by Paul Almond
Eric wondered what he should do. The man then glanced at Eric. “We’re not Catholic, but I hear maybe they serve meals in that Church of St. Augustine.” Eric knew it, a huge ungainly basilica at the north end of his park. “Every two days, I heard. If we’re lucky, today might be the day, so we’re going there.”
A good few blocks. So the man would have to carry his baby, and perhaps even the little girl, to find something to eat.
Why didn’t he serve food for the needy at Trinity? Talk to Rene; they’d done such a good job with lunches in Sydney at St. Johns. She might agree to spearhead this. Also bring it up with his brother, he decided.
That night, as they were having their meal together, Eric heard rain outside and Rene saw him shift uneasily. “It’s not likely a thunderstorm,” she said quickly, thinking back to his earlier reactions. And then, realizing her mistake, blurted out, “Of course, I love thunderstorms — I know you do too, Eric.”
“I wasn’t thinking about thunder, I was thinking about all that furniture out on sidewalks. It’ll get ruined. What can we do?”
Rene shrugged and shook her head. “I’m afraid we don’t have any tarpaulins here, my dear. Do you know if there are any at the church?
“Too late now, I suspect.” In the ensuing weeks, Eric saw he would have needed hundreds of tarpaulins. The poverty and evictions were overwhelming.
***
Early one June morning after they had gotten up at sunrise, Eric went out for his usual walk. But instead of heading west along Sherbrooke Street, he thought, this time why don’t I head south towards the river? He knew the lower level was covered in railroad tracks, but perhaps the trains coming and going might provide some interest. So he turned right on Sherbrooke Street, and after a short walk headed down Girouard, a rarely travelled dirt lane.
The houses thinned out and their field below fanned into an escarpment that dropped down onto the lower level. Up here, the meadow seemed bountiful with orchards, others with cattle, still others with a few sheep. The farmhouses, though substantial, were in varying states of disrepair. Amazing to find all this agriculture going on so close to the city. Not enough arable land for fully working farms, perhaps, but enough eggs, apples, and some meat to make do.
Eggs. Of course, why not try and buy some? The farm on his left was mainly an orchard, but on the right the second farmhouse held in its yard a sizeable chicken coop and even a couple of turkeys. So he crossed by a small right-of-way behind the first house and walked down beside this weathered dwelling with its attractive red Mansard roof. He stopped as he saw on the veranda a grizzled farmer, perhaps the grandfather, in a rocking chair smoking his pipe with a shotgun across his lap. On the gate as he had entered he’d seen a sign: Pas de Vagabonds. Above it, oeufs à vendre under which someone had written: Eggs.
Eric paused at the steps, and called out. “Any eggs?”
The old man motioned inside. Eric climbed the veranda steps and knocked. “Entrez.” He went in to find a plump Frenchwoman with grey hair pulled back into a bun who come forward and asked what he wanted.
“Oeufs?”
She nodded, crossed to a sideboard and held out six with a questioning gesture. Eric nodded. “Cinq cennes.”
Well, thought Eric, five cents, a good price. Then he saw butter in bricks on the sideboard and he motioned to them. She brought over a pound. “Dix cennes.”
Eric nodded. “Milk?”
She squinted. “Du lait? Après. (Later) Huit cennes.”
Eight cents a quart? Good prices, Eric thought. He handed her a dime and a nickel, thanked her, and left.
He continued on down Girouard towards the rail yards. Beyond them lay the Lachine canal, and further on, crossing the broad St. Lawrence, the Victoria Bridge on which his father had worked some seventy-five years before.
He spotted a trail leading into the woods on his right. He took it and wound along through bushes and trees until he came upon a tent. Good heavens, he thought, someone camping out this close to the city? A man emerged with a knapsack and looked up in surprise.
Eric offered a pleasant greeting. From the surroundings, this was not just the usual camp-out; the fellow obviously lived here. Perhaps one of the hobos?
“Top of the morning to ya, Father,” the man said. “Nice sunny day for an outing.”
