That's My Baby

by Frances Itani

  “That was my father’s way of making sense of the world. Every photo has a caption.”

  “Your birthday is in September?”

  “The twenty-third. That particular birthday was a rather remarkable day—one I’ve had to consider ever since.”

  “Ah,” he says. But he does not pry.

  They have to sit at the dining-room table because the rug in the living room is covered with Mariah’s documents and there’s scarcely enough space to walk across the room. Hanora makes no excuses but tells him this is how she works. Eventually, in an orderly way, the papers will be moved to her office. After she begins to write the book.

  She gathers up Kenan’s three albums, brings them to the dining room and watches while Robin opens the first. Turns pages. Examines closely. The earliest photos are, according to him, “Wonderful images.”

  “What was your father’s name?”

  “Kenan Oak.”

  Robin repeats this and nods as if the name suits the man responsible for the photographs he is scrutinizing.

  “He used to write notes on the back,” says Hanora, “but once he began to mount the photos in albums, he printed directly on the pages, above or below, as you can see.”

  This is what they see on the early pages.

  An electric Redi-Heat iron, photographed from three angles, its black handle shining. Tress’s first electric iron, manufactured in Deseronto. (France 1609, Champlain recruits artisans and settlers.)

  A compact radio, also made in Deseronto, an early one owned by Kenan and Tress, but photographed from the back. Arvin radio, 1938. (France 1624, Champlain gives an account to the king.)

  A long, sleek auto from the late thirties, the auto polished to gleam, an unidentified woman perched glumly on its running board. Perhaps a visitor staying at her grandparents’ hotel? Deseronto, June 10, 1939, Main Street. (Philip Turnor, June 10, 1790, held up on journey northward to Lake Athabasca. “My loitering my time at this place can give no satisfaction to any party.”)

  Tress and Grania with Mamo Agnes. They are looking out over the bay in three different directions, as though their aims and thoughts have been scattered by a cold wind. Deseronto 1939. (Dec. 1492, Columbus: “The wind blew hard . . . and caused the anchors to drag half the length of their lines.”)

  Windows of the brick pumphouse next to the waterfront, large rocks heaped below sills. Pumphouse, July 1939. (Quebec, July 1608, Champlain begins construction of storehouse and first habitation.)

  A group of men with shovels and picks, clearing debris from the ruins of a burned house on Main Street. Deseronto, devastating fire. (Aug. 1492, Columbus: “I passed this night near Tenerife, where the great volcano on that island erupted in a fiery display.”)

  The widow of postmaster Jack Conlin grinning to the camera while rubbing clothes down a scrub board outside her back shed, immersed to her elbows in soapy water. Deseronto resident, Oct. 21, 1942. (Bahamas, Oct. 21, 1492, Columbus searched for fresh water, people fled the village, leaving household goods.)

  A weather-beaten boat, pulled up on land, resting on low stumps. The boat has holes in its side and is partly filled with snow. Long grasses are flattened underneath, their tips jutting through an icy crust. Deseronto, winter 1943, by the bay. (1914, U-boat sinks three British cruisers.)

  That’s the first of Kenan’s notes she’s seen with a First World War reference—one unrelated to discovery. She wonders if there are other captions of this nature. From a period of violence he would have known intimately.

  It is not possible to read these notes without wondering how Kenan’s mind worked, how he made associations, how he was fascinated by discovery, how he juxtaposed old and new worlds. How he dug in, after the war, in a small town, and lived partly through the adventures of others. But he never stopped learning, never stopped trying to piece together information.

  They come to photos devoted only, it seems, to September 23 in various years.

  “Your father loved you,” says Robin. “He never let a birthday go by without a photo and a caption.”

  Here she is at different ages and stages. Childhood photos had to be captioned after the fact; most would have been taken by her aunt Grania, the only one in the family who had a camera during the Depression. Perhaps after Kenan was given his camera and started an album, he asked Grania for copies of earlier photos.

