by Nancy Hartry
I’ve never heard of him, but Aunt Jean has. There’s a spot of color in her cheeks and she’s gripping her purse so tightly, you’d think someone was trying to snatch it from her.
Mr. Douglas grips the side of the lectern and jumps right into his speech about Christianity and war, because as he says, November the 11th is just around the corner. We’d better not forget.
“In the Western world we are spending billions of dollars on implements of destruction. I am not a pacifist and I do not think that in a troubled world like ours it is advisable to be defenseless. The fact remains, however, that bombs and guns are not the final answer. I believe that in the long run love is stronger than hate, kindness better than cruelty, and a helping hand more powerful than the clenched fist.”
Mr. Douglas’s fist is raised in the air and he thumps it hard on the podium. There is a long silence before he continues.
“I have often wondered what would happen if we were prepared to take 25 percent of what we were spending on armaments and devote it to the task of feeding and clothing the hungry people of the world. If we were prepared to take some of the great food surplus we have or some of our great supplies of farm machinery and electrical generating equipment, and make them available to the people of the underdeveloped countries, I venture the faith that an action of that sort would do more to establish peace and good will in the world than all the bombs and guns we will ever produce.”
There’s no sound in the church now, and Mr. Douglas takes off his glasses and points at us with them. I feel like he’s speaking to me alone at the kitchen table over a cup of tea and oatmeal cookies.
“We must constantly ask ourselves why nations go to war. What is it that drives men to attack their neighbors? The whole story of history reveals the fact that when people get hungry they become desperate and they will follow any leader that offers them bread — even if it is their neighbor’s bread. How long do we think we can maintain peace in a world in which the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations estimates that fifteen hundred million people go to bed hungry every night?”
People are rustling now. Could there be fifteen hundred million hungry people in the world? I mean really hungry not just like me and my mom who have beans and eggs for dinner sometimes when we’re waiting for the next paycheck?
“One of the greatest presidents of the United States once said that no nation can long survive half slave and half free. I am suggesting tonight that the world cannot long survive half full and half hungry. Peace is only possible where men have learned the principles of co-operative living, and where we are prepared to share with those less fortunate than ourselves …”
I’m like a sleepwalker leaving the cathedral. I don’t protest when the General offers to drive us all the way home. I listen to the General tell Aunt Jean how disappointed he is that Tommy Douglas didn’t talk about Medicare — free health care for all.
He pats Aunt Jean’s hand. “Too political a topic for him at church, I guess, with all those Rosedale Tories sitting in the pews. I’ll take you to a rally, Jean. Oh, how he can get a crowd going.”
I don’t listen to Aunt Jean and the General discussing her troubles. I don’t even flinch when I see a new for sale sign pounded into Aunt Jean’s front lawn.
Doctors for free? My head spins with the oratory, the persuasiveness, and the good sense of this Premier of Saskatchewan, this former Baptist minister.
I’m half full and half hungry, for more of his words. For more of his ideas.
If it wasn’t for the cardboard boxes packed and shoved under the bed and the occasional young couple touring the house, I’d forget that Aunt Jean and Jimmy have to move. Where they will go has been decided. Uncle Ted has an investment property in Mimico. They’ll live above a hardware shop. And as much as it galls Aunt Jean to take charity from the likes of Ted, the price is right. Free. She’ll have none of moving in with us. After we make the bread for the week, Mom and I are going to visit the apartment to see what needs to be done. After we do our chores.
My mother bakes the most heavenly bread. I help her assemble all the ingredients. The flour. The butter. The cake of yeast. The sugar. The salt. A clean tea towel. A big bowl for mixing. And then I stay out of her way. My favorite part is the kneading. I pretend to read a book, but mostly I sneak peeks at my mother. There’s a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. Her arms quiver like junket. I know not to disturb her until the minute-minder dings to say that ten minutes is up. Mom is a stickler for kneading bread ten minutes precisely. She’s experimented and this seems to work best.
The bread is elastic but firm when she’s done. Four loaves. Two for Jimmy and two for us. Side by side, they look like the buttocks of twin babies, plump and rounded. Mom always gives them a little love pat and they jiggle like a baby’s bum too.
“That’s that!” she says.
It’s my job to cover them with an ironed tea towel and set them by the radiator. I use exactly the same place my grandmother did, in the front vestibule before you go up the stairs.
My mom is much more relaxed after she’s kneaded bread. The process calms her. I put the kettle on the stove. While I wait for the whistle, I take a fancy plate from Grandma’s dining-room hutch and two English bone china cups and set them on the oil cloth of the kitchen table. There are day-old Chelsea buns in the bun warmer and the smell of sugar and cinnamon is sending signals to my stomach.
The time after my mother kneads bread is the only time in the week that I can talk to her and be sure that she’ll answer my questions. Otherwise, there are too many things to do with shift work and housecleaning and laundry and trying to catch up on some sleep. I have big questions to ask her because I need to understand about Ted.
I warm the teapot with boiling water and swish it around to make sure it’s good and hot. I fill the silver tea ball with tea leaves and hook the chain over the rim of the pot. The kettle is shrieking on the stove but I dare not move it off the element until everything is ready. The water must be roiling boiling to make the best tea.
