Authors: Frances Itani
Tell (22 page)
“I walked across the street from Dermot’s hotel and boarded the train. I travelled to Belleville, but still had no plan. I sat outside the Belleville station, and it was there that I made up my mind to take the first train. Whether it was travelling east or west made no difference to me. I went inside and asked for a ticket for the next train. The man at the booth looked at me as if I were crazed, but I didn’t care what he thought. I went back outside and stood beside the tracks and caught a train that happened to be on its way to Toronto. I’d have ended up in Ottawa if the train was heading east, but the first train was westbound. It was early evening by the time I was seated in a coach. I was caught up in a tunnel of sound, loud and muffled, near and far. I remember a pervasive odour, a contradictory mixture of must and freshly ironed linen. I stared out the window as dusk fell and thought about loosening my responsibilities. I wanted to let them fly behind me while the train carried me into the night.
“Am didn’t know I’d left, but I knew he wouldn’t panic. He’s never been one to panic. In any case, he was visiting one of his uncles in Marysville that day and planned to stay overnight, so he didn’t get back until the following day. When he found the house empty, he sent word to his brother, Dermot, to find out if I was in town. It was Mamo who sent a message back telling him I’d gone away for a few days. That was all she told him.
“I stayed in Toronto four days and scarcely remember what I did during that time. I booked myself into a small hotel. And then I walked. And walked some more. Up and down streets, in and out of parks and shops and along the waterfront. The
dreams began when I came back to the farm, the dreams of baby fingers being drawn through my hair. My hair moved, I know it did. I felt it move as it was sifted through tiny fingers. My son used to do that when he was a toddler. He loved to climb up to my lap and play with my long hair.”
“Say their names,” said Luc. “Speak them aloud.”
“Donal,” she whispered. “Annie.”
But she could say no more.
Deseronto: December 28, 1919
Dear Hugh
Happy New Year to you. Hopefully, you will be fully restored to health in 1920. You’ll receive this after the new year, as it’s already the twenty-eighth and there is no hope of it arriving before 1919 is out, but the wishes hold this year and into the next.
I have talked to Tress about you coming to visit and she would surely like to meet you. Maybe you could come to see us in the spring, when you’ve been discharged and are well and fit to travel. You must be cheered by the fact that you’ve been reclassified “up” one level—though in your case it means moving down one floor.
Once you’re out of there permanently, we should think of working together. We could go into chick hatching (I’m joking) or start up some sort of business. We know how to be soldiers
but now we’ll have to use our imaginations and reclassify ourselves. I know about bookkeeping, storing and selling eggs, a fair bit about banking. That’s it for my skills. Oh, and I’ll be learning to adjust and do maintenance on the tower clock in my home town—with one hand and arm. There are retraining programmes, too. I’ve read plenty about them. I forgot to ask in my last letter if you’ve joined the GWVA.
We had a fine Christmas celebration in our own small home. Quiet and enjoyable, with just my uncle Oak visiting. I told you about him. He’s the one who taught me that “life is treacherous,” and I have to admit that to some extent he wasn’t far wrong. He wrote letters to me when we were “over there.” He adopted me when I was very young and raised me here in the town.
At different times over Christmas, Tress’s parents dropped in. Also, her aunt and uncle. The town is decorated rather finely, and I have wandered about at night to see the efforts people have made to celebrate the season. Some evening, when it’s late and the streets are empty, I’ll ask Tress to come with me. I still don’t venture out during daylight.
With extra money I earned from bookkeeping, I was able to buy Tress a bracelet watch for Christmas and she is pretty happy with it. Her uncle Am picked it up for me at the store. My own uncle Oak wrapped up a gold-rimmed egg dish (with lid), as well as a teapot and two cups and saucers, and that was his gift to us. I was surprised to receive the “egg dish” and will tell you about it when you come to visit. Part of my family history goes with it, the few details I know. I suppose that’s the stuff we are made of, stories and journeys great or
small, complete or incomplete, whatever gets passed on to us down the line.
We’ve had brisk weather the past while, and skaters are out on the bay every day and evening. The town rink was erected on the ice just beyond my own backyard. I’ve been out skating a few times. It’s good to be back on the ice, even after dark. Skating is an activity I loved when I was a boy. If you were here with me, we could go down to the bay together and stand there and shout curses into the night. There’s still plenty to curse about in my mind, and probably in yours, too, and there will be for a long time, if not forever. We could curse about losing Bill, shout his name to the sky. Too many journeys ended sooner than they should have, and Bill’s was one of them.
