The grass was too wet to sit on, so the men stood in a rough circle, eating. One by one, the Canadians carried the bowls back inside the house and handed them to Audrey. When Danny offered his, she made sure their fingers touched again, wanting to feel that delicious sizzle race through her veins. When he touched her, her blood felt alive. Electric. She wanted more.
“Have you had enough, sir?” she asked, tilting her head to one side like a sparrow.
“I, em—” He shook his head as if he were trying to clear confusion from his mind. Could he feel as dazed by her as she did by him? Could it be? “Yes, thank you. Plenty. Better than I’ve eaten in a long while.” Céleste, tidying up the kitchen table behind her, emitted a “hmph,” and Audrey turned to glare at her. The old woman only frowned, then “hmphed” again. She made a big production of drying her wrinkled hands on the dishcloth, eyeing them both with deep suspicion, then she folded the cloth and left the room.
As soon as she was gone, Danny took Audrey’s hands in his. “Thing is,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to leave you. I can’t understand it, but I feel like I need to stay, to be with you.”
Audrey’s stomach flipped, and she turned away, reaching for the tea. She hated the tears pressing behind her lids. Hated the thought of his leaving. Couldn’t stand the idea of watching him march off to get killed while she stayed here to rot with her grandmère. Let’s run! We could hide somewhere, she thought desperately, then dismissed the impossible thought.
She poured tea for him but didn’t meet his eyes. It was too difficult. She couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet. “Milk? Honey?”
“Nah. Black’s good. Thanks.”
She held out the cup, and the steaming surface shimmered with her trembles. When he reached for it, she held it between them. “Will you write to me, Danny?” she whispered.
“Whenever I get the chance.” He sipped his tea, then closed his eyes in appreciation. “This is so good. And hot. Nothing like the sludge we drink in the trench. That stuff you can practically chew.”
She smiled weakly. Don’t go! “I like you, Danny,” she blurted. “I really do. Do be careful, won’t you?”
“I will, Audrey.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, holding her gaze the whole time.
Captain Johnston’s voice carried into the kitchen. “Baker!”
“Sir?” Danny called, turning toward the door.
“Come on, son. We’re shipping out now. Say your goodbyes and let’s go.”
Danny’s grin was forced when he faced her again. “Guess that’s it,” he said.
She shook her head, infinitely sad. “Please be careful, Danny.”
“I always am, Audrey.”
“Even more now, all right?”
“All right.” He stepped closer, and she could swear the air hummed between them. “What I really want, though, is for you to be careful. Don’t trust soldiers, Audrey. None of them. Soldiers are crazy.”
“I trust you.”
“Okay, well . . . I guess you can trust me.” He paused, then touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She closed her eyes and smiled, feeling like a happy cat. She practically purred when he touched her.
“I guess it makes no sense, but I’m plain crazy about you,” he said softly, then leaned in to kiss her. His lips were soft but not shy. When he pulled away, she leaned in for another. Then he rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “I’ll be back for you, Audrey. I promise.”
“Kiss me again, soldier,” she whispered, and he did. “I will wait for you,” she said, then she turned toward the kitchen counter. She slid open a drawer and pulled out a small sheet of paper, then a pencil. She scribbled the postal address in town and thrust the paper at him. “Mail comes to here. And I’ll send letters to the Twenty-fifth Battalion, right?” She tapped her temple with the pen. “I’ll remember.”
Danny read the address on the paper, then folded it and tucked it inside his jacket. Then, shy again, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the portrait of herself. She peeked at it, said a silent farewell, then handed it to him.
Danny smiled, looking at it. “You sure are pretty,” he said, then flipped the picture over.
To Danny. Please be careful. Audrey.
Still smiling, he opened one of the packs that hung from his waist and pulled out a small tin can that smelled strongly of tobacco. The picture fit perfectly into the lid.
“My writing’s not too neat,” he said, tucking the can back into his pack.
“I’ll understand,” she assured him.
“I’ve never been much good at spelling, neither.”
“Don’t worry.”
He kissed her again, then she touched the straps crossing over his shoulders as if ensuring they were secure. She skimmed her fingers over each one of the nine buttons on his jacket, then reached for the mess tin hanging on the outside of his pack. She held up one finger, asking him to wait, then turned to the pantry and brought out a small sack of buns, which she set inside the tin.
“Thank you, Audrey,” he said.
“You can share.”
“I will. Thanks.” They stared at each other, and she knew he was trying just as hard to memorize her features as she was with him. Her mind’s brush swirled over the dark line of his eyebrow, skipping over the scar that cut the line neatly in half. She had just the brown for it.
“Audrey?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
She smiled, but her chin quivered awfully, and tears threatened. When he saw it, Danny slumped a little, his eyes wide with concern. He folded her into his arms again, and she wished she could crawl inside his coat with him, hide there, be safe there.
“I will wait for you, Danny,” she repeated, then he was gone.
