“Son.” Ada’s heartbreaking cry wrenched them apart. George turned to his mother, put his head on her shoulder and sobbed. Ada, a foot shorter than the man, still held him like a child, patting his back, rocking him back and forth, while her own tears mingled with his. Feeling like a voyeur, Dot turned her attention to the puppy now squatting at her feet. She was grateful when Archie took Mabel’s arm and walked her a little way down the garden path. George and his mother deserved a little privacy.
Late Friday afternoon Dot, Ada and George stood on the platform, awaiting the train to Toronto. It was eerily similar to the day George had set off for war, but this time it was Mabel who would board and ride the tracks to Toronto, then on to Halifax and finally take ship for England. George would stay here, wedged between Dot and Ada, as he was now, each of them clinging to his arm.
Along with his memory, George had recalled his duty. “I loved her first,” he’d told Mabel. “I must keep my promise.” Dot had overheard them talking on the swing while she did dishes in the kitchen. True to her heritage, Mabel had maintained a stiff upper lip and set about procuring a ticket home.
Ada was ecstatic. Once George was strong again, she’d sell her house in Glencove and move back to the farm. Gordon had purchased the adjacent homestead and he and George would work the land together. Dot and George would marry after harvest and she’d move into the old farmhouse. Everything would be as it had been, except . . .
When George looked at her, she saw affection and resolve in his gaze. When he looked at Mabel his eyes darkened with emotion and regret. He dutifully shared reminiscences and future plans with Dot. In unguarded moments he spoke to Mabel of London and France and the mud and the guns. “You can’t understand,” he told Dot, “if you haven’t been there.”
She’d left the room, closely followed by Ada. “Give him time,” she’d said. “Once she’s gone, he’ll turn to you.”
Dot tried to believe her. At work she talked to Ruth and Winnie and the others about wedding plans. With her own mother she talked about household arts and wrote down recipes. Even though Ada would live with them, Dot was determined to be mistress in her own home and that meant controlling the kitchen. It would be hard to give up her job. Country life could be isolating. She’d already told George she wanted a good riding horse. In her heart she dreamed of the day they could afford a motor car.
The train, puffing smoke and hissing steam, pulled into the station. Steel wheels clacked, steel doors clanged and the station erupted with noise and activity. The conductor stepped down from the train and placed a set of steps at each door. Passengers swarmed off, some met with hugs and kisses, others standing about looking forlorn when no one rushed to greet them.
“Well,” George freed himself from Dot’s grip. “I guess this is it.” He picked up Mabel’s bag and placed it on the trolley already holding her trunk. He headed for the furthest passenger car, Mabel hurrying to keep up. Was he seeking privacy to say good-bye? Would he assure Mabel he’d never forget her? That he’d love her forever?
She watched him walk away, his shoulders set, his step firm, just like the old George. They could rebuild their relationship. She’d be a good wife. He’d be a dutiful husband. There would be children. Her life would be full.
George and Mabel halted at the last car. He bent his head. She tilted hers to look into his face. He took her hand and held it to his chest. Mabel put a finger against his lips. For a long moment they stood like that, as though they couldn’t bear to break the connection. Then George dropped her hand, picked up her bag and set it into the car. Mabel climbed the steps and disappeared, only to reappear a moment later, leaning out the window. George stood alone and lonely.
“All aboard.” The conductor put up the steps, doors slammed shut, the brakeman threw the lever.
“Wait.” Dot started to run. She’d once loved George with a wild abandon, trusting her whole life to his hands. She couldn’t stand by and let him break his heart now. “Stop.” She waved wildly at the conductor while pelting down the platform. George turned, his eyes ablaze.
“What are you on about?” The conductor grabbed her arm.
“Nurse Featherley,” Dot panted. “She can’t leave.”
“Dot?” George stood beside her. “What are you doing?”
“Releasing you.” Her eyes filled with tears but her heart beat strong and steady. “It’s the right thing. You and Mabel belong together.” She rested her hand on his cheek for a brief moment. “Be happy.”
She turned and stumbled through the station to the street, away from all the questions. She didn’t regret her actions but she felt as though her life had just been torn in two. The way ahead lay murky and unknown. The way behind held her memories and her innocence.
She tripped on the steps and stretched out a hand to break her fall, but instead of encountering rough gravel she fell against a solid, male chest.
“Dot?” Archie’s good arm closed around her, holding her tight. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She pressed her lips together holding back the sobs. “Everything’s fine.” She muttered into his shirt. “Mabel is staying in Glencove.”
Archie held perfectly still, then his grip on her softened. His fingers crept up her back to tangle in the short tresses of her hair. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine.” She raised her head, letting him see the determination behind her tear-soaked eyes.
“I like your hair.” He smiled, his expression tender. “Very modern.”
“I’m a modern woman.” Her tears evaporated. Archie always made her feel better. Her past wasn’t really lost. Part of it stood right here, touching her hair in a way that sent shivers running up and down her spine.
