by Paul Almond
Amid excited greetings, Eric kissed his sister and introduced her to Rene. Then he presented Jean’s husband Albert Finnie, cousin Gerald, and his brother Jack.
“Oh, Father John,” Rene shook his hand, “how wonderful to see you again after all this time!”
“And I must say, my dear, you look more flourishing than ever!”
“And your son, Gerald, the brilliant lawyer!” They talked among themselves about the train ride, snatches of the boat ride, and then started to move towards the station entrance.
“I’m dying to see your new church, Father John.”
“Well, Rene, I was even hoping you and Eric might pop along this afternoon. If you’re not too tired, that is. I might have news for Eric.”
“We’d love that!” Eric broke in. “We can get installed this morning in Jean’s apartment, and then we’ll take the tram back along Sherbrooke Street. Easily done.” And so it was arranged.
But Jack took Eric aside first, and with a serious look, told him, “Old Poppa passed away, Eric. While you were in the Holy Land. We didn’t know how to reach you. I’m sorry to spoil this happy occasion.”
Eric was silent, looking at the ground. Then, he sighed. “Jack, we all expected it, didn’t we? He was in his nineties.” He nodded, then looked up brightly. “I’ll keep his soul in my prayers, this month.”
They took their leave, Jack looking relieved that this news hadn’t shattered their pleasure at being together at last.
They arrived in the Bert’s sparkling Ford. Albert was dressed as always impeccably, with his high starched collar and neat tie setting off an immaculate dark suit. Eric had explained to Rene that Bert owned a clothing factory in some old part of the city. Jean, once a nurse, had given up her profession to marry him.
The Finnies’ apartment faced a courtyard on the ground floor, making for easy access. Rene entered and was shown around by an excited Jean, so much shorter than her guest. “Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?” Rene asked. “Perhaps we should find an hotel somewhere?”
“Not at all,” Jean said. “I haven’t seen my brother for ages.”
After Eric had retrieved his bags and haversack, Bert lifted out Rene’s two light suitcases. “Is this all you brought, Rene?”
She and Eric exchanged a look. “It’s all that arrived. Let’s just say it’s not all I started out with.” She laughed, and Eric smiled broadly. But nothing more was said.
***
“What a lovely church you have, Father John! It’s enormous,” Rene exclaimed, standing with the others on the chancel steps of Trinity Memorial Church in Notre Dame de Grâce.
“Glad you like it. We’re rather proud of it. Our architects, Ross and Macdonald, also did the Montreal Star offices here in Montreal, the Château Laurier in Ottawa, and Union Station and the Royal York Hotel in Toronto, among other notable buildings.” Father John glanced at his brother with repressed excitement. “We hold nine hundred and fifty. On religious holidays, like Christmas and Easter, we’re packed, and I’d say three quarters full most Sundays. Wait until I take you downstairs, Rene: our hall has a stage, with lots of room for concerts, and plays...”
Rene brightened and Eric went on, “You know, Jack, before I left for the West, which turned out to be more of an adventure than anyone expected,” Eric chuckled, “I came here while you were off at a conference. I actually got into the pulpit and wondered what it must be like to preach to your congregation. Now that I’m priested, one day in the distant future, I hope to have a church a bit like this.”
Jack stepped forward. “Eric, that was part of the good news I had for you. I contacted John, the Bishop of Montreal, and he’s agreed, if you like, to install you this Saturday as my curate!”
Rene and Eric were both struck with delight. Rene stepped across to hug Father John as tightly as she could and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. “Oh thank you!”
Eric was surprised at how flustered his brother seemed, not knowing what to say next, having been embraced by such a beautiful woman.
Rene stepped back. “You know, Father John, I confess that, although I’ve mentioned nothing to Eric, I have been a bit bothered about what would happen after we arrived.” Eric glanced at her. “Eric, you know, is not afraid of venturing into the unknown. But we British, we like to know where we’re going.”
