The Hero

by Paul Almond

  ***

  The summer passed uneventfully and autumn began with more and more work at the church, as the numbers of the indigent increased daily. Rene was gratified to see Eric in such good spirits. Her vigilance lessened.

  Father John was the one to bring up the subject as they were discussing arrangements for the next day’s luncheons. “I think perhaps, Rene,” he said, “for those Armistice Day ceremonies at the Cenotaph tomorrow, my brother had better not attend.”

  “Why ever not?” Rene asked. “He’s been looking forward to it, you know.”

  The Canon nodded. “I’ve even persuaded my old friend Arthur Currie, Eric’s commanding officer, to lead the ceremonies. So perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” he went on, “but if anything will remind him of the war, surely those disabled veterans, a good number legless in wheelchairs, some without arms, the military band and...” He paused. “The salute being fired...”

  Rene thought hard. It had not even crossed her mind. But she knew that Father John respected her, and treated her as his special confidante when it came to matters concerning his brother, so she nodded. “Right-oh, Father, I’ll say we need him downstairs to help prepare the special lunch. He’s so awfully good at getting people to do things. But I know he’ll be disappointed.”

  Father John seemed relieved. “These last weeks, I’ve noticed he’s becoming a little more agitated. Perhaps I’ve been giving him too much to do.”

  The next morning, November 11, 1930, Eric sat down for his modest breakfast having shaved, dressed and said his morning prayers. When Rene brought him his egg, she announced: “I have some rather important news.”

  “And what is that?” Eric began to tinker with the egg shell.

  Rene sat down. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  She thought she saw a look akin to fear cross his face. “Can you be sure?”

  “You know the hospital just behind the church down the street?”

  “The Queen Elizabeth?”

  “I had tests done there; the results came back yesterday. It’s true. We are going to have a baby.”

  “That’s ... that’s wonderful, dearest, really.” Eric came round the breakfast table and hugged Rene tightly.

  When he sat down again, Rene was filled with misgivings. For some reason, she felt that he was not as pleased as expected. “Are you not happy, Eric?”

  “Of course I am! Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know...” She sat down slowly.

  “Well, it’s confusing. .. You see, I would want the best for the baby. And as a curate ... as a curate, how will I ever provide?”

  Rene thought for a moment. “Eric, we’ve surmounted so much already, you and I. Remember, where there’s a will there’s a way. We shall certainly be good parents, of that I’m sure. And we shall give our child a lot of love. Let’s leave the rest up to the Good Lord Above.”

  Eric looked at her with genuine admiration. “That is exactly what I might have said myself.” He seemed much relieved.

  After breakfast, when Eric mentioned the ceremonies, Rene told him what Jack had suggested. Eric looked downcast. “I always mark Armistice Day with the one minute of silence at eleven o’clock. And my prayers. But if my brother asks me to help in the kitchen, of course, I shall. Funny he didn’t tell me himself.”

  Rene made some excuse and went on to say, “We’ll have fun, Eric. Not only will we be feeding the hungry, but Father John asked me to make something special for the few officers coming back after the ceremony. They’re going to have a drink in his study, and we can join them. Afterwards, they’ll come down to eat in the church hall.” She smiled. “I think Jack would like to open their eyes to our hungry poor and their families.”

  Later after the officers came back to church from the ceremony, Rene left Eric in charge of the kitchen and went upstairs with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Father John introduced her around and brought her to Sir Arthur Currie, superbly decked out in his general’s uniform.

  Rene could see that he was charmed to meet her and she fell into conversation with him. “I hear one of your professors, Frank Scott, is taking up the cause of our underprivileged citizens. They say he’s a real advocate for workers who are being cheated everywhere.”

  Jack saw that Sir Arthur was taken aback, and so tried to divert the topic. “I told the General here about Eric: how he fought in the Firing Line through every major battle of the Great War. And indeed, how he was an admirer of the General.”

  Sir Arthur, looking stern, ignored him and turned to Rene. “You mention Frank Scott. You know, as Chancellor, I had to write and ask that he not use our good university’s name in his newspaper letters supporting the Communists.”

