At the signal from Mr Simpson, they filed out onto the stage and took their seats, Dana, Mr Hennigan, and Mr Adkins, leaving one more for Mr Simpson, who had walked over to the microphone.
Dana was overwhelmed by the sight spread in front of her. Her mind flashed back over the past few months. What a whirlwind of events had crowded into such a short time: the City Council meeting at which the project was formally approved; the planning meetings with the architect—she had been amazed by the generosity of the architect and the engineers—all their work was done at no charge; the formation of a young peoples’ council and beginning to work with the volunteer advisors; watching, as Mr Ferruccio and his men, along with Mr DeLaunais, began the challenging task of changing the old Hennigan Brewery into the new Hennigan Centre; the several visits down to Kingston with Mr Simpson, and various others on occasion, to consult with Mr Hennigan; the discussions on the ceremony about to begin; the dedications (she had been greatly saddened by what she learned from Mr Hennigan); and then, to cap it all, only yesterday she had received the news that she had been accepted by RMC at Kingston. She was on Cloud Ten.
Mr Simpson was speaking, she realized. “… and so, I would like to call first on Dana Munro. Dana?”
She walked to the microphone. Mr Simpson helped her adjust the height, to the amusement of the audience—Mr Simpson being six foot five, and Dana a mere five foot six.
“Mr Hennigan, friends,” she began. “I really do feel it’s a privilege to be standing up here in front of you. You’ve all been wonderful in your support, and I can’t thank you enough. This has been my dream, and you have made it come true.
“This Centre’s going to be a place where people, young and old, will enjoy being together, playing together, working together, learning together. It’ll be a constant reminder of good times, but also of sad times—sad times that can teach us all lessons.
“I can’t thank all of you by name, it would take far too long, but you know what you have contributed, and I thank you for it. But I would like to give special thanks to a few people, who have given me, personally, special encouragement.
“First, I want to thank Mr Hennigan.” She turned to him, nodded her head, and then returned to the microphone. “He had the faith to take my idea and let it grow into this wonderful place.”
The audience burst into applause.
As it died down, Dana continued. “I would also like to thank Mr Simpson.” She let her left arm move back to include George Simpson in its sweep. “Mr Simpson has given countless hours to helping me and guiding me—and transporting me. I really do appreciate all that he has done for me.”
The audience applauded.
“I want to thank someone who came into my life at a tragic time, and who has been an example for me to try to follow. Jane Stennings. Jane, thank you. Thank you for being there when we needed help, and thank you for being an inspiration for me.”
Again, the gathering applauded.
“And I must thank one more special person, who has been my sounding board for so many of my thoughts on this project, who has been my supporter and my companion as we dragged the idea around to meet with all of you. Tony, thank you.”
And with that, Dana returned to her seat.
The audience, however, rose to its feet, applauding loud and long, so long in fact, that Dana, exhilarated though she was, began to feel embarrassed.
She turned to Mr Hennigan, who indicated that she should stand again. She did so, and bowed her head, opening her arms to the crowd.
At last, she sat down, as the audience resettled into its various spots on the floor and the seats.
Mr Simpson returned to the microphone.
“I would like to say a few words at this point in the proceedings,” he began. “My association with this building began way back, just after the Second World War, when I was billeted here as an army lieutenant. It was a cold and drafty place then, a far cry from this fine structure we see now. There were no houses here, way back then.
“I am proud to say that now I count many of you as good friends. This whole project, and the events that led to its conception, have been very enlightening. It has certainly given me a new view of people, of what people can do together.
“I will now call upon Dave Adkins, our administrator.” He sat down, to more applause.
Dave approached the microphone. “Mr Hennigan, and friends. I feel a bit out of place up here. The three people up here with me have far more claim to be here than I do. They have done wonders. I have only just begun to play my part in this whole business.
“And I, too, want to thank people for their confidence in me. When I was first ‘volunteered’,” he made quote signs with his fingers, “by my good friend, Mike Carson, I was at first embarrassed, and then honoured by the support you gave me. And I am indebted to Mr Hennigan and the Youth Council, who took me on as the only person on the Centre’s payroll. I am truly grateful for this opportunity; it’s a wonderful experience already, and I can assure you that I will do my level best to serve you well.
“And I want to thank particularly those volunteer assistants who have already been working hard with the Youth Council to put together an exciting and challenging program of activities; activities, I should add, that are for all young-at-hearts. That is the role of this place: it is a youth centre—for the young at heart. Youth is not an age; it’s an attitude. I thank you all.”
Dave returned to his seat to the audience’s applause.
Mr Simpson moved to the microphone and readjusted it again, to Mr Hennigan’s height. “I now have the pleasure of introducing our honoured guest, Mr Kurt Hennigan.”
Mr Hennigan moved to the microphone, to loud applause. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends—I hope I may call you all friends. It is a great honour for me to be with you today. It is one of the greatest occasions in my life. And, may I add, that I’m going to be ninety-seven in a few months—”
Thunderous applause cut him off for a full minute.
