…
9. No ladies will be permitted to the Mess.
…
23. Discussions on religion and politics are strictly barred.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
JACK TOUCHED HIS SWOLLEN NOSE GINGERLY. The physician at the hospital had said it wasn’t broken and had given him a couple of aspirin powders to take.
“Apply cold compresses until the swelling has gone down.” He’d smiled at Jack. “I hope you gave as good as you got. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’ve got a lad at the Front and I despise slackers as much as any man. You returning boys have paid your dues as far as I’m concerned.”
Jack simply shrugged. He’d not had a chance to do anything, the other man had leaped on him so fast. In addition, both he and Percy had been feeling the effects of the three or four glasses of baijiu they’d tossed back at Ghong Lee’s house. Jack’s reactions had been slow and his recollections of what happened were rather hazy. He had been felled by a hard blow to the nose, he knew that, and his father, who had come out of nowhere, had knocked the assailant to the ground. Percy had caught one too, but Jack had been in no condition to go to his aid. Thank God his father had taken care of things. And Fiona, bless her.
As soon as he was patched up, Jack checked the base hospital on College Street, where he knew all the soldiers would have been taken.
A very pretty young nurse met him on the ward. He asked for Percy.
“Your friend left not too long ago. His sister came for him.”
“He doesn’t have a sister.”
The nurse looked a little discomfited. “She said she was. The family has come in from out of town and she came to get him.”
“Did she say where they were staying?”
“A hotel, but I’m afraid I don’t know which one.”
“How did Percy seem?”
“He was quite shaken but physically he’s fine.” She gave Jack another sweet smile. “He just needs a lot of tender care right now, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure it will be good for him to have his family around him.”
Jack left and went home.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
JACK DREW DEEPLY ON HIS CIGARETTE. He’d already gone through five, lighting each one from the tip of the other. By now they had lost their taste and were making him cough. He stubbed out the last one.
He’d pulled the armchair as close to the blazing fire as he could. Since he’d returned from the Front, he’d found it hard to feel warm, and violent shivers periodically racked his body.
His gaze wandered to the mantelpiece. The shelf was cluttered with odd bits of bric-a-brac interspersed with some framed photographs. At the far end was a picture of his father in bicycling garb standing in front of his wheel. He was holding a trophy that he’d just won at the Police Games and he looked strong and fit.
His father was one of those men who hardly seem to age. His wavy dark hair was still thick, even if nowadays it was streaked with grey. He’d added a little more girth but otherwise he hadn’t changed much since that photograph was taken. Next to that was a larger picture of his father and mother on their wedding day. They looked so happy, and as always Jack was struck by how attractive his mother had been. He’d always thought she was one of the prettiest mothers on the street.
Jack stood up and took another framed picture off the mantel. It had been taken in a studio a few days after Murdoch’s triumph at the annual Police Games. The win had shot number four station into first place over all the others in Toronto. Jack smiled at the vivid recollection of a jubilant Constable Crabtree, who’d lifted his father off his feet in a bear hug then collapsed in a fit of embarrassment at his own presumption.
This was Jack’s favourite picture. At that time he’d been just four years old, and he was sitting on his father’s lap. Murdoch had let Jack hold the trophy and he was gripping it with as much pride as if he’d won it himself. His mother was standing beside them, her hand on Murdoch’s shoulder. This was the last photograph taken when they were intact as a family.
Jack replaced the picture on the mantel. He took the playing cards from his pocket and dealt them out one by one on the couch. On the third layout, the knave fell into the first position.
He was staring at it when the sound of urgent knocking registered. He quickly gathered up the cards, put them away, and hurried to answer the door.
Fiona Williams was standing on the threshold. She stared at him in dismay, holding what appeared to be a bundle of rags in her arms.
“My God, Jack, you look awful.”
“Sorry. It’ll fade.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s me who is sorry.”
“Come inside. We can argue about it in more comfort.”