The last brown coat disappeared over the hill of the road, but Audrey still didn’t move. One second more, she thought. One more second where she could pretend they were still standing in the same place, breathing the same air. Just one more moment with his deep blue eyes inches from hers, gazing into her soul.
Then she spun and raced back toward the house, her skirt flapping behind her as she went. She didn’t say a word, didn’t want to interfere with the pictures pulsing through her mind. Paper. She needed paper. And charcoal for now, though paint would be added later. All different hues, from white to yellow to red, and a touch of cobalt blue for his eyes and for the shading beneath them. Right now it was imperative that she capture every line, every curve of his handsome face, bring back the light in those eyes, the shy charm in his smile. In her mind she recalled how he’d lifted his cap and a brief spark of sunshine had brought to life a gentle hint of gold—raw umber, she thought—about halfway back, blending into his brown waves. Then he’d replaced his cap with one hand, tugging on the brim with finger and thumb, shadowing his brow. She’d wanted to knock it back off, see if he’d laugh or get angry, but the pride in his expression held her back from causing mischief.
He was a noble man, her Danny. Noble and proud and handsome, and such a hero. She knew it deep in her soul, though she knew none of it at all. They’d spoken of nothing of consequence, mostly. And yet her spirit sang with a new certainty. Her charcoal floated over the curve of one dark brow and her memory brought back its width and particular angle. Slightly different from the right side, she recalled, because of that little scar cutting through.
SEVEN
Letters arrived stained, creased, sometimes in a bunch, sometimes straggling in after an excruciating lapse of weeks. But he wrote. She’d feared at first that he wouldn’t, knowing his mind and body would be busy with far more important things than her. But he kept his word. The first letter arrived and she squealed like a child, running all the way home with it clutched in her fingers. As he’d said, his printed words were messy, sometimes short and distracted. S
he didn’t care.
May 2, 1916
Dear Audrey,
I hardly know how to start this letter. I don’t write much. I suppose I should tell you a bit about me. I live in Nova Scotia. I’m a fisherman, like my dad and his dad before. I’m saving up for my own boat, but it’ll be a while before that happens. Fishing’s pretty much all I know, other than hunting and logging, and I guess that’s what I’ll be going home to when this is all over. It’s hard work, but what isn’t? We usually get up at around four in the morning, and sometimes it’s so awful cold you wonder how you can even move your hands, but it’s all worth it. My family and I live right on the sea, and when it gets stormy it’s pretty much the most beautiful place in the world, to my way of thinking.
It was a bit strange, coming way out here and having everything be different, but I thought it would be the right thing to do. You know, fighting for the good guys and all that. I thought it’d be exciting too. Well, I was right about that part, but I could do without most of the excitement now, to be honest.
I just had my twenty-fifth birthday the other night. The fellas found a candle and stuck it in my supper. I have seven younger brothers and a dog named Cecil, but he’s real old, so I don’t know if he’ll still be there when I get home. I hope so.
The boys here are pretty jealous, now that I’ve been telling them about you. They all wish they’d met a beautiful woman, but I told them that even if they did, she wouldn’t be as beautiful as you.
Anyway, like I said, I’m not real good at letter writing, but if you write to me, maybe I can answer some of your questions. I apologize for the poor writing, but it’s been raining, so my hands are cold and it’s hard to hold the pen proper. My hands are always cold out here. I remember that yours were warm. Until I hear from you, I am
Yours affectionately,
Danny
His hands had been solid and warm too. She remembered that, how hers had felt immediately safe once they touched his. Now all she wanted was to keep him safe. And to feel that warmth again.
Spring moved into summer, and his letters became her reason for rising in the morning. Sometimes they didn’t arrive for a couple of weeks, sometimes she came from town with a thin stack in her hand. She answered faithfully, sending out note after note, trading eggs for paper and stamps. She told Danny about her life before the farm, and when she couldn’t hold it in any longer she gently complained about the awful things her grandmère said on a daily basis. Some days she sat outside, far from the house and barn, and just let the sweet summer days flow through her pencil.
Before Danny’s letters came, no one had ever asked Audrey what she wanted. Danny did. So she asked herself the same question. It took a moment to get started, to think outside of what she knew, but then her eyes went to a soaring bird overhead and she couldn’t stop. When the breeze lifted the hem of her skirt and kissed her knees, she closed her eyes and imagined he was there, holding her hand, listening, nodding encouragement, and she let the words come, found someone who cared about her dreams of seeing new things, meeting new people, saying she wanted to paint it all.
Through the summer weeks the health of Audrey’s grandmère rapidly deteriorated. Not surprising. Audrey often wondered if self-imposed misery could kill a person in the end. She sometimes speculated on what her grandpère had been like earlier when he was younger, because her mother was nothing like this bitter old woman. Their daughter, Pascale, had laughed more, danced more, and when Audrey painted, her mother had celebrated every brush stroke. Here the paintings were hidden away in boxes for fear of their getting tossed into the fire for practicality. Audrey had learned that the hard way.
