by Paul Almond
And the next challenge — his brother’s church: Trinity Memorial in Notre Dame de Grâce. Canon John had worked all through the early part of the decade to raise the general public’s awareness about returning veterans, many disabled, some physically and some, like Eric, with hidden ailments. When the money for the actual church building finally came together after heroic and tireless fund-raising, what would Jack’s Trinity “Memorial” Church contain? What souvenirs of death and much mayhem? The few times Eric had passed through Montreal before, he had avoided going there; he wanted no reminders of the Firing Line. But he loved remembering those outings on leave with his brother in London, driven by such lovely chauffeurs, Rene and her caustic sister Leo. Sweet reminiscences. If it hadn’t been for Jack’s high rank, Eric would never have met Rene, the lovely volunteer driver, not in a million years. How far apart were their lives: she from a wealthy Brentwood family from Essex, and he from a lowly farm on the Gaspe. Only by the Gray’s volunteering their large brown Daimler had he and his cherished lady friend met.
So yes, the war had brought — apart from comradeships and acts of heroism — other benefits. But here he was, thinking of benefits, of Rene, when it was so very unlikely they would ever meet again. Banish such thoughts!
But don’t let go of those times his brother had visited him at the Front, as Head of the Chaplaincy Service of the Canadian Forces. Eric remembered that on one occasion their visit had been interrupted by a counter barrage from the enemy, so they’d both had to race to a dugout for safety. Moments like that did nothing to trigger any disconcerting episodes: rather, what bothered Eric were the memorabilia he might encounter in the church. Well, he thought, I’ll just wait and see.
Before he knew it, the train blew its warning for Kruse’s Crossing. They passed the lane, and then, still not at top speed, the train chugged over the Iron Bridge across the Hollow. What images this crossing spawned: the Millpond, the distant greying timbers of the mill, and their old Tamworth sow in her pasture, circled by spruce rails (for it was deemed temporary). When Eric was three or four, the hired man would take him back in the wheelbarrow with two pails of slops: old potato and turnip peelings, rotten carrots, bits of beetroot, all in water from boiling their vegetables.
Back to the hollow to feed the red pig
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
The hired man, Howard, would sing this ditty to little Eric who clutched fiercely at the sides of the wheelbarrow with small hands.
And what about jolting back to the hay-fields and out again, past the Hollow, in the empty hayrack? Lying on the load to watch wild clouds streaking across the sky before an East wind heralding onslaughts of rain. Get that load into the barn fast! But other days, when the sun beat down and he hefted coils of hay onto the load — he’d even learned how to build loads himself, no easy task, going down that slanted hill-track behind the house, plenty of bumps and boulders to shift the hay as the horses galloped down at high speed, pulling back hard before they swerved into the thrashing floor and came to a halt. Off he would get and clamber up into the mow, where Earle would fork off the load hay to him and Howard for spreading around.
And then, oh glory! Down to the wharf stretching its battered timber-tongue into the mouth of the blue bay. They’d tear onto the lower lip where fishing boats moored, strip naked and leap screaming into the icy waters to get the hayseed and flecks of straw and sweat splashed away. And out fast, for sure, because you’d freeze in more than a minute, those darn waters were so cold!
And how he used to love milking the one cow in the barn in midwinter, when the others, being with calf, had dried their milk — that one provided all the family needed for its winter milk, cream, and butter. In the darkened stable with its door shut against the twenty-below weather outside, the hot bellies of the cattle steaming, squirting into the slushy, foaming bucket as he worked first at the front teats and then the back, finally with thumb and forefinger squeezing out the last drops of milk, before rising to bring the stool to the front of the stable, setting down the bucket at one side, shooing away the two cats prowling for their long-desired drink of milk, until he poured some in a can and let them go at it greedily. Horses next. Through into the thrashing floor, open the bin for the oats, get out a dish and come tip the feed into small trays beside the mangers. Byes how those horses loved their oats!