I put raspberry jam Thumbelina cookies on the plate. Jimmy and I made them when we were little, and we were allowed to push our thumbs into every cookie before the jam was spooned in. I called them our little Thumbelinas and the name stuck.
My mom and I sit across from each other. She pours milk into the cups, way more for me, and then from a height, pours the tea. She takes three sips and sets down her teacup in the saucer.
I pass her the plate of cookies.
“Now, tell me about your whole life, lovey.”
Normally, we talk about school. Or what I’m reading. She doesn’t get much time to read anymore so I tell her stories. She likes mysteries. But today, as I said, I have a different plan. Today, we are going to talk about Ted.
“What was Ted like when he was a kid?”
My mom peers at me over the rim of the cup. She’s considering why I’m asking these questions. Why now?
“He was all right. He was considerably older than I. Bertie and I were more of an age, although even he was four years older. We tobogganed in the park and skated, of course, for hours on end. Ted was very protective of Bertie. He really took it to heart that he was the uncle. Ted was seven when Bertie was born. That’s how come everyone calls him Uncle Ted. The name stuck, I guess because he was an uncle at such an early age.”
“A seven-year-old uncle seems silly.”
“Yes, well it happens. Ted and Bertie might have been brothers, really. Jean and her husband, Jake, worked long hours getting the hardware business up and running, so Jean’s mother watched them. Those were hard years, making enough money to buy the house next door. And we know how that turned out.”
“So, Ted used to be a nice enough guy?”
My mom makes a face like the tea is scalding her mouth. “He was okay. He was good with his hands. Always building and fixing stuff. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s done well in the building trade.”
“So what happe
ned? How come he’s such a crank now?”
“I’m not absolutely sure. I know that Ted had a falling out with Bertie when Bertie enlisted in the service. Ted had been turned down flat because of his feet. Folks say that it galled Ted that his nephew went off to war and not him.”
“It was like they changed places.”
“I guess. Really, it’s a closed book. Jean won’t talk about it.”
I pull apart a Chelsea bun and nibble around the edges like a mouse. “What do you think really happened?”
“I don’t know, Carolyn. You ask too many questions. All I know is, there’s more to the story.” My mother stands and begins clearing up the tea things leaving me to ponder how anybody could be mad that they didn’t get to go to war, especially when the person who did go to war got shot down dead. How could you stay angry about that all these years later? As I said before, boys can be so dumb. They can be dumb about Thunderbird convertible cars. And they can be dumb about war.
We take a bus and a streetcar and another bus to get to Mimico and Aunt Jean’s new apartment. It’s like we are in another city altogether.
We have to walk up a narrow flight of stairs to get to the apartment. The lock on the door looks flimsy, but it opens easily enough when Mom turns the key. The walls are dark green and sunlight only comes in through the front and back windows of a very long and narrow space. There’s one toilet, mean and rusted, and a tiny back kitchen with an ancient stove and peeling linoleum. The kitchen is filthy and stinks of cabbage and onion. My mom runs her fingers along the window ledge, peeling and black with mold.
“A coat of paint or three will help get this place ship shape.” I can tell that Mom is attempting to be brisk and efficient and positive thinking.
I stand by the window that overlooks a gravel parking lot. As far as the eye can see, there are laneways and rusting tin roofs. No grass. NO safe place to play.
“Jimmy won’t like this,” I say.
“Neither will Aunt Jean. There are no flowers or trees.”
“I hate Ted.” I say it matter-of-factly as an honest expression of how I feel. Mom doesn’t reproach me. “Besides, there’s a big problem.”
“What?” Mom asks.
“There’s no laundry room.”
My mom lets out a long breath. Both of us are trying to visualize Aunt Jean wrestling with Jimmy’s daily sheets and diapers, stowing them in the rusty old bathtub and then lugging them to the launderette way down the street.
“It’s not fair,” I say.
“Life is not fair, Carolyn, love. I’m sorry that there are some things I just can’t change.”
I don’t accept that. I will not accept that. I’d rather die than accept that. Every day I struggle with how I can make things better for Aunt Jean and Jimmy. How can I, a kid, make something good happen for them? I know that my measly choir money, which I save in my piggy bank, will never do it. But it’s a start. As Aunt Jean says, if you look after the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves. One day I will, I will have enough to pay a doctor to help Jimmy. If you don’t believe me, just watch.
And when I’m done worrying about Aunt Jean and Jimmy, I worry about me. What’s going to happen to me when Mom goes to work? Who’s going to take care of me? Aunt Jean will be in another school district entirely. I can’t take streetcars there every day after school and then back in the morning. It’s not sensible. Not sensible at all.
I feel guilty for thinking about me in the face of their troubles.
Mom picks up some newspaper and garbage littering the postage-patch of weeds outside the apartment door. She introduces herself to the hardware store owner but I stay outside on the sidewalk with my back to the building.
It’s all I can do to sweet-talk myself into being positive. This is just a lay-by for Jimmy and Aunt Jean. And me, of course. We’ll get through.