  Jack and Rene both looked surprised.

  Sir Arthur must have noticed, because he went on lamely, “You see, I did that at the request of our Board of Directors, all industrialists and, of course, wealthy, powerful, men.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m rather at their beck and call. It was, I hope, an innocuous letter.”

  Again Father John stepped in. “You know, Sir Arthur, I’m a great friend of Frank’s father, Fred Scott, one of my finest chaplains in the Great War. We often see each other. In fact, he wrote a poem about the two of us. I’ll get it.” Jack disappeared into his study, leaving Arthur and Rene together.

  “And how is your husband doing, Mrs. Alford?” the General asked. “Fighting through so many battles up in the Firing Line, he bears no scars, I hope? So many of our brave men do, alas.”

  “He does have bouts of what they call shell shock, General. But he manages to keep them under control. Father John thinks he is doing a great job here at the church. He is a very fine man, my husband.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Sir Arthur turned to see Jack come in with a paper bearing the poem.

  “And what is the latest,” Jack asked, “from our old enemy, General? I’ve heard times are really bad.”

  Currie nodded. “Apparently some demagogue has been rather coming to the fore. Fellow named Hitler. Not sure what he’s up to, but they say the results might be rather dangerous. When this blasted Depression caused the U.S. to reduce payments to the Weimar Republic, Germany’s struggling new democracy fell apart. Now what did you bring us?”

  “Listen to this.” Jack read:

  Two Archdeacons on the stage,

  One shows youth, and one shows age.

  One is dark and one is fair,

  One is bald and one has hair.

  Everyone with eyes can see

  Each has got the C.M.G.

  Both can duck and both can run,

  So they thought the war was fun.

  One writes poems, one does not,

  One is Alford, one is Scott.

  One has eyes of piercing gleam,

  One looks always in a dream.

  Both wear gaiters now and then

  Just to show they’re Clergymen.

  Woe to Bishops should they dare

  To provoke this dauntless pair.

  But of this I am most certain:

  When they slip behind life’s curtain,

  They will never, never go

  Where they’ll have to shovel snow.

  The three of them burst out laughing, and then the door opened and Eric came in. At the same time, a loud boom of cannon rattled the windows.

  The room fell silent.

  “On the mountain,” Jack muttered, “always fired on Armistice Day. Twenty-nine-gun salute.”

  Rene looked anxiously at Eric. He stood as though struck. She could see him staring oddly at the military brass assembled. The cannon sounded again. Eric opened his mouth wide as though he were about to scream. But no sound came out. He turned and rushed out.

  Rene glanced at Father John. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the hallway she stood uncertain. Then something told her — the chapel. She hurried down the side aisle and, yes, there was Eric, kneeling at the altar rail of the Lady Chapel, hands clasped, lifted in
supplication, his whole body shaking.

  She came and knelt beside him.

  She put her arm around him and held him as tightly as she could. “Don’t worry, Eric, it will pass.” As she hugged him, she felt his tension like steel, enwrapping him. “But now,” she nodded, “something will have to be done...”

  PART FIVE: 1930-33

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E

  Rene lifted the blind. What she saw overwhelmed her.

  “Eric. Wake up.” She reached across to the seat where Eric was snoozing. She’d pulled down the blind to let him sleep, as she herself had been doing. They had gotten up early in Matapedia to change from the Ocean Limited, the Montreal–Halifax train, to this branch line running on down to Gaspe.

  The night before as they pulled out of Montreal, both faces pressed against the window, they had watched the train slide by the many hobos, couples, families, camped, sleeping, and cooking, beside the tracks.

  Eric had stared. “So many more than ever before!”

  Finally, as the train picked up speed, they both sat back, dazed by the desolation they had seen.

  Now, Eric opened his eyes and lifted himself onto one elbow to look out at the bright blue waters speeding by. The autumn trees had lost their leaves, so the view was stunning. “My first look at your beautiful Chaleur Bay,” Rene said. “I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.”

  He shifted over to sit beside her and pulled her close. “So you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Rene breathed, keeping her eyes on the window. Here she was, at last, on the fabled bay, about which she had heard so much.

