—
THIS IS PERHAPS A GOOD PLACE to introduce Miss Turner, whose importance lies at the end of this story but whose insights throw some light on its beginnings.
Marian Turner was a nurse in the Great World War and she remembers Robert vividly. It was she who received him and cared for him after he’d been arrested and brought into the hospital at Bois de Madeleine. She has given (on tape) the only first-hand account of him we have aside from that of Lady Juliet d’Orsey. Here is part of what Miss Turner has to say. She is over eighty now, but still robust and she speaks with a good deal of energy, sprinkling her conversation with laughter and offerings of sherry in a wide, green apartment overlooking a park.
Transcript: Marian Turner—1
‘You will understand, from what took place, why I cannot tell you what he looked like. I suppose such things are of interest. Well—of course they are! (LAUGHTER) Everyone wants to know what people look like. Somehow it seems to say so much about a person’s possibilities. Do you know what I mean? What I can say is that Lady Barbara d’Orsey was in love with him—and that all her other men were smashing! So I dare say Ross was, too. Anyway, because of what happened I can’t remark about the face—but my impression was of someone extremely well made who cared about his body. At least that’s my memory of it—the way it was. You get them all mixed up, after so long a time; and every boy they brought to us seemed such a handsome lad. You never hear that any more: he was such a handsome lad! But we were always saying so in all the letters we wrote to their families. I guess you saw them all as beautiful because you couldn’t bear to see them broken. The human body—well—it’s like the mind I guess; terribly impressive till you put it in jeopardy. Then it becomes such a delicate thing—like glass. Robert Ross? Well—it was just so tragic. When you think that nowadays so many people—young people especially—might’ve known what he was all about. But then…(PAUSE) My opinion was—he was a hero. Not your everyday Sergeant York or Billy Bishop, mind you! (LAUGHTER) But a hero nonetheless. You see, he did the thing that no one else would even dare to think of doing. And that to me’s as good a definition of a ‘hero’ as you’ll get. Even when the thing that’s done is something of which you disapprove. He was un homme unique—and that’s much more of a compliment in French than it is in English. Oh, he was…(PAUSE)…Fire, you know—there’s nothing worse than fire. Even after all I’ve seen. And the story of the horses is something I’d rather never have known had happened. Oh, I quite understand why you feel it must be told—but…(MISS TURNER TURNED TO LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THIS POINT. THERE IS QUITE A LONG PAUSE ON THE TAPE)…Well. It was the war that was crazy, I guess. Not Robert Ross or what he did. You’ll say that’s trite, of course. But is it? Looking back, I hardly believe what happened. That the people in that park are there because we all went mad. Yes. He was unique. But you have to be careful, searching his story out. I’ve been through it all, you know—(LAUGHTER)—the whole of this extraordinary century—and it’s not the extraordinary people who’ve prevailed upon its madness. Quite the opposite. Oh—far from it! It’s the ordinary men and women who’ve made us what we are. Monstrous, complacent and mad. Remember that. Even if I do sound a moralizing fool, I’ll risk it. After all—I’m pretty old. (LAUGHTER) I could be gone tomorrow! There may not be anybody else who’ll say this to you. Everyone’s so sophisticated these days they can’t stand the hot lights. Eh? Well—I saw both wars. And I’m here to tell you the passions involved were as ordinary as me and my sister Bessie fighting over who’s going to cook the dinner. And who won’t! (LAUGHTER) Those people in the park—you—me—every one—the greatest mistake we made was to imagine something magical separated us from Ludendorff and Kitchener and Foch. Our leaders, you see. Well—Churchill and Hitler, for that matter! (LAUGHTER) Why, such men are just the butcher and the grocer—selling us meat and potatoes across the counter. That’s what binds us together. They appeal to our basest instincts. The lowest common denominator. And then we turn around and call them extraordinary! (HERE SHE TAPPED THE TABLE, RATTLING THE SHERRY GLASSES) See what I mean? You have to be awfully careful how you define the extraordinary. Especially nowadays. Robert Ross was no Hitler. That was his problem.’
