That's My Baby

by Frances Itani

  Hanora was caught off guard, being addressed as Billie. She recovered. “Billie Read,” she said. “Well, George Sand, for the evening.”

  “Ah. Then Chopin is in your life.”

  “He is, or was.”

  “I played Chopin when I was a child. Both of my parents played piano. Sometimes I listen to Chopin when my life becomes too hectic. Tell me, what will the serious George Sand do when the Lady Champlain reaches the other side?” He rubbed his fingers across his forehead, the vertical lines between his brows. He was relaxed, in no hurry to move on.

  “I’ll stay for a while,” said Hanora. “I want to travel in France, find out what’s going on in the south. Thousands of Spaniards are coming across the border. One of my schoolmates was killed in Spain, in the Civil War.” She added, too quickly, “I’m a writer,” and was immediately embarrassed at having blurted this out. She was terrified that Duke would ask what she had published, but he didn’t. He was interested. She had his full attention.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said. “A fine profession to pursue. You keep following your dreams, Billie. That’s what I do . . . what I’ve always done.”

  Partygoers were calling for Duke from the other side of the room, but he ignored their shouts.

  “I hope writing is something you’re passionate about,” he said. “Music never seems like work to me. Writing and creating and performing—those are my passions.” He reached for her hand, kissed it. “Remember to listen,” he said. “And keep on doing what you love to do. I’ll keep an eye out for your work.”

  Musicians had appeared on either side of him and were tugging him across the room.

  “I have to join this party,” he called back, laughing. “As you can see, I’ve dressed down. This is what I look like most of the time.”

  Only after he’d been pulled away did Hanora realize that if he was ever inclined to find anything she had written, he would look her up under her cousin’s name.

  The party went on and on; no one objected to the late hours. Reynard the Fox continued to put forth his best efforts to persuade women to accompany him to the promenade deck for a stroll in the dark. The ship’s musicians took advantage of Duke’s presence and honoured his music. Just before the party ended for the night, Barney Bigard went below and brought up his clarinet. Sonny Greer slipped in behind the drums after being beckoned by the French drummer. The rhythm changed entirely as they began to play “Mood Indigo,” which pulled almost everyone onto the dance floor, swaying, humming to the easy, relaxed sound. What an ovation Greer and Bigard received. So much enthusiasm from the crowd, they went through it all again, but this time Duke quietly joined them. Hanora was on the dance floor. Frankie was sitting this one out, and Frank had asked Hanora to be his partner.

  Duke’s back was curved slightly over the keyboard, his bathrobe reaching the floor, hands coming down firmly—sometimes both hands, sometimes only the right while the left rested on his thigh—no music sheet in sight, no glance at the keys. He repeated “Mood Indigo,” his wonderful creation, alongside the French musicians and Greer and Bigard, while the dancers moved, almost softly, about the floor. Much later, and often, Hanora would ask herself if she’d really been a part of those timeless moments of magic and music while drifting over an ocean that had not yet begun to threaten from below, in a world that was about to turn to unprecedented destruction.

  IN the daytime, Hanora read in the library or in the big lounge. She read the conclusion of Agatha Christie’s 1920 novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, serialized in National Home Monthly. Poirot was about to gather the usual suspects so that he could announce his deductions and solve the murder of an unfortunate woman. Hanora was watching how Christie maintained suspense from one instalment to the next through her storytelling techniques.

  When Hanora wasn’t reading, she was on deck, walking, meeting passengers and crew, asking questions. If the weather was reasonable, she walked on the lower sun deck. Otherwise, she used the protected promenade to exercise, to meet people. Inside, she listened for music—which could erupt at any time and did, almost anywhere on the ship. When she returned to her cabin, she sat at the writing desk between the two berths and recorded her observations in detail. She disciplined herself to describe only what she had seen. She considered herself to be in training. She committed herself to her work.

  “WHAT day is it?” Billie asks suddenly. Billie worries about the days, as if they are retreating from her.

