by Nancy M Bell
Annie laid a hand on his knee. “I do. You always had his back, even when he got in some bad scrapes he could have avoided.”
“Except when it mattered. I didn’t have his back then.” He shook his head as if to clear it and then carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Mind you, you girls made a big fuss over those two cubs he brought home.”
“They were cute little things, but it was hard to enjoy bear steak with those two little beggars looking at me with those eyes.”
“You always did have a soft heart, Annie.”
“Oh, go on with you.” She slapped his thigh lightly. “Who was it raised those baby raccoons when their mother got caught in that snare.”
“Seemed the least I could after I killed their momma.” His expression sobered. “A man gets to thinking a lot when he’s laid up.” He gestured to his missing right arm. “Sometimes all I can see if the faces of those soldiers I shot. Some of ‘em didn’t look much older than Ivan, for God’s sake.”
“Evan,” Annie tried to soothe him, change the subject but it was like he didn’t hear her.
“You don’t know what it was like, Annie. And I’m right glad you don’t. But when they gave the order, we just went. Up over the top, slippin’ and slidin’ in the mud and the blood, runnin’ and shooting…It weren’t so bad when you couldn’t see their faces, just fire blind and hope nobody hit you. But God…” He tucked the lines under his thigh and rubbed his hand roughly over his face. “When they were right there, shooting at you and you knew it was them or you; kill or be killed, and their faces…scared as you were, but no more choice than us PBI…” Evan retrieved the reins from under his leg and clucked to the horse. “Get along there, you.”
“Evan, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”
“There isn’t anything anyone can do, Annie. I just wish I could get it out of my head.”
“Does it help to talk about it? I can listen if you want?” she offered.
He nudged her with his thigh. “Thanks, sis. I already said more than I should, unless you’ve experienced it you can’t begin to imagine what it was like. What it’s still like for those poor bastards still over there.”
“What about Frances, can you talk to her?”
“Aye, I can. And it helps, helps us both. I’ve had men die by my hand, but Frances…she’s had men die under her hand and nothing she could do to help them. Of the two of us, I think her burden is harder to bear than mine.”
“I’m glad you can talk to someone, then.”
“Here we are. You run along to Mulligans while I take care of the freight.” He halted the wagon at the station.
Annie jumped down from the buckboard, careful her skirts didn’t catch on the brake or the wheel hub. In no time she settled Father’s account and gathered the sundry items on her list. She saved the post for last, savouring the anticipation and staving off disappointment if there were no letters for her.
“Any post, Mrs. Mulligan?” She stowed the household items in the satchel she’d brought and carefully packed the medical supplies in another.
“I do believe there is, Annabelle. Just let me go look.” Mrs. Mulligan bustled away.
Annie tapped her foot and glanced out the window toward the train station. The buckboard was still pulled up to the platform so Evan must still be exchanging the full cream containers for the empties. Her gaze wandered over the dry goods and came to rest on a bolt of cream coloured linen. Now wouldn’t that make a nice wedding dress? She had no need of silk and lace, linen would do just fine. Practical and easy to alter so she could wear it again.
“Here we are, dear. Mister Baldwin’s newspapers all the way from Toronto and London. My stars, imagine where those papers have travelled and myself never going any further than North Bay.” She shook her head and placed the rolled up newspapers on the counter. “And some letters, I see. One from your sister down in Trenton and some others.”
“Thanks.” Annie gathered the bundle of letters and shoved them in with the papers. One of the envelopes peeking out was from overseas but who it was from wasn’t clear. Please, please, let it be from George. Please. She crossed her fingers inside her skirt pocket before taking the satchels from the counter and heading for the door.
“Oh, there you are. Almost done?” Evan appeared in the entryway, his expression guarded.
“Yes, I was just coming.” She took his arm and steered him out the door. “What’s wrong? You look awful.” She peered up at her brother.
“Nothing.” He shook his head.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Annie steered him over to the bench set against the wall by the door. “Is it Frances?”
“No…yes…but that’s…”
Annie stood up. “I’ll go find Della, she’ll know what’s going on.”
Evan caught her arm. “Don’t, Annie. Frances is sick in bed with malaria. Doc Lewen is looking after her. She’ll be fine once this bout passes.”
“Where in heaven’s name did she get malaria? I’ve heard Father mention it, but…”
“She nursed in Italy. A lot of the lads caught it there. They treat it with quinine, but it never goes away apparently. Just comes and goes.”
“That’s horrible. But if it isn’t Frances, then what is it, Evan?” She sank down beside him.
He leaned over, elbows resting on his knees and his face in his hands. “It’s hard to talk about it, Annie. Don’t you understand?”
“Sometimes talking about it helps, Evan,” she said, rubbing his back with a gentle hand.
He drew a quivering breath and raised his head a bit. “Not here, too many nosey parkers.” Evan rose and strode toward the waiting buckboard. Elsie, the pretty palomino Father bought to please Mother tossed her head with impatience and stamped at the flies plaguing her.
Her brother was silent until they passed out of the sunlight and entered the confines of the bush crowding both sides of the sandy road. Dust and flies danced in the sunbeams spearing through the canopy. The air in the thickest part of the bush always seemed to take on a greenish tint to Annie’s eyes. She waited for Evan to speak.