  She remembers a few of the adult photos that were taken during visits to her parents. If Kenan hasn’t recorded the exact year, she can guess by the outfits she is wearing. After she moved away, she wouldn’t have been near the town on her birthdays.

  Some of the other captions he wrote:

  Sep. 23, 1768, James Cook sails near Grand Canaries during 1st world voyage.

  Sep. 23, 1846, existence of Neptune confirmed.

  Sep. 23, 1938, Neville Chamberlain meets Hitler, second round of discussions/Hurricane ravages New England coast.

  This last photo was taken near a window, afternoon sun pouring in, following the eighteenth-birthday supper the day she was “told.” Slices of cake can be seen on a table in the background. Tobe and Saw and Breeda would have picked her up in the McLaughlin Buick minutes later.

  Her adoption birthday. So there were two photos: the plane overhead while she was out rowing on the bay, and this birthday cake photo. Memorable day for Kenan, as well.

  “Would you permit me to go through the albums at my leisure?” says Robin. “I’d be interested in writing a piece for the magazine about the photos and the captions. The captions by themselves are unique. But the photos are crisp, wonderfully developed. These are unusual images. Some are studied, some entirely spontaneous. Or so they appear.”

  Hanora smiles to herself. And grants permission. He tells her he would like to start with the first album. Take his time. Follow up with the other two albums later.

  She pours them both another drink and they talk for a while about Robin’s contributions to the magazine. She is curious to hear what he has to say. He tells her that photography is a hobby he developed over many decades. His late wife, Enza, had been interested, too, and had her own camera. His children—four children—well, they send photos of the grandchildren. The family is scattered across the country. Robin’s arms stretch out to the sides as he says this. “They’re busy,” he adds. “Working, raising children, the steady lineup of unending tasks Enza and I faced at one time.”

  He speaks modestly and gives the impression of having a love of life and a sense of humour. He asks about her research and she mentions Mariah Bindle and the connection between them, which is partly geographical. She tells him why she was drawn to Mariah when she first came upon her art.

  “Mariah,” she says, “would have known some of my parents’ Ontario relatives, distant relatives. Family members who farmed, mainly Irish settlers. I plan to drive to the area north of Highway 401 and up to the Madoc area, after the weather improves. The original Bindle homestead is up that way. I’ll be looking around, taking notes and certainly photos. As it turns out, Mariah lived in wartime England, as I did, though we were in different cities. Our paths never crossed. I suppose our lives were parallel in some respects: two women trying to make our way in different fields. But she was born thirty-five years before I was. I’m hopeful that some of my experiences will help to shape the book I’m writing about her.”

  “I’d be happy to come along for the drive,” he says. “I could bring one of my cameras, or I could bring camera and car, which would leave you free to look about—give directions and take notes.”

  Not something she had considered, but she thanks him and tells him she’ll let him know.

  When he stands to leave, he thanks her warmly. He takes the first of Kenan’s albums with him, but at the door something drops out of the back: loose papers, two items. Hanora stoops to pick them up.

  One is a newspaper clipping describing the Westinghouse Time Capsule, deposited September 23, 1938, at the site of the 1939 New York World’s Fair. The other she instantly
recognizes as the backyard photograph of her and Tobe, taken by Kenan the day she departed for her first trip to Europe. She slips the photo into her pocket.

  The capsule, according to the clipping, is meant to represent twentieth-century civilization at a moment in time, the items buried within its torpedo shape for the next five thousand years. The capsule is not to be opened until the year 6939.

  “I remember reading about this,” Hanora says. “There are numerous items inside: a kewpie doll, a copy of Life magazine. I think there’s a light bulb, too. I’d have to look up the list of contents again. Lots about language and explanations of what the human body can do. I can see why this would have fascinated Kenan. He’d have enjoyed imagining future explorers, five thousand years to the day, hauling the capsule out of the earth and breaking into it to see what discoveries are inside. The meeting of past and future.”

