by Paul Almond
***
During the meal at the Ritz, a mass exodus from the dining room left it deserted. Word had gone round that the R100 was passing overhead. The huge dirigible had arrived at St. Hubert airport a few days earlier and now was off on a one-day tour of Eastern Canada. Everyone wanted to see it. So Rene, Hazel and Martha went out with the others and craned their necks to watch. My! Didn’t it seem huge, drifting across the sky, so slowly, giving Montrealers a chance to take it all in. Traffic came to a halt; drivers got out of their cars with everyone watching.
They went back in, talking excitedly. Rene fortunately had kept a couple of her better dresses safe in the locker of their stateroom on the ship. So at least she had something to wear on such an occasion. All the rest of her outfits were, of course, at the bottom of the ocean. But she didn’t mind. The simpler she dressed the better, and more becoming a poor curate’s wife. It was certainly a new persona for her.
Striking rather than pretty, Martha Allan wore a stylish black hat with a large decoration sprouting wildly above; she had black hair and a definite air of authority, as well she might — being the granddaughter of Sir Hugh Allan, one of the wealthiest men in the world when he died. Martha’s father, Montague, another Bishop’s College School “old boy”, had helped her found the MRT. She lived above McGill on Mount Royal in the imposing Ravenscrag, and the dazzling Hazel Molson lived in an attractive mansion atop Clarke Avenue.
Mid-afternoon, Rene turned the key in the lock and entered the apartment bursting with delight, wanting to tell her husband all about it. But no Eric. Still at church, she surmised. She changed into her old clothes — must use this brimming energy! Clean the apartment, give a good scrub to the kitchen floor; she even took the dishes out and cleaned the cupboards, untouched since they’d leased the apartment five months ago. She had bought an old carpet sweeper in an eviction sale up and now ran it up and down their two used carpets. Would she and Eric ever afford the kind of furnishings she preferred? Well, Rene told herself, this is a phase; enjoy it while you can. For she was confident that matters would change for the better and, somehow, all would be well.
When suppertime came and still no Eric, worry took over. Finally, she decided to telephone the church. The office was shut: no answer. Well, she thought, he’ll be along soon. She set about preparing a small meal for them both. But still no Eric. Then it struck her — that R100 going overhead! Back came all those stories about German Zeppelins in the Great War. Didn’t they drop bombs? Eric would have seen it overhead, certainly. So had shell shock struck again? Oh Lord, what should she do?
Calm yourself, just calm down, she told herself, that probably wouldn’t bring on any symptoms. But she knew in her heart of hearts it might have. Should she go and tell Father John? No, perhaps try and find Eric first.
Off she went to the church, under a ten-minute walk, and climbed its central steps. The squat grey building was always unlocked, the communion silver kept safe in the Rector’s office. She checked the nave and then walked down the long aisle, turning left into the Lady Chapel. There he was, praying!
She went forward. No, wrong. A stranger, praying, and another on the left. Two kneeling separately, silently, veterans she was sure, but not Eric. She walked back to the entry and down into the large auditorium where one day she hoped to stage plays under the banner of the Trinity Players. Up the steps beside the stage she went, into the large side room for meetings, then checked the dressing rooms, passed behind the stage and stepped down into the kitchen where lunches were prepared nowadays. No sign.
Home she came, desperate, mind spinning: what should she do next? Back in the apartment, all sorts of images arose. Had he run off somewhere? Was he hiding in the bushes? Perhaps he’d run across the railway tracks and jumped into the canal for safety? They used to do that to escape mustard gas, she had heard, though erroneously — gas collected on pools. What on earth had happened? Finally, she could stand it no more, put on her jacket and walked firmly along Sherbrooke Street and up Marlowe Avenue to Father John’s modest house. She rang the bell.
The Canon opened the door. “Come in, come in, Rene.” He quickly saw her state and ushered her into the living room. “Had anything to eat? We’ve done our supper but Stella can make you a snack in the kitchen. She’s there now, washing up.”
