by Paul Almond
Rene stared.
Eric went on, “Of course I should be happy when you let off steam, my Joy. Why do I need it always perfect? It never is. But the Lord brought us together. And I’m so lucky to have you. I’m sorry.” He shook his head, reached across the space between them, and took her hand. “You’ve been a real brick, a real companion, my Joy, my love. I’m sorry. Let it all out, it won’t bother me any more. You deserve a good grumble! After all you’ve been through...”
Eric nodded, and they lapsed into silence.
“What did Earle mean by a cowhole?” Rene asked, changing the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since we nearly tipped over on the sleigh? How can a cow make a hole that big in the roadway?”
“No no, it comes from anglicizing the French — cahot means a bump or a jolt. Lots of Shigawake words are like that, mangling the French. I told you about L’Anse au Beau Fils down the Coast? Lance Abuffy, we call it.”
She smiled. Lots of peculiarities to these parts. Peculiarities, and hard work, and a stiffened backbone as a result. Exceptional people grown in the Gaspe, she decided. “And what about that hockey game? Those lanterns around the rink?”
“Yes, and did you notice what they used for shin pads? Eatons catalogues.”
“How enterprising! What was that puck?”
“A horse turd.”
“I thought it might be.”
“Made their own sticks, too.”
As the train sped towards Montreal, their conversation again became full of tales of the winter behind them. Though Rene could not stop wondering what lay ahead.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X
Eric felt a jab. He woke sharply. The Hun — coming to attack? Wake up! No, just Rene, nudging him. “I think the baby is on its way, Eric.”
The baby! Oh yes, of course. On its way — up we get! Rene kept a small suitcase ready with what she would need in hospital. Several days ago, they had moved from Jean’s to Jack’s house to be near the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, just below the church. “I’ll ring a taxi.”
“No, Eric, I feel quite all right. The walk will do me good. It will help the baby along. And we don’t want to wake Stella or Jack.”
They got up quietly, dressed, and tiptoed downstairs. Eric closed the front door quietly behind him and they set off down Marlowe Avenue to Sherbrooke Street, which at one in the morning was deserted. They crossed in front of Trinity Memorial Church and down Northcliffe Avenue, a hundred yards to the hospital.
Rene had done well over the six weeks since they’d arrived. Being tall and strong, she had borne the baby well and in fact had taken part in her usual church work. Eric himself had been extra busy leading up to and during Holy Week, an especial time for any church.
“They may not let you stay.” Eric knew that Rene had been in contact with the hospital and her doctor all along.
“Well, I’ll stay as long as they let me.” In spite of himself, Eric felt anxious. “You all right?”
“As right as rain.” But then she stopped and bent over as contractions caught her. In a moment, she straightened and they kept walking.
Checking in and registration were handled gracefully, Eric thought. He accompanied Rene upstairs to the maternity ward on the second floor. After Rene got established, Eric left the room to allow the nurse to check Rene thoroughly, and came back to help as best he could. Finally Rene suggested, “Eric, why not go back to Father John’s and get some sleep? We’ll need at least one of us in good shape tomorrow.” The nurse reassured them that the baby might be born by dawn.
Eric left and went up Northcliffe Avenue and then, instead of going back to bed — he was far too excited — he turned along Sherbrooke to the park opposite their former apartment. His thoughts turned to the future. Clever of Rene not to look for accommodation just yet. After all, they needed to get comfortable with the baby. She should go back to the Gaspe after the baptism: one thing everyone in Shigawake knew was how to look after babies. Soon he might get his own parish and they’d be moving, so no point in renting.
He walked into the park, studying the black shapes of bare branches thrown by the moon on the grass, snow here having disappeared the last while. Peaceful. He sat in front of the Cenotaph and leaned back. How thrilling for them to be producing their own child. A boy or a girl? Either was fine, so long as it was healthy.