“It is indeed. And where are you off to?”
“Well, Father, I’m goin’ up there into town to see if I can get me a day’s work. Or a handout, anything that will fill my stomach.”
He did look hungry, Eric thought, so he reached into his haversack. “Would you like an egg or two?”
“No, thank you Father, save that for some of the fellas further on down. I’m on my way.”
“There are more of you?”
“More?” The fellow broke into a harsh chuckle. “Lots and lots. Regular hobo jungle down there.” Eric frowned. “You never heard? We ride the rails, we find a safe place, and that’s where we stop.”
Eric had brought an apple for himself to eat on the walk so he took that out. “Here, perhaps this might help.”
The fellow’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, thank you, Father!” He bit into it noisily. “First apple for a long time.”
“So you’re headed off into Westmount?” The wealthy residential area of the city.
“Oh no, that rich lot won’t give you a cent. It’s the poor, the ones thrown out on the street, they’ll share their last bite. That’s where I’m going. Straight above here. Well, good-day to you, Father. And thanks for the treat.” The man passed Eric, munching his apple.
Eric kept on, wondering, what he would find. After couple of hovels with no sign of life, he came upon a well-made tent. A woman sat in front, trying to cook over a small fire.
Eric wandered over. “Good morning, ma’am. I didn’t think there were any women here.”
At the sound of their talk, a man emerged. “Morning, Father.” He introduced them both.
“A family! Well, since you’re cooking, Ma’am,” said Eric, “I have something you might enjoy.” Out of his haversack came the six eggs.
They both stared in surprise. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Father. We were down to our last penny. That’s most generous of you, sir.”
She took them, but before doing anything showed them in her large hands to her husband, whose eyes gleamed. “Now we’re just going to eat one each this morning, Harry. We’ll save two for tomorrow and two for the next day. That will keep us going, if you don’t find no work.”
While she cooked, Eric sat on a half-broken crate to chat, not of the Gospel, needless to say, but about how they were getting along and what was happening hereabouts.
“You see,” Harry began, “we kept this tent from when we used to go camping. I brought the children with me and we’d go off up in the Laurentians. A decent job I had. But all that stopped a while ago. Then we got evicted. So I sent our three children off to their uncle’s down in Drummondville.
“We couldn’t impose ourselves as well; my brother’s not doing much better than us, just holding onto his job by the skin of his teeth. So we took this tent — they made us sell all the rest of our belongings for the rent, they can do that, you know. We had to stand there on the veranda and watch it all go, a dollar for this, two dollars for that ... broke our hearts...” He sighed and his wife, her tears spent, merely readied her frying pan to cook the precious eggs over a small fire. “We thought we’d be safe here in the hobo jungle. The police don’t come, as you know,”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“It’s like those red light districts. The police allow them because then they know where to find all the prostitutes. Same thing here. They know where to find hobos. So nobody bothers us. You see?” He pointed down across the tracks to the canal. “Fresh water, all you want, I just have to lug it here in a bucket. And there’s freights coming and going. The fellows are moving in, moving out. Regular bus station.” He gave a hearty laugh and his wife forced a smile.
; Eric stayed talking for a while and then, as they were eating, he moved on down and passed several more dwellings: cardboard, tin, fragments of signs, anything that could be scrounged to keep the wind out and the rain off. He reached the network of tracks where more men sat cooking up a stew for breakfast. Eric didn’t know whether to approach or not. They seemed, though hungry, to be enjoying themselves. Around them, he saw a scattering of small encampments, bits of cardboard laid under trees, likely sleeping quarters, and odd shapes of thrown-together dwellings, though mostly those were higher up the hillside.
One fellow detached himself and came over. “Hello Father. Would you like something to eat?”
Eric shook his head and smiled, reminded of the parable about the widow’s mite. “I wish I had brought you all food. I was just wandering, walking... “ He felt helpless. “I’ve not been here before.”
“Well, make yourself welcome.”
“And how come you’re here?” Eric asked pleasantly.