4 Easter was early in 1915. Good Friday fell on 2 April. It snowed.
Robert got off a train that morning in Kingston, Ontario. He carried a brand new suitcase and wore his checkered cap. His raincoat—also new—was of a style that soon would be known as the ‘Trench Coat.’ Its buttons were made of criss-crossed strips of leather and its salient feature was that it was short: short enough for you to wade in water up to your knees.
Robert stood alone to one side, watching the engine from under the eaves of the station. He was watching the stoker feed the flames with rattling shovelfuls of coal. He watched with his hands in his pockets—shoulders hunched and his toes pressed hard against his suitcase. At school he’d been taught that hunching the shoulders was an ungallant posture; still he maintained it while the engine bellowed and hissed. Great clouds of steam billowed out around its wheels. The ‘fire horse’: that’s what the Indians called it. Robert looked to one side from under the peak of his cap, hoping that no one had seen him flinch from the steam or stepping back from the fire. He was wishing they would leave. His shoulders hurt. His arm was sore. There were bruises on his back. He ached. He wanted all the others who had got off the train to depart the station before him. There must have been three dozen—forty or fifty men—all coming down from Toronto together—joining others from as far away as Winnipeg and Saskatoon. Most of them had swaggered up and down the cars like braggarts—smoking cigarettes and drinking out of silver flasks. Robert avoided them all through the journey—wanting to protect the last of his privacy. Now they were drifting away in groups of three and four—joshing and pushing one another—calling out names and throwing snowballs—singing songs.
Robert looked the other way down the platform where he saw three women. Two of them were young and smiling. The other was older and wore a nurse’s uniform and cape. The younger ones were dressed in neat blue coats and one of them was watching him. Robert turned away, annoyed and confused. He was shy of girls, just now—distrusting them and wondering why they had to look at you and make you think you wanted them. Only a few weeks ago he had discovered he was not in love with Heather Lawson. Heather had behaved so inexplicably. What did women mean to do with men? At a party—in his own house—she’d told him that someone else was in love with her. Robert was not disturbed by this at all. What had someone else’s being in love with her to do with him? But Heather Lawson wanted him to be disturbed. ‘All right,’ Robert said, ‘who is it? Maybe then I’ll be disturbed.’ (He’d smiled.) ‘It’s Tom Bryant,’ Heather said, ‘and I think you ought to fight him.’ Robert didn’t understand. Bryant? Who was he? Did Heather Lawson love him? ‘No,’ she had said, ‘of course not.’ ‘Then why should I fight him?’ Robert had asked. ‘Because he loves me,’ she said. She spoke as if Robert were stupid. It all made perfect sense to Heather, but Robert thought it was idiotic and said so. Heather wailed out loud at that. Wailed and railed and paled. And fainted. In short—she made ‘a scene’ of the sort then popular in the books of Booth Tarkington. All the guests at Robert’s party left. There were even social complications for his parents in the aftermath and Heather said she never, never, never wanted Robert in her sight again. All because he wouldn’t fight a man she didn’t love and whom he’d never seen.
The matron snapped her fingers and the final cab was hailed. After their luggage had been lashed to the roof, the two young women made for the open door. One, not looking back, got in beside the matron but the other—just for an instant—turned and looked in Robert’s direction. He was handsome—no question—even though his ears stuck out a bit too far and his jaw was unfashionably wide in an age of pointed features. Something in the way he stood alone appealed to her. But the matron’s hand reached out and the girl was snapped inside like a folded doll and the cab was
driven away. Looking back—her expression said ‘goodbye’ and she was gone.
—
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Robert still stood there with his suitcase—immobile. He stood so resolutely still the Station Master came and asked him if he’d missed the train. Robert said no—that he was fine and if there was another cab, he’d hire it. But the Station Master said there were no more cabs. Just the standard quota and these days that was never enough, what with everyone coming and going all hours of every day and any day. The week had no more meaning. Even holy days of abstinence and sober significance like Sundays and Easter, the trains came and went and the people got on and off laughing just as if the world wasn’t going to end.