She lifted her arms. “Somebody destroyed Miss Happ.”
Jack could now see that she was actually carrying her ventriloquist’s doll. The elaborate hat was smashed and the papier mâché head was caved in, the features completely destroyed. It looked as if one of the arms had been ripped off. He took the doll from her and nodded in the direction of the sitting room.
“Let’s go in here.”
She followed him.
Holding the doll as tenderly as if it were a child, Jack laid it on a chair.
“What happened?”
“I found her when I went to collect my things from the dressing room.” Fiona ducked her head. “I really did offend people, didn’t I, Jack? That wasn’t my intent. I just wanted to draw attention to what is happening. I was so frightened when I saw what had been done to Miss Happ. It seems so violent. Look what’s been done to her face.”
Jack wasn’t about to tell her that he’d seen men torn apart like that. Limbs blown off, skulls caved in.
“Did you report this to my father?”
“No, I didn’t. For one thing he was too busy sorting out the melee…And frankly, I felt the attack might be deserved.”
“Nonsense. It’s vandalism, pure and simple. If people aren’t allowed to express contrary opinions, what the devil are we fighting for? I don’t suppose you noticed anybody going to the dressing room?”
“No, I didn’t. I was concentrating on looking after Percy. I didn’t go back until he was taken to the ambulance. Have you heard how he is, by the way?”
Jack didn’t feel like explaining the appearance of a never-before-acknowledged sister, or that Percy had vanished with her, supposedly to be reunited with the rest of his never-before-acknowledged family.
“According to the hospital, he’ll be all right.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I was worried.”
“Did he start babbling?”
“No. He was quiet.”
“Good. I’m grateful to you for taking care of him. He’s my pal and I’d hate anything to happen to him. He’s had more than his share of trouble.”
“Jack?” He became aware that Fiona was regarding him with concern. “Are you all right?”
He managed to smile at her. “’Course I am.”
“You sort of went away, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m fine. I just get sudden return of memories. Lots of soldiers experience it when they come home.”
“I gather they are not pleasant memories?”
“Not most of them.”
“You take very good care of your friend.”
Jack shrugged. “Contrary to how it may appear, I need him just as much as he needs me.” Abruptly, he stood up. “Let’s take a look at Miss Happ and see what we can do.”
He picked up the dummy and laid it across his lap. The damage was even worse than it had first appeared. As well as the smashed head, one of the arms had been torn off and the neatly stitched jacket and skirt were shredded.
“I’m sorry, Fiona, but I think it’s beyond repair.”
“Oh no. Can we at least keep the eyes and the hair? I had to save up for six months to pay for those.”
“The hair you’ll be able to reuse. And one of the eyes. The right one has had it.” He grinned. “May
be Miss Happ can become a pirate. Or a returning soldier, for that matter.”
Fiona scowled at him. “Not funny.”
She came over to where he was sitting.
“Poor, poor Miss Happ. What a dreadful thing to happen to you.”
Jack was suddenly very aware that Fiona was only inches away from him. She smelled like fresh, cold air. He focused on the dummy.
“Can you mend the clothes?” he asked.
“Yes. That won’t be so hard. But I don’t know where I’m going to get another arm. I don’t even know where the missing one is.”
“Make a sleeve and I’ll build a wire frame that you can sew to the body. You can slip on the sleeve. Be good as new. Can you get another head?”
“I made this one myself. Took forever.”
“When’s your next booking?”
“Soon. I volunteered to be part of a Boxing Day concert for the Alexandra Industrial School. No fundraising for that. I just have to make the girls laugh and forget their circumstances for a little while.”
“Miss Happ will be ready by then. I’ll help you however I can.”
“Give her to me.”
He handed her the doll. Miss Happ, even damaged, retained such a personality that it felt like dealing with a human being, and the exchange was careful.
Fiona returned to her chair.
