Uprooted - a Canadian War Story

  I tried on three beautiful long dresses. They were all too big for me, but Mrs Blundell said, “In a year or two you’ll need a long dress to go to school proms. Take it and put it away.” So I chose a white one, with a full skirt made of layers of netting. I looked at myself in the long glass. Mrs Blundell took my hair, which I still wore in a thick brown plait, and held it in a kind of hairy flower on top of my head. It was like a trailer of me as I’d be when I was grown-up. The saddle shoes and sloppy joe floated away (for the moment). Who wanted to look like a teenager when you could look like a woman?

  In the six days we were in New York, the Blundells looked after us and spoilt us.

  We were taken to see the sights – the Empire State Building, of course, and downtown, by subway, to see the Statue of Liberty. And Broadway to see all the lit-up signs. In Central Park, we made a gangster movie with Mr Blundell’s home-movie camera. Cameron stopped holding back, for once, and really entered into it. He didn’t do The Spirit, he did Al Capone. He jumped out from behind a tree, shouting, “Take that, ya rat!” and shot Willie, who did a great heart-clutch and fall, only as she landed she kicked her legs in the air, and when Mr Blundell showed the movie on our last night, she was so embarrassed at her knickers showing, she ran out of the room.

  I think my favourite of the things we did, was seeing a play called Life with Father, which was so funny we simply sat there screaming with laughter for two hours. Even Cameron couldn’t resist it, and laughed every time the father shouted, “OH, GAHD!” which he did every time anything went wrong. We had stopped saying “Widdiya woddiya” since we’d left the Laines’, but from now on “OH, GAHD!” would be our secret code word. Sometimes we just rolled our eyes and mouthed it.

  Another night Mr Blundell took us to Carnegie Hall for a classical concert. I’d never seen a full orchestra before and I was too busy watching it to listen much, but the music absolutely sent Cameron. He came out with red eyes and didn’t talk the whole way home. He thanked Mr Blundell as if he’d given him his whole house, practically.

  On the Friday night, which was Good Friday, we had a special dinner. We were asked to dress nicely for it and I wore my new formal, with a sash round the waist and the skirt tucked up so it didn’t trail along the floor. Willie had one too – a tartan taffeta one. We both put our hair up – Mrs Blundell lent us pins and helped us.

  “We must dress up for Easter,” she said.

  The table in the dining room was laid with a beautiful white cloth with embroidery on it, and we had nice linen napkins and fancy plates, knives and forks, and there were tall silver candlesticks with red candles in the middle.

  “Why red?” I asked.

  Mrs Blundell whispered, “For the blood of Our Lord.”

  The meal, prepared by Mary, was specially delicious – roast chicken, with a fancy, creamy dessert. After we’d eaten, Mr Blundell asked if we’d like to read the story of Easter in the Bible, round the table. Of course I knew it from the convent. We read it in the proper Bible – the King James version, Mr Blundell called it. The language was strange and hard, but of course Cameron read it beautifully and the Blundells complimented him. I fluffed mine a bit – the Crucifixion always gave me the utter creeps – and Willie asked to be excused; she said she wouldn’t read it well enough. At the end, after he had said a special prayer for people in Europe who were suffering, Mr Blundell added, “May we be forgiven for not being there.”

  Cameron looked at him and then at me. Pursing his lips, he suddenly bowed his head and said, “Amen.”

  Mr Blundell drove us to New York to catch the train back to Saskatoon. We were scared stiff that Geraldine wouldn’t turn up to escort us, after what had happened on the way there, but when we got to our platform, there she was.

  Phew.

  She didn’t meet our eyes, but chatted away to Mr Blundell, while I looked around the enormous station and nervously hummed ‘The Chattanooga Choo Choo’.

  Cameron muttered, “Shut up, Lind. We have to think. Shall we say anything?”

  “Yes. When we’re on the train we have to say again that we’re sorry.”

  So we did, the first minute we were alone with her. It turned out she was still mad at us, after all.

  She said, “You stupid thoughtless kids scared the life out of me. I couldn’t let you travel back alone, but I am not speaking to you.”