‘I suppose you’ve come down here like all them others to join with the Field Artillery, hunh?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Robert.
‘Well—I wish you luck, young man. The way they pile ’em in and outa here, it seems to me they’re lookin’ for a long, long war.’
‘Yes, I guess they are,’ said Robert.
The Station Master went about his business, slowly making his retreat into the warmth of the Telegraph Office and Robert could see him talking to the Key Operator—chucking his thumb in Robert’s direction—probably saying: ‘there’s a queer young lad out there who doesn’t seem to want to leave…’
Robert picked up his suitcase and turned away towards the Station Yard. His shoulders ached. The bruises bore the brunt of the shift in weight every time he moved his arms. The yard was wide and wet. An old white dog was walking across the cinders toward the gate. Robert had stood so long, the snow had turned to rain. Off in the town, the Easter Passing Bells began to toll and Robert looked at his Oxford boots and gauged the width and depth of the nearest puddle brimming off the edge of the platform. Staring down expressionless, he watched as his reflection was beaten into submission by the rain. He turned his collar up and pulled the peak of his cap right down to the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The melting snow began to turn to mist and the mist was filled with rabbits and Rowena and his father and his mother and the whole of his past life—birth and death and childhood. He could breathe them in and breathe them out.
Right to the very last second—hearing an approaching train that might have taken him home—he did not know in which direction he would go: down into the puddle and up to the town or back along the platform. The dog beyond the gate, bedraggled and lost, sat down to watch him. Maybe some decision of its own depended on which way Robert went. Then Robert closed his eyes and made his choice. He stepped down into the puddle and stood there.
How could he move?
Rowena had been buried the day before.
5 She fell. It was Sunday.
Stuart was meant to be watching her and so it was Stuart’s fault but no—it wasn’t Stuart’s fault. It was Robert’s fault. Robert was her guardian and he was locked in his bedroom. Making love to his pillows.
Jesus.
She fell.
It was Sunday.
Robert wasn’t there.
6 She died on the Monday, never regaining consciousness. Mrs Ross wore a large, black hat. Robert wore an armband. People who only knew them from a distance saw them walking down the street and thought they must have lost someone they loved in the war.
Mister and Mrs Ross fell silent. They loved their children—all of them. Still, they were prepared for this. Children like Rowena weren’t expected to live. The miracle was that she had lived so long as she had. Hydrocephalics had a life expectancy of ten to fifteen years at most. Rowena had been given ten years of grace.
Why had she fallen?
I don’t know, said Stuart.
Why weren’t you watching her?
I was playing with Meggy. (Teasing her—making her ears lie flat by whirling the baseball bat above her head.)
Didn’t Rowena call you for help?
Nope.
Et cetera.
Nothing would be had from this line of questioning. Nothing would be had from any line of questioning. The thing was—she was dead.
It had happened in the stable, where she’d gone with Stuart to play with her rabbits and feed them. Stuart had dutifully pushed her through the snow and slush and past the neat manure pile and in through the double doors onto the brand new concrete floor that had been poured two weeks before so the Reo Runabout could share the stables with Meg and the rabbits. The rabbits were ranged in hutches down one side—the hutches built especially so Rowena could reach them from her chair. There were ten of them. Robert made them, late in the summer holidays three years before. In those days, the floor was just hard packed earth and everything smelled of hay and oats and pony manure. Rowena would sit with the doors wide open and take the rabbits one by one in her arms and hold them on her lap. Robert did his exercises, standing in the yard where she could see him. Indian clubs—a chinning bar and shadow boxing. Really, he was a long distance runner—but he did these other things to keep in shape. His hero was the great Tom Longboat—winner of the marathon. After the exercises, he and Rowena would take the rabbits out on the lawn and let them eat the grass.
Why had she fallen?
I don’t know, said Stuart.
Weren’t you watching her?
I was playing with Meggy.
Everyone’s back was turned.
—
‘ROBERT?’
‘Yes, Rowena?’
‘Will you stay with me forever?’
‘Yes, Rowena.’
‘Can the rabbits stay forever, too?’