“No, Father John, I couldn’t possibly eat. You see, I think something might have happened to Eric.”
Jack went to the sideboard and poured her a slug of gin with tonic. “Here, my dear, this will calm you down. Now sit, and tell me all about it.”
She did. She poured out her worries. She even gave Jack a fuller account of his last bout with that dreadful disease.
“Well, I don’t think it’s a matter for the police yet,” Father John said, which pleased Rene. “Let’s just you and I make our way down to the hobo jungle. I’ve been there a couple of times myself with Eric. Mind you, I’m only too happy,” he chuckled, “to leave those unfortunates to his ministrations, poor fellows. But I know where it is.”
They got into Jack’s car, motored along Sherbrooke and down Girouard’s gravelled lane. Jack pulled up beside the woods and preceded Rene down an uneven, twisted trail. Dusk was beginning to obscure the way. They passed several empty tents, then cut down towards the tracks.
Jack stopped, put his hand out to caution Rene, who came to stand beside him. They saw before them a small bonfire circled by a listening group. “Let’s go ask.”
They made their way further, hidden in the woods in case of danger. When none appeared, Jack motioned, and they moved closer. No one paid them any attention, so they advanced within listening distance.
Around a small fire, the men were sitting, standing, or lounging, engrossed in a speaker who sat on a barrel, his back to the two of them. There by the firelight in the growing dusk, Rene peered at hobos, scruffy, ragged — the phrase “the halt, the maimed and the blind” came into her mind. The firelit tableau reminded her of biblical illustrations, too: a lit figure surrounded by listeners in the dusk. She heard snatches of the talk.
Tales of the Holy Land! So it was Eric.
His parables told of a Hobo, like them, who had roamed the uneven hills and deserts in sandals, mixing with those who were as disadvantaged as they. Eric spoke of how He travelled: on foot, sleeping wherever He could, talking to the poor, the unwanted, and the sick. What pictures Eric painted of the peasants he and Rene had seen together, those people who so resembled the crowds in the days of Our Lord. Eric even got in, without being preachy, how He had declared: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God.”
At last, after they had listened a good while in astonishment, Jack turned to her. “You’re a lucky woman, my dear.”
Yes, she thought as tears came into her eyes — in spite of all those tribulations he puts upon me, yes, I’m a very lucky woman.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T W O
A few days later on Wednesday, August 13th, Jack came to collect them at their apartment. Rene led the way downstairs and they got into his motor car. “An exciting occasion, Father John!”
“I thought you’d enjoy our Mayor’s reception. Apparently, the R100 doesn’t take off till around ten, but we don’t have to stay that long.”
“You know,” Rene said, “at the Ritz the other day when I was having lunch with Hazel, it passed overhead. We all rushed out to see it. Traffic stopped — quite exciting.”
“Yes,” Eric said, “thank you, Jack. I can’t wait to see it up close.”
“We both wanted to go and watch it arrive, but the crowds were impossible. They say a hundred thousand people flowed over the Harbour Bridge and down to St. Hubert airport every day since it arrived.”
They drove along, chatting pleasantly. Rene had no fears of the dirigible disturbing Eric’s tranquillity. That one day he’d been absent, Eric had sent a hobo friend to tell her he’d been inveigled to stay with them. Apparently, the fellow had arrived at their apartment and found it empty.
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As they drove along Dorchester Blvd, Jack pointed to the construction of the Sun Life building. “Going to be the tallest office building in the British Empire when it’s finished next year,” Jack remarked. “And a bit further on, I’ll take you through Place d’Armes so you can see the new Aldred building going up. That might even match it.”
“Amazing all this construction with times so hard.”
“The government must be trying to keep people working.”
“Bennett sure got swept in last week!” Eric commented. “Surprised Mackenzie King, I bet! Large majority: one hundred and thirty-seven seats to the Liberals ninety-one.”
