Godfrey: Book One

Godfrey

  (Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Godfrey is my attempt to tell the story of my great-grandfather’s life. Like a good Hollywood movie - only better. ; ) However, as I wasn’t there to witness Godfrey Leduc’s life first-hand, I’ve had to weave the patchwork place names, events, and dates I’ve gathered from various relatives over the years together in such a way so as to create a logical, flowing story with a proper beginning and an end. To achieve this, I’ve had to make up certain characters and plot elements, for instance, the character of Mr. Peverley, the bank manager. (Though my great-grandfather really did work at a bank in Montreal c. 1920.)

  That being said, the fictional characters and plot elements contained within these pages lend themselves to the telling of the story and fit appropriately with both the narrative and the setting.

  In addition, where Canadian history is concerned, I have stayed as close as possible to the truth. For example, the Blue Bonnets Raceway, which first opened in 1907, really did exist. As did the Strand Cinema which opened in 1912.

  I've therefore written this semi-biographical work in such a way that allows it to stand as a piece of historical fiction so that those who do not necessarily share my interest in my great-grandfather's life story can at least identify with the socio-historical aspects of Godfrey, perhaps even relating them to their own family narratives.

  Happy reading.

 

  ~ For my great-grandfather, Godfrey Leduc ~

  - 1-

  July nineteen twenty was the hottest July in recent memory and a heat wave had been declared for the City of Montreal and its environs. Scorching daily temperatures of ninety degrees combined with heavy moisture from the Saint Lawrence to make life on the island rather unbearable. The stifling heat and suffocating humidity were exacerbated by a city ill-equipped to deal with such conditions and across the region, whether indoors or out, les Montréalais could only hope that the summer would pass quickly.

  Sitting in his teller's booth and sweating profusely, Godfrey Leduc swatted half-heartedly at a wayward fly; rolling up a copy of La Presse and making a full-hearted attempt of it would have simply required too much effort.

  It being a rather slow hour at the Bank of Montreal's Saint Catherine Street branch, the twenty year old leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling where six, newly-installed fans spun forcefully.

  Godfrey watched them for a minute. before shaking his head in amused disgust at their futility. As Andrew, the vault manager, had remarked yesterday, "I have no idea why Mister Peverley would have ordered those silly things when all they do is churn the hot air."

  Re-positioning himself in his chair, Godfrey felt his stomach growl and suddenly thinking of food more than fans, the young teller pondered whether or not to buy a snack at his coffee break. It was only three o'clock and if he was this hungry already, he wasn't sure he'd be able to last until supper.

  He deliberated for several more minutes, finally deciding against the snack option as there would be pea soup for supper and he didn't want to spoil his appetite.

  His mind made up, the young teller lowered his feet to the floor, returning his chair to an upright position. If Mr. Peverley saw him "lounging", he would most certainly be written up and the bank manager had promised that one more write-up would cost him his job.

  Ten feet away, Lucille Arsenault was re-stocking her cash register. She must have felt him staring because she glanced at Godfrey and smiled. He returned her smile, but then looked away. A year ago he'd have held his gaze a little longer. He'd been mad about Lucille. Petite, with wavy, auburn hair and a joyful laugh, she was the apple of many an eye at the bank.

  However she had spurned his attempts to take her to dinner and months later, when Pierre the custodian had reported that Lucille fancied him, it was too late; he'd moved on. Francine was in his life now. Well, as much as she could be. She lived with her mother and her two younger brothers in the East End and it was rather difficult to get together. Though, on the rare occasion that they were able to rendezvous, their kissing and groping sessions at The Strand cinema more than made up for all their time apart.

  While he'd not yet bedded her - the priest of Saint Timothée never hesitating to inform him and the other young men of his parish what hellish perils awaited them if they engaged in such amorous activities before marriage - Godfrey was hopeful that perhaps in a year or two, when he'd gotten some money together, they might wed.

  Looking up, the young teller surveyed the lobby through the iron bar grate of his wicket. Monsieur Godin had just entered, as was his habit on Thursday afternoons, and Godfrey watched as he waddled towards Edith, no doubt to withdraw his weekly allowance for the horse races that were held every Friday and Saturday at the Blue Bonnets Raceway.

  At the other end of the lobby, Madame Bourbonnais was exchanging heated words with the new teller. Once a month, without fail, the widowed and heavily indebted heiress of the Astro hotel chain, would come to the bank, pick a teller she'd never seen before, and attempt to convince him or her that funds were missing from her account and could she please have them restored.