  After watching a long time, she settled back into the corner; Eric moved against her and put his head on her shoulder. As they dozed, she savoured this decision they had made. Father John had been all in favour: yes, Trinity could get along well enough without its curate during these lean winter months; there were plenty of student priests on hand. He would miss his brother and Rene, but clearly, he admitted, it would be best for Eric to have a complete rest at the Old Homestead and to come back in shape for Easter and — he had smiled fulsomely — for the birth of the baby, projected in April.

  And what fun she’d had, going with Eric to Eatons to choose her clothes for the Gaspesian winter. Lucky he’d come with her, for Eric picked out — not what she’d have chosen, but surely appropriate, and happily not among the more expensive items: a heavy jacket, boots, sweaters, woolly underwear, exactly what she’d need. Buying the clothes and making arrangements had only increased her excitement.

  “You are so clever to get rid of the apartment the way you did, my dear,” said Eric. “But aren’t you sorry to lose all that furniture that you had collected?”

  “Sorry? Eric, I’m pleased it’s gone. The man who rented the apartment — it saved him having to do any furnishing. Paid our return train tickets and winter clothing, and even more. You know, I think we got far more than it was worth.”

  “You made it look so attractive...”

  “I may have but it was all junk, Eric, let’s be clear about that. I’ve been thinking I should write the Mater and see if, as our Christmas present and with the baby coming, she might help with furnishing our next apartment.”

  “You always think of a way,” Eric murmured. She felt him relax and drop off to sleep. They were not due at New Carlisle for a good while, where they’d have a meal before continuing on to Port Daniel.

  ***

  “Byes me son, what a fine looking woman!” Earle came forward to greet the married couple.

  Eric introduced his saucy brother, who grabbed Rene’s bags with ease — such a strong man, she thought. Nice broad weather-beaten face, a bit like his brother Jack, not as handsome, but attractive. So what would account for him being still single?

  “So you think I ‘done good,’ Earle?” Eric grinned.

  “Fer shore, you done good. Now come, I got Princess waitin’ behind.”

  The red-brown mare stood patiently, hitched in the express wagon — like a buggy, as Rene had seen in pictures, but with the rear extended for luggage. Rene swung up into the seat effortlessly, impressing Earle no end, as Eric clambered in behind. “Giddap, Princess!” Earle slapped the reins and off they went. Lively had passed on, Earle told them.

  Rene found herself intrigued by the houses, some whitewashed, others untouched with grey, weathered boards, assortments of barns both small and large, sheds and outhouses, all with tarred rooves and red-ochre trim. The road wound up over Port Daniel mountain and down the other side, a thinner spread of population than any village in her British countryside. Overhead, seagulls were calling and circling and, on the dark bay, a high wind streaked the heavy seas with white caps.

  “By Jove, it’s freezing!” Rene shivered and her teeth chattered.

  “Lord A’mighty, what a fool.” Earle turned. “Under the seat, Eric, I put a couple of heavy coats.”

  The mare slowed to a walk while Eric pulled up the wool jackets and helped Rene into hers, hauling one on himself. “Byes yes, Earle, I should have written to bring these, but we decided to come in a terble hurry.”

  Rene noticed how easily Eric fell into his homespun manner of talking. She sat again as Earle slapped the reins and Princess trotted off. “And how soon will it snow, do you think?” Rene asked. “I just can’t wait to see a blizzard.”

  “Too soon,” Earle answered.

  “We need the snow, of course, to protect the roots and crops,” Eric said, “but no one likes it when winter descends. Kind of shuts things down.”

  “Opens ‘em up!” Earle contradicted. “We git inta the woods and start cuttin’.”

  “The woods... oh yes. Ow!” She ducked as the mare’s hooves shot up a sharp stone; the dashboard only shielded their legs from the clacking of pebbles. “I can’t wait to go snowshoeing with Eric. He’s promised to take me back into your wilderness.”

