an awfully long time not to exist anywhere. Danny tried to ignore the voice in his head, telling him to move on. Antoine had said she was dead. Gone. Never again. And the last image he had of her was that of her back as she left the house. After he’d hit her. After he’d ruined everything.
Danny gave his head a shake, needing to kill the guilt, if only for a while. If he could get Mick talking, at least he’d be distracted.
“Mick?”
Mick’s head was down, the eye patch black as his stubble, cigarette jutting out of one side of his mouth. He was typing hard. How could he work so much? Danny was exhausted, and watching Mick wore him out even more. It had been a very long day in a string of very long days. He needed some air.
“Hey, Mick?”
Mick waved a hand as if he’d heard a fly buzzing around his head. With him unavailable, Danny shrugged on his black wool coat and stepped into the dusk, taking a walk to the orphanage instead. A big poster on the door announced an upcoming charity event for the building, run by some of the society ladies. They were good people, Danny thought. They didn’t seem to like getting their hands too dirty, but they did help out with money. This was going to be an auction, he saw. In a couple of weeks. There ought to be some pretty wealthy folks out for that. Well, good for them. The poor had given all they had to their neighbours recently. The rich could do their part.
Danny pulled open the orphanage door and turned first, as he always did, to the updated lists on the wall. He browsed the most recent additions to both, then walked away, hands deep in his pockets. Still nothing. How could she simply vanish? If only it weren’t so entirely possible.
The orphanage was a fairly quiet place, though it picked up energy over the weeks as many of the children recovered. They sat for meals and prayers at a long table set along one wall, and a stove burned constantly nearby. One corner of the room opened to a hallway, which led to a number of small rooms with bunks for most of the children, though some of the younger ones, like the twins, still slept in the main room. The kitchen was off to the other side, where the volunteers prepared soup or oatmeal, or whatever was on the menu for the day. Right now they were the only ones in the big room. The twins were crouched in the corner of the main room, their bright hair like a beacon, and they seemed focused on racing a pair of horses Danny had carved for them. Baby Norman lay on a small cot, sleeping, thumb hanging half out of his open mouth. The boys looked small, he thought, and they didn’t seem old enough to get along with other kids. They had each other, though. Even so, Danny thought they looked lonely. He made his way toward them, then sat on a bench nearby.
“How are you today, boys?”
“Danny!” Eugene cried. He roared his little horse over, then galloped it up Danny’s wooden leg. Harry ran over and plunked himself onto Danny’s good leg.
“Hi there, Harry. You doing okay? I see they took the bandage off your arm. Can you move it okay?”
“Yup,” Harry said. He was just starting to speak a little, and Danny encouraged
every word. The boys’ voices, at least, were still identical. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, that’s why I brought you this.” Danny presented him with a cheese sandwich, then gave one to Eugene as well. Pudgy little fists closed over the bread, and the boys ate faster than Danny would have thought possible. Even Harry, who had to chew gently in order to protect the slowly healing scars on his face, had finished before he knew it.
“You were hungry,” Danny said, looking impressed. “When’s the last time you had something to eat?”
“Yesterday,” Eugene said, then smothered a burp.
“We had a biscuit for breakfast,” Harry reminded him.
Danny frowned. “What about to drink?”
“We had milk this morning,” Eugene assured him, reaching for more food. Danny’d brought a sandwich for himself, but now he divided it between the boys.
Danny was confused. He had heard there had been a donation made just the week before, and the money was designated for the orphans’ meals. This didn’t seem right. He would have to ask Mick if he was aware of any short dealings. Mick knew everything about everything in this city.
“Did nobody eat?”
The boys shook their heads.
“We used to get three meals a day and something sweet before bedtime,” Eugene said, his tone wistful. “Hey, Danny, that lady there said we have to live here forever. Is that right?”
Danny stared into two pairs of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “No. I don’t think so. Not forever. Just until they figure out what to do with you.”
Eugene’s chin started to wobble. “She said Mommy got killed, and we can’t go home.”
“Can we come and stay with you, Danny?” Harry asked slowly, labouring over the words. Danny felt his heart give way.
“I, uh, I don’t know how these things work,” he said. “And I don’t have more than a room to myself.”
“We’re pretty small,” Eugene said quickly. “And Norman’s a good baby. He hardly cries at all.”
Huh. Take the boys home with him. Danny couldn’t figure out how he felt about that. It seemed an impossible idea, and yet it appealed to him on a very basic level. He liked the boys. He wanted to take care of them. What would it do to his life if he were to go ahead and bring these children home with him? Was it even possible? He’d been a lousy husband. Could he make it right by being a good father?
“I know he is, Eugene. He’s a darn good baby, that’s for sure. And you two are very grown-up little boys. But I’m just not sure if I can keep you with me. I work a lot most days. I don’t know what the rules are.”
“Can you ask?”
Danny leaned forward and put a warm palm on each boy’s cheek. The soft, freckled skin was cold to his touch. And though they were clean, the boys still wore the same clothes they’d had on when he’d brought them in, though he knew others had been donated. Was anyone looking after them?
“I will ask,” Danny promised. “Now let’s see about those horses. Which one goes faster?”
He watched them race, then gradually lose interest in Danny as they played. Danny turned and laid his hand lightly on Norman’s little chest, feeling the stubborn little heartbeat pounding away under his thin shirt. He remembered how dark it had been when he’d crawled into the boys’ basement to retrieve the baby. He had taken the screaming bundle from the dead woman, and in his heart he had promised to take care of her three children. They’d be taken care of here, he’d assumed. But would they be better or worse off with him? What would Audrey do if she were here?
“You boys have a good night,” he said, rising. “Here’s a little more cheese for bedtime. Don’t eat it all at once or your tummies will hurt.”
