RETURN OF THE DEAD
The mind can’t take in the absence right away.
You expect to see him any day.
And you do.
That’s him there on the fire step,
Shoulders hunched, chin tucked.
But close up
You realize you’re wrong.
Your flash of joy burns out.
You could shout in anger
But you don’t.
What’s the use?
The moon shines then
And you spy him down the line.
Sitting among weary men.
Eyes closed. All asleep.
And you wake him and say,
Hey, comrade. Friend.
Aren’t you supposed to be dead?
Captain saw you get it.
“Blown to bits,” he said.
Right by my side.
He was grey as the coming day,
When he spoke
As if he was close to death himself.
But in all that smoke.
It’s easy to make a mistake.
Could have been some other bloke.
Went to glory.
So you still expect to see him
Walk out of the fog that’s on the hill.
And you’ll tell him the story.
He’ll shrug.
He’ll say.
Blood and bone and brain
All look the same don’t they?
CHAPTER THREE
MURDOCH LED THE WAY UPSTAIRS. “Needless to say, I’ve put you in your old room.”
“You didn’t change anything, did you, Pa? Didn’t think it needed new wallpaper or new furniture or anything like that?”
“Nope. I did consider leaving the dust undisturbed but Miss Dorsett wouldn’t stand for it.”
They entered the room and Murdoch put Jack’s haversack on the chair by the bed.
“There. Just as if you’d never left.”
“Thanks, Pa.”
“I wish I’d known about your chum earlier. I could have made up the spare room. He could have stayed here.”
Jack shook his head. “Percy got a bit scrambled when we were over there. He isn’t very sociable at the moment. He’d prefer to be on his own.”
“How did he get wounded?”
Jack walked over to the window and looked out.
“Can we have a moratorium on war stories for a little while, Pa?”
“Just asking. You haven’t even said what happened to you exactly. You get the prize for short letters.”
Jack shrugged. “I will talk about it sometime, I promise. Just not now.” He leaned his forehead against the windowpane. “The street looks just the same as it did when I left, except the Andersons have painted their trim. It used to be green. Can’t say I like the new colour as much.”
“Don’t you? I quite like it myself. Ours needs doing too but I haven’t got around to it yet.”
Jack turned back, yawning. “I’m bushed, Pa. I didn’t get much sleep last night, what with one thing and another. Do you mind if I grab a bit of shut-eye?”
“Of course not. I didn’t know if you’d be hungry or not so there’s a stew we can heat up any time. And don’t worry, I didn’t make it, Miss Dorsett did.”
“I’m sure anything will taste better than what I’ve been eating lately. Even the hospital rations left a lot to be desired.”
Murdoch could feel himself hovering. He hated feeling so awkward in the presence of his own son but this tall, gaunt man seemed like a stranger. Twelve months ago, he’d marched off, chatty as ever, full of piss and vinegar, looking for a chance to knock the Krauts off their pedestal. Murdoch wished desperately Amy were still here. Surely she would have known what to do to erase that dreadful haunted expression from their son’s face.
“Speaking of Miss Dorsett, she has been most faithful in writing to me. Not to mention sending food parcels. I understand she had to go to Windsor to look after her sister.”
“That’s right. Mrs. Philips is a widow on her own. Miss Dorsett always rushes down when called. Frankly, I think her sister suffers more from loneliness than anything.”
Jack sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d taken off the sling and he gingerly rotated his shoulder joint. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spot of liquor in the house, would you, Pa? Rum preferably. It’s a good pick-me-up. To tell you the truth, I’m missing my daily tot.”
“No rum but I’ve got some brandy. Will that do?”
“Much appreciated. And if you can find me a cig, I’d appreciate that as well.”
“I bought you two packets of Sweet Caps.”
“Thanks, Pa. You’re a prince. By the way, the province going dry must be a pain in the backside. I suppose that’s all you’re dealing with these days.”
“Not all, but enforcing the act is taking up time that could be better spent on less trivial misdemeanours.”
“The policeman’s lot. Don’t think. Just do what you’re told. Quite like the army, really. Ours not to reason why, Ours but to do or die, and all that.”
At that moment, Jack was seized by a fit of coughing that made him clutch at his chest. Murdoch waited it out, forcing himself not to put his arms around his son. Finally it subsided.
“All right?”
“Good as can be, Pa. I’m told it will get better over time.”
“Sure you want those cigarettes?”
“I’m sure.”
Jack started to unwrap the wool puttees from his lower legs.
“Hey, let me do that,” said Murdoch. He finished unwinding the puttees and then unlaced Jack’s boots and pulled them off.
Jack accepted the help passively.
“While we’re at it, let’s get you right out of that uniform. You’ll be more comfortable.”
With Murdoch’s assistance Jack took off his tunic, then slipped down his braces and undid the buttons of his trousers. Murdoch tugged them off.
“My Lord, they’re not exactly satin soft, are they?”
He placed everything across the chair.
Jack grinned. “Makes me feel like a nipper again. I used to like it when you put me to bed, when dear old Mrs. Kitchen wasn’t available. It didn’t happen that often so it was special.” Murdoch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“You didn’t always know what to do or where things were.”
