by Julie Lawson
Saturday, January 5
8:00 p.m., the end of a long day
Took Kirsty for a walk after lunch and did some thinking. By the time I got back I’d made a decision.
I didn’t stop to take off my coat, just came right out and asked the grandparents why Mum had never told us about them and why they’d parted ways in the first place.
Before they had a chance to answer, I handed them my diary. “Please read it,” I said. “So you’ll know who we’ve lost.” After that I went straight back outside. Kirsty couldn’t believe her good fortune. Two walks, one right after another! She nearly wagged her tail off with excitement.
We walked along Young Avenue to where it turns into South Park Street, and all the way to Spring Garden Road. From there it was only a few blocks to the American Bellevue Hospital.
Went up to see Haggarty, only to find out that he was sent home yesterday.
On the way back I realized something. Duncan and I think about Mum and Dad and our sisters all the time, but we hardly ever talk about them because it’s too painful. It might be the same with our grandparents. They don’t mention Mum for the same reason they didn’t open the letters — because it hurts too much. Because whatever happened between them can never be put right, not now, and they’re reminded of that whenever they look at Duncan and me. What I said to them, and the way I’d spoken, had likely made things worse. That’s what I thought.
When I got back, everyone was in the library having tea. I was about to apologize, not only for my outburst but also for being late, when Gran began to talk. Grandpa, too. Before long we had the whole story.
Gran was weeping. She told us they’d wanted the best for their Lily, and when she wanted to marry a man “with no worthy prospects,” they thought she was making a terrible mistake.
They objected so strongly to John Blackburn as a suitable husband, Grandpa threatened to disown her if she went through with the marriage. “We’ll have no more to do with you,” he’d said.
Mum’s response? “Then I am no longer your daughter.”
And that was that.
Grandpa had met Mum by accident in the Public Gardens, that day that Duncan remembered. He’d reached out to her, wanting to talk, but she’d pushed him away. He’d shouted, she’d cried, and that was the end of the letters.
By the time Gran and Grandpa stopped talking, I was wrung out and came upstairs. Gran had returned my diary with a thank-you note, and left a surprise — a framed portrait of Mum, taken when she was about the same age as me.
I don’t understand how her parents could have been so mean to her when they’re so kind to others. Maybe the volunteering is their way of making amends. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never understand. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Later
Some good news (maybe)! Grandpa heard that a hospital ship will drop anchor in the harbour on Wednesday, and on Thursday it will dock at Pier 2. So Luke could be here in four days!
Sunday, January 6
Went to another special service, this time at All Saints Cathedral. All the churches are having a special service today because King George proclaimed January 6 to be a Day of Prayer throughout the entire British Empire. The prayers are for the success of the Allies in the Great War.
Sometimes I forget there’s a war over there. It feels as though it’s been here.
The lieutenant-governor was at the All Saints service, as well as army and navy officers, soldiers from the garrison, sailors from the warships in port, and throngs of ordinary people.
A military band played the hymns. One of them was Dad’s favourite: Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past. I couldn’t sing out loud for the ache inside, but the words were in my head. Our shelter from the stormy blast …
We told Gran that Mum had wanted us to start confirmation classes this year, but how could we with St. Mark’s destroyed? She said we could choose between All Saints and St. Paul’s. We chose St. Paul’s because that’s where the Kesslers go.
Later
Tea at the Kesslers’ this afternoon.
Grandpa drove us all in his motor car. It was Duncan’s first ride in one, and he was excited. I told him about my first ride, when the soldiers took me to the hospital. Today’s ride was much nicer.
It was fun seeing everyone again. Crackers squawked “hellos” and Snowball curled up on my lap and purred. Sophie and Lewis drew pictures of motor cars with Duncan.
I’ve been thinking about Haggarty. Next time I see him I’ll tell him that I now know the real story about Mum and Dad, and why Mum never talked about her parents. I like my make-believe story better. It’s a bit like Romeo and Juliet. Except with a happier ending, because at least Mum and Dad had twenty-two years together. And I’m sure they loved each other right until the end.
