Dreams and Promises: Love, Loss and Redemption in a Land of Infinite Promise

by Anna Markland

  She opened her eyes. There was no mistake. George stood on the side of the street in his hometown, watching the parade pass by, an ocean away from the rows of crosses in France.

  “Vote Progressive.” Winnie jerked the banner, forcing Dot to pay attention. Another tomato sailed over her head and hit one of the Clydesdales hauling a milk wagon. The horse shied and kicked over the traces. The driver cussed and Dot’s segment of the parade halted while the teamster sorted out his equipage.

  Like a magnet to true north, her gaze returned to the couple on the edge of the road. Despite the scar that ran from brow to ear, despite the hollow cheeks and blank stare, she recognized him. The man who’d pledged his troth to her, then rushed to enlist, afraid “the show will be over before I get there.”

  It had all been so romantic. George, handsome in his uniform, waving out the train window. Herself standing on the platform wearing a brave smile. How little they’d known, those valiant children. After four years of war, sixty-one thousand of her countrymen dead, over a hundred and seventy thousand wounded, and a cost to the Canadian economy of two billion dollars, the starry-eyed version of herself had turned into a pragmatic, resolute, independent woman, determined to build a new social order; one where women’s voices were heard.

  The parade started up again. “George!” She tried to call him, but her voice emerged as a faint squeak.

  “Dot, what’s the matter with you.” Her friend, Jean, came up from behind and hissed in her ear. “Don’t let the side down now.”

  “Sorry.” She handed over her banner pole. “I must go.”

  “Where?” Jean grabbed the pole before the banner hit the ground. “Dot, come back here!”

  “It’s George,” Dot choked, and ran blindly toward the spot where she’d seen him … and the woman.

  “George.” She stood before him, feeling shy and awkward, while the memory of their last embrace set her heart racing. The thin soldier stared at her with blank eyes, the glow of youth and love extinguished. “George,” she said again, and tugged his sleeve, “it’s me. Dot.”

  “How do you do?” He inclined his head politely while his puzzled gaze turned to the woman at his side, like a child seeking reassurance from a parent.

  Dot fell back a step, confusion raking its claws through her elation.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman, dressed in a Red Cross uniform spoke gently, her soft English tones so out of place in rural Canada. “Cpl. Weston suffers from amnesia. I’m Mabel Featherley, his nurse.” She held out her hand and Dot shook it.

  “Amnesia? You mean he doesn’t remember me?”

  “Not you, not this town, not even his own name. Are you a relative?”

  “I’m his fiancée.” Dismay and a trace of anger raised her voice. How dare this woman, this foreigner, presume to explain George to her. She drew herself up straight. “We’re engaged to be married.” She turned toward him. “I thought you were dead.” Her voice broke on the last word, all her fire damped down.

  This time it was Mabel who looked confused. The colour drained from her cheeks and her grip on George’s arm tightened, stretching the fabric of her white gloves over her knuckles.

  “But we’re . . .” George started to speak only to be interrupted by Miss Featherley.

  “Why didn’t you meet our train, then?”

  “Because I didn’t know there was a train to meet.” Now that the shock of seeing George was wearing off, a thousand questions raced through Dot’s mind, among them, why did he look to Mabel Featherley for guidance and reassurance? She tried to pull him away from the nurse, but he refused to budge. “Where have you been?” she demanded, fighting back tears. “Why did no one send us word? Does your mother know?”

  Again George floundered for an answer, deferring to Mabel. “The hospital did write a letter, explaining George’s situation. I have the address right here.” Mabel held out a slip of paper.

  Dot snatched it away and glanced over the contents. “This was sent to George’s old address.” She turned a regretful gaze on her fiancé. “I’m sorry, love, but your father died in the ‘flu epidemic and your mother couldn’t manage the farm alone. Your cousin, Gordon has taken it over.”

  “Oh dear.” Mabel looked flummoxed. “That explains why no one met the train. But why didn’t your cousin forward the letter?”