  “Your birthdate, again,” says Robin. “The day the capsule was deposited. Did you know that a second capsule was placed at the same site during the sixties? At least I think it was the same site.”

  “If I once knew, I’ve forgotten,” says Hanora.

  “I’m not sure what was in the second capsule. Many items from the thirties would have been out of date by the time the sixties rolled around. Now I’m curious and will check it out when I’m home again.”

  Robin shakes her hand as he departs. Tells her he has read and enjoyed several of her books. The one about the Blitz was familiar territory. Well, familiar in ways that war can be. “I was with the British Eighth Army,” he said. “In North Africa. After that, we fought our way north through the boot of Italy. A lifetime ago,” he adds. “But as they say, ‘memories ever-present.’ And I met Enza there, in a very small village. I went back for her after the war.”

  The door closes behind him and Hanora locks it and leans into the wall. Italy. A lifetime ago, yes. But her heart is pounding. She closes her eyes, waits until the pounding stops.

  She turns and catches a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Be calm, she says to the image in the mirror. Be calm. The feelings are always there, just under the surface. You know that. You’ve always known that.

  She pulls the photo from her pocket. Taken by Kenan, identical to her own copy, the one he mailed to England. She cut the faces of hers into ovals to fit the locket and has never removed them.

  It is the caption she wants to see. What was in Kenan’s mind that day? What was he thinking the moment of taking the photograph?

  Nothing about discovery or exploration, but in retrospect, a prediction of war. The impossibility of preventing young people he loved—her and Tobe—from running headlong into it. The caption is from Dickens.

  Kenan owned the entire set of Dickens’ work, fifteen volumes, shelved in the enclosed veranda of their house in Deseronto, where he did most of his reading. When he looked up from the page, he wanted to look out over the bay from his wicker chair. He was safe there.

  Hanora now owns and treasures those fifteen volumes. Illustrated, with gilt titles, they were a Christmas gift from Tress the year before Hanora was adopted. Tress inscribed only the first volume, “December 1919.”

  The caption Kenan chose for the photo was a warning, a prediction from A Tale of Two Cities. Although the book title is not included, Hanora recognizes the words: “It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us . . .” The date is written in minuscule figures: Mar. 22, 1939.

  Kenan knew that war was inevitable, even though he refused to discuss the possibility. He didn’t try to stop her from leaving, but he must have worried constantly. She looks at her own face and Tobe’s—how young, how determined, how open to experience they were. She remembers that Tobe’s parents were standing in the yard near Kenan when the photo was taken. They had come to say goodbye before Tobe accompanied her to Montreal, where she was to catch the overnight train to New York. It was Tobe’s mother who gave her the issue of National Home Monthly to read during her trip. The Monthly had been running the Agatha Christie mystery, and Mrs. Staunford and Hanora were following the instalments.

  Enough for one day. Enough for one evening. She has to alter the course of the monologue that is running through her brain. She looks into the mirror again and tells herself to stop. Stop.

  At least she isn’t wearing her clothes inside out.

  1942–43

  PREPARATIONS

  TOBE TOOK HER TO THE VILLAGE STATION IN THE afternoon, and handed his suitcase in after her when she’d boarded the train. “Nice piece of luggage you’ve got there, miss,” he said, and she couldn’t help laughing.

  She stumbled as she sat down, and experienced a physical sensation that she could only describe to herself as the unknown rising up to meet her. How could anyone foresee what lay ahead? She put her hand to her throat. She thought she would not be able to breathe.

  Everyone in the country knew that the fighting, the bombing, the killing and destruction would go on and on. Man against man. Weapon against weapon. Arms against arms. Nation against nation. Neither she nor Tobe had any idea where he would be sent, or when the Regiment would be shipped out of England. She stared in the direction of the village long after the train had pulled away and the station was out of sight.