Jack grinned, recovering his composure. “We all know, my dear Rene, that Eric faced uncertain futures in the most horrifying of battle conditions, day after day, week after week, even year after year. I think it’s safe to say that nothing would daunt him. You have got yourself a fearless husband. I can say that without any hesitation.”
“Now it’s me who’s getting embarrassed, Jack,” his brother said. “I’ve never heard you talk like that.”
Amidst good-natured laughter, the three of them walked down the aisle. “I wonder, Eric, if you’ve being keeping up with what’s been happening over in Europe? To our old enemy, Germany?”
Eric shook his head. “No. I’m afraid in Australia the focus was on the unemployment, and what’s been happening in that country.”
“Same thing here,” Jack said. “Since the crash, we haven’t paid as much attention as we should to what’s been going on. But I have it on pretty good authority that Germany is in utter disarray. You know, the conditions imposed by the Treaty of Versailles after the war have brought unemployment and economic disarray to far greater heights than it even has here.”
“The talk in England was that the Allied powers had made rather a mistake, Father John,” Rene said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen as a result.” They passed a couple a little older than Eric, holding hands. The man, rather sunken, was twitching; Eric knew his problem at once. Father John waved cheerily, but allowed them their own space.
“The church secretary has been bound and determined to prepare a little spread of what she calls British afternoon tea for the newcomers.”
“I can’t think of anything better!” Rene smiled.
In Jack’s study, Rene admired the pictures on the wall: one of the Last Supper, and another of a church interior. “That looks to me like Westminster Abbey?”
“It is. I preached there during the war, you know. September 9th 1917.”
This impressed Rene no end. The comfortable study had a sofa, bookcases down one wall, and a window looking onto a vine-covered, grey stone wall of the church. Jack moved around his large desk to join them.
“It’s going to be so convenient,” Eric said, “I can just take the tram along from Jean’s. Door to door.”
Rene began to pour the tea. “No, Eric, we must immediately set about finding our own accommodation. It’s kind of Jean and Bert, but we can’t impose. I shall start looking tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, my dear.” Eric took his proffered cup of tea and reached for a sandwich of thinly sliced cucumber.
“Real British tea-time!” Rene said. “I must thank your secretary.”
Jack asked Rene how she felt, leaving behind a thriving dancing school, and Rene and Eric both recounted the failing economic conditions in Australia
“We’re not much better here in Canada, I’m afraid to say,” Jack ventured. “Wheat, our blue-chip export, is actually being overproduced around the world, so we haven’t even sold our 1928 crop.” He sighed. “Factories are still blasting, but no one’s buying. They’ve got huge stockpiles, my friends in Westmount are telling me.”
Eric knew that his brother must be close to the seats of power, having raised over $200,000 to build his church only a few years ago.
“Our revenues in Canada,” Jack explained to Rene, “come mostly from export: grain, pulp and paper, metals. Our large neighbour to the south buys almost half, so on Black Thursday when their stock prices fell, the system crashed.” He shrugged and held out his hands. “We’d been getting a $1.60 a bushel of wheat — but that has dropped with a bang.”
“So what is the government doing?” Rene asked.
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p; “Earlier this month,” he explained, “our Liberal prime minister, Mackenzie King, in the course of a long speech in the House, took the position that this whole problem was purely local. No need, he claimed, for any funds from Ottawa to help the devastated workers.” Eric shook his head in amazement. “Oh yes, unemployment relief not necessary — no evidence of any emergency! Talk of unemployment is no more than a political move by his opposition.” Jack was clearly disgusted.
“And the opposition is?” Rene pressed.
“The Conservatives, led by a millionaire, R.B. Bennett.”
“So we must hope that they get in?”
“Rene,” Jack said looking at Eric, “we of the cloth mustn’t take sides. We shall just have to wait and see. But farmers have stopped buying, so our eastern factories are closing and laying off hundreds. Construction has stopped, banks aren’t lending — instead, they’re calling in their loans.”
“So less and less money in circulation?”
Jack nodded. “And fewer and fewer goods being produced as factories shut down. You’ll soon see all around us, the rolls of the poor growing longer and longer. We all feel a sense of despair.”