Pascale Poulin had been twenty years old when she’d run from her mother, escaping the life for which she’d never been born. She had always been a mystery to Céleste, who never understood her daughter’s need for a life far from the farm. The girl loved people, loved laughter, but trapped on this remote farm the best she could do was flirt with the neighbouring boys they hired to help at harvest time. But the harmless flirtation hadn’t been enough for her, apparently, because one day after the fields had been put to rest for the winter, a couple of the young men had driven up in a wagon and said they were moving to England to open a store, and would she like to come? Pascale had raced inside to stuff her things in a bag, then she’d hopped onto the back, waving goodbye to her parents and grinning as the wagon bumped away down the old road.
“She never said nothing to me but goodbye,” Céleste repeated throughout Audrey’s existence. “No word of thank you. That girl was a whore and a waste of time. A waste of my life.”
When she’d been ten and had first arrived at the farm, Audrey had felt sorry for the old woman. She couldn’t imagine the pain of having a daughter run away like that, riding off with a group of men without so much as a thank you to her parents after all they’d done. On the other hand, she did think it rather harsh for her grandmère to call her own daughter a whore and say she’d wasted her life on her. Audrey’s opinion soon changed. Within six months, she knew for certain that Pascale had done the only sane thing by running that day.
But now it was up to Audrey to care for the old woman as if she really did care, because no one else would, and Audrey couldn’t imagine anyone existing entirely on their own. She guessed she did care a little. As the old woman’s feeble limbs rose from her bed less and less often, Audrey supposed she would eventually miss her in some way, though she had trouble imagining that.
Audrey milked the goat, who had waited at the door, bleating for attention, then poured the milk into two metal cups. The warm drink fortified her, gave her strength enough to go back inside, cradle the birdlike neck, and urge a few sips through her grandmère’s grey lips. But it came back out in a weak explosion. “Non,” Céleste wheezed. “No more.”
“You must drink,” she tried.
“I will do as I please,” the old woman huffed in French. She narrowed her eyes in a benign attempt to appear dangerous. “Just like your mother.”
Audrey sighed, overwhelmingly tired of this argument. “All my mother ever wanted was to enjoy her life. She tired of your lessons and lectures. She wanted to dance.”
“And she died of that,” she snapped.
“At least she died happy. I know she was happy because I was with her. I want to be happy like her.”
“Then you are stupid, just like her.”
Tears surged into Audrey’s eyes, but she blocked them. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that from her dear grandmère. “Drink,” she said again.
“Non.”
Audrey rose and stepped away from the bed, then pulled the brown wool blanket over the stubborn old thing. “Fine,” she said. “Good night.”
She wasn’t ready to lie down in her own bed against the other wall. The thought of falling asleep beside her grandmère’s gurgling, wheezing breaths made her slightly queasy. The night was muggy, made soggy by a light drizzle, so she decided she would sit in the woodshed where she’d sat with Danny that night. She would dream of him and let the weather cool the burn in her chest. As she stepped through the doorway, her grandmère spoke again.
“You are just like her. I have accomplished nothing. I die an empty old woman.”
Audrey blinked up at the grey sky, letting the mist soothe her hot cheeks. The only way she knew she was crying was because her tears were warm where the rain was cool. But she still didn’t know why she was crying. An hour later she went back into the house and stopped short just inside the door, listening. The horrible, rasping breathing had stopped.
EIGHT
Audrey was twenty, the same age as her mother had been when she’d run away to England to start her life over again. Audrey knew next to nothing about how to deal with the finality of her grandmère’s long-awaited death, so—just as with her grandpère—the neighbours took care of it all. Céleste Poulin was buried in t
he churchyard a mile away from the farm, and Audrey was left alone. The air felt clearer now, cleaned of the poisons the old woman had spat at her for the past ten years. Audrey could do as she pleased, think as she pleased, and no one would accuse her of being the devil’s spawn, le frai du diable. It was liberating.
It was also lonely. She was somewhat surprised to find that she was slightly afraid now that the black nights were devoid of Céleste’s laboured breathing. After all, it wasn’t as if the old woman could have protected them from any threat when she’d been around. Audrey supposed she’d really always been on her own, but the constant disapproval had provided something of a shield. That was gone now. The world was open to her. Where to begin?
The first thing she did was open all the boxes and free her artwork from its prison. Soon every spare place in the house was taken up with her pictures. Then she tied on a thick, stained apron and brought out her paints and easel. She set them up wherever she damn well chose to set them up: in the house, in the barn, out of doors. She preferred the open air because the fumes gave her a headache, sometimes made her light-headed. If it rained, though, she stayed inside, painting images from memory or things she saw in the room. When the sun bloomed, she went outside. Now that she was on her own, she could choose to paint anything she wanted, but she often returned to the faces of the animals. Portraits of cats and kittens multiplied, popping up on the walls alongside a close-up of the horse’s resigned expression and a particularly inspired tableau of the new baby goat frolicking in the yard out front. Trees, grass, rocks, stumps—everything was reborn on paper or silky smooth birch bark, lovingly coaxed from her brush.
Tides of Honour Page 6
