The Hero

by Paul Almond

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Well, I tried. But he would hear nothing of it. Reports have come back that I’m such a success, he seems to think I can do anything. But he is just asking too much.”

  Indeed, thought Rene. Her husband did not do well under stress.

  Events bore out her misgivings. Two weeks later, after Eric had delivered four church services in one day, he seemed not only worn out, but at the end of his tether. “I can’t do it, Rene, I just can’t.”

  “You preached awfully well, Eric.” Rene tried calming him. “Your three services in the morning and one in the evening, they worked well.”

  “But just giving a church service is not enough. What about all the parishioners that need looking after?” He swept his arms wide, clenched his hands into fists. “The sick to be visited? The lonely to be comforted? The rifts and arguments to be healed? The organizations to be managed, churches kept in good repair... It’s not just giving a church service!”

  Rene said nothing. Not often she had seen him in such a state of agitation. Better keep silent.

  “Well, what do you say?” Eric snapped, and looked at her with a frown.

  Rene paused. “Would you like me to call the Bishop for you? I’ll just tell him it’s too much.”

  “That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You think Our Lord would have said, no, I can’t help? I’ve been called to do it, and I shall just have to.”

  “But you won’t have to, if I phone —”

  “Rene, I want to do everything right.”

  “You are doing everything right.”

  “No. The Lord has said, be ye therefore perfect. He never stopped, day or night. I’ve got to be like Him.”

  “Eric, you’re only human. You’re not like Him.”

  “I’ve got to try.”

  Rene could see such arguments were useless. She didn’t know where to turn. Even in this quiet parish that had engendered such hope, that ghastly war had once more driven him to despair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He slammed his palm against the door. “I just don’t know, I don’t know.” He slammed it again and again.

  Paul started to cry. Rene picked him up. “Eric dear, do be careful.”

  “I know, I know.” Rene knew that agonising expression. And then he dropped to his knees, lifted his hands in prayer. She almost saw the proverbial drops of blood on his forehead. Well, she thought, we’ve surmounted everything else, this is just another challenge we must overcome.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - N I N E

  The first Monday of the month, Rene gave a tea for the church guild. She always liked that, a chance to gossip and trade recipes and local news with the ladies. In a sale she had found a British mahogany tea trolley: large wheels behind, small wheels in front and a handle for pulling; on each side leaves lifted for a table. On it she’d laid out her British silver tea service, even the hot water pot with its wick beneath to keep the water on the boil. For this January meeting, the first of 1933, half a dozen women were sitting around the living room and Eric was present. He always opened the guild meetings with a prayer, stayed for a few minutes to chat and be sociable, and then retired upstairs to let Rene get on with the meeting.

  Paul was toddling unsteadily about, well-behaved, of course, managing to stagger from one lady to another, who would smile and talk to him. “Eric dear,” Rene said, “you keep an eye on Paul. I’ll just go out and get the cakes.”

  She went out to the kitchen to fetch the plate of cucumber sandwiches and cakes that Annie Mason, Selwyn’s wife, had baked, because Rene drew the line at baking. She picked up the cakes, and then heard a clatter of tea things falling and the most almighty scream from Paul. She dropped the plates and rushed in.

  Eric was standing, frozen, mouth open. Paul lay on the floor, doused in boiling water. After the scream he couldn’t catch his breath, seeming to choke. She picked him up quickly.

  “He wanted a cookie,” Annie said breathlessly as she rushed to the kitchen phone, “but lost his balance. He grabbed the doily and pulled the kittle of bilin’ water down — I’ll call the doctor.” She cranked frantically to ring Central at the Multimode Telephone Company. Others crowded round Rene and then moved back as she tried to walk around, rocking and soothing the stricken child, after getting rid of his wet clothes. They saw he’d been badly scalded all down one side.

  Her eyes flicked to Eric, still frozen. From the haunted look on his face, he was devastated. He turned and rushed up the stairs.

  Paul caught his breath and let out bloodcurdling yells. Effie Beard huddled with May Mount, discussing what to do with his scalded skin. Annie Mason came back with a horrified look. “Dr. Picardy is not there. He had to go to Sherbrooke. I don’t know what to do.”