The young man paused, looked at him, and saw he was serious. “Well, I was sleeping in a barn, supposed to get a dollar a week from a farmer.”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “A dollar a week?”
“Well, all found! Meals and lodging. But listen to this. He made me sleep in the haymow, only gave us pig mash to eat.” He nodded. “Mixed with boiling water, and they threw in a bit of molasses. So I had to leave that haymow after dark and go find a garden to steal myself some carrots, radishes, anything that was growing. That farmer who hired me, he made his own bread, but after a week or more, not fit for dogs. Then he gave it us after chores at eight. Yessir, six to eight. Fourteen hours a day.”
“And I gather he did so because a hundred other starving men wanted your job?” Eric was getting the picture — not pretty.
“Right, Father. Well, you can imagine, I up and left. Before that, I went all over begging from the Sally Ann or whoever.” Eric frowned. “The Salvation Army. See, my poor old father, he couldn’t do nothing for us. Not well. Listen to this: he stole bread and two cans of beans for his family. You know what? Provincial prison for three months. Nobody said anything. Well, we saw he had tuberculosis after that, and there was no curing him. So what could we do? The marble orchard for him! Hope he rests in peace. Never got it when he was alive, leastways, not these last few years...”
The man bowed his head, either in prayer or to hold back tears.
Eric stood awkwardly, when he heard one of the more disreputable hobos stand up and call out, “Eric!”
Eric stood as though struck. Who was this? He peered.
The man came hurrying forward. “Eric, Eric, it’s me! Don’t you recognize me?”
Eric shook his head.
The man was filthy, ragged, bearded, but smiling. “It’s Adam, Adam Hadley, don’t you remember? We met on the train. It’s me.”
Eric shook his head. “Well, I never ...”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E
Freda and Rene ended up chatting like old friends. Freda seemed to like the fact that Rene was British and they could reminisce about the Old Country, where Freda had gone soon after the death of her sons, to see if she could help with any form of burial, donate money for cemeteries, and such. Her husband had died shortly after in a motor car accident, she explained to Rene. All she had now was the memory of these sons, and one relative, her brother in the next room, apparently hard on the trail to the Hereafter.
They both rose as Eric walked in, looking down, shaking his head. Clearly, it had been a difficult pastoral visit. He smiled and thanked Freda as she handed him a sherry. He walked towards the fireplace but then stopped. He looked at the portrait. He didn’t move.
The young Edward Whitehead stared back at him.
Eric’s hand began shaking and the sherry glass fell. His whole body shook. “Oh dear, I’m dreadfully sorry, please excuse me.” He rushed out.
“The washroom is on the left,” Freda called after him. Then she turned to look at Rene, now most disconcerted. It had happened again!
Rene wanted to rush out, but restrained herself, and tried to divert attention from Eric by bringing up a coming event, the talk of Montreal. “Have you heard that the new R100 is supposed to cross the Atlantic soon?”
“Oh yes, that new dirigible.” Freda rang the little crystal bell for the maid to clean the rug, but kept glancing at the archway through which Eric had disappeared. “I believe at the end of next month it leaves Carrington. It’s supposed to be flying in with a load of passengers right over the Atlantic to our St. Hubert airport, just over the river.”
“I find that so exciting.” But Rene knew this conversation could not last. She soon excused herself and went around to the bathroom door, which was shut tight. She knocked on it. “Eric, it’s me. Rene.”
Hearing nothing she knocked again and heard a lock push back. She paused, squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked in.
Eric was sitting, fluttering, yes, his body fluttering, on the closed toilet seat, wiping his hands on his hair over and over again. “I can’t stop it, Rene. I can’t. I don’t know what’s happening. That was Edward. Yes, Edward, he died in my arms. His guts all out. He’d been at the latrine. Imagine! He had... he had that stuff all over him. Rene, he asked me to shoot him. I couldn’t. He begged and begged. In my arms, Rene. In my arms. So... I pulled out my revolver.” Rene gasped and leaned against the door frame. “I couldn’t see him die in such pain so slowly. But Rene, then... he gave up the ghost. Just like that! Just in time. It’s all through me, Rene, I can’t get rid of it. I see the whole thing right now.”