  She'd tried the ruse on Godfrey once before and he'd quickly told her where to go. Normally, Mr. Peverley kept an eye out for Madame Bourbonnais and would escort her outside - calmly and politely so as not to cause a disturbance - but Godfrey hadn't seen his boss since earlier that morning and he scanned the busy lobby, searching for the balding bank manager.

  After a minute, he spotted him. There. By the front entrance, flirting with the attractive Madame Martineau who had just entered. Martineau, a former lounge singer and present owner of la Cabane à sucre, a raucous (and somewhat notorious) burlesque bar on Saint Denis street was a regular at the bank and Mr. Peverley never failed to find her whenever she made an appearance.

  It was obvious from watching him that the Englishman was still under the impression that she found him to be good company and Godfrey smirked as he enthusiastically accepted whatever (surely false) compliment Madame Martineau had just given him.

  When he suddenly looked across the lobby in his direction, Godfrey averted his eyes and busied himself with some papers.

  Papers, papers, papers. Deposit slips, account statements, money transfers. He was constantly amazed - and bored - by how much paper was pushed at the bank on a daily basis. It was times like these when he missed working on the farms out West -something he'd done during the war. The fresh air. The wide open spaces. The sun on your back. He and his older brother Léopold had worked at Rosetown and North Battleford, Saskatchewan. It was hard work, but the money and the food were good and one didn't want for much.

  "And of course, I'll be here to assist you as always."

  There was no mistaking the owner of the voice. Oily, with a British accent, Godfrey looked up to see Mr. Peverley and Madame Martineau headed towards his wicket.

  The young teller glanced at his boss and forced himself to smile even though the Englishman looked at him as though he were the thing he'd scraped off his shoe earlier that morning.

  Wiping his brow with his handkerchief, and straightening his tie, Godfrey cleared his desk as the well-dressed woman pulled away from Mr. Peverley and approached the grated window.

  "Bonjour, Madame Martineau."

  The woman removed her white-lace gloves and the vanilla perfume they stirred up tickled the young man's nostrils.

  "Good day," she replied with a smile. "How are you?"
r />   They spoke in French and it delighted Godfrey that Mr. Peverley, who had lingered behind to eavesdrop, was unable to understand a word.

  "I'm very well, thank you. How's the bar doing?"

  "Absolutely fantastic - you wouldn't believe it! When we open at six o'clock, there's a line-up around the block! And when we close at one in the morning - three or four if Constable Tassé is on duty (she grinned mischievously) - we have to force the people out!"

  "Wow, that's excellent," Godfrey remarked as Mr. Peverley, seeing he was no longer needed, turned and strode brusquely back to the lobby.

  Madame Martineau nodded in agreement as she placed a heavy, satin money bag on the counter. "Business is going very well."

  "You'd like to make a deposit, I assume?"

  "Yes, dear. Last night's take."

  Godfrey nodded and pulled the money bag through the grate. The woman's eyes were on him and he felt his face flush as he opened the bag and began counting the rolls of coins and wads of bills in the bag.

  "I must say,” she began, Godfrey feeling the intensity of her gaze upon him, “I’ve been coming here nearly a year now and none of the other tellers have ever been as timely and as well-mannered as you.”

  "Well, maybe Edith," she added, turning to gaze down the row of wickets to where the homely teller sat. "But anyhow, you’re my favourite,” she finished, laying her gloves on the counter and clasping her hands together.

  Godfrey, feeling his cheeks redden, gave the woman an awkward smile.

  “Fine young man like you must come from a good family. I believe you mentioned once where you were from.”

  "Saint Timothée," said Godfrey as he finished counting the money from the bag.

  "Ah yes, I remember now. And I told you that I have a cousin who lives in Salaberry-de-Valleyfield, right?"

  "That's right."

  "He's a farmer, my cousin. Most of the people down there are farmers, right? Your family farms?"

  "We do," the young man answered as he dipped his pen in ink and began to prepare the deposit statement.

  Madame Martineau smiled. "But you prefer the city life, I suppose?"

  Godfrey stamped the piece of paper in front of him and slid it through the wicket along with the now empty money bag.

  "Not really. Too big. Too busy. Too expensive.”

  "Handsome and smart," said Madame Martineau with a twist of her lips.

  She took the bag and her deposit statement, her finely manicured nails clicking softly on the marble counter as she did so. "I often dream about buying a nice cottage in the country someday. The fresh air, the open space, no traffic - perhaps I'll finally do it next year - especially if business keeps up like this!"