“The boys at the train were talkin’ about the war. Sounds like there was a big push the beginning of August. They’ve never been overseas, they have no idea what it’s like. Not all glory and pushing the dirty Huns back for King and Country. Oh no, it’s cold and wet and or hot and wet, poison gas and terrible food. It’s all so senseless, Annie. All the killing, I can’t get their faces out of my head.” He shuddered and closed his eyes. “It’s the ones you kill face to face that haunts you, not the faceless ones the shells blow to bits or the ones you never see. And then there’s your mates, splattered all over everything when a whiz bang hits. Just the whine and then no time to hide, if there was even a place to hide, which there isn’t. It’s going to sleep scared out of your mind and waking up the same. Those boys back there, they just don’t understand. They’ve never had to listen to their mates lying in mud and blood in no man’s land, caught in the wire, bleeding to death, calling for their mothers, crying for help and you stuck in the trench under orders not to go to them.”
“I’m sorry, Evan. I wish there was something I could do to help you.” Annie leaned against his shoulder. “You’re safe now, though. That’s a blessing.” It frightened her that he didn’t seem to realize he’d talked about the same things on the ride into the village.
“Is it?” He looked down at her desolation etched on his face. “It’s guilty I feel for not still being over there fighting with those poor buggers. PBI they called us, Poor Bloody Infantry, and by God that’s what we were.”
“You were injured, Evan. That’s not your fault,” Annie began.
“Not my fault, no. But to my dishonour I was almost glad when it happened. Either I’d die or I’d get to go to Blighty. Either way I was out of it, and those poor lads I left behind weren’t…” his voice trailed off.
Annie let him be alone with his thoughts, turning over his words in her mind. H
er stomach roiled at the images his tale evoked in her mind. Was that how Steve died? The newspaper reports made it sound so cut and dried when reporting casualties. Somehow Annie always assumed getting killed involved getting shot and dropping dead. Not slowly bleeding to death crying for help that never came. She hugged her arms around her. Her George was still there, somehow still safe, and Peter too. She crossed fingers on both hands in the hope their luck still held.
Evan was silent the rest of the drive home, he halted Elsie by the house long enough for Annie to alight. Then he turned her toward the barn. “Please tell Mother I won’t be in for supper,” he called back over his shoulder.
Annie stood on the top step and watched him go toward the barn. He’d take care of the horse and then no doubt go on one of his solo rambles down to the shores of Doe Lake and into the bush. The flies were still fierce but Annie reckoned her brother would hardly notice them.
Giving him one last worried glance, she went into the house to deliver the mail to Father’s study. She kept out the letters addressed to her. Three of them, she realized with a thrill. One from Peter, she flipped through them, one from the middle Foley boy and, thank goodness, one from George. Annie slid them into her skirt pocket to read later. Mother’s summons drew her to the kitchen where she was kept too busy to do more than smile over her good fortune to receive three letters in one day.
* * *
Annie finished the milking by herself in jig time. Evan was still off on his wander and she didn’t begrudge him the time. It meant she could steal a few precious moments to read her letters in the privacy of the barn before lugging the milk and cream to the milk house. She tore open Ed Foley’s first. It was brief, thanking her for the package with thick socks and a tin of biscuits. She frowned in consternation at the x and o he’d contrived to add to his signature. While she was fond of Ed, that was as far as it went. She’d have to be sure he realized that, Annie had no intention of letting him have hope in that direction.
Peter’s next
July 16, 1918
Dear Annie,
Well, I’ve done ended up in a convalescent home again. I must have more lives than a cat. ha ha. We were setting up a field hospital near the front lines and wham Bertha (that’s a 1200 lb shell) hit some distance off. The concussion of its passing and impact however affect a much larger area. My mate and I were buried under the rubble for over 48 hours before our boys heard us hollering and dug us out. I’m a little banged up, but okay. Having trouble catching me breath ‘cause I got gassed again, but the docs say I’ll be right as rain soon.
Hoping you are keeping well. You can write to this address and if I’ve gone back they’ll forward it on to me.
Your Friend,
Sapper Peter Richardson
788629
9th Canadian Rail Troops
Annie folded the fragile sheet and tucked it between her leg and the milking stool she’d drawn up against the feed room wall. She glanced out the open double doors of the barn to judge the angle of the sun. Still time to read George’s at least once. She held the letter for moment, savouring the anticipation of learning the contents. Running a finger over the bold scrawl of her name brought a sense of comfort, almost as if she could touch him and feel him near.
With careful fingers she opened the thin sheet
August 2, 1918
Dearest Annie,
This must of necessity be short. The company is preparing to move, where I don’t know and of course I couldn’t tell you even if I did. But something big is in the offing. I can feel it. It may be some time before I can write to you again, but know you are ever in my thoughts and dreams. I have a favour I need to ask of you. If the unthinkable happens and I don’t come home for some reason, I need to know you’ll look after Peter for me. We’re the only family we have, and I can’t stand the thought of him being alone in the world. It eases my heart to know you’ll honour my wishes, even without hearing from you, I know this.