Jack navigated down towards Place d’Armes. “The new Prime Minister claimed he’d do something about that Smoot Hawley Act. Amazing how those Americans dared erect such high tariffs to shut out most of our exports. But I doubt Bennett can have much effect.” They duly passed the Aldred building in progress and then headed east onto the great spans of the just completed Harbour Bridge crossing the St. Lawrence, Montreal being an island.
“Remember Jack, our father is said to have worked on the Victoria Bridge? I don’t know how true that is. Longest bridge in the world when it opened in 1860.”
“I believe he did, poor old fellow. As a teenager in the eighteen fifties. Snowshoed all the way to Montreal, did you know that Rene? Over six hundred miles.”
“On snowshoes?” Rene was suitably impressed. “All the way?”
“Yes. I heard him talking to Old Momma when I was little. He allowed as how he might have drowned right under this bridge on a sleigh. The other one went through the ice with a dozen aboard — of course, no one should have tried so late in spring. But Poppa didn’t want to wait weeks to come home and cross the river on a ferry. Times were hard then.”
They drove on, high over the houses below them and then on across the river. “I don’t know how they ever built this,” Rene remarked.
“About time they had a bridge here,” Jack said. “Traffic on the Victoria was getting pretty bad.”
The road was choked with pedestrians and motor cars, so many heading for the small airfield. At last, they saw the great silvered airship tethered a hundred feet above ground at a slim, seemingly fragile, mast. Rene leaned across to look out the window. Its ribs, clearly delineated, stretched from nose to tail. “Amazing they made it across the Atlantic so easily.”
“I expect the crew will be there and we’ll hear about it.”
After making their way through the crowds on the field, they reached the small airport building where the Mayor’s reception was being held. The bigwigs all looked prosperous, with members of the City Council awkward in dress clothes worn especially for the occasion.
Rene was taken aback when approached by a short, heavy dignitary with an enormous nose, dressed in striped trousers, a pale grey waistcoat, Ascot tie and a black coat. Exuberance blossomed from his squat frame. Mayor Camelien Houde greeted Father John, but all the time his small, foxy eyes fastened on Rene. He took her hand, bowed gracefully over it, then kissed the fingers with a loud smack. “You are welcome, Madame, to this humble celebration. It is no surprise the R100 choose our great city for the first visit.” Given to hyperboles, Rene had heard.
Mayor Houde hardly looked at Eric when Jack introduced his curate. Jack went on, “You know, Eric, our Mayor is doing some very fine things for the unemployed poor in Montreal.” Houde stood listening, his froglike smile stretched across his vast jaw, eyes glued on Rene as the most attractive woman in the room. “He’s putting people to work by building new parks, tunnels under the roads —”
“So the lovers, they have place for make love, Madame!” He beamed at Rene and winked.
“And not only tunnels, but he’s installing new equipment all over. I don’t know how many men he’s actually putting to work, but a good many.”
“Oh yes oh yes oh yes,” the mayor said. “But you have not told this lovely lady about my Vespasiennes...”
Rene looked up. “What are they?”
“Madame, they are where our citizens make pee-pee.”
“And Your Honour,” Jack quipped, “I’ve also heard them called Camiliennes...”
They all joined the Mayor in his laughter, and then off he went to greet more visitors.
“Quite a character,” Father John told them. “I’ve been to his office a couple of times. He has a brass spittoon in it.”
“Has he?” frowned Eric.
“Oh yes, and a silver shovel for sod turning, and three telephones. You know, he gets up early, works hard, never takes a drink. The French just love him. He’s the leader of the provincial Conservative party, too.”
Jack went to find a member of the crew, leaving Rene and Eric to sip their champagne and look out at the falling dusk. Then Rene noticed a couple of men and a tall woman looking in their direction. She had become accustomed to men singling her out, so was taken aback when a woman came over and addressed herself to Eric. “Are you Lieut. Alford? I’m Katie Dickson.”
Eric nodded. “How you do?”
“I heard from Mrs. Whitehead you visited her last week. We thought we might find you here with your distinguished brother, the Canon.” She paused. “I believe you knew Edward Whitehead.”
Oh heavens! thought, Rene. Here it comes again. In this crowded room, too. What on earth should I do now?
