by Julie Lawson
The only part of the old me is my diary.
This morning I left the hospital. Muriel’s Uncle Jim came for me. We went in his friend’s motor car because of the storm and because I can’t walk very far.
Muriel’s relatives told me to call them Auntie and Uncle and Granny. “We’re all family here,” Uncle Jim said.
His two brothers were killed at the foundry and a sister at the textile company.
Mrs. C. doesn’t know what happened to Kirsty or Billy the Pig, but she told me that the S.P.C. is taking care of animals that are homeless or injured.
Baby Ethel was saved by a miracle. She was asleep in her crib upstairs when the windows shattered. There was a window blind in the room, and it blew out in front of the glass and draped itself over the crib. The splinters of glass slid right over the top of the baby, and she woke up without a scratch.
Muriel’s granny keeps saying, “An angel lay down that blind. The hands of an angel.”
Why does God save some and not others? How does He decide? In the Lord’s Prayer we say to Our Father, “Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.” Does that mean the Explosion was God’s will? Why would He do that?
It’s almost time for supper. I’ll do what I can to help.
Saturday, December 15
Mrs. Chisholm took me to the morgue. It’s in Chebucto Road School, in the basement, because there’s no room at the undertaker’s.
I felt numb. As if the real me was somewhere else, watching another Charlotte do what had to be done. That was the only way I could bear it. The only way I can write about it is by being straightforward with the facts and not stopping to think.
We went inside and saw row upon row of cloth-covered bodies. Each one had a number.
Mum’s body was already identified because I’d given her name to the soldier, the one who was there when she died. Dad and Edith had been identified, too, by Mrs. Chisholm and by Charlie’s friend.
It was different with Ruth.
Luke, when you’re reading this — do you remember when the Titanic went down? Haggarty explained to me about identifying the bodies, and now it’s the same. If a person was too badly burned or crushed to be identified, the workers in the morgue write down the place where the body was found and a description of all the “effects” that were found with it. They put the description and the effects in a cloth bag. Then they give it the same number as the one on the body.
There were many, many bags to look through, but I finally found the one with Ruth’s locket. Then I knew the remains were hers.
Now that the bodies have been identified, they can be “released” to the family, which is me, and have a proper burial. Mrs. Chisholm has arranged for the coffins. The burial will be tomorrow morning.
I have their personal possessions, and will keep them for Duncan and Luke. It breaks my heart to see how little is left. Dad’s watch, Mum’s plain gold wedding band, Edith’s engagement ring, the clothes they were wearing. A few items found in pockets, like coins, a comb, a set of keys. Nothing in Ruth’s bag but her locket.
Mrs. Chisholm thought we should make certain that Duncan wasn’t there, in spite of my dream. I refused to look, so she did it for me. She started to cry on the way home and hasn’t stopped since. She said it was heart-wrenching to see me suffer through such an ordeal, and without shedding a tear. She said I showed courage and strength beyond my years.
I couldn’t tell her that Mum always thought I was old beyond my years. Or that my heart seizes up tight and won’t let me cry.
Sunday, December 16
All the churches in Richmond were destroyed, so the funeral service couldn’t be at St. Mark’s. Reverend LeMoine went to the cemetery with me this morning and said a short service over the graves. Mrs. Chisholm, Muriel, Uncle Jim and Auntie Belle went, too. When we got back to the Chisholms’, the grown-ups told the little ones not to bother me, but I told them I didn’t mind. Their distractions make things easier.
Late afternoon
Almost the end of a very hard day. Like yesterday. I go through the motions as if I’m far away and watching someone else, feeling as if I’m walking in my sleep. Numb with a sadness too big to put into words. I can still write about other things, though, and that helps to keep my mind occupied.
So, this afternoon I went to the Food Depot with Muriel and Uncle Jim. My foot is mending well. It feels better and the bandage isn’t so bulky. My “new” boots feel good because they’re already broken in.
There were volunteers working at the Food Depot, even though today’s Sunday. They loaded our sleds with boxes of food.