  “Thursday.”

  “Where did the week go?”

  Hanora has no idea which week she is referring to.

  “Were you out shopping at night? Is that why you stopped in to visit?”

  “I don’t shop, Billie. Only for food when I have to. I hate shopping. Always have.”

  “Champlain wore a cloak,” she says. “Shiny boots. Taller than the boots you and I bought to counter damp weather. Something like what you’d see in children’s books.”

  “Perrault imagined great boots for Puss in Boots.”

  “Finery,” says Billie. “Yes, like Puss in Boots. One of my students read the story aloud when she was learning English. What was her name? She had been in the camp, the horrific one. Well, they were all horrific. She came to this country as a refugee. She was born in France but sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau—that’s the one. She was sent with those brave women of the Resistance. Most of them were captured in occupied France.”

  There is a long silence while Billie stares out into the dusk.

  “I wish I had done more, Hanora. I used to ask myself later—after the world learned, or stopped ignoring, the details of what transpired—I asked myself what I could have done. Not many women survived. The one who learned to read Puss in Boots in English did. She was damaged, but while she was in the camp she refused to accept defeat.”

  She suddenly says, “Plume,” pleased that she’s found the word, and Hanora realizes she’s back to Champlain again.

  “A wide feather swooped around the brim of his hat. Was he holding a sword? The sails of his ship were in the background. Natives in the foreground. With fish, a teepee. The edges of the painting were crowded with trees, probably to show an untamed New France. Duke sat in that room during the daytime. Not every day. He had papers in front of him. He was always composing. People left him alone. He was given respect. He liked you, Hanora. The other man, the older one, was a musician, too. Something to do with choirs. He liked me, and we talked in the lounge sometimes, during the day. He joined Duke at his table in the dining room after the second night. Duke played piano once, at the end of one of the parties. He played ‘Mood Indigo.’ Put on some music, Hanora. Play Duke if you like, but with Ella singing.”

  Hanora searches for Ella’s recording of the Duke Ellington Songbook and puts on the first CD. She does remember the other man, now that Billie has talked about him moving to Duke’s table. Grey hair, kind face, soft-spoken. He was moving to England to take up a position as music or perhaps choir director somewhere, he had told someone. News and gossip were always buzzing around the ship. Much of the time, the man—she can’t recall his name and would have to look at the passenger list—seemed to want to talk to Billie. As dinner companions, he and Duke would have had much in common. The man’s face was lined, his voice low. She should have interviewed him, but she was uncertain about asking, could not decide if she should approach him. He seemed to be so self-contained, so private. She did see him walking on deck and they exchanged greetings when they passed each other. She never saw him dance in the evenings, though it was obvious that he was interested in the music being played. She remembers those things.

  She and Billie listen to Duke and Ella for a while. As soon as Ella begins to sing “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” Billie asks Hanora to stop the CD.

  “What day is it?” she asks. She looks fearful, expectant, as she waits for an answer.

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “Where did the week go?” she says. “I’m hungry and I want somethin
g, just a snack. You know, Ella might have been the boss lady, but that was Ivie’s song through and through. No one could sing ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’ like Ivie. I don’t know why Ella bothered to record it. She was so good herself, she’d have known Ivie’s version was superior.”

  What Hanora will consider later is that many of Billie’s old memories appear to be intact, that language sometimes flows unbroken. What is unknown, unpredictable, is which of the memories are real and which are not. Or how they will be expressed. Some of the patterns are not so different from the way Hanora’s own thoughts meander. Billie, however, expresses hers aloud.

  What is entirely different is that Billie is sometimes filled with fear as she begins to speak. She gropes for clarity, terrified that reason has abandoned her.

  THE O’NEILL AUCTION

  HANORA HAS READ EVERY DIARY ENTRY COVERING the first two years. She is enjoying the spirit of the young Mariah, not to mention her skill in drawing and painting. In 1902 she’d have been sixteen years old, more serious than ever about her ambition to be an artist.