  Well, although I felt guilty, in a way it was good. Because on that long train ride back to Saskatoon, Cameron and I ended up having to talk to each other.

  There was a lot to talk about. Cameron had gone mad about music while we were in New York. He said he was going to go back to his paper round and use the money – and more; his dad’s money – for piano lessons.

  “Is this just because of the concert at Carnegie Hall?” I asked.

  “No, of course not. I was in the music club at school. I’m going to start one in Saskatoon.”

  “What’ll you call it?”

  “I’m going to call it the Classics-lovers Club. To be a member, you have to be able to sit through an entire Beethoven symphony without fidgeting. Or a concerto.”

  I wished I’d listened more to the music at Carnegie Hall, instead of watching the musicians and the instruments. But I loved show tunes and Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby so much I doubted if I’d ever qualify for the Classics-lovers Club.

  The long, long journey left me a lot of thinking time. As we were chugging through the pinelands of Ontario, I said to Geraldine, “Are whoever you stayed with in New York very rich?”

  “No,” she said.

  ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ was all we could get out of her.

  That night as Cameron and I were getting ready for bed – I mean berth – I said, “It’ll be as big a change going back to Taylor Street after the Blundells’ as it was when we got there from the Laines’.”

  “Yes, it will. We’ll feel like Bubbles in a tiny kennel.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of space, so much. It’s everything. It’s like another world.” I buttoned my pyjamas. There was something tickling my memory. “Don’t you think they were maybe a bit too rich?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Well … I mean, it’s not really fair, is it? Them so rich and us …”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Dunno. I just don’t think it’s fair.”

  “Dad always says life isn’t fair and you shouldn’t expect it to be.”

  Lying in my swaying berth, looking out at the dark landscape and being suddenly reminded of Uncle Jack, I faced up to what I’d been remembering: Cameron’s home in England compared to mine. Both our fathers were doctors, but his was a surgeon, doing operations on rich people, while mine was a GP in a poor district of London. I loved our house, but compared to theirs it was small. We weren’t poor, but they were rich, almost (but not quite) like the Blundells. Big rooms, a vast garden, servants, two enormous cars, Auntie Millie’s full-length fur coat – lots of lovely things. Luxury. Glamour. I’d never made a comparison before. But when I thought of Taylor Street, and Mummy struggling, and England fighting and America staying out of it while the Blundells got really, really rich, well … it didn’t make me jealous, exactly. But grown-ups were always telling us kids to play fair. And this just wasn’t.

  Later, chugging along through watery Manitoba, Cameron suddenly said, “Did you talk to Joe at all?”

  “Who’s Joe?”

  “The Blundells’ chauffeur. Obviously you didn’t, but I did. He’s German.”

  “What, ‘filthystinking’?”

  “No. They’re not all filthystinking. Some of them are against Hitler. Joe’s family is. That’s why he’s in America. But they stayed.”

  He stared out of the window for long minutes, watching the lakes go by.

  Then he said, “Just imagine if when we thought about our families we had to think about them in Germany. Or Poland. Or anywhere where those rotten Nazis are. Instead of in England, where at least it’s just rationing and bom
bs. Joe is always thinking about his family in Germany. They’re probably in a concentration camp by now.”

  That was the first time I’d ever heard those words. I was ashamed to ask, but he must have sensed my puzzlement and told me anyway.

  “They round them up and take them to these camps. Joe says they’re awful places. The Nazis pretend they’re some kind of holiday camps but they’re really prisons. They take everything away from them, they have to wear uniforms, they make them work, they don’t give them enough to eat. Imagine if you had to think of Uncle Jamie in one.” He turned and looked at me. “But you know what, Lind? Sometimes I’d rather be a resistance fighter in Germany than be here. At least then I wouldn’t feel like a …”

  “A what?”

  “A bloody deserter.”

  We were travelling first class, thanks to Mr Blundell. At meals in the dining car we kept trying to make conversation with Geraldine. We had a secret pact to try to make her say something besides yes and no. One lunchtime I asked her if she was interested in acting.