Placing the milk bucket carefully aside, he’d grab the square-mouth shovel and clean down the “drene” (centre walkway) opening the door to the manure pit to shovel the warm-smelling manure out for spring spreading. Fine fertilizer, no doubt. That and seaweed from the beach, what more did a farmer need? And before breakfast, he would sit on the rail seat at back of the stable to relieve himself. So much better than that icy outhouse behind, the two-holer used mainly by the women. Then back into the house with a bucket of milk through snow flurries, hauling off his winter togs in the porch and carrying the milk proudly into Old Momma’s kitchen. Yes, he loved that job, assigned before entering his teens. Earle had enough on his plate: feeding the cattle, pigs, chickens, so many chores.
But after the hearty breakfast: bacon from the porker killed in the fall, eggs they’d just gathered, soft fluffy bread baked by Old Momma, well, he could curl up and read. It was only later, when he came back from the war and tried curling up once again, that Old Momma had to snap sharply at Earle, who often complained.
“Now you fellas listen! It’s a poor farm that can’t afford one gentleman.”
How often had he heard Old Momma say that! And finally, it had become lore. Earle stopped his complaining, Old Poppa stopped looking sideways at him; his sisters too accepted it — they always had — but mind you, when the sun was hot, into the flower garden he went. Why, he’d even built a small wooden gazebo with two crude benches where he could sit quietly, read perhaps, hearing buggies trot by, even an occasional motor car with American tourists.
These soothing images kept flowing through his gradually relaxing mind, and soon in the rocking railway carriage, Eric fell asleep.
Where Chaleur Bay narrowed to a point at Matapedia, the Gaspe train halted to wait for the bigger Ocean Limited, thundering in from Halifax on its way to Montreal. After some to-ing and fro-ing the Gaspe carriages were attached and then took off again. Eric made himself comfortable for the night.
Montreal. All the next day. His first challenge.
The train had been late arriving, but even so Eric had time to visit a couple of bookshops. Finally he met Gerald at the St. George’s Club up on the Boulevard. In the lobby, his nephew gave him a long, hard look, and then led him through the elegant lobby into a dining room with white tablecloths, suave waiters, some with limps, Eric noticed, and even the head waiter with one arm. Fairly brimming, too, with lawyers and businessmen, even a judge whom Gerald pointed out.
Gerald, noticing his look, said, “Yes, my father made sure this club hired as many veterans as they could.” To which Eric nodded, pleased.
Soon, Gerald brought up the recent historic flight over the Atlantic. Was he just avoiding talk of college? “What do you think of that fellow Charles Lindbergh last month? Must have been crazy to try that.” Transatlantic flights were all the rage, Eric knew: newspaper headlines around this time seemed only concerned with brave aviators.
“Well, he made it to Paris, Gerry.” Eric settled himself and looked around. “Pretty fine club.”
“Thanks. Lucky to get in. Poppa’s influence, I’m sure: everyone here knows the Canon.”
“But you’re doing pretty well yourself. A rising young lawyer, they tell me.”
Gerald shrugged. “Trying my best. But yes, yes, Lindbergh sure made it. Never seen such a reaction — the whole world went crazy. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to fly. You’d think they’d have stopped him taking off from New York in that little Spirit of St. Louis. Certain death, I would have said, like many of the others before him.”
“He reached Le Bourget Field the next day. May 21st, by golly.”
“F
irst time ever.” Gerald shook his head.
“Well, sometimes it’s the crazy fellas get things done.” Eric paused as the waiter limped up to take their order: a plate of roast beef of Merry Olde England and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings! He couldn’t wait.
They went on chatting, Gerry telling Eric that the Canon was away at a midweek conference. “You should see his church, Eric. It’s a thing to behold!”
Well, so far so good. He knew that Gerry would have brought up his illness had it been a cause célèbre. “I’m going to take this afternoon and really visit.”
In no time their soup had appeared. “So you’re headed West?”
Eric nodded, and changed the conversation: “And what’s that young scallywag Lloyd up to these days? You know, I nearly got your brother killed in the woods a few years back.”
Gerry put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You can be damn sure my brother told me, and all the world, about that, Eric. You fellows got caught in some surprise rainstorm in the middle of February. Oddest thing I ever heard. Nearly ended your earthly existence.”