  AUGUST 2, 1902

  Aunt Clarice took me along to the Saturday auction at the O’Neill farm. I’ve accompanied her to three auctions during the past year, and this was the fourth. From our farm we had to travel to Tyendinaga’s Ninth Concession. Aunt Clarice is accustomed to getting rhubarb every spring and apples every fall from the farm of Maggie and Am O’Neill, so she knows the way. She is friendly with the owners and we were warmly greeted by Maggie when we arrived in the democrat wagon in the late morning. Maggie has beautiful red hair and a touch of the Irish accent, and maybe I will try to draw her in days to come.

  Uncle Oryn had gone ahead in the larger wagon, as he expected to be at the farm the entire day and would be bringing items back. I’m happy to say that the weather was fair. I have sketched a few scenes, all views from the democrat as we rode: an abandoned log cabin with one wall down, leaving its single room exposed; the sagging roof of a barn; a grey rock face with evergreens atop, some stretching higher than others to hog the sun. With wax-based crayons, which I ration, I created this likeness of the blue-black surface of a low-level creek we passed. I’m working at contrast between the water and the green of the bushes and grass beyond. Blues and greens. These are wonderful together.

  Aunt Clarice and I so enjoyed our day. She encouraged me to talk about school and say what I have learned from the books I was given last Christmas. At a fall auction, my uncle came upon a box containing several books about the Old Masters, and these were a gift to me from the two of them. A treasured gift.

  Today on the Ninth, every item of farm machinery had to be auctioned; the horses, too. The woman, Maggie, cried when the horses were sold, and she leaned her head into the neck of one and stayed by it as if she could not let go. That is the scene I’ll be able to draw from memory.

  There was a glum feeling about the whole affair, and I began to feel badly for the couple, though Aunt Clarice assured me that Maggie is not sorry to leave the farm. A large crowd turned out for the auction—entire families, in some cases. In part, I believe it was to say goodbye, as the couple is to move south, to town.

  Uncle Oryn started the auction with the sale of machinery and barn equipment. Because household items—those that the couple were not keeping—were to be auctioned last, Aunt Clarice and I took the opportunity to bring out our modest picnic lunch and seek a spot sheltered from sun, not far from the farmhouse.

  We walked to a nearby copse and spread a blanket on the ground. The two of us were alone in that beautiful spot, and it was there that I was told the saddest of stories. Aunt Clarice was moved by being there, and wanted to share the story she knew.

  Maggie and Am’s two young children, their only children, had died of the diphtheria four years ago, during the unforgiving winter of ’98—a winter every one of us in these parts remembers. One of the children was a baby girl, the other a two-year-old boy. The babes could not be buried until spring, when the ground thawed, and because of this their bodies had to be bundled and kept in a wall of snow outside the farmhouse throughout the remaining cold months. They are now laid near the spot where we had our picnic, beneath the same trees that shaded us as we sat. The graves are unmarked but the location splendid. I was awed to be in that place and have done a sketch on the adjoining page. I suspect that the graves—Aunt Clarice told me the babes are laid side by side—are completely sheltered by the spreading maple; there was a slight depression in the earth beyond the place where we laid our blanket. I hope I’ve been able to create the feeling of sanctity. It is a challenge to create a mood of terrible beauty.

  HANORA sets down the diary and tries to take in what she has just read. The grief of the parents would have been unspeakable. She knows the name O’Neill because it is a family name, but she has never heard this heart-rending story of the O’Neill babies, which would have taken place a generation before she was born. Tress was an O’Neill before marrying Kenan. Her grandparents and uncle, who ran the hotel, were O’Neills. She knew there were Irish relatives scattered about the northern farms, but had never been taken to the area as a child. She could be distantly related to this family.