I’d tell Gran and Grandpa they were wrong about Mum making a mistake, but I think they already know.
Monday, January 7
Eva is back!
They’d gone to Montreal, spent one night with Mr. Heine’s sister, and decided it wasn’t for them. So here they are in Halifax, living with Mrs. Heine’s cousin until they can get a place of their own.
At first I thought I was seeing things. Duncan and I were in town with Gran, shopping for new winter coats, and I said, “Look, Duncan! Isn’t that Eva?”
Sure enough it was, and not just Eva, but Werner, too!
Gran said we could spend the afternoon with our friends and leave the shopping until tomorrow. And if we wanted, we could go to the vaudeville show at the Strand Theatre. Her treat!
Duncan and Werner decided to go to Camp Hill Hospital to visit Carl, but Eva and I went off to the Strand. It was a swell show, with singing, comedy sketches and acrobats, but our favourite part was “Howard, the crayon-writing artist.” He claims to have a double brain, because he can write with each hand, on a different topic, at the same time. Not only that, he does it to music! And not only forward, but backwards, upside down, topsy-turvy and in six different colours.
I tried it myself when I got home, and Duncan did, too. The double-handed forward writing wasn’t so bad, but the rest? Hopeless! We obviously don’t have a double brain.
I wish the regular schools would reopen. If they don’t hurry up, I’ll never finish the fourth reader and get on to the fifth. Even the South End schools are closed, mostly because of the broken windows, but some of them, like the Halifax Ladies College, are being used as hospitals.
Duncan says the longer it takes, the better. He’s making another book about a motor car.
Almost forgot. Brian is in the same ward as Carl now. Little by little we’re discovering what happened to our classmates. Most of the time the news is desperate sad.
Tuesday, January 8
This morning a letter came from Luke, but in a roundabout way — first to the Halifax Relief Committee, then to the children’s committee and finally to our house. Luke says his request for compassionate leave was granted on December 17 (the same day he wrote the letter), and as soon as a ship was available, he’d be on his way home.
Of course we knew that already because of the telegram that came, but it’s good to hear it again!
He’s still not fit for “active duty,” but he’s able to get around on crutches and his bronchitis is much better. By the time he crosses the Atlantic, he says he may have “graduated” to a cane.
When I unfolded the letter and read “Dear Charlotte,” I realized that Luke doesn’t know that Duncan is alive. How could he? I wrote to him on December 18, before I knew myself — at least, not for certain. Luke will be some surprised!
In the afternoon I went shopping with Gran and got a new winter coat. It’s royal blue with black fur trim on the collar, cuffs and pockets, and it buttons right up to the throat to keep the snow from falling down my neck. Can’t wear it coasting. It’s my Sunday best.
The last of the unidentified dead were buried today and Chebucto Morgue closed down — I hope for good.
Wednesday, January 9
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br /> Went down to the harbour this morning and saw the hospital ship Grandpa mentioned. It’s the first ship to be able to land in Halifax since the Explosion. Lucky for Luke, whether he’s on the ship or not, because now he won’t have to land in Saint John and come the rest of the way by train.
Duncan and I helped Ellie get the spare bedroom ready, because even if Luke’s not here tomorrow, he’ll be here eventually. Mary’s getting ready, too. She asked what we thought he’d like for supper and Duncan said, “Anything but bully beef and hard biscuit.”
We’re desperate with hope, praying that Luke’s on the ship. It’s a long wait until tomorrow. And if he’s not on board, how much longer until the next ship comes in?
Snow flurries today, and colder than yesterday.
Thursday, January 10
3:00 p.m.
Luke’s home!
My heart is bursting with relief and gladness, but I’m aching sad for him. He knew about Mum, Dad and Edith, but not Ruth, and not Jane, and it fell upon me to tell him — though I waited until he was settled in at home. His loss, and the shock of seeing the devastation — all this, all at once, and meeting the grandparents for the first time, and him being exhausted from the war and the long seasick voyage. He’s been asleep for the last two hours.
