by Paul Almond
When the afternoon was over, he was about to go into the mess tent when he saw a group of soldiers turn away from him. Would it never end? He decided against eating and went back to his tent, got onto his cot, and pulled out his Bible. Perhaps between its covers he would find solace. But even turning the onionskin pages, his mind still churned up a storm. Torture indeed, and all the nastier for it being unjustified.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On Friday morning, now that Jack was in a proper town, the capital of the Orange Free State, he came up with the idea of having his Sunday service in an actual house of God. He knew that the authorities in Quebec might take umbrage at his decision, but after all, this was wartime. Might even deflect some of the hostility.
A Dutch Reformed Church was not far from the campsite. So what, he thought, if it hadn’t been consecrated by a Church of England Bishop, and so considered lacking direct linkage to the Apostle Peter, it was still a church. He made inquiries and found his way to the house of the leading elder. The door was opened by a tall, somewhat surly, Boer. By now Jack knew to make allowance for these different characteristics: none of the Boers were actually happy-go-lucky, cheerful souls. No sir.
Jack introduced himself and after a few pleasantries, brought up the subject. “I’ve seen that wonderful church of yours, and I wondered if there might be a short space of time next Sunday for me to hold a service for our Canadian boys?”
The man didn’t even have the grace to think the matter over. “Our congregation would not like that, Pastoor. We work to keep our church sanctified. Enemies of the Orange Free State would desecrate it. I mean no harm to you, Pastoor, but that’s the way it is.” He gave a slight bow, held out his hand to shake Jack’s, and turned to re-enter his dwelling.
So that was it, then. Failed again. Would he never be a successful Padre? This downward path was so slippery, he seemed quite unable to return to the straight and narrow road he favoured.
In the end Jack made do with the building commandeered for a mess hall. Sunday mornings, the troops saw to their own breakfasts, apart from cups of coffee that the mess provided. He got up early to put up a makeshift altar.
He liked to prepare with some meditation and prayers as he was getting into his robes. But he’d had to leave them behind in Belmont. In the kitchen he still found a nook and composed himself, wondering about the service: who would come? Perhaps no one? Well, likely it would be smaller than usual. But he’d invited his Catholic patients, as promised, and even arranged for the daily orders to announce that all faiths and creeds would be welcome.
When the time came for the ceremonies, he found himself unduly nervous. A small but goodly number did turn up, and it passed uneventfully until his sermon. That’s when his doubts and uncertainties made manifest. No longer a firm and often powerful orator, he let his self doubts betray themselves in minor hesitations and confused thinking. Anyone perceptive enough would declare him as inept. He cut the sermon short, which did no harm, certainly, and went on with the second half of the service, the Eucharist. As he himself took the bread and the wine, he earnestly asked for help. “Please, Lord, help me with my new suffering.” But no help came in any blinding flash.
* * *
Sundays were usually days off, the afternoons given over to impromptu sports. Although one of the better athletes, he was not invited to take part. But they knew he loved playing. Was this disdain spreading? At every turn, his private anguish flourished.
Come on, stop wallowing in pity, he told himself, just go take in the sights. You’re in a foreign country, so be a tourist.
Bloemfontein, although the capital of the Orange Free State, was not large by any standards. About a half a mile square, the town had a few broad streets lined with trees and a good assortment of public buildings. He tried taking an interest in the shop fronts, the style of homes, and then reached Market Square where only yesterday, a number of bullock carts had been tethered, unloading meagre produce. Now, being the Sabbath, it seemed empty, until one establishment across the square caught his notice. A few officers of the Imperials stood out in front, talking. No Canadians. He walked over.
Bless my soul, a hairdressing establishment! But much more, it sold ladies’ perfumes and had an interesting display of Meerschum and briar pipes on sale inside. He read the sign: “J.J. Beranek, the Orange Free State Toilet Club. Baths, hot and cold, with showers. Razors of the best quality kept in stock, and strops” — surely one of the finer Tobacconist, Hairdresser and Perfumers he’d seen. And open on the Sabbath.
He exchanged perfunctory greetings with the officers, some of whom bore the scent of having just visited the establishment, and went in. The woman behind the desk took his name; if he came back in an hour and a half, the barber would look after him. So off he went, not stopping to talk with the officers, who viewed him condescendingly as a mere colonial. Even his clerical collar failed to elicit respect.
He passed a large building with a small watchtower and a curious striped pattern of alternating red brick and white stone — the post and telegraph office. And then saw the spire of a church that as he approached turned out to be the cathedral. He went in and found it empty, for the services had been held in the morning. Well, he thought, at last an open house of God.
He walked down the aisle between three massive arches on each side, white stone at the bottom and brick above. The linked wooden chairs with woven seats would probably hold two hundred parishioners. Was it ever full? Entering the chancel, he noticed the absence of a pulpit, but liked the tall, upright candelabra and three high vertical windows, a tradition in this sort of church, about half the size of Holy Trinity Cathedral in Quebec but all one needed here. He went up to the altar rail and knelt.