  “Yes,” she said. After a few more mouthfuls, she unbent enough to say, “That’s why I go to watch rehearsals of your mom’s play. My sister says your mom is the most wonderful director. I wish I could be in one of her plays.”

  “She should let you, after this,” I said.

  And she nearly smiled.

  The conversation reminded me that the play would be starting its three-day run the night after we got back; I’d had two postcards from Mummy, which had been all about it. As the train drew near to Saskatoon, I got the postcards out and read them again. There was a bit on the last one that I hadn’t noticed before. It said, ‘Surprise when you get back!’

  Of course I thought it was a present.

  Mummy met us at the station. Since we’d left England, I’d never seen her looking so happy and alive.

  It must be the play, I thought.

  She had a big bunch of flowers and a box of candies for Geraldine. She thanked her and we thanked her and we waited for her to snitch, but she didn’t – she just sort of rolled her eyes at us behind Mummy’s back as she hurried away. Luckily, Mummy hadn’t thought to ask her how we’d behaved.

  We went home on the streetcar, me chattering away about New York and my new dress and everything. But soon after we crossed the bridge, Mummy stood up and rang the bell, miles before the Taylor Street stop – at Eleventh Street.

  “Aren’t we going home?”

  “Darlings, that’s my big surprise! Taylor Street isn’t home any more. The Warrens decided to sell it and we’ve had to leave. I’ve found a flat for us! It was all very sudden. I don’t know how I’d have managed if it hadn’t been for— Well, that’s another surprise!”

  Cameron and I exchanged bewildered looks, and Cameron said, “OH, GAHD!” like in Life with Father, only quietly, for me.

  We humped our suitcases along Eleventh Street. We were back on the right side of the tracks. This was a pretty nice neighbourhood – but I didn’t notice that yet; I was too incredulous.

  Mummy was talking gaily but I wasn’t listening.

  No more Taylor Street. No more Hembrows. And Eleventh Street was miles from school.

  Cameron suddenly pointed. “Look, there’s Nutana, right at the end of this road! I can walk to school in five minutes!”

  “And so can you, Lindy,” Mum said. “You’ve left Buena Vista. You’ll be going to Victoria next term. It’s all arranged.”

  My world took another tilt. Had we been away for years, not days?

  “But Miss Bubniuk – all my friends—”

  “You’ll make new ones,” said Mummy cheerfully. “You couldn’t possibly carry on going to Buena Vista – you’re out of their district.”

  Before I had a chance to object, we arrived at a large house and Mummy continued her revelations. “This is it! We have the first floor. It’s quite big enough. And, Cam, you won’t have to do the furnace – that’s our landlord’s job now. You can take it easy.”

  We hadn’t asked about the play, but as we went into the hall of our new house, Mummy was saying, “Penny Wise opens tomorrow night. You’ve got front-row seats!”

  And then we saw him.

  He was standing at the top of the stairs, grinning at us. He was wearing the uniform of a naval officer. I didn’t know him for a minute, but then he said, “Hi, kids,” and of course I remembered.

  It was Hank, who’d bought us our train meals, and told us all those tall stories about gophers and hunting our breakfasts!

  He came down to meet us. He kissed the top of my head and shook Cameron’s hand. Then he picked up the suitcases – all three of them, the extra one Mrs Blundell had given us for our presents too – and carried them up the stairs.

  We followed him, absolutely speechless with surprise. At the top of the stairs was a ‘front door’ that opened into our new flat. It had a living room, a kitchen at the back with a balcony, and two bedrooms. And a bathroom, of course, which looked like a closet compared to the one we’d had in New Jersey. In fact the whole flat seemed small and cramped. There was nothing familiar in it except the photos we had of Daddy and Grampy and the aunts. Everything we’d got used to in Taylor Street had been left behind.

  Mummy was bustling about showing us things, pointing out that the furniture wasn’t as shabby as in Taylor Street, that we had a beautiful tree outside the front window, that the balcony was big enough to eat meals on, that the kitchen had a machine for washing clothes. Mummy was very excited about that.