  Earle shook his head in wonder. This was some woman Eric brought, he obviously thought. And Rene herself was pleased that Eric had braved the odd looks of Eaton’s salesladies to enter the underwear department and choose her woollen longjohns and bloomers.

  They finally passed St. Paul’s Church on the left, that Eric’s father, along with others, had been instrumental in building, and then right away they reached the Brook Hill. How steep! Rene gripped the dash tightly, but Earle reassured her: “Princess, she’s has done this hundreds o’ times.”

  Princess held back on the shafts as best she could, but about halfway down the hill, she began to trot more and more furiously and then galloped as they crossed the small wooden bridge over Shigawake brook, and then threw her weight into the traces as she continued trotting up the other side, until forced to a walk. As they crested the hill, Rene got her first look at the Old Homestead. One of the larger houses: a black tarred roof over whitewashed wooden walls and a veranda that wrapped around, with wooden tracery under the eaves.

  Princess hauled them up the driveway and Rene saw on her right the great barn with its black tarred roof and wide, whitewashed board walls. Ahead of them stood a matching wooden granary.

  Lillian must have been waiting because she hurried out the kitchen door, drying her hands on her apron. “Eric, Eric, welcome home.” Her brother leapt down and hugged her while Earle got their bags. Rene shook hands with Lillian, plain, shorter than Eric, her dark hair braided and pinned up round on top like a tiara. Lillian stepped back to look at Rene. “Hardly shows. You must be so happy, Eric, becoming a father?”

  Eric beamed his response, and in through the back door they went, down the long porch with its indoor pump and water buckets on a shelf, turning right into a small breakfast room with Victorian couch opposite, and a large dining table.

  “I’ve got dinner ready,” Lillian said, “I opened a jar of beef I put away this fall, but I ’spect you’ll want to see round the house first?”

  Eric nodded. “Seems somehow different without Old Momma here. And Old Poppa. You miss them, Lilia
n?”

  She didn’t reply, deciding rather to hurry off into the kitchen.

  “Where is your son, Lillian?” Rene called after her. “Eric has told me about Henry. He must be sixteen now?”

  “Weekdays he boards in New Carlisle. He’s at the Academy there. He wants to go to Bishop’s, like his uncles.”

  While Earle left to unhitch Princess, Eric showed Rene through into the next large room, which had been the original main room of the house. A large cooking range heated it; behind, stairs twisted up to his parents’ bedroom. But Eric led her diagonally across into what he explained was the ‘new wing’, built in the 1880s.

  “I guess when they had so many children my parents needed more space.” They crossed through that living room into the wide hallway, and Eric opened the closed door facing them to show her the parlour. “For wakes only. Here’s where you’ll be laid out!” He chuckled at her reaction. “But we also use this for any weddings, oh, and we entertain the vicar here once a month for tea. Lil and everyone are very observant, as you’ll see.”

  Up the stairs they went, Rene thinking it strange to have one whole room saved for such occasions. They reached the upstairs hall with its south-facing window shedding light on a large washbowl, a china jug for hot water, and a white porcelain slop pail hidden by a curtain underneath. “That’s where we wash and shave in the morning. Lil brings us up a jug of hot water.”

  “No running water? I can go down for it. And the bathroom?”

  “Chamber pots under the commode — the outhouse is behind the barn.”

  Rene swallowed. Eric nodded to the room on their left: “Henry’s room, so we’ll have the one on the right, which has always been mine.”

  Eric opened that door to let Rene in first. The window faced west. Eric looked out, and gestured. “That’s Mae Byers over there. She’s an Alford, but her grandmother, my great aunt Maria, married a Byers.” Rene was only half-listening; so much to absorb. “After my grandfather cleared the land to build this homestead, right at the beginning of the 1800s, he later stripped off two pieces of land, one for his eldest daughter Maria when she married and the next strip over for his eldest son, John Garrett.” Rene was more interested in the large bed, which she sat on: feather-filled mattress, not bad. Amazing he knows and lives with all that lineage, she thought; perhaps one day she’d grasp his antecedents, but not of paramount interest now. In the right-hand corner, she saw covered shelving for clothes; happily, she hadn’t brought many.