  Godfrey grinned. "I don't see why it shouldn't. After all, you’re a prudent entrepreneuse, Madame Martineau, and Mister Peverley says the economy is on the upswing."

  "I like your optimism young man, and by the way," she said, lowering her voice, "just so we're clear - you and I - I don't give a damn what that pompous Englishman says any more than I care what he eats for breakfast. I do sincerely hope that the economy improves a little - and if it does - it certainly won't be because our balding friend says so."

  Godfrey suppressed a laugh. He liked Madame Martineau. She was full of life and her youthful vigour belied the small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Not to mention, for a woman old enough to be his mother, she was rather attractive.

  "Anyways," said Madame Martineau, slinging her purse over her shoulder and straightening the sleeves of her petticoat, "I've got places to be and people to see. You take care, young man, and I'll see you next time I come in. Which days are you usually here?"

  "Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays."

  The woman smiled. "Well, I'll try to come on a Thursday again…Monday might be manageable - though we often have rehearsal on Mondays...and Fridays are never good because, well, Fridays are just crazy. You should try and come to the bar one night. First drink is on the house."

  Godfrey smiled appreciatively. "That's very generous of you Madame Martineau. Maybe I’ll come by one night.”

  "Do. You’re certainly welcome,” she said, gathering up her things. “Oh, and here's a little something," she added, sliding a dollar bill through the hole in the wicket."

  "Oh, I can't accept that," said Godfrey, quickly touching a hand to hers.

  "Nonsense. Good service deserves reward. Take it. I insist."

  "Alright, but just this once," said Godfrey, casting a quick glance over the top of her head to ensure Mr. Peverley wasn't watching. He took the bill and pocketed it. "But rest assured, for next time, your company is reward enough Madame Martineau."

  "Oh, you charmer."

  Godfrey grinned and the woman gave a little wave as she turned and made her way towards the exit. A minute later she was through the doors and the young teller was left inhaling the remnants of her vanilla perfume.

  - 2 -

  Supper at the Leduc household was a rather subdued affair that evening. Godfrey had arrived home shortly after seven, and after a quick wash-up, had joined his mother and four younger siblings at the dinner table. Prayers were said, the bread was broken, and Julie Leduc (née Pilon) ladled out generous portions of thick pea soup.

  "Guess what, maman," Jules began as he spread a serviette over his lap, "the Sabourins are getting an automobile this weekend. Georges told me that Mister Sabourin is taking them to Montreal tomorrow and that they're going to buy one."

  Julie sighed. "Yes, well, that's very good news for them, isn't it?"

  "Will papa buy an automobile someday?"

  "He had one. You're too young to remember, but when you were little, we had a Model T Ford."

  "Why don't we have one anymore?"

  "Because of the war," said Godfrey through a mouthful of soup. "We had to sell it to pay income tax."

  "What's income tax?"

  "Money you pay to the government based on your salary. A maudite Anglo invention designed to bleed even more money from French farmers."

  "Godfrey!"

  "Well you know it's true, maman."

  "I don't care. I don't want that street talk at my table."

  Annoyed by his mother's scolding, Godfrey shook his head in exasperation and returned to his meal.

  "Hey, maman," said Delphina, the oldest of the two Leduc girls as she slurped her soup.

  "Oui, ma petite."

  "I lent Laura my scarf at her birthday party and now she won't give it back. When I told Madame Perreault, Laura said I gave it to her."

  "Sacrament, Delphina!"

  Godfrey stopped chewing and gave his mother a reproving stare. If he couldn't use "street talk" at the table, then neither could she.

  "How many times have I told you not to lend out your belongings! We're not a charity!"

  "But maman - "

  "I SHOULD SEND YOU TO BED WITHOUT THE REST OF YOUR SUPPER!" Julie yelled, slapping her hand on the table.

  "Ah, leave her be, maman," interrupted Arthur. "She's only a kid."

  "And was it you who spent a week knitting that scarf for her!?"

  "No."

  "Well?"

  Arthur looked at Godfrey for some support, but Godfrey's face was expressionless.

  "And what about your chores, anyway? For a boy so quick to talk. Did you put the new irons on Rodolphe like your father asked you?"

  "Papa was supposed to help me!" Arthur protested, feeling less confident now that his mother’s anger was directed at him. "I've never done it by myself - and Rodolphe kicks too much!"

  "That poor horse! You know we can't afford anymore vet bills - if his feet get the rot again - "

  "I'll do it tomorrow! Godfrey can help me!"