We were down at the pier first thing this morning. It took a good while to spot him, what with the hundreds of soldiers getting off, nearly all of them wounded, some being carried on stretchers, others barely able to walk, and finally, there he was — walking, but with a cane — just as he had hoped.
The minute we saw him, Duncan and I jumped up and down, waving and calling his name, and when he reached us on the pier he dropped his cane and kit bag and wrapped us up in his arms.
“Duncan,” he says, his voice breaking, “I didn’t know, I didn’t dare hope, and Charlotte, thank God you’re still together …” and more of the same, and I’ve kept every word.
Then he steps back, puts on a worried look and says, “Are you really Charlotte and Duncan? You were little kids the last time I saw you.”
“Not that little,” says Duncan. “We were ten.”
“And now you’re sixteen and growing a moustache!”
“No I’m not!”
“And Charlotte here, fending off the beaux, deciding who she’ll marry —”
“NO!!”
Well on it went, the bantering. I was glad of it, even though Luke might have been trying extra hard, because it took our minds off the sadness, Luke acting the way we remembered. I’d been afraid that the war might have changed him into someone different. And when he saw Kirsty! Another happy surprise, for he’d already left England by the time my letter arrived.
As soon as he wakes up I’m going to give him my diary. He can keep it as long as he likes, if he doesn’t feel up to reading it right away.
I have to remind him not to read the parts marked “secret.” I can’t remember having any, but just in case.
That’s all for now. I hear him talking to Duncan.
9:00 p.m.
Luke has just brought back my diary. He came into my room, drew me onto his lap and said, “I’m proud of you, Charlotte the Fearless. Thank you for keeping the family …” He couldn’t finish, his lower lip was trembling so.
His words brought on a flood of tears, and he rocked me in his arms to comfort me. I’m too old for that, but it was good to feel like a little girl again.
But that scoundrel! I asked when I could read his diary, because that was our deal, and he said, “I’ve got a confession to make.”
He fetched it from his room and when I opened it — blank pages! He hadn’t written a single word.
“I meant to keep a diary,” he says, “but ended up writing letters instead.”
I don’t care, now that he’s home. Reading about life in the trenches might be too gruesome anyway.
He’s given me his diary to use when this one is finished.
Friday, January 11
Grandpa drove us all to the Fairview Cemetery.
We brushed snow off the graves of our parents and sisters and laid wreaths of evergreens. Then we said a few prayers for Mum, Dad, Edith and Ruth. It’s a comfort to know they’re together, at least, and not unidentified or lost.
After that, Luke laid a wreath on Jane’s grave. He’d gone to see her parents yesterday, and they’d told him where to find it.
Poor Luke. He was awfully quiet when we came back from the cemetery, but later on, Duncan mentioned how happy Jane had been when we saw her on the trolley, and how she’d shown us Luke’s letter.
“You didn’t read it, did you?” Luke says, with a worried look.
We pretended we had, to tease him for a change, making up one gushy sentence after another, but eventually admitted we were fooling.
He’d read about Jane in my diary, but wanted to hear it all again. What she was wearing, what she said and so on. I think it cheered him a little.
Thursday, January 17
I don’t need to write every day, not with Luke being here, but sometimes I get the urge to write anyway. This sooty old diary is still a comfort, although the biggest comfort is Luke.
Duncan and I are like two puppies, the way we follow him around. It’s a wonder we don’t howl when he’s out of our sight. We take turns sitting beside him at meals and hang on to his every word. We go on walks with him no matter what the weather, making sure he goes slowly and uses his cane, reminding him every ten seconds to watch his step, until he finally says, “You two are worse than a sergeant for bellowing orders!” And we say, “Well then, we’ll let you fall and break the other leg so you’ll be stuck with us for good!”