  THE morning had been unsettling. Jack and Evelyn returned two hours before Hanora was to leave for the train, and the mood between her and Tobe was immediately broken. Not intentionally. Jack went out of his way to be friendly, to make her welcome. It was clear that he and Tobe were close. She listened to their banter and watched Jack draw deeply on his cigarette. One cigarette after another. He was thick through the chest and shoulders, five foot seven or eight, dark hair, a vertical scar at the edge of his left eye and extending down over his cheekbone. He rubbed at it every once in a while, probably from habit. Or maybe the scar had resulted from a recent accident and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling it there.

  Evelyn was as fair and slim as Jack was dark and stocky. She chattered while she prepared lunch. She was cheery, couldn’t stay still. Hanora imagined her going around a crowded room from person to person, keeping spirits up. It was certain that she kept Jack’s spirits up; they had met at a dance the year before, and he clearly adored her.

  Tobe became quiet, content to listen while they sat around the kitchen table. There was more talk. Evelyn and Jack announced that their first child would be born the following February. They all celebrated the news. A record was put on and Glenn Miller and His Orchestra played “My Blue Heaven” in the background while Evelyn laughed and chatted on. There was little time to be alone with Tobe after that, except for the walk to the station. On the way, Hanora remembered the elephant in the drawer.

  “They’ll think it’s gone missing,” she said. “They’ll think I put it in my suitcase.”

  “My suitcase,” said Tobe. “I’ll take responsibility.” He laughed, and shrugged. “They’ll find it. If they don’t, I’ll mention it to Jack.” He wasn’t concerned; he just didn’t want to look at it when he was there.

  THEY’D planned to spend Christmas of 1942 together, but Tobe had to cancel. There was nothing to be done but wait for him to contact her again. She had no idea where he was.

  Tress and Kenan sent cards and letters (her father reminding her to keep her guard up because Life Is Treacherous; he did not mention the word “war”). Aunt Zel wrote, Breeda and Saw wrote, as did Tobe’s parents. Hanora received care packages in early November—sent well ahead of Christmas to ensure arrival: apples wrapped individually in newsprint; a Christmas cake; Belleville cheese; heavy stockings knitted by Tress to keep Hanora’s feet warm at night; two copies of the Post from Calhoun, along with a note: There’s a job waiting when you come home.

  She sent articles to Calhoun from time to time. Always a profile of an individual. She wrote about what that person was doing in London and how he or she was managing within wartime restraints and conditions. She found Canadians to interview, and there w
ere many in London. She met one woman her own age, Caroline, at a shop in Westbourne Grove, and after that they got together occasionally to share a pot of tea. Caroline had come from Montreal and was married to a British soldier. She had been working with the Red Cross in London since the beginning of the war. An Anderson shelter had been built in the garden behind her flat, and Hanora was invited to stay during a raid if she was in the area when warnings were sounded. “It’s cold, and it’s damp, and can get wet and muddy,” said Caroline. “But we feel somewhat safe in there. Not totally, but somewhat.”

  EARLY Christmas morning, Hanora walked through her London neighbourhood alone, hat pulled down over her ears, scarf twined about her neck, shoulders hunched against the cold. The air was heavy with mist. She looked up to grey skies. She went to work and helped with preparations for the hot Christmas meal. The menu that day included hundreds of servings of special pudding, and she was put in charge of that. She became the Christmas pudding person. She sang Christmas carols with the children and alongside women she worked with, as well as women she knew from Underground shelters and from hours spent queuing for rations. Everyone made the best of the day and the best of what they had. The children were happy with their small treats. On the way back to Queensborough Terrace a man walked toward her with a sack of coal on his back. He was covered in grime; his face looked as if he’d blackened it intentionally. “Hello, love,” he shouted out cheerily as he passed. “Happy Christmas.”

  WHEN Tobe was finally able to visit, she learned the reason for his earlier cancellation: two weeks before Christmas, the Regiment had been taken north to Scotland for assault-landing training. Rumours were flying about once more. Tobe told her the boys called them “latrine rumours.” Wherever the Regiment was headed, the approach was going to be by water.