I didn’t mention that Tress, knowing how much time I spend reading, gave me a set of Dickens’s novels for Christmas, fifteen volumes, and I am now on the second. These might border between tragedy and comedy, but there’s nothing like a good story that takes its time. With her aunt Maggie’s help, Tress also knitted me a heavy sweater with deep pockets.
This isn’t meant to be a long missive. I just want to send wishes from the two of us. Let me know what went on in the san on Christmas Day. I expect there were special treats to make up for the fact that you weren’t with your families. Sometimes it ends up that the people around us become our families, whether we’re related by blood or not.
My best to you, my friend,
Kenan
L
OOSEN UP,” SAID
Z
EL
. “B
REATHE DEEPLY
.” S
HE
and Maggie were backstage with the others. Singers joined in as they arrived; the backstage area was becoming more and more crowded. There was chattering at first, and nervous laughter. After that:
Arms up and stretch. Two breaths in, six breaths out. Breathe, breathe.
“What will happen if I can’t force a sound out of my throat? What if nothing goes well?”
“You’ll go to pieces,” said Zel. “But that’s all right. Some women are more experienced than others at going to pieces, and you’ll make a damned good job of it. In fact, you’ll be brilliant.”
Maggie couldn’t help laughing.
“You’ll manage,” said Zel, “because you sing wonderfully. Your dress is wonderful, too. You look completely beautiful, Maggie. Absolutely and completely. In every way.”
“Thanks, Zel. You look wonderful yourself. I love your black dress.” Maggie meant what she said. As one of the soloists, Zel wore a long dress, but with an oversized scarlet bow at her neck and long crystal beads that hung to her waist and sparkled with every turn toward light.
Maggie’s floor-length dress was forest green, sewn from velvet. When she wore it, the green of her eyes darkened. She felt for her gold locket beneath the neckline, aware that it could not be seen.
“I might sing the moon verse first, Zel, instead of the sun. In the Gilbert and Sullivan. Without realizing. My brain might scramble.”
“Of course it won’t. Don’t do this to yourself, Maggie.”
“I don’t think Am is here yet,” said Maggie. “Have you seen him?”
“You mustn’t think about anyone before the concert. This is not the time,” said Zel.
“He knows,” said Maggie. “I think he knows.”
“This is not the time,” Zel said again. “Not now.”
“Is Calhoun in the front row? Pen and notepad in hand? I hope he isn’t in a critical mood. Hyper-critical, I mean.”
“He’s in the reviewer’s seat,” said Zel. “Same as always. I peered around the edge of the curtain. His wife isn’t with him. She’s due any day, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “She’s been covering herself with loose clothing for months, and I’ve lost track. I think their baby is due in January some time. I can’t remember. I can’t think about Mrs. Calhoun right now. It’s all I can do to look after myself. And I’m worried.”
“We have a full house out there, Maggie. People showed up, even through the winter fog. Did you fumble your way through the mist? Everything out there is damp; I had to hike up my skirts as I walked. Anyway, think of nothing but the beauty of the music we’re about to perform. You and I are second up.”
“I’m trying,” said Maggie. She kissed Zel on the cheek. “You give me courage. When I hear your strong voice in the Elgar, or when you start up the notes on the piano, that helps to calm me.”
Luc was suddenly beside her. She hadn’t seen him arrive.
“Trust yourself,” he told her quietly. He squeezed her hand. “Trust the preparation you’ve done. You’re ready. You have to remember that the audience, every one of those people out there, wants you to succeed. They are on your side and they want you to do well.” He moved off to speak to the others. She felt the touch of each of his fingertips on her skin. She dared not glance around to see what others had observed.
Lights flickered, the audience hushed. The poet strode out in front of the curtains and began to perform the opening recitation, “Poem for a New Year’s Celebration.” At the end of the last stanza, the audience clapped loudly. The festive mood had begun. Zel took her place. The red velvet curtains parted.