  Godfrey glared at his younger brother. "I work tomorrow you numbskull."

  "Oh."

  "Well, on the weekend then."

  "Your father will be home by then," said Julie stiffly. "And he won't be happy to see that you haven't done your chores."


  The family ate in silence for several minutes and Godfrey watched his mother. Her movements were quick and nervous - a sure sign that something was wrong.

  "What's the matter, maman? Is it Aunt Pauline?"

  Julie set down her spoon and looked across the table at her son.

  "No...Pauline is fine...but a letter came for you today."

  "Oh?"

  "From Léo," she said, her face growing hard. "He wants to know if you'll join him and Isaac out West."

  Godfrey swallowed and took a sip of water.

  "When?"

  "I don't know. He said something about October. He said he's found a piece of land for you."

  "Really? In Greenshields?"

  "I imagine so - why they'd - FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE ROSA! CHEW YOUR FOOD BEFORE YOU SWALLOW!" Julie yelled as she pounded her youngest on the back.

  "I've got her," said Godfrey quickly, rising from his chair.

  He rounded the table and gripped the young girl firmly, patting her on the back until she had stopped choking.

  Julie ran a hand over her face. "Mon Dieu, you children are going to be the death of me."

  "She's fine, maman," said Godfrey, looking at his mother. "Right Rosa?"

  The little girl nodded.

  "Take a sip of water. It'll help."

  She shook her head and coughed while her older brother massaged her back.

  "Maman, if I go...if I end up buying a farm out West...I can earn money and send some home to you and papa so that you can hire some help. You won't have to work so hard."

  Julie sighed wearily. "That would be nice, mon fils, but I don't think you understand how difficult it is to start a farm. It can take years to turn a profit. You probably won't even have your first crop until your third or fourth year."

  Godfrey took Rosa's serviette from her lap and wiped her mouth with it. "Really? It takes that long?"

  "Mais oui. The farms out West aren't like the farms out here. The land has to be cleared, the ground has to be broken, the soil has to be tilled and left to sit for a season - "

  "I know all that," the young man said dismissively. "I've been out there twice already."

  "For the harvest Godfrey! You went out to work the harvest. That doesn't make you an expert. How will you manage?"

  "My brothers will help me."

  "Ha! Léo and Isaac have their own farms to tend to - and Isaac is getting married this spring anyways."

  "Isaac is getting married?"

  "Yes," Julie answered tersely. "And when he's busy with his wife and his farm - how can you think he'll be able to help you?"

  Well..." Godfrey began, growing frustrated, "I'll find a way."

  “Ha! Good luck. And where will you get the money from to start your new farm?”

  “I’ll…I’ll borrow it.”

  “You’ll borrow it? From whom? Your father and I are hardly in a position to lend you - ”

  “I’LL FIND A WAY, MAMAN! CALICE!”

  Rosa jumped, startled by the sudden change in her older brother's tone.

  But the Leduc matriarch, far from being startled, was enraged. "DON’T YOU YELL! AND I TOLD YOU NOT TO USE THAT LANGUAGE AT THE TABLE! THINK OF THE EXAMPLE YOU SET FOR YOUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS! SIT DOWN AND FINISH YOUR SUPPER! AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYMORE ABOUT YOU GOING OUT WEST!”

  "I'm not hungry," Godfrey answered defiantly. "And where's the letter from Léo?"

  Julie, red-faced and breathing heavily, shook her head in exasperation. "It's in the kitchen - on the counter by the flour bucket. Take it and go. I don't want you at the table."

  "Fine."

  Arthur, Jules, Delphina and Rosa watched as their older brother stormed from the dining room and then, at their mother's insistence, returned to their meals without a word more.

  Outside, the letter in hand, Godfrey crossed the barn yard and stopped at the corral where Rodolphe and Rocket were busy lapping water from their troughs.

  "Hey boys," he said as he watched the hulking Pecherons slurp and gurgle. "Supper out here seems much more peaceful than in there." With his large, brown eyes, Rocket glanced up at his master for a moment before resuming his drinking.

  Godfrey sighed and pulled the letter from the envelope, leaning with his back against the fence so that he could read it:

  Dear Godfrey,

  I hope this letter finds you well. How are maman and papa? How's Rosa? Has she fully recovered from that flu? And Jules? Has he had his first communion yet? I hope you're all doing well.

  I have good news. My crop this year promises to be the best yet. I was able to seed more than ever before using a new planter that I rented from a man in town. In addition, we had lots of rain in the spring and since June, nothing but sun. If you remember Mr. Newton's harvest from that summer we worked at Rosetown - mine will be larger than that!