  “Gordon’s wife has gone to help her sister with a new baby. I’d guess he didn’t want to open her mail. Wasn’t the letter was addressed to Mrs. G. Weston?”

  Miss Featherley’s mouth tightened. She drew a long breath, then reverted to her take charge attitude. “I expect you’re right. George,” she used her nurse voice, cool and authoritative, “do you remember this place? Do you know where you are?”

  He shook his head, the effort seeming to take all his strength.

  “Well, we can’t stand here,” Dot asserted herself. “We’ll get you home, George, where you can rest. Your mother and I live behind the telephone exchange and post office. I work there and she helps out a few times a week.”

  She looped her arm through his and set off as quickly as his lagging steps allowed. Mabel supported him on the other side while they traversed the four, short blocks.

  When they arrived, Dot pointed to a bench set against the wall of the telephone exchange building. “Wait here while I prepare her. Your poor mom doesn’t need another shock.” Without waiting for assent she left them and hurried around to a side door. “Ada,” she called stepping inside. The screen door slapped closed behind her. “Ada, I’ve something to tell you.”

  “Back so soon?” Her would-be mother-in-law sat drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table. “I thought you’d go on to a picnic after the parade.” Ada Weston was an attractive woman in her early forties, slim and healthy. Her gold-blonde hair braided in a coronet above a wide brow showed not a strand of white, but the lines about her mouth and eyes were etched deep.

  “I’ll just freshen the teapot.” For all the urgency of her news, Dot didn’t know how to begin. One thing for sure, George could do with a cup of tea and lots of his mother’s home cooking. “Have you had a telegram lately?”

  “Nothing,” Ada’s face seemed to collapse inward like a wizened apple. “The army has forgotten my boy . . . and me.”

  “Well, brace yourself.” Dot poured hot water into the teapot and set it on the trivet, then crouched beside the chair and took Ada’s hand. “He’s here. George is sitting on the bench outside with his English nurse. Not only did the army forget him, they lost him.”

  “Here?” Ada’s mouth trembled and she swayed in her chair. Dot squeezed her hand hard, afraid the woman might faint.

  “Drink this.” She poured fresh tea and raised the cup to Ada’s mouth, only to be rebuffed.

  “Repeat what you just said,” Ada demanded, her voice stronger now, her gaze boring into Dot’s.

  “He’s here.” She felt a smile breaking over her face, stretching her mouth so wide her lips hurt. “Outside on the bench. George is back.”

  Ada leapt to her feet, knocking Dot backward, and ran for the door. “George,” she cried. “George.”

  Scrambling after her, Dot was just in time to see Ada launch herself into her son’s arms. “George, my boy, my son.” She repeated the words over and over while tears poured down her face. She cradled his cheeks in her hands, stroked his hair, touched the scar, traced the contours of his nose and mouth, then clasped him to her bosom in an embrace so tight Dot worried she’d crack one of his ribs. The frail man before them was not at all like the lusty farm boy who’d won her heart.

  “Let’s go inside.” Dot took pity on George’s bewildered state. His uncomfortable stare made it clear he didn’t recognize his mother.

  While Mabel Featherley settled George at the table and Ada poured out a stream of questions, Dot set out homemade scones with strawberry jam, freshened the tea pot and set milk and sugar at George’s hand. He used to like his tea well-sweetened.

  “Perhaps Miss Featherley
could answer some of our questions.” She sat down opposite George while Ada and Mabel sat one on each side of him.

  “I’ll tell you all I know.” Mabel briefly touched George’s hand. “If that’s all right with you.”

  He nodded and the nurse recited the facts as she knew them. After the battle of Passchendaele a French stretcher team found him in a shell crater, his identity discs missing, his uniform in tatters. He had a broken leg and a piece of shrapnel stuck in his cheek. His rescuers thought he’d been lying in the mud for hours, maybe even days. They took him to a field hospital where they stitched up his wounds, set his leg and nursed him back to a semblance of physical health. What they couldn’t do was restore his mind. When he came out of surgery, he had no memory, couldn’t even tell them his name.”