Murdoch winced. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind at all. Rather liked it, in fact. It made me feel quite smug that there was something I knew that you didn’t.”
With the uniform removed Jack’s thinness was even more evident.
“Where did the bullet get you, exactly?” Murdoch asked.
Jack touched the under part of his arm above the elbow. “Right there.”
“Whew. You were lucky it didn’t break the bone.”
“Yes, I suppose you might say that was my lucky day all round. Gassed but not as bad as many; wounded but not permanently. Definitely a lucky day.”
The inflection of his voice betrayed no emotion, and his head was turned away so that Murdoch couldn’t read his expression.
“How did it happen? Was it a sniper?”
“No, it wasn’t. But war stories later, Pa. I promise.”
Jack pushed up the sleeve of his combinations and scratched his arm. Murdoch saw the skin was covered with purplish red spots.
“Good heavens. What are those from?”
“Flea bites. They drive you nuts with the itching, but if you scratch they get infected quickly.”
“I think we’d better get your things laundered.”
“Thanks, Pa. We were deloused at the hospital but another round wouldn’t be amiss.”
“There are clean shirts and collars in the top drawer of the dresser. Underwear and socks in the second drawer. Your two winter suits are in the wardrobe. They’ll hang on you but they’ll have to do for now. We’ll soon put some flesh back on your bones.”
“Sounds lik
e a good plan to me,” said Jack. “I told Percy he could borrow some of my clothes if he needs to. He doesn’t have any civvies with him. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I? They’re your things.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“What do you want me to do with your haversack?”
“You can leave it for now. I’ll empty it in the morning.” Jack yawned, swung his feet onto the bed, and lay back. He coughed harshly for a few moments. Murdoch could do nothing but wait.
Jack must have seen the distress on his father’s face.
“You couldn’t always know where the gas was. It sank into the mud, and if you kicked that up the gas came with it. I’m told the cough will go away eventually. I should be doing my breathing exercises to strengthen my lungs but I keep forgetting.”
“I’d better start reminding you, then,” said Murdoch. Then wished he’d held his tongue. The last thing his son needed was a nagging father at his elbow.
Jack sighed. “Would it be possible to have a bath sometime soon?”
“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”
Jack shifted his injured arm to a more comfortable position. “Sometimes in the trenches that’s all you could think about. A hot bath that would wash it all off you. The mud, the lice, the blood.”
He turned his head to look directly at his father.
“You said at the station that I had a pong?”
“I, er…”
“Is it the stink of death? I was in the mud, you see, and boy does it smell. We don’t have the chance to get everybody buried. Horses, mules, men. They have to lie where they fall. Pooee. Rotting corpses do give off a dreadful stink. Is that what you smelled?”
Murdoch was taken aback, both by the question and by the intensity of his son’s voice.
“No, nothing like that. Just good old honest sweat. You’ll be right as rain after your bath.”
Jack closed his eyes.
“I’m a restless sleeper these days, Pa,” he muttered. “Don’t worry if you hear me prowling about in the night. I often find it’s relaxing to walk about for a while. Best if you leave me be…Sleep is sweet at first…” His voice tailed off, and within a minute he was fast asleep. His mouth fell open and he started to snore softly.
Murdoch noticed the toes of both of his socks were neatly darned. He wondered if Jack had done that himself. There was no reason the sight of them should make him feel such a stab of sadness, but it did.
He took the quilt from the rack and gently covered him. In sleep, Jack’s features softened, and he looked more like the boy Murdoch knew. He wanted to stroke his hair as he’d done when he was ill with some childish malady. But he didn’t want to wake him up. Instead, he found himself making the sign of the cross. May the Lord bless you. Something he hadn’t done in a long time.
He gathered up the discarded uniform and left the room.
TRENCH ORDERS.
#14: RUM
(a) Rum when authorized will be kept under the personal charge of the company commander.
(b) The best time for a rum issue is in the early morning.
(c) No issue of rum will be made, except in the presence of an officer.
(d) Men undergoing punishment for drunkenness will receive no issue of rum for fourteen days after the offence, unless it is necessary for medical reasons.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK HAD AWOKEN WITH the usual jolt, pulse racing, breathing laboured. He lay staring up at the ceiling, willing his heart to stop pounding. He’d been told that inhaling deeply and slowly would help but all that did was stir up his cough. He thought briefly of getting up and going to his father’s room, but he didn’t want to give in. He wasn’t a child, after all. This terror would pass. Besides, he’d seen the look in Murdoch’s eyes when he’d greeted him at the station. He could tell his father was worried to death, but there was nothing he could do to help. Telling him what had happened would only shift the burden to him, and Jack couldn’t bear that thought. He had always been aware of the deep sorrow his father carried within him. Once, when he was younger, he’d asked his father why he was so sad. Murdoch had seemed surprised. He’d obviously thought he had succeeded in hiding it. He’d brushed the question off. “I miss your mother, son. Sorry to be a wet blanket.” And then he’d made a point of being cheery until, in an unguarded moment, Jack had caught him staring into the fire. Jack knew the sadness never really left him.