“Speaking of modern.” He turned her toward the street where a brand new Model T Ford idled on the gravel shoulder. “Want to go for a ride? We could canvas the farms, get those women on the voters list.”
Dot leaned against his shoulder. Even missing an arm, Archie made her feel safe, and cherished. “Will you teach me to drive?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes.”
“Then, I say yes, too.”
Their eyes met, something wonderful passed between them. They turned and walked together. The unknown future beckoned, a grand adventure.
HISTORICAL NOTES
In 1921, Agnes MacPhail became the first women elected to the Parliament of Canada. She was the first female member of a Canadian delegation to the League of Nations, where she served on a disarmament committee.
Although she entered politics to represent farmers of her region, she also championed the rights of miners, immigrants, prisoners and women. In 1951 as a member of the Ontario legislature, she lobbied for equal pay for women. She died in 1954.
Passchendaele, a small village on a plateau overlooking the city of Ypres, Belgium was held by the Germans in 1917. In July of that year, British forces launched an offensive hoping to drive the enemy from the Channel Ports. By October, the battlefield had been turned into a bog of bodies, water-filled shell craters and mud. Germany still held the ridge. In October the British Command ordered the Canadians into the battle.
Sir Arthur Currie, the Canadian commander, was loathe to commit his troops to what looked like a hopeless cause, with dubious benefit, but he had no choice. The British Commander, General Haig was desperate for a victory and the Canadians had earned a reputation for succeeding where others failed.
On October 26, 1917, the Canadians began the first of four phases of the battle. By mid-November, they had captured the ridge. General Currie had estimated the battle might cost 16,000 Canadians killed or wounded. The actual number was 15,654.
The Victoria Cross, the British Empire’s highest award for military valour, was awarded to nine Canadians after the fighting, two posthumously.
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Her One and Only
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The Man Who Loved Christmas
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WITH GLOWING HEARTS
BY
REGGI ALLDER
CHAPTER ONE
Romance can be found in unexpected places. A pilot and a nurse meet in London during the Blitz. Can the love that blossoms between them survive the ravages of war?
The North Atlantic 1946
Harriet Davis gripped the ship’s railing as the vessel reared in the strong wind of the North Atlantic. She gasped as her only wool hat was whisked from her head to fly in the air. She might have enjoyed watching the twists, turns, and somersaults it made if it wasn’t heading to the waves below.
She shivered and caught her tangled hair trying to keep it out of her eyes and looked out to the horizon to prevent the seasickness that threatened to swamp her. What had become of her good sense? She was leaving her friends and family to journey thousands of miles over the water, alone, to be with a man she barely knew?
Hoping to find protection from the wind, she slid to a sitting position. The thought of going back into the dining room, with the odor of food permeating the place, made her gag. Better to endure the cold until the luncheon meal was complete. Maybe when the weather improved, the sea would calm. Possibly, she’d manage a cracker and a bit of soup at supper time.
She recalled Mother encouraging her to leave the small Welsh village where she lived and to travel to London. Harriet, the oldest of twelve children including three sets of twins, was her mother’s helper. Even so, Mum understood her desire. They had secretly applied for admittance in a London nursing school program.
“I don’t want you to stay here. You’re strong and free. Go now, before the opportunity disappears. I’ll miss you, but you can enjoy the life I dreamed of, but never experienced,” her mother said. “Send me letters of your adventures. Leave before your father returns and sets his foot down and prevents you.”
Her mum had placed one of the twins on a blanket near the sofa and sat with a sigh, opened her blouse, and put the other babe to breast. “I love my man and my babies. I willingly gave up my chance to travel in order to be with your father.” The baby whined and, with the wisdom of experience, her mother had adjusted the latch on her left tit and helped the little one suckle. “Of course, I didn’t think your father would be gone much of the year to make a living for his brood. Still, I’ve made my bed.”
A week later, in the pouring rain, Harriet had taken the bus to London.
Now, three years later, instead of returning to work in her small village as planned, she was leaving the country, maybe forever. A chill ran through her. Was it the wind or the realization she’d left everything she understood?
“Harriet, you will catch your death in this wind. Come inside.”
She looked up to see Tillie, her new friend, standing in the doorway holding on with one hand and beckoning with the other. “Please.”
In the Mess, they sat at the table. The area was not only used for eating their meals but for a place to socialize and read. The children played in the room as well.
“Didn’t the wives do a good job dressing up the place?” her friend asked. “I think it was good of the captain to allow us to decorate the walls, makes the room more like home.”
Harriet nodded in agreement, though the large beige room with many tables and chairs would never pass as anyone’s house. Still, the women had volunteered to put up colourful quilts and shawls on the walls to warm the austere room. The crew might find their dining room a bit changed, but she had to admit it helped the atmosphere.