  “At least I knew I wasn’t French,” George spoke for the first time, a husky growl, not at all like his real voice.

  “His uniform was beyond repair so they gave him an English one and sent him to London. For the past year and a half he’s been at a country hospital. The doctors hoped that, with plenty of rest and fresh air, he’d recover his memory.”

  “Didn’t anyone realize he’s Canadian?” Dot was furious that those in control could be so careless of the men in their charge.

  “Canadians fought as part of the British Army.” George’s mouth curled. “Kiwis, Aussies, South Africans. We were all just ‘colonials’ to them. They wouldn’t care about one missing man.”

  Ada turned white. “George, no.”

  Nurse Featherley intervened. “To cut a long story short, it wasn’t until a Canadian, a returning prisoner of war, made his way to our hospital that we got a clue to George’s identity. The POW recognized him from basic training. Once we had the name of his regiment, we were able to trace him to Glencove. I hoped that if he came home to his own people, he might start to remember. He’s unfit to travel alone, so I volunteered to come with him.”

  “Do you remember?” Dot searched his eyes for any flicker of recognition. “Do you remember when we skated for miles on Beaver Creek, or when you bought my lunch basket at the box social? We spread out our picnic under the big oak tree in the school yard.”

  He shook his head, a deep scowl drawing his brows together.

  “Do you remember Rusty, your collie dog?” Ada’s reminiscent smile was filled with pain and love. “The two of you were inseparable. He’d follow you to school and wait by the boys entrance until the end of class.”

  “Rusty,” George said the name slowly, a hint of gentleness in his rough tones. “Rusty. He was black and white.”

  “Yes,” Ada cried, “with tan splotches at his eyes and nose. That’s why you called him Rusty.”

  “Where is he?” George looked about as though expecting the dog to saunter in from hunting rabbits.

  “He’s gone, Georgie.” Ada’s face crumpled. “He was old when you went away to war. He watched for you for months, then he just seemed to give up. I buried him in the apple orchard.”

  “Oh.”

  Dot’s heart broke at the infinite sadness in that one word.

  “I think George should rest.” Mabel stood up. “He’s not very strong and we’ve had a long journey.”

  “I have your room ready.” Ada pushed away from the table. “It’s not your old room, that’s at the farm, but when I moved here, I made sure there was a bedroom for you. I’ve put all your things there. I knew you’d come home someday.”

  While Mabel and Ada escorted George up the stairs, Dot tidied the kitchen and tried not to feel left out.

  A knock on the door summoned her. “Is it true?” Archie stood on the step. “Is George back?”

  “Yes.” She sagged against the door jamb feeling enormously tired. Was it really only mid-afternoon? So much had happened today. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d set out to parade for women’s votes. “How did you hear?”

  “Rumours are running all over town. I think Jean started it. Said you’d seen him and left the parade.”

  “That’s right.”

  Archie squinted at her, and pulled a long face. “You look all in. Come sit here and tell me about it.” He moved to the bench, shaded now from the brunt of the sun’s heat. She joined him, slumping down on the warm wooden slats.

  “Okay, spill.” Archie sat beside her, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He still wore his uniform, boots polished to a spit shine. His good arm rested along the back of the bench, close but not touching Dot’s shoulder.

  “He has amnesia.” She still felt dazed. Her world had turned upside down in the space of a few minutes and she couldn’t seem to make sense of it. She should be dancing with joy. George was home. The man she’d given up for dead had come back to her, yet she felt as though it was all a dream.

  “The war’s been over for a year and a half. Where’s he been?”

  “Lost.” She drew a breath and filled Archie in on the details as she knew them. “It’s all so strange. He’s George, but he isn’t. He doesn’t know us. He seems so helpless, always looking to Mabel Featherley to tell him what to do.”

  “Not unusual.” Archie stroked his upper lip. “Many a soldier has fallen in love with his nurse. I would have myself but she was the meanest old tyrant I’d ever met.”