All very well for Rene to be confident, or to act as if she were, but how could he stop being consumed with worry? What if something went wrong? What if the baby were born deformed? The doctors had said that all seemed well. But then you never knew, did you? The unexpected could happen. He’d seen that in his years of warfare. Just when you least expected it, when everything seemed jake — bang! The worst happened. He had no confidence in the justice of events. His gaze kept falling on the bronze relief in the centre: a tin hatted platoon marching, the last soldier carrying a wounded comrade. So long ago. But how often had he wrestled with all that, although he never mentioned it. Back in the city now with many duties, especially visiting the poor young men by the train tracks, his hobo jungle had burgeoned with the snow mostly gone. But his memory did often churn up dreadful, disturbing visions from a past left long ago. Not fair! Even now as he sat, that damned maggot crawled out of the nose of the dead German he’d lifted out of the dugout. Sitting here, Eric brushed his face to rub the image away. The bronze relief, maybe that was doing it. So he turned to face the empty park. But oh Lord, look! Down at his feet, Howard’s torso from the Firing Line, leaping — hopping awkwardly towards him, bottom half gone, beseeching him with open arms and horribly mangled face — no, get out. Get out! Eric yelled. And fortunately the image did.
He sat up, embarrassed, but nobody had heard. Get up and walk around, he told himself. Exercise. He circled the park, passing that Church of St. Augustine at the north end. Decent lunches for the poor. Good. Well, Catholic, Church of England, what did it matter? Weren’t we all servants of Christ, trying to do His will?
Happily, this striding kept those chimeras at bay, but after an hour or more, he began to weaken, feel almost dizzy. The excitement of the baby’s imminent arrival was fading. Should he go back to the bench? No. He found a choice piece of dry grass on a knoll and lay down. Before long, he slept.
Later, dreams wrestled him awake once again. He leapt up and looked at his watch. Heavens, what if the baby had come? What if Rene needed him? Was he letting her down? How often would these damnable — dreadful — ghastly — visions step in between them? How long would she put up with his affliction?
To the east, a faint glow. Chilled and stiff, he decided, back to the hospital. Summoning better cheer, he strode across the park and along Sherbrooke Street to Northcliffe and down to the hospital. At the reception desk, he asked after Rene and the night commissionaire, wearing the same veteran pin as his own, welcomed him. Brothers-in-arms. He phoned upstairs and then nodded. Up Eric went, and as he climbed, he could hardly contain his excitement. But anticipation was mixed with trepidation. Would everything be all right?
He came along the corridor and before he went in, a nurse recognized him. “Well, Father, you have a boy.”
A boy, Eric thought: Well, well! “Thank you, nurse.” He hurried into the room.
His Rene, pale, bathed in sweat, looked exhausted. She opened her lovely eyes and smiled faintly. “Hello, my new Daddy,” she breathed.
He came to her bed quickly, bent and kissed her. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
She gave a slight nod. “The baby, Eric, he’s perfectly formed, he looks wonderful, they’re feeding him already. He’s sweet.” Her eyes fell shut again. “Go look.”
Just then, her nurse came in with the baby. Eric went straight over and stared down into the tiny face. He stood looking for a long time. My son, he thought, my son. He turned. “Rene, I’ll just let you sleep.”
The nurse nodded. “Yes, let her sleep. She’s been through a lot. Brave woman. I’ve given her a pill. Come back around
noon.”
Off went Eric, as excited as any man could be.
When he opened the door to Jack’s, he made no attempt to keep quiet. Oh no. Much too excited. He shut it — perhaps too loudly, and went through into the kitchen. His brother Jack was just sitting down to his morning cup of tea. He looked up anxiously, but then smiled as he saw Eric’s demeanour .
“It’s a boy. I’d like to call him Paul, after the Saint.”
Jack nodded. “Good choice. Well, you’ve been out all night, Eric. You need a good bite to eat.”
“I do, I do.”
Stella came in wearing a pretty blue dressing gown with pale fur cuffs. Shorter than John, with large blue eyes, she said, “Eric, I’ll give you the best breakfast a new father ever had.” As Eric sat, she busied herself, full of good cheer.
***
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty.
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee...