When Jack enlisted he’d been caught up in all the excitement of patriotic fervour and the unknowing exuberance of youth. But he knew that he had also wanted to make his father proud and, even if only briefly, bring light into his eyes.
Suddenly the man’s face appeared on the ceiling. Jack knew it wasn’t a dream because he wasn’t asleep. He stared at the white, contorted face speckled with mud. The fluttering eyelids. The blue, bloodshot eyes. He lifted his arm to block out the image and shreds of blood-soaked cloth dripped off his sleeve. Then somebody walked past on the street outside. Two men talking to each other. He distinctly heard one of them say, “Kamerad.”
He pushed aside the quilt and got out of bed.
—
The bicycles were kept in a lean-to shed at the rear of the house. When Jack went to wheel his out, he discovered the front tire was flat as a pancake. There was nothing for it but to borrow his father’s. He didn’t think he’d mind a short-term loan, although the sturdy Ideal cycle was one of Murdoch’s prized possessions.
The street lamps were sparse and made little dint on the darkness, but Jack was used to moving stealthily and the lack of light was not a hindrance. He mounted and rode to the corner before switching on the bicycle lamp, not wanting to attract attention from the neighbours or any workers trudging home from a night shift. The houses were all dark, all seemed deeply asleep, no restless women reading in the light of their bedside lamps while they tried not to think about their absent sons or husbands, trying not to imagine what news the morning papers would bring.
He’d composed a poem about that when he was on sentry duty one night. He called it “The City Sleeps in Sorrow.” The next morning, feeling rather pleased with himself, he’d recited the poem to Percy McKinnon, who frowned comically.
“Well, Jocko, I don’t know much about poetry. I suppose it’s all right as poems go, although I like rhymes myself. What I don’t like, though, is one of the last lines.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, you say Lives ruined, but that isn’t true, is it? I mean to say, shirts are ruined if you sick all down them. Meat is ruined if a rat pisses on it. But lives…naw. No such thing. This friggin’ war can shake you up. Shake you up very bad, as we know. But you’ve still got life, don’t you? It’s changed, yes, but you know what they say, where there’s life, there’s hope.”
Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry. “So you’re saying that even if you’d been made deaf and blind and you had no arms or legs and you were addled, you’d be all right with that because at least you’re not dead?”
“That’s right, that’s what I’m saying.”
“That’s a load of horse plop. I don’t believe you. I bet if something like that happened to you, you’d be begging to be put out of your misery.”
“Not me, Jocko. I’ll drink life to the dregs, no matter what.”
THE CITY SLEEPS IN SORROW
The city sleeps in sorrow.
Come morning
Anxious eyes scan the lists.
Killed. Wounded. Gassed. Missing.
Each one, a husband, a brother, a son
All gone.
I knew him, says she, pointing at a name.
He lived nearby.
He was a good boy.
Always ready with a smile,
An offer to help if need be.
But not one of ours, says he.
Thank God.
We’re not the ones weeping yet.
I’ll bet you haven’t checked the latest list.
It’s called Lives Ruined.
And it is long.
CHAPTER FIVE
MURDOCH SAT UP BY THE FIRE until the embers were dying. There was no sound from Jack’s bedroom. Finally, he banked the coals and went upstairs to bed. He didn’t expect to fall asleep easily but he did, only to be awakened by the click of the front door closing. He squinted at the clock on the dresser. It was past midnight. Jack had said he liked to walk around sometimes so Murdoch supposed that was what he was doing. He lay and listened for what seemed like a long time, but Jack didn’t return.
After a while Murdoch fell back to sleep.
—
It was only a ten-minute ride from Ontario Street to where Percy was boarding. When they had been sent to England to recover from their wounds, Percy had met a Chinaman named Chen. It turned out he had an uncle in Toronto who ran a laundry. Percy had let it be known that he wanted some place cheap and convenient to stay, and Chen had arranged for him to board with this uncle, Ghong Lee. What Percy did not reveal to Jack at the time was that Chen had also arranged for Ghong Lee to provide opium of the best quality. For a reasonable price, of course.
Elizabeth Street was in “the Ward,” as the neighbourhood was commonly called. Initially the area had attracted a lot of new immigrants all wanting the familiar, and happy to reside in close proximity to shops selling food and goods they recognized from the Old Country. As with many such places, the Ward had compensated for a lack of visible affluence with a vibrant optimism and conviviality. Unfortunately, over the years this hope had been worn away by hardship and struggle. Too many people were crammed into too few small houses. Even in the year that Jack had been absent the houses seemed to have become poorer and more neglected.
The laundry was located in a two-storey house that was so ramshackle it looked as if it might collapse at any minute. The freshest thing about it was the characteristic red sign with white lettering: LAUNDRY. An adjoining shop pressed in close to its side, a sign over its door declaring it sold bicycles. If that was once true, it seemed no longer so. All the windows were boarded up, and the roof tilted crazily to one side. However, a bicycle rack remained in the front, and Jack pushed his wheel into place. Everywhere was silent and dark but he could see the merest sliver of light coming from the upstairs of the laundry.
Let Darkness Bury the Dead Page 3