  Anyways, I'm writing for two reasons. First, Isaac and the girl he’s been going steady with are getting married. Too many people around town are talking and they’ve decided to tie the knot. As I understand it, they have yet to finalize a date with Father Gravel, but the wedding will be held sometime after the harvest.

  Think you can make it? I know he’d like to have you here. He knows it’s too far for maman and as for papa, he wouldn’t come anyway. So that leaves you.

  Anyways, on to the second reason for my letter - an equally important matter. Several good quarter sections of land have become available at a place called Fabyan - that’s just fifteen miles from Greenshields. M. Crawford, an American, is selling several plots he purchased back before the war. I spoke to him outside the livery the other day and he seems to be a fair man - so I reckon you would get a fair price.

  If I’m as successful this year as I intend to be, I can front you half the money. At $2/acre, the total cost should be about $320.00. You can easily make that money within two or three years and pay back any interest by your second harvest. Also, if you need to borrow money as Isaac and I did, the banks out here are much more willing to lend. Even more likely if I co-sign. So getting the necessary funds should be no trouble at all and don’t let that be a hindrance.

  What do you say, little brother? Alberta is not unlike Saskatchewan. I know you liked Rosetown and those parts. But it’s even better out here as there’s talk of oil deposits and the coal mines near Edmonton continue to expand almost monthly.

  I'd like you to come to our brother’s wedding, Godfrey. As for the second item, that is up to you. Do you want to come out here and farm? It'll be a life changing experience, but one that I'm sure you won't regret. Isaac and I sure haven't.

  If you do decide to come, write me and then send me a telegram to Cummings & White General Store in Greenshields a day or two before you arrive with the details of your train arrival and what not - that way I'll know to expect you. I am not sure which rail line you intend to come with. I’ve heard that CP offers a new overnight train from Winnipeg that stops at Wainwright. (Wainwright is just ten miles from Greenshields.) I'll pick you up at the station of course.

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Give my love to everyone.

  Léopold

  P.S. Isaac sends his regards as well and he says to tell maman that the woman he’s marrying is a nice French girl from a good family. He promises to write soon.

  Grasping the letter, Godfrey stared at his brother’s untidy cursive, slowly digesting the news. A chance to go out West and be reunited with his brothers? The opportunity to become self-sufficient. A successful, Western farmer.

  He turned around to face the two giant horses behind him.

  "What do I do, Rodolphe?" he said, reaching over the railing and caressing the creature's wiry mane. "So many tough decisions to make in life...you never know which one is the right one."

  The animal snorted softly and swished his tail, sending a dozen flies into the air.

  Godfrey got up at once onto the fence and examined the horse's back. "Those bloody flies are eating you again, aren't they? It's this
heat. Another couple months and they'll be gone."

  He gave the beast an affectionate pat. "You know, I'll miss you if I go out West.”

  Godfrey picked at a small scab on the horse’s neck before stepping back and looking out beyond the line of trees that bordered the Leduc farm.

  “But, it's so beautiful out there,” the young man continued, sighing softly. “Endless fields of green and gold. Rivers and lakes, clear and fresh and full of fish. And it's flat too. Not like here. You’d have an easier time pulling the plow out there, boy. Not a hill to be found. Out there, from a hay loft, you can look out and see for miles.”

  He paused, reveling in his memories of the sights and sounds of the Prairies. A minute passed before the bark of a dog in the distance returned him to the present and he resumed petting the horse’s mane.

  “You'd come with me if you could, hey boy?"

  Rodolphe swished his tail again, but gave no audible response.

  Glancing at the animal's hooves, Godfrey could tell he desperately needed new horseshoes.

  "We'll get those irons changed tomorrow. Alright boy?"

  Rodolphe whinnied softly and his master took a deep breath, grappling with the life-changing decision his older brother was dangling in front of him.

  Should he move out West and take up farming? What about his mom? Maybe him leaving would free up some food and money for the others. What about Francine? Would she come with him? It was doubtful considering her mom needed her to help with her younger siblings.

  The young man leaned against the fence for nearly a half an hour longer, chewing on his thoughts. Occasionally he'd consult one of the steeds for advice, but they would only return his questions with blank stares, horses being non-verbal animals, and Godfrey eventually grew tired at the sound of his own voice.

  Finally, as twilight turned to darkness and the sun dipped below the horizon, the young man folded up the letter and made his way slowly back into the house.