Imagine, Eric thought, singing the processional as lustily as anyone, here I am, a poor curate, walking this Trinity Sunday just ahead of the Lord Bishop of Montreal with mitre and staff, his two clerics in front of him, and my brother Jack. The choir sounded in good voice. And that new organ! What majestic tones! All week, the Casavant people had been here installing it. The Bishop himself was dedicating it to the glory of God. How could Eric not be happier?
As they processed down the aisle, they passed his beautiful Rene, also happily singing. Their son had been baptized that morning in the Lady Chapel by none other than the Bishop himself. Jean and Bert had attended, along with his older sister Winifred, his nephew Gerald as godparent, and a smattering of friends. Lillian had sent up the family’s baptismal garments; little Paul had looked just splendid in the heirloom. He’d behaved beautifully, too, save for the cry of astonishment when that cold water struck him. He and Rene had chuckled, and listened to the Bishop pronounce his christened name: Paul, after the travelling Saint. Perhaps, Eric thought, when he grows up, he’ll be a traveller, too.
Eric followed the choristers threading their way into the choir stalls, singing mightily. Was this the apex of his happiness? No, Eric said to himself, it’s only going to get better and better. Those wartime flashes would never again disturb his beautiful life, his companionship with Rene, and his new son.
During the sermon, Eric left his seat in the choir stalls to sit in a pew beside Rene, who had left their baby with a volunteer in the church offices. Paul had endured his own christening, so no more church for him today. The words of John Montreal in the Messmer’s pulpit with its great carved sounding board came to surround Eric. He revolved in his mind those recent words from Saint Matthew in the Trinity Gospel: Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Oh yes, the charge to His followers. Just what shall I do now? Eric asked. What about those reassuring words in the King James version that followed: And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Comforting. Eric needed that.
The Anglican Church Woman’s Guild had arranged for a fine luncheon as a celebration after the commemoration. But before going into the offices for the reception, Eric strode back up a side aisle into the chancel, still robed, to stand looking down in wonder at the new organ’s shiny brass plaque:
To the glory of God and in loving memory of James Alford of Shigawake, Bonaventure County, Province of Quebec and of Mary Ann MacPherson, his wife, father and mother of Col. the Rev. Canon J.M. Alford, MA DCL CMG CBE Rector of Trinity Memorial Church, this organ was dedicated Trinity Sunday 1931 by the Right Rev. John Cragg Farthing, MA DD DCL LLD, the Lord Bishop of Montreal.
Whatever would his simple parents in their Old Homestead have thought about this beautiful plaque in Jack’s enormous church? He stood a long time, remembering them. But where was the name of the donor, John Molson? He and his wife Hazel, and their three children, Bill, Mary and David had been in the church in the pew behind Rene. What a generous and self-effacing person this John must be.
At the reception as he entered, Eric saw Rene chatting to Hazel, so he went over to speak to her husband. John looked impeccable in his light grey suit, his neat white moustache, small twinkling eyes under a firm forehead, a man of distinction.
“John, if only my parents were alive today... I can’t believe how good you are to give this wonderful Casavant organ in their name.
“You know, Eric, we found out that, in this very province, out in Saint Hyacinth — “
Eric grinned, “Yes, which is sort of like Nazareth was to Jerusalem...”
John nodded. “A backyard. Who’d have thought that there, we have perhaps the best organ builder in the entire world! You know,” he launched out in what Eric saw was now a pet subject, “that simple blacksmith, Joseph Casavant, decided at twenty-seven to leave his business and go to college!” Eric reacted. “He worked at restoration and, in 1840, he got his first contract for an entirely new organ. When he retired in ’66, he’d made seventeen of them.”
“I had no idea!”
“His two sons started Casavant Frères in 1879, with workshops in the same place. One of them, over seventy, came this week to oversee the final touches. Wonderful old man.”
Eric shook his head. “Amazing!”
“Well, Eric, for that brother of yours, nothing is too good.” John smiled. “Hazel and I were determined to get the best. You’ll agree, you’ve never heard a sound like it.”
Eric nodded. “Just magnificent tones.”
Jack detached himself from a small group around the Bishop and took Eric and Rene to one side. “I have some rather interesting news.”