On the way back we stopped for a look at the devastated area, but we couldn’t get in without a pass. I didn’t want to anyway.
Most of the wreckage was covered by snow, and soldiers, sailors and volunteers were hard at work, Sunday or not. They were digging with shovels or with their bare hands, searching for bodies. There’s no hope now of finding survivors.
I was surprised that there were trees still standing, and odd things — like a row of fence posts that had marked the edge of somebody’s yard, but nothing left of the house except for a pile of chimney bricks. I couldn’t make out where our house had been, or any of the streets.
The sugar refinery and other tall buildings along the harbour had collapsed, so we could see clear across to the far shore. We saw a wrecked ship lying there that Uncle Jim said was the Imo. The Mont-Blanc was blown to pieces.
Just as we were leaving, I did notice something I recognized. The wrought-iron gate in Miss Tebo’s yard. Still standing, all by itself.
After supper
Muriel and I have finished the washing up, and I’m sitting in a corner with my diary. There’s just one part left to write about that horrible day.
Charlotte’s Composition, Part 4:
Thursday, December 6, 1917
The second explosion never happened.
Soldiers went around telling everyone that the fire at the magazine at Wellington Barracks was out and there wasn’t any danger. So after two or three hours in the cold, people began to leave.
I didn’t know where to go so I stayed where I was.
After a while I got up. I felt a stab of pain in my foot — the first time I’d noticed any pain — and sank back down. The soldier who’d carried me out of my house had said I should go to a hospital, but I didn’t think I was hurt badly enough, not like some, and didn’t want to go.
There on the hill, for the first time, I took stock of myself. Shredded clothing plastered to my skin with sooty tar and blood. Foot swollen and bleeding. I felt something sharp in my cheek, and when I reached up, my hand came away sticky.
I kept thinking, what if Edith or Dad or Ruth turn up at the house, looking for me? What if they don’t? What will I do? Where will I go? I wanted to cry but felt frozen. Not cold, but numb. Like the hands on the town clock that never moved past 9:05.
A short time later, a group of soldiers came along. One of them wrapped his greatcoat around me, said I was in shock and injured, and they were taking me to the hospital.
I was afraid. I’d never been in a hospital before and tried to push the soldier away. But he picked me up and carried me down the hill to a motor car. My first time in a motor car.
I must have fainted, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor in Camp Hill Hospital, wrapped in the soldier’s greatcoat.
He must have put my diary in one of the pockets, because that’s where I found it, along with a pencil. The pencil must be his. I hope he won’t mind me using it.
That’s the end of my composition, as best as I can remember.
Luke, when you’re reading this, the soldier’s coat is draped over and around me like a tent. A private space for when I’m writing. It smells of peppermints and tobacco. I pretend it’s yours.
It made a good extra blanket in the hospital. Here, too. Muriel says it’s heavy and scratchy, but it makes me feel protected.
Later
> I’ve just said a prayer for Duncan. I don’t know where he can be. If he’s in Halifax, in a shelter or hospital, the Relief Committee would know. They would’ve told me by now. Wouldn’t they?
The dream I had in the hospital — could I have been mistaken? What if it wasn’t a message after all?
No, I’m sure I would know if Duncan wasn’t alive. I would feel it in every bone. And yet, before I had that dream, I was certain it was Duncan under the piano.
Monday, December 17
Last night, when I was in the middle of finishing my composition, Muriel yanked the diary out of my hands and yelled, “You and that diary! That’s all you ever do! There’s food to get and chores and kids to look after, and Mum’s sick with grief and we’re all hurting, not just you! You’re supposed to be helping, not wasting your time!”
It wasn’t true and she knew it, but I was too tired to argue. “I’m doing this for Luke,” I said. “So he’ll know what happened.”
“Luke?” she shouted. “Luke’s probably dead like everybody else!”
Her words crushed me to the heart. I must have gasped or cried out, because she burst into tears, said she was sorry, she hadn’t meant it, she knew Luke was safe in the hospital, anyway, and gave me back my diary.