“Oh, Jack. I don’t know what to do. Obviously my jokes won’t be suitable for the residents of the school, but I haven’t worked up another routine yet.”
“I think they will be glad to see you no matter what you do. I can’t imagine they get much in the way of entertainment.”
She regarded him doubtfully. “I should tell you I don’t completely approve of industrial schools. Girls are incarcerated there for paltry reasons. They are trained to be servants. No other options. Keeping them in their place at all times.”
“Fiona. You need a rest from trying to change the world.”
“Do I now? Well, don’t hold your breath waiting.”
—
The men were leaning against the side of the trench, waiting for the signal to go over the top. Jack was at the end of the line, Percy beside him. He heard a gasp and turned. Blood was streaming down Percy’s face. What the hell? There had been no barrage for a few minutes. Then Jack saw the blood on a sliver of shrapnel at his feet.
Percy grinned at him, his eyes wild.
“See, Jack? I’ve got my Blighty. This is V for victory. Maybe they’ll send me home now.”
He’d carved the letter on his own forehead with the hot piece of metal.
“You idiot. You’ll get yourself court-martialled.”
The sound of the captain’s whistle rang out. Jack grabbed Percy by his coat.
“Get over.”
“I can’t, Jack.”
“Yes, you can. I’m going with you.”
Several of the men had already clambered up the side of the trench. The sharp rattle of German machine guns greeted them. Jack saw the man directly to his left collapse. His skull was spurting blood like a colander.
“Come on, quick,” Jack said to Percy.
One tug on the corpse’s feet and he pulled him from the top of the trench. He was a man that Jack had liked, but there was no time to mourn.
“Percy, get up. I’m right behind you.”
His chum wiped away some of the blood from his face with his sleeve and, gripping his rifle, he climbed up the trench wall.
“Duck to the left,” shouted Jack.
He gave Percy a boost and they both made it to the top, rolling away to the side.
“Run!”
Through the smoke of the guns they glimpsed the surviving members of their battalion running toward the enemy trenches. Many of them were dropping.
Jack and Percy advanced a few yards. Bullets hissed around them, kicking up the mud. “Drop.”
There was a shallow declivity just in front of them and they dived into it, pressing themselves as flat to the ground as they could.
The bottom of the shell hole was filled with muddy water and, half in, half out, was lying a German soldier. He was bleeding from a wound at his neck, and he turned his head in their direction. His rifle was at his side and, seeing them, he reached for it and held it up as high as he could.
“Kamerad,” he whispered.
Percy struggled to his feet.
“Kamerad,” the man whispered again as he tried to lift his rifle, where he’d tied his handkerchief, his white flag of surrender.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT BEFORE Murdoch could finally leave for home. As he cycled down Ontario Street he felt like a horse that smells the stable, and his pace quickened even though he was dead tired.
There must have been about two dozen people left in the theatre after things had calmed down, and he’d had to make sure all of them gave statements about what they had seen. Many of them were critical of the soldiers, who they thought had started the brawl. Almost all of them, however, blamed what happened on Fiona’s act and her provocative so-called jokes. Not to mention the young man in the front row who had made such a spectacle of himself by shouting out like that. He’d thrown oil on the fire. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was drunk,” remarked one debonair man, his voice as smooth as his top hat. “I expect you will pursue that, won’t you, Detective?” Murdoch had assured him he would do just that.
There were very few lights showing in the dark houses on the street, and none at all at number 222. He felt a pang of disappointment. It was late, after all. On the one hand, he hoped Jack was already in bed; on the other, he had been looking forward to his being there waiting in the sitting room, ready for a chinwag.
Like he and Amy used to do.
He stowed his bicycle and entered the house. He snapped on the overhead light and almost jumped out of his skin. What looked like a child was sitting slumped on the chair in the hall.
Whew. He realized it was in fact the ventriloquist’s dummy that Fiona had used in her disastrous act. There was a note propped up beside it.