“There’s a surprise for you. Cook made broth for you. He found crackers too. Try and take a sip.” Her friend touched her protruding stomach and then joined her at the metal table. “I understand nausea can put you off food, but…”
“That’s very kind of him.” She glanced at Tillie. “How is the baby?”
“Growing beautifully, thank you for asking.” The woman rubbed her stomach. “I remember the nausea. I could hardly hold anything down. Are you sure you’re not with a child?”
“I don’t think so, only seasickness.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “go on and try the soup.” Tillie handed her a spoon. “I liked it and I ate a bowl of it before I came to get you.”
All the women had been kind, but she and Tillie had become close in the days since the ship left Britain for Halifax, Canada. Many of the wives had babies in their care. A few of them had toddlers to supervise. One mother had a two year old and another baby on the way.
Hattie managed to eat half of the consommé and munched a cracker. “I do feel better. Nice of you to think of me.”
“We wives must stick together.” Tillie hesitated. “You and your husband married a short time ago?”
Harriet nodded, her mouth full of soup.
“What a brave thing to do, marry someone you barely knew.”
“If you met him you’d understand.” Her cheeks burned remembering the few days she spent with her husband.
“My Harry and I have been together for three years.”
Hattie swallowed hard. “I met Alan a little more than a year ago and immediately understood he was the one for me. We only had a little time together before he was gone on assignment. We wrote to each other.”
“Oh, so romantic.” Her friend sighed. “One of the ladies told me the Canadian forces came into the war in 1939. She has been married for over five years.”
“Five years ago, I was only fourteen.”
Several children ran into the room and she watched a ball roll across the floor. A three year old ran after it.
Harriet picked up the ball and rolled it gently toward the young girl.
“I’m glad you did that. I don’t believe I can bend down anymore. Junior is getting so big.” Tillie laughed. “Do you want more crackers? Cook might be willing to let us.” She started to leave.
“No. Thank you. This is enough. I’m glad to eat something I can keep down.”
“Tell me about Alan Barlow. How did you meet him?”
The sound of her new surname surprised her. She still thought of herself as Miss Davis. Mrs. Alan Barlow. She mulled the sound of it in her mind.
“The first time I set eyes on him he was lost in London. Well, what I mean is he was looking for the hospital, but he was blocks way, having taken a wrong turn.” She paused, remembering. “Later, I learned he piloted a de Havilland DH 98 Mosquito bomber. He flew over the channel to drop ordinances, do reconnaissance, and night raids. Being from a rural town in Canada, he’d never managed directions in a large city.”
“My husband is from a small town as well. Somewhere on the prairies, I think.”
“Maybe we’ll be neighbours,” Harriet said hopefully. “Alan’s from a place called the Okanagan Valley. Isn’t it a strange name?”
“Well, it is a foreign land.”
They sat in silence and she contemplated on the gravity of her decision to marry and move to an unknown country. Vibrant and sure of himself, an image of Alan the first time they met, flashed in her memory.
CHAPTER TWO
London, England, Eleven Months Earlier
Night would soon fall. Harriet rushed to get inside before blackout shades covered the windows, making the streets gloomier.
A man stood on the walkway facing her. He glanced first one way and then the other. Dressed in uniform, the polished buttons down the front of his jacket and on each pocket stayed perfectly sealed. But his mouth was slightly open as if he were talking to himself, his expression confused, eyes searching for something in the dim light.
He swept off his brimmed hat and pushed his brown hair back when he saw her. “Miss.”
She didn’t talk to strangers. But something in his demeanor caused her to
ask, “Are you lost?”
He grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t say exactly that. Just can’t find my way at the moment.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a hospital nearby. I’m visiting a friend. Dang, if I don’t seem to be going in circles. And with the rubble and missing street signs…”
He approached her, his hat still in hand, and his blue eyes now clearly visible. “I’d appreciate any help you might give.”
She hesitated. Maybe she should walk by and ignore him.
He didn’t come any closer, but appeared to be waiting for her response.
“As it happens, I work there. I’ll show you.” Had she gone mad? She was talking to a stranger and inviting him to follow her. Mum would never forgive her for such a breach of etiquette. Harriet shrugged. With the war raging these days, things were different. Right?
“After you.” He stepped back and let her pass.
She glanced at him as he caught up with her and she realized he was tall and slim, but well built. He exuded strength and the cockiness of a self-assured man.
“My buddy had himself taken out of the war. Not by a Messerschmitt, but by a British taxi,” he offered. “The darned fool ran right out in front of one.” He took a quick breath. “Heard the man’s in traction at the hospital. With a bum knee and a broken arm, he will most likely be sent home.”
“You’re a flyer? We’re not supposed to talk to flyboys, especially not Americans.”
“I’m from the Dominion of Canada,” he said proudly. “We Canucks can be trusted to be polite to women folk. Good manners are highly valued in my part of the world.”
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