‘Yes, Rowena.’
—
THIS WAS FOREVER. Now the rabbits had to be killed.
7 ‘Why do the rabbits have to be killed?’
‘Because they were hers.’
‘But that can’t possibly make any sense.’
‘Nonetheless, they must be killed.’
‘I’ll look after them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert. Gracious! You’re a grown up man.’
‘Can’t we give them away?’
‘Who to? Ten rabbits? Surely you can’t be serious.’
‘What about Stuart? Why can’t he look after them?’
‘Knowing Stuart, I can’t imagine why you ask that question.’
‘I’ll take care of them. Please!!!’
‘Robert—control yourself.’
Silence.
‘Who’s going to kill them, then?’
‘You are.’
—
ROBERT DID NOT REPLY. He left his mother sitting in the wide bay windows where the ferns gave off the smell of summer. After he’d gone, she looked around the room and sighed. It seemed such a long, long way from where she sat to the other end…of everything.
8 Mrs Ross retired to her bedroom.
Mister Ross went up and knocked at the door.
No, she said.
9 The rest all happened on the one day. The Thursday.
Rowena was buried in the morning. Under the trees in frozen earth they had to split with axes. All the time the minister eulogized and all the time they prayed, it snowed. The coffin was white when they threw down the flowers. Robert looked over at his mother’s face. Her mouth was set. She stood apart—refusing to be touched or supported. Miss Davenport was the only one who wept. Her hat was on crooked. Mister Ross kept his eyes closed the whole service.
Peggy’s current beau was in uniform. He stood at attention. Robert envied him because he could go away when this was over and surround himself with space. (It was then, perhaps, the first inkling came that it was time for Robert to join the army. But he didn’t think it consciously.) All he knew was that his hands felt empty. In his mind, they kept reaching out for the back of Rowena’s chair. When they got back home, he moved it up to his room and sat there in it with his knees drawn up till the guests had left the parlour and the clock struck two.
Downstairs, his family sat at the dining room table waiting for him to appear. The subj
ect of the rabbits floated to the top of the conversation. Robert could hear it vaguely through the floor. His mother was adamant. The rabbits had to die—and Robert had to do it. Mister Ross was inclined to be more lenient. Surely the rabbits could be killed somewhere else, he said. Maybe the butcher would want them. No, Robert’s mother said. It must be here and he must do it.
‘Why?’
‘BECAUSE HE LOVED HER.’
A chair fell over.
Footsteps.
Now his mother would be drinking in her bedroom. But no one would mention it.
A man called Teddy Budge was telephoned (unbeknownst to Robert—who was still in his overcoat seated in Rowena’s chair.) This was at three o’clock or thereabouts. Teddy Budge was a large and mindless man who worked at the factory. There was nothing unkind or cruel in his nature—that was not the point. It was just that he would do what he was told. He was also very strong and could shift a rock as large as his arms could embrace, which Robert had seen him do in a contest once on Queen Victoria’s birthday. Mister Ross placed the phone call—and even sent the Reo Runabout down to the factory (driven by Peggy’s beau) to bring Teddy Budge to the South Drive house.
Robert heard the car depart—and a good while later return. It sat in the driveway, idling, while Mister Ross went out and stood on the running board talking to Teddy Budge, who sat up high in the seat in his workman’s clothes as if he was the King. Then he got down and made for the stables. Robert saw all this from his window.
It took him thirty seconds to emerge from his pain and to realize why Teddy Budge was there. He leapt up out of the chair and ran downstairs unthinking. Only knowing.
Stuart raced after.
Peggy asked: ‘Why is everybody running?’
Mister Ross was coming into the house and Robert pushed him aside, almost knocking him down going through the back door.
Robert’s feet began to slip and to slide in the slush and the mud of the yard. He fell against the side of the car and part of his sight took in the soldier standing there, lighting a cigarette—and Robert yelled at him something like: ‘you bastard! Bastard! What are soldiers for?’—while the other part of his sight could see the open stable doors and the wide, Neanderthal back of Teddy Budge.