He continued, in his old but strong voice, “This place has many memories for me. It was built by my grandfather. When he died, he left it to my father. I knew this place when I was a young boy. I remember the horse-drawn wagons that brought the barley, and others that carried the great barrels of dark beer and lager to the town. And the coming of the railway, and the old steam locomotives that shook their rattling freight cars laden with our barrels over the bridge that once carried the tracks over the Otter Brook. And as the influence of the Depression took effect and the brewing businesses faltered, I moved my family away to Kingston, sadly leaving this brewery with just a dozen men left working it and driving the two-horse drays, or driving the three motor-trucks we had by then. My son and my daughter, little more than babies, were sorry to leave this place.
“The brewery struggled on, but finally it had to close, and the men were out of work. This was a most difficult and sad time for me. I knew each one of the men and their families. Eventually, they all found new work, but many had to move far away.
“This property had been left to me by my father, with the same conditions under which his father left it to him. I could not sell the property outside the family. And so, I hoped that in time I would be able to find a use for the place, and eventually leave it to my children.”
Here he paused, and turned toward Mr Simpson, who realized at once that Mr Hennigan needed to sit. His chair was brought forward, and the microphone lowered.
“My old legs are faltering a bit these days,” he continued, smiling. “I work them a bit too much sometimes.”
The audience chuckled.
He continued, “After six years of World War, peace was again close at hand, but there were still conflicts, erupting in the Korean peninsula. My son had joined the army at age eighteen. Shortly afterward, my daughter volunteered as an army nurse. She had already begun her training before the conflict erupted. They both went to Korea …”
A deep stillness filled the hall, as Mr Hennigan’s voi
ce grew softer.
“… but they did not return.”
Dana felt the tears well up in her eyes again. She had been deeply moved when she had learned the details the day before from Mr Hennigan. He had told her more at that time, looking at her with deep, sad eyes. His daughter had been killed, not by the enemy, but when an army truck, driven by a drunken soldier, had collided with the truck carrying her and several nursing friends, all returning from a dance. His son had been killed at the Battle of Kapyong.
Mr Hennigan continued, softly. “I have no surviving family. My dear wife died forty-two years ago.” But here his voice picked up. “So when I received a phone call from my good friend George here, about a young lady who had a proposal for this old brewery, I was interested to meet her and hear her ideas. When I met her, I was impressed at once.”
He stood up from his seat and beckoned to Dana. Surprised, she rose and came to him. He grasped her hand and raised it to head height.
“In Dana, I see my dear lost daughter. God bless you, my dear.”
Dana struggled to form a smile through the tears that were brimming in her eyes.
He released her hand. “Now, my friends,” Mr Hennigan was in firm control now, “we will move to the most important part of our ceremony today. And please, I ask that Mr and Mrs Munro, and Mr and Mrs Ferruccio, join us on the platform.”
This was all pre-arranged, Dana knew, though it had been difficult. Both mothers had been reluctant, fearful of their own emotions, but Mr Hennigan had taken each one aside during the small reception he had given last evening at his hotel, and in his gentle but persuasive way had urged them to take part. Part of the grieving process, he had said to them.
The four parents joined them on the platform. Dana stood on the left of the blue drapes at the back, with her mother and father next to her. Mr Hennigan stood on the right of the drapes, with Mrs and Mr Ferruccio beside him. Mr Simpson had moved the microphone over to the side to not obscure the group. Dave Adkins had moved away to the far side of the platform, taking the chairs with him.
Mr Simpson began, “Would everyone please stand.”
A general bustle and noise erupted momentarily, with a cough or two, and sounds of Kleenex being used, as the audience came to its feet and readjusted to obtain a clear view.
Mr Simpson continued. “We are gathered here today to rename these buildings and their grounds as the Hennigan Centre, and to dedicate them to the memory of four young people, lost forever from our world.”
Dana and Mr Hennigan pulled at the cords and the blue drapes parted, revealing a bronze plaque.
“I shall read the words inscribed on this memorial.” Mr Simpson adjusted his reading glasses. “This Hennigan Centre is dedicated to the memory of Richard Hennigan, Lorna Hennigan, Bryce Munro, Vincent Ferruccio, for enjoyment by the Young-at-Heart.”
Dana and Mr Hennigan walked together to the front of the platform. They took their cues from each other, and together pronounced, “We declare this Hennigan Centre open.”
- 23 -
The snowfall had been heavier than forecast. Jane was glad Graham had suggested he stay home with the baby, instead of them all coming out in the cold to trek over to the Centre. It was the Children’s Christmas Party, the first ever held that included the whole ‘Brewster’ community, and the first in the Hennigan Centre.
Jane felt excited as she trudged through the snow on the sidewalk, not plowed now as a cost-cutting measure by the city. She liked the Christmas season, and this one was made all the more special by her own little baby.
Most of the townhouses had put up lights, making the place bright and cheery, and as she looked across the snow-covered playfield to the walls of the Centre, she could see the coloured lights arranged in the form of a star, high on the end wall. Dave Adkins and Pino Ferruccio had been up a tall ladder back in November setting that up.
As she stepped into the entrance hall, Jane pulled off her boots and slipped on a pair of flat, soft shoes. There was the sound of high-pitched children’s voices coming through the inner doors.