“Yes?” Eric looked up just in time to catch what seemed like a conspiratorial wink between Jack and Rene.
“These last weeks I’ve been speaking with our Bishop,” Jack relayed. “And last Monday, an incumbency opened in the Quebec diocese.”
They both looked at Jack with great anticipation.
“Yes, the parish of Iron Hill needs a clergyman. First of September. Our Bishop believes you would be the ideal choice, and he’s told Bishop Farthing.”
Eric looked surprised, and confused. “Iron Hill? Where on earth is that, Jack?”
“Eastern townships. Not far from Lake Magog, which I’m sure you know. It’s a small parish, Eric, but there are one or two other places attached. It’s not even on the railway line, I hear. But the church itself, I’ve seen a picture, it looks charming. The parsonage is a good size — plenty of space for you both to raise children...” He grinned.
Rene stepped over and gave Jack a big hug and a kiss. “Oh, thank you, Father John dear, thank you so much.”
“You see, Eric, Rene and I have been discussing this. We both think you’d be much better off in the country.”
“Yes, yes, a country parish. Everything I could want.”
“So you’ll accept?”
“Accept? Indeed, I will!” Eric grinned broadly.
“I shall tell the Bishop at once.”
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
When Rene heard the key turn in the apartment door, she wiped her hands on her apron and came forward to greet Eric. Today had been clouding over, so they’d decided not to picnic in the park. Rene was making lunch here, in their apartment on Sherbrooke Street.
In walked Eric, but behind him came a most disreputable figure. He looked so mean. And dangerous. She thought of Eric’s small salary, which she hadn’t yet taken to the bank. It lay exposed in cash on the sideboard. What should she do? She went towards it but realized this might draw the intruder’s attention. She stood uncertain.
“Rene, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Adam Hadley. I met him on that train I took to Vancouver. I’ve brought him home.”
Rene relaxed. “Well, Mr. Hadley, you’re certainly welcome.” The words almost choked in her throat but she pulled herself together.
“What Adam needs is a bath. I’ll see if I can find him some clothes and if we have enough, he’
ll eat lunch with us.”
Later when Adam came out from the bedroom, Rene had to suppress giggles. He looked so odd: Eric’s trousers were far too short and his sleeves, too. But he looked presentable, clean, hair brushed and washed, shaven, quite a change!
The three of them sat down, and Rene was treated to all Eric had learned that morning, situations she’d hardly dreamed of. Eric recounted his visit to the farm and the eggs. “That’s where we can get farm food, Rene, fresh, and cheaper than our little store on the corner.”
“Aye,” said Adam, “those farms up there on the escarpment, they’re a godsend. Always something to be stolen: chicken, even a lamb, a small porker, the fellas get pretty ingenious. They don’t visit the same farms, of course. All spread out they are, a ways west. Sometimes a fellow will go a mile just to get chicken. When he comes back, he cooks it up and we all eat that stew.”
“If it’s stealing,” said Eric, “and there’s no other way to stay alive, the Good Lord might sanction it.”
“And how is it,” Rene asked, “that you all gather down there by the railway yards?”
“Thousands of us are riding the rails, ma’am. Thousands. You can’t believe the people had their homes taken, farms ruined — I’m from out West, Winnipeg, maybe your husband here told you. You wouldn’t believe the crisis there. Big drought this summer. I seen it coming. Nothing for me but to leave.
“When I met Adam, he was investing in all sorts of things.”
“Yes, I had lots of money a couple of years ago. But you know how it is, they gobble it up, and then you don’t have a thing.”
They sat down at the table, and Eric said Grace.
“I hope you like it.” Rene had made a salad and laid out cold meat and a loaf of bread on a board. Eric cut a couple of thick slices for Adam. “But it must be hard, riding the rails, as they call it?”
“Ma’am, there’s a science to it. You gotta calculate. I’ve seen too many guys with their bodies cut in two —” Rene reacted. “Oh yes, legs cut off — I seen one leg just last week layin’ beside the rails. You just can’t hop a freight like that, too much chance for a greenhorn to get himself real hurt.”