Pa. Fiona came by and I’ve taken her home. You can see what has happened to the dummy. It was done at the theatre. She doesn’t know who did it. We should investigate the matter. Entirely not fair. After taking her home, I’ll look in on Percy. Make sure he’s all right. Don’t wait up. I shall see you in the morning.
Thanks for looking out for me the way you did. Hope that fellow has a headache. A bad headache. My nose isn’t broken, by the way. Just bruised.
Jack
Murdoch had to smile at the suggestion that “we” should investigate the matter. But he liked the fact that his son was linking them together that way. He liked it a lot.
He took a closer look at the doll. Papier mâché wasn’t particularly sturdy but nevertheless somebody had given the head a blow severe enough to shatter the entire front of the face. He could see that the clothes had been ripped, not cut, the tears were ragged. One of the arms was missing and looked as if it had been twisted off. He thought the doll had been swung by its arm and the head bashed against a hard surface. It wouldn’t have taken long to inflict the damage. Fiona had certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Well, there wasn’t much he could do tonight. It would have to wait until morning. Yawning, Murdoch decided to head upstairs. The house felt cold but there was no point in building up the fire at this hour. He’d better take out an extra blanket for Jack. He’d noticed his son was often shivering.
He got a blanket from the airing cupboard in the bathroom and went into Jack’s room. The first thing that hit him was how little evidence there was of his son’s presence. The bed was made; haversack and uniform were nowhere in sight. Nothing seemed to have been moved since the first night. It bothered him, although he was at a loss to say why. Was this merely a sign that army discipline had been well learned?
He placed the blanket across the foot of the bed and turned to leave. Wait. On the dressing table was a notebook, wh
ich Murdoch recognized as one Jack had used in school. He’d obviously been writing in it recently, because he’d left a pencil inside it.
The notebook was the one Jack referred to as his diary. He’d begun it when he was twelve. “Everybody should keep a record of what happens in their lives,” he’d told his father. “Look at Samuel Pepys, for instance.” Murdoch wasn’t sure a twelve-year-old boy had a lot to record but he’d promised not to look at it unless Jack wanted to share something. As far as Murdoch knew, his son had made entries intermittently over the ensuing years. He’d never broken his promise about reading them. Until now.
He hovered for a moment over the book, but his need to understand what Jack was thinking and feeling was too strong. Turning the pages as gingerly as if they were red hot, he opened it to where the pencil protruded.
There was a sheaf of papers slipped inside. They appeared to be poems, ones that presumably Jack himself had written. All were dated 1917. Murdoch put them aside and began to read the diary itself.
Just before he died the boy called out for his mother. (I say “boy” because to all intents and purposes he was a boy.) The sergeant said I could not possibly have heard anything given the heavy canvas hood. “I was imagining it,” said he. But I wasn’t. Just as I didn’t imagine the bright red blood that spurted from the boy’s chest. Just as I didn’t imagine the violent spasms that racked his body as the bullets thudded into the white circle pinned above his heart.
Murdoch closed the book.
“There’s a talk we need to have,” Jack had said.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
IN SPITE OF HIS EXHAUSTION, Murdoch did not fall asleep for a long time, his thoughts moiling around in his head.
Jack had been born a little prematurely, and he was small. The midwife had put him in the warming cupboard where they kept the towels and sheets, but Amy soon demanded he be brought to her, even though she’d gone through a difficult labour and, according to the midwife, should be getting her rest. Murdoch sat beside the bed and watched his wife fall asleep with the naked infant lying on her chest. Not wanting to disturb her, he gently lifted the baby and wrapped him in a blanket. When he made sleepy sucking motions, he put the tip of his finger in the infant’s mouth to soothe him. What a strong pull from such a tiny creature, Murdoch marvelled, and he thought that he had never known such joy. He could never have imagined the fierce feelings this scrap of humanity had aroused in him.
Let Darkness Bury the Dead Page 22