Muriel won’t talk about the Explosion, but I know she misses her dad as much as I miss mine. Sometimes she cries at night, but quietly, so she won’t wake anyone up. I hug her until she calms down.
Later
After Muriel’s outburst I couldn’t write for a while because it’s true what she said. Luke may never come home. He must have gotten Charlie’s telegram by now, but what if the army doesn’t give him leave? What if his bronchitis got worse? What if he’s been sent back to France and has to fight another battle, even with a broken leg?
But there’s no way of knowing, and nothing I can do, so I picked up my pencil and carried on.
There’s a public funeral today for the unidentified dead, with services for all the different faiths. The grown-ups have gone, except for Auntie Belle. Muriel and I are helping her look after the little ones.
I couldn’t face going to the funeral, but I’m praying for the dead all the same. And for Duncan and Luke, as always.
Later
This afternoon I went to the Green Lantern with Muriel. It used to be a restaurant, but now it’s a clothing depot. There were two long line-ups, one with people donating things, the other with people picking things up.
Two ladies ahead of us were talking about the heavy losses, how many dead from here, how many from there. “They’re saying some two hundred are gone from St. Mark’s parish alone,” one said. “About four hundred from St. Joseph’s,” said the other.
They went on to talk about Grove Presbyterian and probably the Methodist Church as well, but I stopped listening.
A little later, when they’d stopped talking, I asked if they knew of a Father Young. But they didn’t.
Some people behind us were talking about the funeral this morning, and how heart-breaking it was to see the row of small coffins, each one holding the bones of several different people.
I still haven’t seen what I look like. But while we were standing in line a boy walked by, took one look at my face and quickly turned away. I guess I don’t need a mirror now. His look said everything.
We got two boxes of clothing for Muriel’s brothers and cousins and also a box for ourselves. Muriel was hoping to get a sealskin coat like mine, but got a blue woollen one instead. So we traded.
Tuesday, December 18
Kirsty is here! She’s curled up beside me in my greatcoat tent, practically in my lap! Here’s what happened.
I went to Camp Hill Hospital to get my stitches out and saw Helen. She showed me a notice in the paper that said there were ten dogs who needed homes, and some of the dogs were spaniels.
She said that if I didn’t mind waiting, she’d take me to the kennel to have a look as soon as her shift was over. She remembers Kirsty from the piano days, and knows that Kirsty’s a Brittany spaniel, but warned me not to get my hopes up. Well it was a long wait but I didn’t mind.
On the way to the kennel I tried not to get my hopes up, but sure enough, there she was!
The minute she saw me her ears cocked up and she made her happy arroo sounds, her whole body quivering with joy. I sank to my knees and hugged her, my face pressed against her side, sobbing with relief, until her fur was wet with tears. It’s the first time I’ve been able to cry, even the slightest bit.
Kirsty limps from the cuts on her paws, and her fur has streaks of oily soot, but she looks perfect to me.
Now that I have something good to say, I’m going to write a letter to Luke. I couldn’t manage before, but now I think I can.
Wednesday, December 19
Heavy snowfall, terrible wind. Muriel and I went to the Food Depot with Uncle Jim, and Kirsty came, too.
We got bread and milk and canned goods and so on, and pulled everything back on our sleds. Muriel’s brothers took one look at the maple leaf cookies and started whining, “Not again, we’re sick of maple cookies,” until Mrs. C. had had enough. Then it was shouting, tears, more shouting, more tears until I wanted to scream. I didn’t, though, just escaped inside my greatcoat tent with my diary and Kirsty.
Yesterday the boys were squabbling over the one green sweater that Mrs. Chisholm brought back from the relief depot, the depot with the piles of goods sent from Massachusetts. She and the aunts went early and came back with fur coats for Granny and themselves, sweaters for everyone (including me) and a baby layette for Ethel. Except for the boys, everyone was satisfied.