  Nellie Hadlock hurried into the kitchen. “I’ll call Delmar. He may be home. He has a truck. He’ll come. We’ll get the baby to the hospital in Sweetsberg.”

  Rene kept rocking her son, and praying, “Let this not be serious. Let this not be happening.” Upstairs, she heard a fist slamming into woodwork again and again. And then it stopped.

  Nellie came back. “I got him! He’s coming right now. He’ll be here soon, less than ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes, thought Rene. A lifetime. Would Paul still be alive? And what then? The long trip to hospital. But the screams had stopped. The child seemed to have gone into shock. The blood drained from his face. And then he went limp. “Oh heavens!” Rene exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry, he’s passed out.” Annie had brought up several children. “It’s a protection.”

  Lenora Hastings stooped to clean the floor and burned her fingers on the steaming water. Nellie came to help. Rene walked back and forth holding her baby, frantic with fear. Slowly, little Paul revived.

  “He’ll be all right, Rene dear, don’t you worry.” But the way Effie said it, Rene knew she didn’t believe a word. It just made her more distraught.

  After what seemed an age, Delmar Hadlock banged on the door. Rene quickly threw on her coat and covered the child, who seemed lifeless, barely stirring. In a coma. She bundled him out into the truck and they rushed off to hospital.

  ***

  The next morning, Rene returned without her son. She opened the door and came in. “Eric,” she called, “he’s going to be fine. He’s staying in hospital another two days: they’re watching him carefully. But he’ll be all right. His side will be scarred, they said, where the worst of the water struck. But he’s fine.” Having called out, she took off her heavy clothes and then checked the kitchen, only to find her husband not there. Everything had been left exactly as the ladies had cleared it. So where was he? Upstairs she went. Eric’s study door was closed. She banged on it.

  “Eric. Eric, are you in there?” Oh dear, she thought, he’s done something to himself. She knocked again. It was not locked, so she entered. Eric lay on the couch, curled up. She went over and sat. Then she leaned in and hugged him. “Eric, don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  “It was all my fault. You said, watch Paul. And he nearly died. I’m no good fer nawthin.” He had reverted to Gaspesian.

  “Eric dear,” she said gently, “you’ve seen far worse. I know you have. In the war.”

  “But this was my son, Rene. My only son. I did it to my only son. I did it to us. You and Paul, my whole world — I almost destroyed it.”

  “I keep telling you, Eric, it wasn’t you. It was an accident. Accidents happen. We have to overcome them. They’re just there to try us. That’s all, my dear. They’re just there to test us. And together, we’ll meet that test.”

  He hardly moved.

  She straightened. “Now Eric,” she said sternly, “this is not the time. Come along. Sit up. Paul is fine.” She leaned in and gave him a warm kiss. “I love you, Eric. But now, we must get on. You must sit up. Right now. Come on.”

  Eric did so. But clearly he had undergone a terrible trauma. Perhaps even worse than their son.

  “It’s all my fau
lt,” he mumbled again. “You told me to watch Paul, and then he nearly died.”

  “That talk is just ridiculous. You are the most wonderful man in the world. You’re a great father. It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone.” But she felt as if she were speaking to a piece of granite.

  And indeed, as the week progressed with the strain of the extra parish, Eric retreated more and more into himself. With Sunday was coming up, Rene had to do something. She rang the church wardens and told them Eric would not be able to take the services this Sunday: he’d come down with a dreadful flu but she was sure he’d be right as rain after the weekend.

  And then on Saturday, she reported to him: “They all want you to take the weekend off, Eric. They know the strain you’ve been under. In fact they welcome this chance for you to get better. Peter Farrell, that student minister, he’s going to help out.

  “So we’ll go to Brome Lake, to Knowlton. I phoned Robinson’s Hotel. It’s the oldest in the Eastern townships, and I’ve heard it’s wonderful. No one much is there mid-week; the Christmas rush is over, so I got us a good rate. We’re going on holiday, the three of us. Paul will be much better. It was a bad burn, the doctor said, but he’s fine now. That’s what’s important. He’s going to be just fine.