  “I hope you like it!” she said. “It’ll be fun, not living out in the sticks any more!”

  Meanwhile I kept glancing at Hank. Despite his grey hair, he looked very tall and handsome.

  Cameron was the first to ask. “What are you doing here, Hank?”

  “Your aunt got in touch. She asked me to come and help her to move.”

  Mummy had got in touch with him? He’d come all the way from Alberta to help her?

  “Are you on leave?” Cameron asked. I could hear the admiration in his voice. I knew, because of the battleship book, that joining the navy was Cameron’s ultimate dream. “Are you a captain? Of a battleship? Which kind?”

  “I’m not a captain, just a humble lieutenant. And I don’t go to sea, I’m too old. I’ve got a desk job. Yes, I am on leave, but I have to go back soon. I’m posted to Regina, luckily.”

  Regina was the capital of our province, Saskatchewan. I wondered what was lucky about it, because Regina was called ‘Hogtown’ by people in Saskatoon. And it was certainly nowhere near the sea.

  Mummy had prepared a cold supper for the three of us – not for her, because she had to go to the dress rehearsal.

  I felt completely turned upside down. But Hank was very nice and friendly.

  “Are you staying for the play?” I asked.

  “Sure am. Wouldn’t miss that!”

  Before I went to bed in the new bedroom that night, I phoned Willie.

  I knew I shouldn’t because long-distance phone calls were so expensive, but I was missing her and I needed to talk to someone about what had happened.

  She listened in silence and then said, “Never mind the new school and the move and all that – you’ll get used to it. But you want to watch out for this Hank bloke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well – you say he’s so handsome. I’m always watching out for handsome men hanging around Mum. If this Hank came running when she asked him, after all this time, he’s probably buggy about her.”

  I was just about to say, But he knows she’s married! when I remembered Gordon. A sudden cold flash of fear went through me. Mummy hadn’t liked Gordon. But she did like Hank. She must have liked him, a lot, or she wouldn’t have sent for him.

  I was still awake when she came back from the dress rehearsal. I heard her arrive. Hank was sitting in the living room with the radio turned low, babysitting us. I heard them talking quietly, and then the front door closed again and after a few minutes Mu
mmy came into our dark bedroom.

  “Mummy?”

  “Oh, hallo, poppet, are you still awake? It’s awfully late.”

  “You can switch on the light.”

  She did. She didn’t look a bit tired. She looked excited. She took off her coat and hung it up.

  “How was the dress rehearsal?”

  “Terrible! Unspeakable! Everything that could go wrong, went wrong!”

  “So why are you looking so happy?”

  She turned and stared at me.

  “I do? I don’t! I’m exhausted, and scared stiff! I can’t imagine the play’s actually going to happen before an audience tomorrow!”

  “You’re all lit up.”

  She came and sat on the bed.

  “You funny little thing!” she said. “All lit up, am I? Well! I’m back in my world, the theatre world – at least on the edges. I love it. Even when I’m frustrated and despairing.”

  I clutched her hand. “Where’s Hank gone?”

  “Hank?” She stood up and started getting undressed. “He’s got himself a room in a hotel downtown. I hope he hasn’t missed the last streetcar … Really, he is a treasure. He’s been such a help.”

  “It’s weird. You sending for him.”

  “Oh, I know it was cheeky of me, Lindy, but I was desperate! Mr Warren suddenly rang up and told me he’d sold the place and that I had three weeks to get out. I started house-hunting the same day, and found this quite quickly, but there was so much to do! With rehearsals and everything, and having to pack up, and leave the house clean, and get settled in here before you got back – I felt overwhelmed! And I had to register you at your new school. I just didn’t see how I could do it all on my own. I had no one to turn to!”

  She was slathering her make-up off with cold cream.

  “And then – it was like destiny! – Hank’s card fell out of my handbag. I didn’t stop to think about it, I just rang him. Someone gave me his number at the naval office in Regina, and the next day, he arrived. All got up in his uniform – I hardly knew him! Talk about the cavalry riding to my rescue! Dear, kind Hank! I just don’t know how to thank him!”