Later
Some people from the committee in charge of shelter came this afternoon and said that the Chisholms’ house is too crowded, too cold, and too unsafe. Everyone has to stay somewhere else until the house is repaired.
When they told me I’d be moving to a Mrs. Kessler’s house, I said that I couldn’t leave the Chisholms’ because how would Duncan find me? They said it’s all been arranged and I don’t need to worry because they’ll know where I am.
The Kesslers want to give some children a home over Christmas. I’m allowed to take Kirsty tomorrow, but it’s up to the Kesslers to decide whether or not she can stay. They have to let her!
Muriel and the others are going to Saint John to stay with different relatives. They could have gone after the Explosion but wanted to stay together. Now the family will be split up because the New Brunswick relatives don’t have enough room for everybody.
It surprised me to hear mention of Christmas. Every day I write the date in my diary, but I hadn’t made the connection. I don’t want a Christmas anyway.
Thursday, December 20
I’m writing this in the Kesslers’ house. It’s a big warm house on Spring Garden Road, near the Public Gardens.
The walls are standing and the roof is on. The windows are out, like everywhere else, with boards and tarpaper and blankets to keep out the cold.
The Kesslers have a cat called Snowball and a parrot called Crackers. They’re letting Kirsty stay. Snowball doesn’t look pleased. Crackers doesn’t seem to care.
There are three boys and three girls here. Matthew, Kevin, Lewis, Sarah, Sophie and me. I’m the oldest and Sophie is the youngest. She’s four.
There are lots of toys and books that people have donated. More toys than we’ve ever seen except in the stores. There’s even a dollhouse that Mrs. Kessler had when she was a little girl. It’s got fancy furnishings and real glass windows that didn’t break in the explosion.
A neighbour came over and set up an electric train, with tracks and tunnels and a station, and Mrs. Kessler’s niece donated three of her porcelain dolls.
Kirsty’s been following me everywhere. Poor dog. She’s been with so many strangers and in so many different places, she can’t bear to let me out of her sight. When I’m in the bathroom she sits outside the door and whimpers until I come out.
For dessert ton
ight we had blanc mange with corn syrup. I was all set to have some until I remembered it was the way Mum used to make it. Then I was too sad to eat.
Almost forgot. Yesterday I said goodbye to my “greatcoat tent.” I gave it to the committee to return to the soldier. His name was inside the coat, on a label. I put a thank-you note in the pocket and said I was sorry I’d kept it for so long.
Friday, December 21
Shredded Wheat Biscuits for breakfast. The first time I’ve had them.
Sarah and I helped Mrs. Kessler do the breakfast dishes.
After that I walked to the Bellevue Building on Spring Garden Road to see Haggarty. The Stars and Stripes are flying outside the building because some people from Boston turned it into a hospital, and American doctors and nurses are working there. Now it’s called the American Bellevue Hospital.
Kirsty came but had to wait outside.
I found Haggarty. He knew of my loss and hugged me tight. No need for words. But didn’t he brighten when I told him about Kirsty. Maybe we can live with the Haggartys until Luke comes home. Duncan, too. Mrs. Haggarty wasn’t injured in the Explosion, being at home on the other side of Fort Needham, but Haggarty lost an eye.
“At least it wasn’t the left one,” he said. “Otherwise I’d have to learn to wink all over again.”
He can’t decide whether to wear a black patch “for the buccaneer look,” or have a glass eye put in. And if he goes for a glass eye, what colour? What about a design, like the Stars and Stripes “in honour of the good Bostonians”?
It felt good to see him and listen to his banter.
I even surprised myself by teasing him. “Please tell me your name,” I said (not letting on that I knew).
“Long John Silver,” he says.
“No, your real name.”
“Call me anything you like, but don’t call me late for dinner.”
We had a good laugh, and then I said, “Can I call you Ethelbert?”
Oh, he was mortified. “You cheeky monkey!” he says.
And Kirsty, left outside for twenty minutes! Everyone in the hospital must have heard the howls, because Haggarty and I sure did.