“Yep. Made short work of our snowshoes. We had some twine, so we lashed spruce and cedar twigs to the frames, tried to carry on that way. We’d go about a mile then the twigs’d give way, dropping us to our arm-pits in that slushy, sticky, melting snow water. Was it ever freezing, too!”
Gerry shook his head.
“Wet through, we took axes, tried hewing boards out of a soft tree for skis. But they were worse, because one end would catch in front, throwing us on our heads. Up to your waist in water and mighty cold water at that. Drenched. No way of lighting a fire or sheltering in that downpour, so we had to keep going. Nearly froze to death back in the interior.”
“I don’t think Lloyd will ever forget that. But he went off with you again?”
“Oh yes, your brother Lloyd’s one tough young fella.”
“I think his Uncle is even tougher,” Gerry added admiringly.
Eric sloughed off the compliment and asked, “Is he still doing that prospecting?”
“Getting interested in the stock market now, like everyone else. Making a barrel of money, all of them.”
Eric nodded and continued eating. “These fellows here sure look prosperous. And this roast beef is the best I’ve had for a long time, Gerry. Thank you very much.”
“Nice, isn’t it? Thought you’d enjoy yourself.”
Eric and his nephew continued chatting, running back over their families, avoiding any hints of Eric’s stay in military hospital. Eric had seen Gerry appraise him keenly in the lobby. “You look just fine, Uncle Eric,” he had said, sounding a little surprised.
After dessert, Gerald headed back to his law office, and Eric caught a streetcar westward towards Trinity Memorial in Notre Dame de Grâce. He regretted he’d been in hospital for its dedication in May 1926.
He paused before the large, grey, neo-gothic building and took a deep breath. But then from the large oaken doors emerged two men, in their lapels the button signifying “veteran”. But Eric had no need of that recognition. One used crutches to get about on his good leg and his companion had a rather badly scarred face. Making sure his companion didn’t fall, the man with the wounded face nodded at Eric, who for some reason found himself snapped into a salute, as the soldiers in that London restaurant had done when a Victoria Cross recipient entered.
They passed on and Eric climbed the broad steps, entered the oaken doors, up more stairs, and paused before the open Rector’s office to his right.
The secretary, a short, stocky woman with greying hair, came forward. “Another veteran!” she remarked, “Welcome to Trinity Memorial.” When she went back to her desk, Eric moved warily forward to check the nave. At the far end of the aisle, stained-glass windows glowed with a crucified Christ, below which tasteful white granite ornamented the chancel’s setting for its large altar.
He walked slowly down the aisle, passing a somewhat older man sitting slumped at the edge of a pew, a veteran again, thought Eric, pleased: at least my brother’s church is doing what it was built for... He noted the array of Great War flags high in each corner, turned left toward the side chapel, and then on impulse mounted a curved wooden stair behind the huge Messmer pulpit. The sounding board spread over his head like a giant engraved leaf as he tried to imagine what it would be like, preaching to that sea of filled seats, Sunday after Sunday. God had called his brother to be His servant even before he’d attended Bishop’s University some thirty-five years ago. He wondered what that call would be like.
Back down he went, and around into the Lady Chapel. So far so good: no triggers from the war disturbed him. He stood quietly before the smaller altar under three small stained glass windows brought from a former church combined now with Trinity, as noted in the plaque:
Francis Armstrong Pratt, the former rector of Church of the Good Shepherd, became Associate Rector here at Trinity, when the two came together.
After a time, he went and sat in a pew. In this sanctuary, he might contact his Lord and Master. He allowed his thoughts to float free. They turned, as one might expect, to the future.
“What,” he wondered, “should I do... My great adventure lies ahead. But beyond? I’ve left the Gaspe Coast. And now what?”
Preparing for his trip had preoccupied him to the exclusion of all else. Now that he had actually set off with only the future ahead to think of, what next?
Well, ask and ye shall receive... “Dear Lord, give me a message. Some purpose. Not right away, don’t worry. But later — whatever I’m doing, I promise to listen. After all, you brought me through those battles, those college courses, and that... hospital. I surely am yours. Talk to me and I’ll obey.”