  “Accidents happen ‘in the best of regulated families,’ as the Mater used to say. At the lake, you’ll get yourself ready for the rest of the month. Won’t that be fun?”

  And oddly enough, Eric did look better. Did she see his scowl disappear, and even a hint of smile? Funny, she thought, ten minutes ago I would have said he was lost forever.

  So Eric, Rene and the baby, holidayed at the best hotel in the Eastern Townships, and Eric slowly revived. Day by day without any responsibility, his bearing became more military, his confidence returned; she could watch him recovering. Paul, too.

  Remarkable that fortunes could change so quickly. But happily, their world was getting back together. She congratulated herself on planning this holiday.

  When time came to return, the three of them were driven back to the parsonage and Eric wrote his sermon for the next Sunday, and delivered it to all four parishes.

  ***

  Toward the end of January, Eric was working with lengths of rope, checking his Scout book and practising the more complicated knots to show his troop the next evening. He heard a car horn outside. “That must be Delmar.”

  Rene put on her hat coat with its fur collar, her scarf, and gathered her mittens. Tuesday afternoons, she always went off to buy provisions.

  “Not snowing too hard?” asked Eric.

  “Delmar said on the phone he wanted to go before the storm got worse. I have a good list; he’s such a dear. He only goes to Sweetsberg today. We need things there that Mr. Beard’s store doesn’t have. I won’t be long. And you love these Tuesday afternoons alone with Paul.”

  “I do. We have fun. He’s getting to know his colours. Last week, he learned ‘red.’ She went to give Paul, asleep by the fire, a last check, then bent to kiss Eric, and was off.

  Eric crossed to the window and watched his wife hurry down to Delmar’s waiting truck. The snow was coming down hard and the wind whipping up into a bit of a blizzard. He hoped they’d get back before it got worse.

  When Paul woke up, his father gave him milk and biscuits and dressed him. They sat on the floor and Eric interwove his fingers: “Here is the church and here (two forefingers) is the steeple.” He turned his hands inside out, and piped, “Open it up, and there’s all the people!” He waggled the fingers and Paul chuckled.

  With his son, Eric could forget his troubles. All the services, different churches, the meetings and guilds, visiting the sick no matter how cold or blowy, had been overwhelming. Well, of course he’d been agitated. Who wouldn’t be? He and Rene would discuss how to handle it after Paul went to sleep at night. The situation could not continue, Rene kept saying. But Eric kept retreating into himself, though he tried not to. No other escape, perhaps. Anyway, nothing he could do about it. Though it certainly disturbed Rene.

  “Okay Paul, now we’re going to learn some more colours!” He reached for the big picture book he’d got Paul for Christmas, and opened it. But then, he stopped and lifted his head to scent the air. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. What was that smell? He sniffed again. Stood up.

  On the stove, some soup spilt from earlier had begun smouldering and one of the round plates had not been put back properly, so smoke was leaking out.

  He sniffed again, and frowned. Then it struck him. Every nerve alert, he screamed, “Gas. Gas! Gas attack!”

  Not a second to lose. He grabbed the surprised baby in his arms, raced to the door, threw on his coat and charged out.

  My God, blowing! Wind fierce, oh yes, driving flakes bit into them both. “Daddy, Daddy,” complained Paul.

  “Gotta run, me son, gas attack. You never want that in your lungs. Stop ya dead. We gotta get somewhere safe.” He plunged down onto the road and set off for the nearest house. “Not far, Paul, not far, don’t worry.”

  The little lad tried to be brave. Eric kept wiping snow from Paul’s face and bundle his coat around the two of them but it kept blowing open. The little bare legs were already freezing — he could feel that as he rubbed them, struggling on as fast as he could. “If I had snowshoes, Paul, we’d be there in no time.” He just had on light indoor shoes — no time for boots. In a gas attack, every second could save a life. How many soldiers had he seen maimed, coughing blood till they died, or disabled for the rest of their lives. It would have made short work of his baby, that gas, for sure.

  “Daddy, cold. Cold, Daddy.” Trying hard not to cry.