THIRTY-THREE
Mick was pacing the front room when Danny stepped through the door. The newspaperman’s hair was freshly slicked back and his eyes darted restlessly. He’d apparently finished his work, and a fresh stack of crisply typed pages stood on their dining table. At sight of Danny, Mick clapped his hands together.
“Danny!” he said. “I’m feeling fine tonight. Let’s go out for supper.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, Mick. You know I can’t afford—”
He winked and jerked his thumb at the paper. “The paper’ll pay me a pretty penny for this. Dinner’s on me.”
“Nah. Come on, Mick. We have some ham in here, I think, and—”
“I feel like going out, and I’ll not do it alone. Let’s go.” He slapped Danny on the back, and Danny gave in, persuaded as always by his friend’s contagious charm. They strode into the early evening, moving fairly quickly; Mick had a definite destination in mind. As they walked, Danny brought up his question from earlier on.
“You ever hear of any bad business going on with the orphanage?”
Mick frowned. “Like what?”
“Well,” he said, scratching his head. “It’s just that those kids don’t seem to be getting enough to eat, from what I can see. And they have barely anything to wear, even though I was pretty sure they were getting donations.”
“Yeah, they’re supposed to be. Government money and all. The committee looks after most of that. You think there’s trouble?”
“I don’t know. I mean, well, you know there’s always stuff going on at the docks. I get that. It’s the liquor and things. But I never thought of it affecting the kids at all. I don’t know,” he repeated. “Maybe it’s just me.”
Mick shrugged. “I ain’t heard of nothing, but it sure is something I can check into.”
“Thanks, Mick,” Danny said.
“Think nothing of it, my friend.”
Mick led them down the street to a tavern. Its windows had been temporarily replaced by thick planks. As Mick opened the door and they stepped inside, Danny had to admit a warm meal and a cold drink wouldn’t go amiss.
It seemed a few other people had had the same thought. Four tables were already occupied by rough-looking men deep in conversation. Danny thought he recognized a few of them.
“Well, there he is,” one man said, standing. “Mick, my lad. Won’t you and your friend join us for a little supper?”
“Hey, that’s Danny Baker,” another said, standing up so fast his chair tumbled over behind him. Danny recognized him at once as one of the boys he’d taken on a time or two down on the docks. One of the man’s friends grabbed his arm.
“Now, now, Sam,” he said. “We’re all together now, huh? We’re not picking each other apart anymore. That’s the way it is. You and Baker should shake hands and make friends now.”
That was just fine with Danny, whatever it meant. The last thing he felt like doing was fighting. He’d had more than his share of this day.
Sam gave Danny a long look. “Yeah, well, he steps outta line and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Danny asked, contempt darkening his sneer. “Go on. What you gonna do, tough guy?”
“Come on, Sam,” his friend said. “Sit down. Let’s have a whisky, shall we?”
Slightly mollified, Sam sat, but he kept a wary eye on Danny. Danny shook his head and looked away, wishing he’d stayed home.
“What are you having, boys?” the waiter asked, approaching Mick and Danny. The man was maybe in his mid-fifties, his curly brown hair streaked with white. He had a bandage wrapped around his neck. His knuckles, curled over an order pad, were thick with arthritis, and he had a bit of a stoop to his back. The posture was vaguely familiar, and Danny figured the waiter had once been a fisherman, just like him.
Mick offered his most winning smile, bright in his craggy face. “I’ll have a whisky, if you please. And one for my friend as well. And you got any of that steak and kidney pie? We’ll have a couple of those, if we could.”
“Coming up,” he said, tucking a pencil behind his ear and heading toward the kitchen.
Danny frowned at Mick, still uncomfort
able at having his meal paid for.
“Danny,” Mick said loudly. “I brought you here to meet some of the lads.”
“Nice to meet you,” Danny muttered, lighting up a cigarette.
Mick grinned at his friends. “Some of you know Danny, some of you don’t. He’s a man of few words and unshakable integrity. A man who saved my life more than once in France.”
“I did not,” Danny said.
“You did,” Mick said quietly. “You just didn’t realize it when you were doing it. Anyway,” he said, turning back to the rest of them, “Danny’s a dock man like some of you, and now he does construction. Danny works fifteen-hour shifts and goes home with less money every week.”
“For Pete’s sake, Mick!” Danny cried. “You gotta air my dirty laundry in front of all these guys? What’s the matter with you?”
“Hang tight, Danny,” Mick said, his voice still raised. “The thing is, these boys are in the same spot you are. They’re working harder all the time, getting less money all the time, but they can’t quit because there ain’t any other jobs around. Ain’t that so?”
There were grunts of assent.
“So what?” Danny said. “We’re here to whine about our circumstances? Because yeah, I could use the money. But I’m awful glad I can still walk and talk and see and not spend the rest of my life hiding burns from people. I did just fine, Mick. I got nothing to complain about.”
“There’s a hero, boys. He can still walk, even though he left a leg in France.”
“For crying out loud, Mick,” Danny said, standing. “I’m getting outta here.”
“Okay, okay. Set yourself down, my friend,” Mick said, giving Danny a wink. “I’ll leave off on you now. But the thing is, we’re all here because we got the same problem. We ain’t getting paid near enough to feed families, or even ourselves—”
“Except for you, apparently,” Danny muttered.
That stopped Mick for only a moment, then he raised his brow in acquiescence. “Well, a newspaperman ain’t a dockworker, is he? We got rules about how much we get paid, right? There are systems and things that regulate how a man like me gets paid. You guys hang in there, hoping for work, and no one owes you nothing, because no one has ever said they did. What if someone started talking about that? What if we was to have a union start up around here?”
Tides of Honour Page 25