Eric stayed a good long time in the side chapel of this church, built so that the Fallen would be remembered. He had been told a local women’s group had planted 840 trees westward along Sherbrooke Street, called now by some the Road of Remembrance. Each tree bore a plaque in memory of a soldier killed in the Great War. He would remember that. He sighed and then, closing his eyes again, formed a prayer for the boys he’d left in Military Hospital, eking out, forever it seemed, their living death. He hoped he’d never have to go back.
C H A P T E R E I G H T
10:15 PM Thursday night: June 24, 1927. Windsor station. The great CPR train, the Imperial, left Montreal with nary a jolt on its journey across the Dominion of Canada. The passengers had been allowed aboard half an hour early and Eric was already in the wide washroom, cleaning up; two passengers also occupied the other basins, one shaving, the other brushing his hair and trying, rather unsuccessfully, Eric noticed, to conceal a nasty scar on one side of his head. Even this long after the war, veterans seemed everywhere in evidence, making Eric feel not so alone. Two of them exchanged comments about their journey’s beginning, but the third seemed disinclined to talk.
In no time Eric climbed into his lower berth. The night before on the Ocean Limited he had sat up all night, not wanting to pay extra for sleeping accommodation, so his rest had been uneasy and interrupted. Tonight, with the gentle rocking of the train, he soon fell blissfully asleep.
9:45 AM Friday morning. North Bay. Few got on, and the train chuffed off through endless woods. Charlie, the uniformed porter, made up Eric’s berth while he was at breakfast, and when he came back, he sat watching heavy, dark forests flow by. So few towns and so little to see, so Eric turned to his haversack. He had brought along The Life and Letters of Paul, the Apostle, by Lyman Abbott, which he’d found on one of the many shelves in the Old Homestead — his sisters read a lot, as did Earle, who doted on Zane Grey. Then yesterday poking about the downtown bookstore, he’d looked for a book on Greek dancing, but nothing came up save for The Eye of Greece, a small guide published the previous year by The Acropolis Travel Bureau. Better than nothing. Were he ever to see Rene again, he wanted to be up on such things. He’d also found Kangaroo, by DH Lawrence, published recently, about
the author’s visit to Australia.
12:15 PM Sudbury. More woods. As the train roared on, the comfortable sound of its whistle penetrated the thick glass, reminding him every so often of the Regular back home, blowing for Kruse’s Crossing.
With not much to look at in this northern Ontario, he let his thoughts wander. Luckily he’d been frugal with his army pay. He had asked sister Jean to deposit it for him in the Bank of Montreal, as brother Jack had advised. Add his officer’s pay of $120 a month to his war service gratuity of $550, and also, beginning with his hospitalization, a small disability pension, and he’d accumulated a moderate nest egg. He’d also kept most of his modest salary from surveying. At home, he had tried to contribute to the farm, but his mother would hear none of it. He wondered if he would ever see her again. Lately, she had become so frail.
Having saved so assiduously for “a rainy day,” that rainy day had come. He had bought a coach-class ticket, double the sixty dollars of colonist class, where passengers had to provide their own bedding and sit on hard seats; a first-class ticket would have been too extravagant. Coach bestowed the benefits of restful nights in a berth before he struck that exciting but unknown West Coast.
8:35 AM Saturday. Port Arthur. Eric was finishing breakfast when they neared the head of the Great Lakes; he had studied them in school. And soon, the woods gave way to farmland, slightly more interesting. But then, Eric began to ponder the wisdom of his journey.
Why was he going? Wanderlust? Or had something deeper driven him to venture west, so far from all he held dear? He pushed these disturbing thoughts away — perhaps he didn’t want to acknowledge the romantic vision of Rene driving him ever onwards. Get on with some reading, he decided. Saint Paul, having travelled all over the Mediterranean himself, might have advice for this lonely figure on a train, heading he knew not where...
8:15 PM that evening: Central Station, Winnipeg. The Imperial pulled in before dark; Eric got out onto the platform to stretch his legs. He saw lots of passengers boarding here, so the berths in his carriage would be filled. And when he returned, he found, sitting opposite, a well-dressed young man: two prominent ears beneath neatly brushed short brown hair.