  “Cold, Paullie, yessir, but soon we’ll be warm!” Amazing how far that darn house had gotten! On a nice day, only eight minutes’ walk. But not a nice day, this. Eric sank in drifts, trying to lift his legs high. Keep thrusting onwards, he encouraged himself. Too bad you can’t see further. And too bad no snowshoes.

  All at once they fell. Must have stepped off the packed track somehow, lost his footing. Deep in the snowdrift, Paul let out a yell.

  “It’s all right, Paul, it’s all right.” Eric struggled to his feet, picked up the child, brushed some snow off his bare face and legs, and hugged him to his chest. He felt Paul freezing, and so was he, and just so tired. The blizzard bit with teeth of glass. He tried to cover Paul’s bare head with his coat, but it wasn’t working. Would that house never appear?

  Not long before Paul was shuddering. Too cold to cry. Hypothermia setting in; Eric knew all about that. “Brave little fellow. We’ll be there soon,” he kept repeating, lifting his tired legs, forging into the teeth of the gritty wind.

  Paul had a cold last week. That’s why Rene couldn’t come to church. She stayed home with Paul. But what else could he have done? That gas would have finished them both in no time.

  A trek from hell. Never been on anything like this. Never had a child with him, of course. Never had gas chasing them in a real blizzard. Been damn cold at the Front, sure. But never like this. Such an everlasting trek.

  After more icy minutes, through the snow he could dimly make out a farm house. Yellow walls, on the right by the road. That gave him a burst of energy. He tried to run, nearly tripped again. Watch it!

  He reached the door, panting heavily. Banged hard. It came open. Bob Mason, Selwyn’s brother, stared. Eric and Paul stumbled in. Belle leapt up from her chair. “Land sakes, Father, what’s wrong?” Quickly she took the child, brought him to the stove, began stripping off the wet clothes. “Bob, put in more kindling!”

  Eric stood immovable, panting hard. He let his coat drop to the floor, snowy and sopping wet as the snow melted. “Gas attack,” he explained. “Huns on their way. Gas first. Always. Then bombardment. Better you get in the cellar!”

  “We don’t have one. Just the outside root cellar.” Belle had hardly listened.

  “Bob, take the upstairs window.” Eric was barking out commands like an officer
. “Where’s your rifle?”

  Bob, kneeling at the fire, rose and took Eric by the arms. “Father Eric, look. There’s no Germans. It’s my house. This here’s my farm.”

  “Crazy to have a farm house this close to the Front!” snapped Eric. He ran to the window, peered out. “Don’t see them coming yet. Gonna soften us up with shells first.”

  Belle peered strangely over her shoulder at Eric. With Paul’s clothes off, she wrapped him in a blanket and cuddled him to stop his crying. She sat close by the fire and rocked him. “Bob, get that tea from the stove. Pour milk in. Make sure it’s just warm. The child needs hot liquid. He’s freezing to death.”

  Paul understood her enough to be thoroughly frightened and began crying loudly.

  “Brave soldier!” Eric exclaimed. “Hardly cried all the way here. Now he’s safe. Gas will take much longer to enter these locked windows, I can see that. Let him cry all he wants. We’ve saved our lives.” He stared wildly, panting hard.

  Bob and Belle traded a look. Clearly, they thought the opposite — that he’d nearly killed his son. And himself.

  Bob brought over the hot drink for Paul.

  “That’s it, you look after him, and I’ll take the upstairs window,” Eric said. “But where’s your rifle? I can break out a pane — anyone comes near, I’ll finish them!”

  Bob turned with sad eyes. “Father Eric, there’s no Germans for thousands of miles. This here is Iron Hill. Never been a German here, never will be. Maybe you had a nightmare. That there war – what it does to a man, eh Belle? Now come by the stove, Father,” he said gently. “I got yez whiskey. I’ll pour a drink. You need it.”

  “I do, I do.” Eric stood, staring vacantly, and took in his surroundings. A clean farm kitchen. Yes. True, he was in Iron Hill.

  He turned slowly, and walked over to a chair by the stove, shaking his head. Bob handed him a glass of whiskey. He sat by the fire and slipped it slowly.