He took a long time composing himself. Then, he did ask for help. “I really need it, Lord,” prayed Jack. “I feel terrible.” His mind turned over a number of items, slowly one by one. “When I search myself, I see that I’m really angry. I’m angry at the injustice of it all, angry also at the way my men are treated by their suppliers — and I guess I haven’t yet come to terms with all this killing and maiming.” He paused. “You know what? I’m even angry at You, for allowing all this to happen.”
He bowed his head. There, now, I’ve said it. Angry at the Saviour. Horrifying thought. But true.
So what am I to do? It’s up to You, Jack thought. And he let the silence fall.
In this modest, almost humble, cathedral, he waited. Waited for the Lord’s voice to arrive — in a cloud, or in booming thunder, or as a soft whisper.
Nothing.
He remained a good while. The longer he knelt, the more pain he felt. Worthless? Almost. He had always sought to do the right thing. But now, there seemed no way out.
Only one other time had he felt like this: on the Canadian Labrador after his Lorna had left. What had he done then? Thrown himself into a frenzy of activity as a kind of absolution. But here, no frenzy of activity lay open as an option. Nothing, it seemed, could stop his slide into these forbidden murky depths of despair — a sin in itself.
He rose, bowed to the altar, and slouched out of the cathedral.
Once in the barber’s chair, he struck up a conversation. His other haircuts had been on the Canadian Labrador with Uncle Tom Styles who cut hair in his kitchen, or Aristide Gagnon in Blue Point, who hardly ran an elegant barbershop, though it was warmed by a wood stove and made cosy by a spittoon.
“Well, I’m pleased to find you open — especially on the Sabbath. It means that I can even indulge myself.”
“You and everyone else, it seems.” The barber swept the cloth over Jack’s head and fastened it round his neck. “I’m Jewish, so my Sabbath was yesterday. Mr. Beranek is a strict Protestant, but he allows me to do this because I can’t work on his busy day, which in fact is Saturday. Just as well, too, we’ve never been so crowded, all these troops in town. After you came in, I had to put a stop to more customers. As it is I’ll be working till late.” He asked him how he
liked his hair styled and would he like a shave?
“Oh yes please, a shave. I understand you have baths here?”
“The very finest. I’ll go book one for you after this.”
Jack reflected on this new-found delight: was it helping rid him of his despondency? In fact, no, this attention to personal cleanliness, although next to godliness, was only making him feel more dissatisfied. Here he was, attending to his body like any superficial narcissist. Another step on his descent?
But then again, it did have a calming effect: the smell of the soap as the barber lathered up his face; his pleasing chat about the features of his adopted town, asking Jack if he had seen this or that sight.
“It’s nice to know that not everyone in the Capital is against us,” Jack mumbled, “except for a few hostile stares from some who see us as occupiers.”
“Most of us never asked for war, no doubt about that,” said the barber, who’d introduced himself as Abraham. “Like Cape Town, our population is divided. Even those who didn’t go off to fight, like me, are distrusted. But you, Padre, what do you think about all this war business? Since you’re here, you a Christian must approve of your troops coming here to slaughter us?”
Jack could see himself being drawn into another political argument, which was the last thing he needed now. Should he tell this barber about his inner turmoil? No sir, not right now. He’d have to face quite enough of it when he got back to the camp.
“You know, Abraham, I’d rather not discuss these aspects right now. It may end up as being a beginning for a great new partnership between the British and the Boers.”
They changed the subject, and before too long, Chaplain Jack emerged with a stylish haircut, pampered and clean, and at once set off back into town. His pay from the last three months had arrived, and some of it jangled in his pockets. Never having had any sense of personal wealth, now he felt almost rich. Oh yes indeed, he was going straight to hell.
No question of going back to face the hostile stares of his comrades. No, wander about, he decided, and soon spotted what appeared to be an Olde English Tearoom. Why not have a cup of tea and with it, a little cake? Sample a simple pleasure — on his primrose path to damnation.
Into the modest, one storey building he went. It had been converted into a shop with a small assortment of rather unappetising baked goods. A young woman stood behind the counter in a dark floor-length skirt and blue blouse, sleeves fastened at the wrists with pretty white ribbons. She had done her blond hair up in a bun, and her slightly pudgy face radiated a kindness, through which seeped a kind of pain. But she was putting up a good front.
“May I have a cup of tea and a cake?” Jack asked.
“I’m sorry, Pastoor,” she murmured, “I was just going to close. It’s past tea time.” She turned away to blow her nose, and leaned against her counter.
Jack paused, then offered, “I’m sorry if it’s too much trouble. But I could eat it quickly. And since no one else is here... Why not join me? “
She remained head bowed, and then turned and gave him a solid look. “Why yes, why not? Why not make another pot of tea? Yes, Pastoor, let us share a cup. But first, I’ll hang out a closed sign. You will be my last customer.”
While she brewed up the tea, Jack chose a cake and sat down. He had noticed a wedding ring on her finger and also that she seem unaccustomed to serving. Had her husband left to join in the defence of Pretoria, which Roberts intended to attack once his troops rested? Or had he been already wounded? Even captured? Or killed? He was away, in any case. Should he ask? No. Too forward.