Eric and Rene had both felt this, too, leaving Australia. Times would be hard for everyone. How lucky Eric felt to have an important brother who had arranged his new posting.
In spite of Jack’s dire news, especially in Quebec, their excitement at being back in Canada was irrepressible; they talked excitedly on the tram going back to Jean’s. Jack had advised them to look further west along Sherbrooke Street, beyond the church. Lots of space available in this economic climate, well within the meagre budget of a curate.
“We’ll have to put off going to the Gaspe,” Eric said. “I know you’ve been looking forward to that, and so have I. But apparently, I seem to be starting at once.”
“I can’t wait to learn how to snowshoe,” Rene said, “I hope you’ll get a good long time off at Christmas.”
“I probably shall in January, as not much happens.” Eric reached out and took her hand as she sat next to him on the slatted bench. “In the meantime, I shall have my work cut out for me, helping Jack and, as it appears, ministering to the ever-burgeoning poor.”
***
Here I am on Palm Sunday, thought Eric, just ten days after arriving, behind two dozen beautifully attired choristers in their purple cassocks and sparkling surplices, my brother bringing up the rear, processing down the centre aisle of Trinity Memorial Church. Wonderful!
None of this pomp and circumstance in the one small church near Sydney where Eric served as part-time curate. But at St. John’s, music had been the passion of the Rev. Lucas, so there they’d had a fine choir of forty voices. Here, Eric decided, our choir rivals that one. The small boys, some only eight or nine years old, led the procession, and then more boy sopranos, male altos, tenors and basses, singing lustily their four part hymn: “All glory laud and honour to thee Redeemer King! To whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas sing.” The church was, as Jack had predicted, almost full. Such a moving, glorious experience for Eric to be one of the leaders in such a large and worshipful gathering!
The procession parted and the choir edged into their stalls. Eric had been surprised, and then pleased, to hear his brother offer him on this, his first Sunday, the Passion Gospel from Luke. So at the appointed time, Eric got up to the lectern, a beautiful eagle with outspread wings carved in wood which held the large Bible. The Passion Gospel was the longest passage read in the church year. With what Eric had experienced in the Holy Land and this worshipful congregation before him, he became unusually moved. As the crucifixion narrative carried them along, he had to stop to control his emotions. When he got to the thief saying, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto you, today you will be with me in Paradise...” he was overcome.
Then he looked over and saw Rene sitting tense, stiff, in her pew, but she managed to nod warmly. He pulled himself together, and continued.
The rest of the service was so beautiful with the anthem soaring; the recessional hymn with its descant brought tears to his eyes once again. Such a wonderful service. Afterwards when he apologised to Jack for his emotion, his brother shook it off.
“Well done, Eric. Splendid reading. I’m sure it was Rene’s coaching. And the emotion — well placed. You know, I’ve been talking to the head of our Guild, and we want you to give a talk on the Holy Land at the next meeting, if you can prepare yourself in time.”
Lots to do, Eric thought. “Oh yes, I shall be kept busy.
Rene also threw herself into the church activities, joining the Altar Guild and making herself useful elsewhere. With dancing school no longer taking her attention, she soon became an integral member of the parish. She wasted no time in finding them an apartment not many blocks along Sherbrooke Street, in front of a park with a cenotaph at its centre.
Because this flat was empty, she told Eric of her bright idea to sit on the sidewalk outside their large red-brick building with a placard, saying: Furniture Bought. As Eric left for his constitutional, he complimented her. “Very enterprising, Rene. Do you think anyone will sell?”
“I can but try. A parishioner gave me the idea on Sunday. These hard times mean so many need cash. But don’t hold out any great hopes for it being things of beauty.”Amazed by her ingenuity as always, Eric set off at a good pace. They planned to picnic in the park opposite after he came back; this was their pattern for a few days. Soon Rene had their apartment furnished, albeit with a mish-mash of furniture, though she did find a half decent bed. They moved out of Jean Finnie’s and installed themselves here.