Knowing you wait for me is the only thing that keeps me from going crackers in the midst of this insanity. I have the token you sent me tucked in the Bible in my breast pocket over my heart, along with your lock of hair, so I feel you are ever nearby watching over me. I echo the sentiments of your last letter, that this war be over soon. From your lips to God’s ears.
I dare to sign myself
Your devoted servant
Pte George Richardson
Canadian Infantry (Eastern Ontario Regiment)
21st Btn
Annie held the crackling paper to her lips. It smelled of dried damp and musty, the page splotched with old water marks and perhaps mud. She hoped it was only mud. His letter seemed to bear out what Evan overheard at the train station and the brief glance she’d managed at the headlines of Father’s newspapers. Surely, the war must end soon; they couldn’t go on fighting forever, could they? His words stuck starkly in her mind. Of course she’d look out for Peter. Both of them would. When George came home. Standing, she tucked the letters into her pocket and began lugging the heavy milk pails to the milk shed to be separated.
Chapter Fifteen
September 1918 drew to a close and October rolled along. Thanksgiving was a quiet affair owing to the war shortages and Mother sending food to friends in England. The woods were ablaze with the orange-red torches of the sugar maples, contrasting with the yellow flame of the larch and birch. Overhead, skeins of geese stitched the sky from dawn to dusk. The cacophony of their honking filling Annie’s ears from morning til night. She loved to steal a few moments at dusk when the chores were done to walk down to Doe Lake near Gordon Dean’s cottages and join the Finlanders watching the seemingly never ending flocks of geese coming in to settle for the night. Some nights she was lucky enough to see white snow geese, whistling swans and the massive tundra swans who dwarfed the Canada Geese. The Canadas were a good size, she knew intimately from plucking and cleaning the ones Father and Evan brought back from their hunting forays.
The birds mated for life, and it was a sore spot for Annie that such a bond could be so casually broken. But her practical side reminded her she also liked to eat, and without the bounty of the bush it would be a long hungry winter. So, she apologized while she plucked and cleaned the big birds. Even though it made no difference to the creature under her hands, it made her feel better. Evan had changed since he came home from the war. Where before he used to enjoy hunting as much as the next man, now he often went off on his own after returning with the kill. Once, Annie found him turning his stomach inside out behind the wood shed. She’d hesitated and finally decided it was best to leave him alone. No man wanted his little sister to see him in such a state.
How much would George be changed when he came home? She supposed she should be expecting he would be plagued by the same kind of horrible memories her brother was. Annie straightened her shoulders. Well, she would just help him deal with them; she felt she understood a little bit of what he would undoubtedly go through from observing Evan and easing him from the throes of his nightmares. I wonder if that’s what is keeping him from asking Frances to marry him? I’m certain he has strong feelings for her, and I know from Della that she feels the same. They’re both so broken from what they experienced overseas, I wonder if they’ll ever feel safe enough to allow themselves to be happy. Now there was a depressing thought. She pushed it from her mind and got on with living and waiting for the war to finally end.
* * *
The third week of October came and went with no word from George. Even given the vagrancies of the overseas post, she had expected to hear something by the end of September. Annie slapped the lines on Elsie’s tawny haunches, the mare already thickening her coat in preparation for the coming winter. Leaves crunched under the buckboard wheels sending a dry crisp scent into the air to mingle with the dust. The fall rains were late this year and it looked like they were set to enjoy an open fall. By this time some years the snow had already flown. Above her the west wind whirled more leaves from the bra
nches sending them cascading down around her. She smiled and reached out to catch one, admiring the brilliant red of the maple leaf.
Evan was feeling poorly this day so Annie had set off to Sprucedale to deliver the cream and fetch the mail. The blaze of colour around her lifted her spirits and she broke into song, raising her voice in one of her favourite hymns, she let the last notes of Onward Christian Soldiers linger in the air as she drove into the outskirts of the village. It was only the work of a few minutes to exchange the full cream cans for the returning empties. With a cheery wave, Annie stepped on the wheel hub and settled on the seat of the buckboard. After exchanging pleasantries with Mrs. Mulligan and gathering up the mail she returned to where Elsie waited patiently. She took a moment to shuffle through newspapers and other items. Yes! There was a letter for her. Her excitement dimmed a bit when she realized it was from Peter and not George. But it was news at least after such a long silence. Annie was tempted to read it then and there, but Father was expecting the buckboard back and she wanted to stop and have a word with Della and Frances while she was in the village. She shoved the letter in the pocket of her sweater and tucked the tails of her shawl into her belt. Time for that later, for now a little match making was in order. Evan wouldn’t thank her for the interference, but Annie was certain she knew what was best for both her brother and Frances. Even young Ivan was starting to make cow’s eyes at some of the village girls. She grinned; get Evan settled first, then she could turn her attention to Ivan.
Spending a quarter of an hour consulting with Della, they managed to convince Frances the two girls should come out to the Baldwin farm on Sunday afternoon for tea. Annie promised Della she’d make sure Evan was about. Giggling the two girls embraced before Annie mounted the wagon and waved farewell.