Rene stood. Then she reached out, turned on a tap, filled a glass of water, and passed it to him. What a fatuous gesture, she thought. And then it occurred to her: “Eric,” she said, “Eric listen. Think of this as living water. Baptismal water — from our Lord. Drink. It will help calm you.”
Shaking, Eric looked up at her as a child at his mother. He drank the whole glass. And then sat up. The trembling lessened.
“I think we can leave, Eric. You have done your ministry after all, and we can walk all the way home. And we’ll talk. You can tell me all about it. And I’m sure, my dearest, I’m sure as I stand here, that by the time we get home, this frightful incident will have passed and you’ll be all right again. It wasn’t your fault; there was nothing you could do about it.” He nodded slowly. “Now, try standing up.”
Eric did so. He squared his shoulders.
“Right, let’s go. I’ll make our excuses. And we’ll walk home.”
***
A month later at the beginning of August, Rene and Eric were having breakfast together. As Rene had foretold, Eric had recovered from the shock of seeing that portrait of his best friend in the Howitzer Battery. He had duly reported the incident, perhaps downplaying it, to his brother, Jack, and then got on with his duties as if nothing had happened.
“You seem excited, Rene.” Eric tapped the top of his boiled egg and then stripped off the piping hot, cracked shell. He proceeded to cut his toast into fingers for dipping into the yolk.
“Well, it happened rather suddenly. Hazel called me and wants to us to lunch at the Ritz with Martha Allan.”
Hazel and her husband, an immaculate, handsome member of the famous Molson family, were churchgoers, albeit sporadic ones because they went on weekends to their skiing cottage at Piedmont in the Laurentians. John had been one of the substantial donors to the church’s construction.
“That would be just dandy!” Eric dug into his egg. “I’ve heard that lunch there is quite the thing these days.” The Ritz was a new classic hotel, built only twenty years previously, on Sherbrooke Street just by the campus of McGill University. When the Canon and John Molson went to lunch, as they did every few months, that was where John took him.
“You’ve heard of the Trinity Players?” Rene went on, and Eric shook his head. “Right after they finished building this church, a group here did perform plays, once at the Victoria Hall and three
years ago in our auditorium, but since then, nothing has been happening. Well, last November Martha founded the MRT.” Eric looked up. “The Montreal Repertory Theatre, well, it used to be called the Montreal Theatre Guild. She probably supports it with her money, too. She directed their first production last April, A.A. Milne’s The Perfect Alibi.”
“You’ve been busy!”
Rene smiled. “Well, you know me and theatre. And Hazel, I think, has also been bitten by the theatre bug.”
“Well, she’s certainly pretty enough,” Eric agreed. “I bet she’d make a terrific actress.”
“Remember when Father John got us all together with Hazel and John? You saw Hazel and me having a great old time talking about the theatre. She found out from Father John that I had danced in London and taught in Australia, so she’s roping me in. We’re going to see if we can do something to get the Trinity Players started again. And of course, Martha is the theatre here...”
Eric was delighted at this turn of events. Rene might flourish even more with the stage as a possibility.
“And today you’re doing early communion?” she asked absently.
Eric shook his head. “That’s Wednesdays , remember?”
“Oh yes of course. This is the morning for your hobos, before working at church. Oh by the way, are you preaching this Sunday at Evensong? I enjoy those sermons so much.”
Eric shook his head. “Jack will. He asked me to do his turn at the hospitals, and visit other parishioners sick at home — though I drew the line at those Westmount mansions!”
Rene chuckled. “When I told that dreadful man how much we all admired him, I saw you shudder. I hope the Good Lord forgives such a dreadful fib.”
Eric turned to her with glowing eyes. “I don’t think any other person alive could have wangled five hundred dollars out of that tightwad. Anyway, after my hobos, I have some administration to do in the church. I’ll see you back here in the afternoon, hopefully early, to hear all about your lunch.”