One day in early November the principal calls me to the office.
What now? I think. I scan my behavior for something that might have attracted his attention. The missed detention blew over quite nicely with a forged note from my mom about possible symptoms of influenza. I’d hoped they’d have a big meeting to decide whether to shut down the school, but no. No such luck.
Apparently now I’m too quiet. Too reserved. Not my usual self and all the teachers have reported this to him. Is there something wrong at home he should know about?
Yes there is something wrong at home. Everything is wrong at home, I scream in my head, but I’m not about to tell anything to this hypocritical man who only last week reveled in my first offence. There’s nothing he needs to know.
“No, Sir.”
He switches the subject and tells me how much he’s looking forward to my speech. He’s heard from my teacher that it’s very dramatic and patriotic. It will be a lovely addition to the Remembrance Day celebration, he’s sure.
I thank him and turn to leave the office.
“There’s one more thing, Carolyn. I’ve been asked by someone at the City to send a speaker to the cenotaph. I wondered how you might feel about that?”
“Gosh.”
My mind is racing. Aunt Jean will be there. If I do my speech at the cenotaph, I’ll be able to be with Aunt Jean. But it will mean that I’ll have to give my talk twice in less than two hours.
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s settled then. I’m sure you’ll be a fine ambassador for the school,”
No. No, Sir I will not. These days, I don’t care two figs about the school or about you. I’m looking after myself, like I always have, but more so since Jimmy fell I’ll be a fine ambassador for myself and my mom and Aunt Jean and Jimmy, but that’s it.
I’m sure you’re wondering about my speech. I’ve heard it said the thing that people fear more than death is public speaking. I suppose it’s true, but I don’t see how. I don’t think much about public speaking, myself. Mom says that people are shocked that a little kid like me can do public speaking like a pro. What she doesn’t say, but I know she thinks, is that I’m a chip off the old bastard. I think my father must have been an actor as well as a singer. He sure tricked my mom.
Never mind. We’ll never know.
I practice my speech after dinner every night in front of the mirror. I concentrate on timing and gesturing and pausing in the right places. Nobody has taught me to do this. It just happens.
November moves along, dark, drizzly, and November-ish On the evening of November 10th, I’m at Aunt Jean’s. Andrew has taken Jimmy for a walk up to the church. I’m about ready to have a bubble bath, even though it isn’t Sunday. Part of public speaking is looking confident, and I want to be as confident and sweet-smelling as I can be. After all, I have to deliver my speech twice — once at nine o’clock at the school, and then at eleven o’clock at the cenotaph. The principal offered to drive me down, but I said, “No thank you.” The General’s picking up Aunt Jean and I’ll go with them.
The doorbell rings at 8:30 p.m.
“Carolyn, get the door, please!” Aunt Jean hollers. “I’m on the phone.”
“I’m drawing a bath!”
“I don’t care if you’re drawing the Mona Lisa!”
I thunder down the stairs, turn on the porch light, and flip the bolt on the door.
Luanne Price is standing on the porch flanked by three adults. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
A man in a suit and tie presents his real-estate card.
“You don’t live here,” says Luanne.
“No. For once, Luanne, you’re right. I live next door. What are you doing here?”
My mind is racing. Are Luanne Price’s parents considering buying Aunt Jean’s house?
“My mother and father want me to see if I like this house before they put in an offer.”
The agent barges right in. They don’t take off their shoes. I trail behind them.
“Carolyn, do you have water running?” Aunt Jean calls.
I race ahead up the stairs. Phew, I’m lucky. The
bubbles are mounding over the top of the tub, but not the water. I reach in and pull the plug, draining some of the excess away.
Luanne and her family are in Jimmy’s room now.
“Pee-yew!” Luanne says, holding her nose. “I can’t sleep in here.”
The real estate man pipes up. “This room can be professionally steam cleaned and painted.”
“You mean fumigated,” says Luanne’s father.
Now, the upstairs hallway in Aunt Jean’s house is very narrow with really only room for two people at a time. So it’s possible that I could have accidentally brushed past Luanne Price, knocking her off balance. Sadly Luanne has no balance at all, or maybe my brushing was more like a rugby hit, but no matter. Luanne stumbles and skins her knee on the hardwood floor.
“Sorry. Sorry.” I help her up.
“Don’t touch me.” She makes a sign like she’s warding off evil spirits. She makes the same sign toward Jimmy’s room.
I follow them downstairs. The real-estate man shakes my hand or tries to. Luanne is being spiteful. She does what comes next to get at me. She must know that she’s the last person on earth I would want to share my semi-detached house with.
“I like it. Let’s buy it.”
As they are walking out the door, the salesman says, “The vendor needs to sell. It’s a forced sale. The house doesn’t show well. I’m sure you’ll get a rock-bottom price.” He’s talking like I’m not even there.
“Bug off, Luanne Price!” She hears me. I slam the door on their backs. And turn off the porch light.
I hope they fall down the stairs and break their necks.
It’s November the 11th. Remembrance Day. I’m in my own bed in my own house trying not to remember the horror of last night. The horrid Luanne Price living right next door!