  “Miss Featherley is young.” Dot hadn’t meant to sound so woebegone.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Archie flushed to the roots of his sandy red hair. “Soon as he gets his memory back, George’ll be in love with you again.”

  “Of course.” She tried to take heart. “George and I have been friends since grade one.”

  “I remember.” Archie chuckled. “George gave me a black eye behind the schoolhouse when I teased you and made you cry.”

  “He wouldn’t hit you now.” Dot looked at Archie’s empty sleeve, neatly pinned up above the elbow. “Oh Archie, the war has spoiled everything.”

  “We’ll never be innocents again,” he agreed, looking across the dusty street to a towering maple tree, “but we can build a better world.” He turned to her, his eyes burning with something fierce. “Isn’t that why you’re campaigning for the Progressive Party?”

  “Yes, and to get a woman elected to Parliament.”

  “Keep thinking about that. If you dwell on what is lost, you’ll forget how to laugh.” He pulled in his arm and rested his hand on his knee, eyes focussed on a dandelion between his feet.

  “Oh, Archie, I’m so sorry. I was thoughtless to remind you of the fighting and all you suffered.”

  “The war happened.” He leaned down and plucked the dandelion. “I’m glad I did my bit, but now it’s over. Let’s look to the future.”

  “It’s the only way.” Dot felt her spirits rising. “I won’t go to the rally tonight, but tomorrow I’ll bring George along and introduce him. I’m sure he’ll want to work for the Progressive Party too. He always used to say farmers got a raw deal with the tariff.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Archie stood and extended his good hand to help her rise. “You say George remembers his dog?”

  “A little. It’s the only glimmer of his old self. Otherwise, he’s a stranger.”

  Inside Dot found Ada and Miss Featherley glaring at each other across the kitchen table. Ada looked flustered. “Why don’t you have a return ticket? Your job was to deliver George to his family. You’ve done that. Now you can return to your own people.”

  “I must stay until George is settled.” Mabel was equally flushed.

  “He is settled, in his own room with his own things around him and his mother and his sweetheart to nurse him back to health. I really don’t see the need for you to stay at all.”

  “Nevertheless.” Mabel drew herself up very straight and looked down her nose at the homey kitchen.

  “Let’s wait and discuss this further in the morning,” Dot intervened. “We’ve all had a number of shocks today. Ada,” she said, “I’ll put Miss Featherley in with me for the night. There are
two beds in my room.”

  “Our luggage,” Mabel said, “and my trunk. They’re at the station.”

  “I’ll ring them and have it sent round.” Dot went into the hall where the telephone hung on the wall, then changed her mind. In less than a minute she’d nipped through the connecting door and into the telephone exchange.

  “Dot!” Winnie was on the afternoon shift and pounced on her friend in an instant. “Is it true? George has come home?”

  “Yes.” She covered her face with her hands as all the turmoil of the day finally overcame her self-control.

  “Oh, honey.” Winnie and Ruth, the other operator on duty, hugged her and patted her shoulder and handed her a hankie. “You just have a good cry. You’ll feel better.”

  “Why should I cry,” Dot sobbed, “I’m happy.”

  “Of course you are.” Ruth dashed to the switchboard to put through a couple of calls.

  “Who is the woman?” Winnie guided Dot into an empty chair, then took her own place before the switchboard and donned the headset.

  “Mabel Featherley. His nurse.”

  “Why does he need a nurse?”

  Once again, Dot outlined George’s situation.

  “Wow!” Ruth pulled one jack and connected another. “No wonder you’re crying. Everything in your life is up in the air. Are you still getting married? Will you give up your job? What does George think of politics?”

  “I don’t know.” Dot sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “That’s the trouble. When George went away, I expected to have one kind of life. When he went missing, I created a different future for myself. Now he’s back and I don’t know what my life will be.”

  “You need to talk to your mother.” Winnie held out a headset. “She’s already on the line. Don’t forget, though, it’s a party line.”