For their first dinner, Eric had gotten scotch, gin and a bottle of wine, so they could have a celebration drink before sitting at the table that Rene had laid as best she could, with three candles glowing. “A far cry from the Lions in Brentwood, Essex...” Eric said as he ruefully sipped his whiskey.
“The Lions,” Rene was quick to reply, “is not filled with the love that permeates our little home here, my dear. And that is what is important, don’t you think?”
“I’ll drink to that!” Eric raised his glass. And indeed, it seemed nothing would disturb their happiness...
After Eric’s pre-picnic walk a few days later, Rene arrived by the cenotaph with her hamper to find her husband, seemingly exhausted, sitting back and staring up at the marble column with its dark relief of ten weary soldiers in tin hats, marching, the last one carrying a wounded comrade. Ahead, an angel gestured with open arms. Eric seemed fixated, hands twitching.
“Eric!” she exclaimed sharply.
Eric sat up, bewildered. “Rene! What’s up? Oh, good. You’ve brought the lunch. What’s wrong?”
“I wonder if you should sit staring at that... at those soldiers. I’m wondering if it’s good for you.”
“Rene, I told you time and again,” Eric snapped, “you must stop worrying about me. I’m perfectly all right! I don’t like to think you’re watching me. You are, you know. I see it. Always nervous. How am I supposed to function when I know you’re so concerned? I don’t like it.”
Rene realized that she had indeed been showing her concern too much. And what, after all, was there to worry about? Well, if she were honest, a great deal — but she quickly put it aside. “I’m sorry, Eric, I’m truly sorry. I’ll stop. Together we can surmount anything. I do know,” she reached over and put her hand on his, “I do know that you’re cured, you’re very well; it will never return, this dreadful illness, I know we’re both going to be very happy. I’ll just have to stop myself. If you catch me doing it again, please tell me.”
And so, it was resolved and not mentioned again. For the moment at least.
C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N
Piles of furniture on the sidewalk awaited removal, Eric noticed. This particular morning, he passed a couple of apartment buildings only half-built and unattended. After a fine walk along open fields towards Loyola Colle
ge, he turned back and crossed an avenue to where a family was bringing their belongings onto the sidewalk. He stood for a while, unsure of how to begin. “Another moving day?”
The woman glanced at him as she carried a chair down. Her baby lay in a wicker crib at the foot of the outside stairs. “Not moving day. Eviction day.” Eric frowned. “My husband couldn’t pay the rent. Landlord threw us out.”
“But surely,” Eric stuttered, “he wouldn’t just put you out on the sidewalk?”
“He would, and he has.”
What a piece of work! So that’s what he’d been passing: evictions!
“Where are you heading now?”
“My brother, he’s gone off to Brockville. Walking. Not a cent for a bus. But Uncle Edward’s there, he’s got a truck. We’re hoping he’ll be back tomorra’ t’pick this up and maybe take us somewhere.” Back she went up the outdoor steps for more belongings, her heavy-set husband trotting down with a chair.
“Where will you go?” asked Eric.
The man obviously didn’t want questions, but Eric’s garb forced him to be polite.“Father, there’s lots like us, with nowhere to go. If we kin get ta Brockville, maybe we’ll find someplace. Once I get the wife and three kids installed, I’ll hop them rails. For the West.”
Eric had heard that the West was even harder hit than Montreal, but he said nothing.
A little girl came down the stairs crying. “Daddy, I asked Mummy for an apple and she wouldn’t give it me.”
The man looked down at her hopelessly. “She wouldn’t, Megan, because there are no apples. But we’ll get some when we get to Brockville, don’t worry.” He turned to Eric. “My wife had a job in a garment factory for two dollars a day, and in came another woman agreed to work for one-fifty.” He shook his head. “My wife was out.”
A young neighbour came across the street to lend a hand. “That’s nothing. My mother operated a sewing machine out the east end. She made pants and things. Her salary for five days a week, nine hours a day, was three dollars. She had to walk four miles to work there and back, and that’s what kept me and her and my brother.”