She quietly entered the main hall to find Fiona Stacey in the middle of the hall with a crowd of small kids chasing balloons in some form of game. Jane smiled, thinking it didn’t really matter what the game had started out as, the kids were having fun anyway. Some older children were helping Fiona as best they could.
Jane glanced over to the counter that opened from the kitchen to see several of the mothers busily preparing the food and drinks that would be served up later. Spread around the benches along the walls of the hall, fathers sat in groups. Occasionally, a father would swoop in like a hawk and pick off a child from the crowd, and mildly chastise or gently comfort the child, depending on the circumstances.
Jason Johnson had a group of young teens over by the platform at the other end, deeply involved in some kind of guessing game. Everything seemed to be moving along well.
“Hi Jane, where’s the babe?”
Jane turned to see Kelly McDowell coming toward her from the kitchen. “Hi, Kelly. Graham suggested, as it’s colder and snowier than expected, that he stay home and look after Trishy. He sent me to represent the family.”
“Oh, and I was looking forward to seeing her. But you’re right, it is a bit on the cool side.”
“While I think of it, Kel, would you and Mike care to come over tomorrow night, say, around eight?”
“Sure, that would be nice. I’ll check with Mike, but it sounds good.”
“Great. Is Dana here yet?”
“No, not yet. She only got home from Kingston last night. I expect there’s a lot of catching up going on with her family.”
“I bet. She’s been away from them basically since, when, beginning of July, wasn’t it?”
“Mmm, I guess so, but I think her parents did go down a couple of times in early September. But I don’t think she’s been allowed any leave from RMC before this. I expect we’ll see some big changes in her. She’ll have had a tough time.”
“Yes, but I’m confident she can take it.” Jane knew much of what was involved at RMC from what Graham had told her, and she had had to go through some similar kinds of training herself, in the police force.
She had been deeply moved by Dana’s comment back at the opening of the Centre, of how Dana had looked on Jane as a role model. Jane had not appreciated that she was, though she had felt the bond with Dana since the time of the accident.
At that point, the doors from the entrance opened, and in stepped Dana, dressed in her full scarlets. The children took one look at her and ran to surround her, clamouring to touch her, to feel her uniform, quizzing her about what this was for, what that was for.
Gently, Dana tried to calm them down, only to be caught by the onslaught of the teens and surrounded by an even bigger and louder mob.
Laughing happily, she carefully walked across the hall, sweeping the horde along with her, waving to Jane and Kelly, and to the fathers, most of them having stood up by now, all of them laughing. Dana brought the clinging mass to the centre of the hall, and stopped.
Suddenly she flung her arms high and in a firm voice shouted, “Freeze.”
It had the desired effect. Silence fell upon the horde.
Dana spoke quietly, “Sit down, all of you, please, right where you are.” She lowered her hands slowly.
The children obeyed.
Methodically, Dana proceeded to tell the children, and most of the fathers who had wandered over from the benches, about the several parts of her uniform, and how she had to keep them clean, polished, and pressed. Gradually, the children began asking questions again, but now in an orderly fashion, and even some of the dads added theirs. Dana was clearly in her element.
She moved on to telling the cluster around her about how strict things were at the college, and how little time they had to prepare for drills and inspections; about how clean and tidy they had to keep their rooms, and she gave a little, light-hearted lecture to the teenagers on that issue.
>
Jane and Kelly had held back, watching the action from afar, not wanting to distract anyone from Dana’s control.
“You know,” began Kelly, “even in the five months or so since I saw her last, she’s matured a lot.”
“Yes,” agreed Jane, “and she was mature even then. She’s going to do very well.”
The sound of tinkling bells was heard by all, and attentions diverted toward the double doors, where the sound was coming from.
“Ho, ho, ho! Me-erry Christmas, everyone; Mee-eerry Chri-istmas. Ho, ho, ho!” In waddled Santa Claus, carrying his sack.
The little kids squealed in delight, rushing over to surround him as he made his way over to a big chair that had been placed up on the platform near the big Christmas tree. Several fathers acted as shepherds, collecting the children into a noisy but orderly group. Mothers and helpers came out of the kitchen as the strains of Christmas carols wafted out from a portable stereo resting on the end of the serving counter.
Dana took charge of the line of fidgety children waiting to talk with Santa. The little ones were first, then older ones. Each child came back from Santa clutching a small present, which was quickly unwrapped.
While all this was happening, Jane went over to the teenagers, who, as usual, were hovering on the edge of the gathering of fathers, mothers, and their smaller offspring. Jane and Kelly had been working with the teens for several weeks, helping and giving encouragement to them in developing and practising ‘Christmas Carols with a Twist’. There were, Jane had found, several good musicians in the group, and what had evolved was quite spectacular.
While the smaller kids played with their new toys, the teens quietly set up their gear on the platform, in readiness. Kelly had walked back to turn off the Christmas music.
At a sign from Jane, Jeremy Johnson walked over to the microphone at the side of the stage. “And no-ow we have grrre-eat pleasure in pree-senting … Thee Bre-ewster Pla-ayers. Take it away, Jase!”
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