She brought the teapot and cups over and sat down, first giving him another searching look. “So what religion might you be, Pastoor?”
“I’m Canadian. I mean, “ and he chuckled, “I’m Church of England. I’m rather muddled these days.”
“Are you now? Well, so am I...” She forced a smile. “I suppose that’s not hard to see.”
Jack wanted to reach out and comfort her. Then a voice inside him shouted, so do it! He put his hand on hers and clasped it.
She clamped her eyes shut. Then she released her hand and lifted the tea to her delicate and full lips. A bloom had begun on her rounded cheeks, perhaps from emotion. She reached over and broke off a piece of his cake and popped it in her mouth. “I don’t know why Hermanus sold this. I never liked it.”
In spite of himself Jack smiled, and then started to laugh. He had no idea why it struck him as funny, but it did. Imagine selling cakes that you hated!
It struck her as funny, too. She smiled and began to giggle. In a deft way, she reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze.
They both sipped again, and sat there in silence.
“I feel better already,” she said in a surprised tone.
“A laugh will always do that. Though I have no idea what was funny.”
“Me neither.”
Had they just fallen into an instant friendship?
Chapter Twenty-Five
They talked for about an hour at the table, discussing the rains, the onset of winter in a couple of months, and Jack’s very different winters in northern Quebec, all inconsequential stuff. He learned how they dealt with the cold, and how they tried to deal with the heat. Her father was Dutch and had brought his family here to start a new life before she was born. But speaking of him, pain flickered over her features.
Jack told her something of his Old Homestead on the Gaspe coast, and tried to describe exactly where it was. Not a great success, for she knew little of Canada, thinking it populated by Wild West bandits and fur trappers. Well, that’s how they were known, Jack supposed. To feed into that, he told her a little of the Canadian Labrador, and was gratified to see her blue eyes widen as she listened, rapt, at his stories of driving huskies and being snow-bound by blizzards, and nearly dying as he crossed ice floes on the shores of the mighty St. Lawrence River.
For a while, they seemed entranced with their respective environments and forgot their troubles. This was the first real Boer person that Jack had come close to, as indeed he was her first Canadian. Before they knew it, an hour or more had passed. She got up and looked out. “It’s dusk already!”
“Yes.” With sinking heart, Jack realized it was time to return. “I’ve got to be going.”
She rose, and then paused, thinking. “I have an idea you’ve had no home cooking for a good long time?”
Jack choked. “A good long time? Not since last summer on the Gaspe. I’ve completely forgotten what a real meal tastes like.”
“Well, if I’m not being too forward, I would say that you’re about to taste one again.” She stood looking at him, expectantly.
Goodness gracious, he thought, how lucky! “With your permission, I’d be only too happy to taste home cooking.”
Jack followed as she went through the back of the shop and down a short passageway into her home. She unlocked the door and they went in together. She went across to the shelf and brought a lamp to the table to light it. “You know,” Jack said, “we haven’t even been introduced. What’s your name?”
“Catherina Elisabeth. And yours?”
Catherina! Not possible! And Elizabeth? What did all this mean? “I’m John Macpherson Alford. You know, Catherina, Catherine is my grandmother’s name.” She looked up, startled. It seemed to have struck her with the same force.
“And what’s more, my great grandmother was called Elizabeth, Elizabeth Garret. My grandmother Catherine died in 1863, before I was born, of course. But I grew up with traces of her all over the house: the wool blankets she wove; some of my mother’s clothes had been hers; the favourite crock we kept our molasses in; that churn that my father had given her when he was young and just back from Montreal, where he had worked one winter. He never talked about that, but my mother did often talk about her churn. In its day, it was a marvel. The first kind of churn that didn’t require up and down pumping.” He demonstrated.
She shook her head, surprised. “A real churn?
We get our butter from the factory here. A butter factory. It’s cheaper than from the store. We use a lot of butter in the tea room.”
While Catherina busied herself getting the supper, he pondered all this. Surely the fact that she bore his mother and grandmother’s names had a significance. But what? Don’t think about it too much, he told himself, but still, a feeling grew that eluded his understanding.
“And you won’t believe this, John, but my grandfather’s name was the same as yours, Johannes: John in Dutch.”
They both stood for a moment in silence looking at each other. Oh Lord, thought Jack, what is happening?
She whirled and went to find a saucepan in the cupboard, and proceeded to prepare the vegetables.
“Here, let me help.” Jack rose to stand beside her.
“Have you ever peeled carrots?”
“Not exactly.” Jack felt foolish. “But I could learn.”
“Here John, set the table instead.” She pointed to a drawer, and Jack took out the cutlery, and then looked through a couple of other drawers for napkins.
“All my friends call me Jack.”
“Jack it is then. But no one calls me Cat.”
“Of course not. Catherina has such a lovely lilt, I prefer it to Catherine.”
“Just a minute, Jack. I had almost forgotten... ”She bent and from a cupboard beneath the counter produced a bottle labelled Mampoer, a distilled fruit brandy. “I think, with what we’ve both been through...”
“Me too? Am I that obvious?” interrupted Jack. “I was sure I hid my problems rather well.”