Eric stared at the young woman — certainly striking, with dark curly hair, flashing eyes, and stunning features. “Bombardier Whitehead? He was my best friend on the Howitzer. We were all so fond of him. But what did you say your name was?”
“Katie Dickson.”
“Katie? You mean, Edward’s Katie?”
Rene held her breath.
Katie nodded. “He was my fiancé, Father.”
Eric was silent for the longest time, staring at her.
Katie went on seriously. “It took me such a long time to get over... But now,” she held out her arm and waved over her tall, distinguished companion, “this is my husband, Wallingford.” They greeted each other. “We have a lovely family, two girls and a boy. He knows all about Edward. He helped me get over it.”
“I often wanted to write, Katie, to tell you what a brave man Edward was. When you said that you were his forever, he told everyone.” His voice broke slightly. “He would have been so pleased to know how you have gotten on with your life.
“And his end was sudden?”
“Very sudden,” Eric lied. “He died in my arms. Quickly. Painlessly.”
Katie nodded to herself and then, perhaps to hide her tears, turned away with her husband to rejoin their group.
Rene looked at Eric anxiously. But it seemed that the pain of that experience had so fully been borne so often before, that now, he was free enough to stare after Edward’s love, seeming almost happy at having met her and knowing she was herself at peace. “I can see why Edward was in love with her. An exceptional woman.”
“Now, Eric! You’re married to me, remember!” She joked, relieved.
Just then Jack brought over a slightly taller man with bushy black hair and a prominent nose. “May I present Mr. Nevil Norway? Deputy chief engineer of the R100. As you may also know, something of a writer — under the nom de plume Nevil Shute. He’s been telling me about the trip across.”
After the introductions, Nevil went on, “I was saying to the Canon here, it took us only seventy-eight hours — following the great circle route, about 3,300 miles. Average speed forty-two miles an hour.”
“And how high were you flying?” asked Eric.
“Normally fifteen hundred to two thousand feet.”
“And not one problem?”
“Oh well, yes, we had leaks in a couple of the gas bags. So up we went to 3,000 feet to let one of the crew mend them. And then, some tears in the fins. I had to go out into the backbone and pull loose the beating fabric to stop the spread till the riggers came. We also had a pretty bad storm between Quebec and Montreal. But that’s it.”
“Oh yes, substantial quarters, about a third of the way back from the bow. Lots of window space to look down on the terrain below, and comfortable beds. The whole envelope is over seven hundred feet long and about a hundred and thirty across.”
“And you’re leaving with them tonight?”
“Yes, I didn’t go when the R100 toured Ottawa, Toronto and Niagara Falls,” he explained. “I was off at Lake Magog in the Eastern Townships with a friend, instead. But our reception here has been just unbelievable. Functions every day. And you know, when we arrived over Quebec City in the evening, it was still light. They were all massed on the promenades and parks to see us. A tremendous hooting with sirens. Rather exciting, I must confess.”
“And I hear your sister ship, the R101, is going to India next,” Rene said.
Norway looked worried. “They are supposed to. They’ve been rushing.” He turned to her. “We’re in competition, but I don’t like what’s going on there. They’re not taking the care they should. Pushing to get finished.” He shook his head again. “Not a good idea. Especially with the novelty of what we’re trying to do.”
“I do wish them well,” said Rene. “I have a mother and sister in England. I can’t wait till all this gets to be a normal event, crossing by airship.”
“I know, Rene,” Eric said, “but it’ll probably be far beyond our means. I’m afraid when we go, it may be on a ship.”
Soon afterwards, the crew left the reception and climbed the ladder into the dirigible. Rene, worried that the motors overhead might affect her husband, urged him to leave early. But he wanted to wait, as did his brother. So they stayed to see the great ship take off, drinking more champagne and eating assortments from the buffet.
On October 5th, Nevil Norway’s worries were realized: on its maiden voyage over France, the R101 crashed, killing 48 people, which effectively ended dirigible transportation.