  She realizes that of the entire extended family in Deseronto, she is the one who has moved about the most. Especially during and after the war. Overseas travel is something she takes for granted, and has since she first left home in 1939. Perhaps this would be the time for someone to draw up a family tree. She can’t do this herself—not in the immediate future, while she’s working on the Bindle book—but she’ll investigate and find out if anyone has researched the genealogy of the O’Neills. No point in doing the work if the research has been done. It takes time to track down births, marriages and deaths, and to fit patterns together.

  The sketch that accompanies the diary entry of that August day in 1902 includes a tree trunk drawn with wide swaths of charcoal, opposed by thinner branches and broad leaves, all of which overshadow a soft, grassy place. Small and uneven rocks are heaped purposefully at the widest edges of the copse. There is a feeling of generosity about this drawing, a feeling of reverent quiet, with sunlight splashing through openings in the branches above. Mariah was skilled enough, even at sixteen, to capture with immediacy the mood of that sad and beautiful place.

  Someday, Hanora tells herself, I’ll drive through the area, road by road, and find the place myself. It can’t be far, probably a few hours by car.

  One more thing on her list of things to do. There is no one left to ask about location anymore. Well, remote cousins would be living around there somewhere. Descendants of descendants of pioneer families. She could also return to Deseronto to see who is still around town. Breeda, for one. Breeda never left. She and Saw raised their family there. They stay in touch once a year, exchanging messages at Christmas. Calhoun is still alive and lives with Breeda and Saw. Calhoun is now 103.

  Hanora could also look through county atlases in the Ottawa libraries, to search out the names of previous owners of farms along the Ninth. That information is readily at hand.

  When she does, eventually, drive to the area, she’ll start with the essential drive to the Madoc area and visit Mariah’s birthplace, the farm that belonged to her parents. She will find out who the present owners are and ask if they’ll permit her to walk around the property. This will all be material for her book. On the way home, she’ll stop in Deseronto to see Breeda and Saw and Calhoun. It’s been a long time since she visited her hometown; she hasn’t been back since Tress died.

  1942

  TOBE

  IN THE SUMMER OF 1942, THE HASTY PS WERE still in the south of England. Most recently, they’d moved inland to the Horam area in Sussex. Tobe wrote:

  You will like the area, as I do. Rolling hills, woods, fields. Endless pathways and trails. An elderly man in the town told me that this was the site of an ancient forest. We help out on nearby farms when we can. Which doesn’t feel much like soldiering, but the boys like to spend their time this
way. So many in the Regiment grew up on farms. We all feel that we can contribute if help is needed. We’ve been called “plough jockeys” by some of the other units, but we laugh that off and don’t accept the name as insult. We also help when there is rescue work to be done after bombs have been dropped on houses or farm buildings in the area. This is a sad business and has been happening more and more frequently, though the targets are usually farther north, mainly factories and industries. Overall, the bombing here has been nothing like what you have experienced in London. But any death is tragic when it comes from an attack in the sky, and when those on the ground have no opportunity to find protective cover or defend themselves and fight back.

  A number of our boys have married local girls around the area. We’ve been in England so long, some have young children now. Perhaps those with new families will find it difficult to leave when the time comes to fight our share of the war. We know our turn is coming. We can’t be in training forever, despite this being our third year in the country. A fact almost impossible to believe. I scarcely believe it as I write. But true. We are in our third year. As a Regiment, we are ready, and no one can pretend otherwise. For a while, we were at the coast, ready to help fight off invasion. But invasion did not come.

  When you visit, I’ll meet you at the train. I sent details earlier, and will hope that the schedule doesn’t alter between now and then. I’ve found us a place to stay. One of my buddies, Jack, who grew up in Bloomfield in Prince Edward County, has married an English girl. He and his wife, Evelyn, share a home with another couple in the village, and live in the back part of the house. A private entrance opens out from the kitchen to a small garden with a low stone wall. Jack stays with Evelyn as often as he can. While you are here, they’ll be away a few days to visit Evelyn’s parents in her hometown in Surrey. The place will be empty and we’ll have it to ourselves. What luxury, to have you to myself for three entire days. Hurry up. Hurry up and get here. I need you with me.