The last few days have been right holy miserable. Damp sticky snow, up to our ankles in puddles with the wind whipping around the corners. And Luke? Stay indoors with his feet up? No, he’s loving it because “it’s not the blasted trenches.” And what an appetite! He’s sure been missing good food over there. Gosh, the way he devours Mary’s cooking! And no sooner has he finished a meal than he’s in the kitchen looking for a snack. Mary acts mad and threatens him with her rolling pin, but eventually gives in. Then she gives Duncan and me a snack, too, because she doesn’t “play favourites.”
Sometimes Luke asks Ellie to slip him a little extra when she’s serving, but she just laughs and says, “You don’t need my help, the way you’ve wormed your way into Mary’s heart!”
Duncan wanted to know about Vimy and Passchendaele, but Luke won’t talk about the battles. “You’ve seen enough horror,” he says. “You don’t need to hear any more.”
He showed us the army way of polishing brass buttons, and made us laugh with his tales of training fleas to do tricks, and how pet lice were the latest rage because once you had one, you’d never be without.
We laughed ourselves silly when he talked about a show that his battalion put on, how he’d dressed up as a mademoiselle in a flouncy skirt, red lipstick and a curly blond wig, playing the part of a waitress in a French tavern. “You desire the billy beef, Monsieur?”
Luke keeps things light-hearted, and doesn’t say much about the Explosion. I know he’s hurting, though, because sometimes at night I hear him weeping.
We talk a lot about the way things were before. Our house with the stained glass window, Mum’s good cooking and how she tried to fatten me up, Dad and his poetry recitations, Ruth’s temper, Edith’s long line of beaux.
It was hard at first, talking about them, but it’s gotten a bit easier, and it’s a way of having them close. The memories make us cry. But sometimes, the things we remember, we can’t help but laugh. Like the time Edith and Ruth set up a pet hospital in the backyard, and everything was fine until people started looking for their lost cats and kittens, and Mum complained about the amount of food disappearing from the kitchen.
And the day Dad came home with a big box and told Luke to open it — no one knew what was inside, not even Mum — and there was dear little Kirsty. Everyone gasped and wen
t “Ahh!” Oh, the fun we had when she was a puppy.
Gran and Grandpa listen, too. Sometimes they laugh and say, “Just like your mother at that age.” Then they tell us something they’ve remembered. Like when Mum forged her mother’s handwriting and wrote a letter to her teacher asking that Lily be excused from all physical activities because of growing pains. It sounds like the very thing Ruth would do.
Friday, January 18
Grandpa told us that we can “file a claim” and get paid for the loss of our house and all its contents. So Luke, Duncan and I sat down and made a list. We went through the house, room by room, item by item, trying to picture everything in our minds. It took a long time because the smallest item brought back memories. Mum’s embroidery on the pillow slips, the squeaky clothes wringer, the dinner dishes with yellow roses (used only on Sundays and special occasions). Furniture, carpet in the living room, lino in the kitchen — so much a part of our home but scarcely noticed.
So much to think about. And questions. Does the stained glass window count? Yes, all the windows. What about the piano? No, a piano is a luxury.
We had to list our clothing, right down to stockings and underwear, and after that, the cost of everything. Sofa, lamps, tea kettle, rolling pin, every last little thing …
By the time Duncan and I finished our clothing list, we’d had enough. We left the pricing to the others.
Later, I noticed that the blue velveteen dress Edith had been making me for Christmas had been added to my list. Gran must have remembered it from my diary.
Saturday, January 19
Miss Tebo was killed in the explosion, so today I started piano lessons with a new teacher, Miss Chatwin. She’s nice and doesn’t rap knuckles. (I know because I didn’t see a ruler.) She gave me lots to work on and said I might be ready for the conservatory exam in the spring if I practise hard.
Later on, Luke, Duncan and I went to Camp Hill Hospital. Most of the Explosion patients have left and the beds have gone back to the soldiers. Luke wanted to see some friends who were injured in France.