When Maggie walked out to centre stage, she stared down into the dark maw that was the audience, and heard applause. This took her by surprise, unnerving her. So far, she hadn’t done anything. She found her position near the piano, where Zel was seated. With gaze lowered, head slightly bent, she collected her thoughts. Or tried to. When she was ready, she took a deep breath, kept her shoulders low and relaxed, raised her
head, faced the audience and assumed her expression as it would be for the opening bars. One more slow breath and she fought off the conversations with herself that were competing for her mind’s attention. Zel must have seen her raise her head, because she began to play. Maggie sang.
A wand’ring gypsy, Sir, am I
From Norwood, where we oft complain,
With many a tear, and many a sigh,
Of blustering winds, and rushing rain:
Her first notes were trembly and thin—long notes, especially—but she carried on, willing herself to continue. Her legs, too, had begun to tremble. She was singing into silence now, into the widening maw below. She chanced a quick glance over at Zel, who looked at her from the keyboard, raised her eyebrows, smiled. Zel’s crystal beads flashed in the light.
No rooms so fine, and gay attire,
Amid our humble huts appear;
Get past the fussy part, the humble huts, the huts that threw me off during early rehearsals. Don’t think about anything but the song, Maggie told herself, even while she was singing. And the crescendo was happening naturally, her voice went up in pitch, her volume increased, and then the startling thing was that she began to hear herself inside the theatre. She was hearing her voice in the same large room she’d been inside hundreds of times, but now she was hearing it from the stage. At first, the
sound came back to her as if someone else was singing in her place. But it was her own sound she was hearing. The sound of her own soprano voice.
Nor beds of down, or blazing fire,
At night our shivering limbs to cheer.
She understood that she was reaching the audience, the men and women and children who had bought up every ticket and every seat, and who were sending encouragement in her direction in a way that she could feel, physically, in her muscles and bones, in her heart and lungs.
Her legs became stronger. In the instant of realizing that she was listening to her own sound, she also realized that she had begun to sing with confidence. She allowed her nervousness to drop away.
Alas! No friends come near our cot,
The red-breasts only find the way;
Who give their all, a simple note,
At peep of dawn or parting day.
But fortunes here I come to tell,
Then yield me, gentle Sir, your hand;
Amid those lines what thousands dwell,
And bless me! What a heap of land!
She wondered, during the applause and while she and Zel took their bows, hand in hand, if her own mother had sung the songs that Beethoven had put his quill to, the Irish and Scottish
songs he’d set to music. She walked off to the left, passing a smiling Luc, who was about to take his place at the piano to play the Debussy.
“Brilliant!” Zel whispered as they moved to the side. “A wonderful start. Calhoun will have plenty to say in the
Post.
Just wait until he hears the next.”
But Calhoun had gone. Called away because of an emergency. His wife was in labour. His front-row seat was empty.
Andrew’s solo, with the choral group backing him, followed Luc’s performance. The singers filed onto the stage, Maggie and Zel among them, and took their prearranged places. Even while they positioned themselves in two arced rows with Andrew at the front near the piano, students from the high school theatre group were tiptoeing in the wings, preparing to set up their tableau after intermission. The chorus was to remain onstage for the Vaughan Williams, and Zel would be back at the piano for that, while Luc would take his place in front of the singers, his wonderful, expressive hands and body leading them into the rousing opening of “Let All the World in Every Corner Sing.”
From where Maggie stood as part of the backup to “Annabelle Lee,” she peered down into the dimmed theatre at the third row centre, where Am should be. But his seat, like Calhoun’s, was empty. He must, then. He must know.
D
URING INTERMISSION, THE SIDE DOOR WAS OPENED AND
pushed back. From backstage the singers were remarking on the thick and unusual winter fog. A few stood about outside;
some peered through the doorway. The high school thespians were setting up their “Peace for All Nations” tableau and had donned costumes: uniformed soldiers; diplomats carrying portfolios of documents; men of the cloth; representatives from multiple nations; men and women wearing the robes of kings and queens, others wearing Ottoman fez and Arab headdress. At one side of the stage, a woman and her children depicted the family at the hearth, the mother standing in strength and looking off in the distance as if defying the world, daring it to make war again. Several arbitrators of peace, wearing suits and top hats, were hunched around maps spread out over a round table. Others held a banner across the back of the stage declaring:
THIS MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!
Before the second half of the programme began, Maggie went through the Gilbert and Sullivan silently, in a corner, off by herself behind the curtains. She kept pushing thoughts of Am away. She had to focus. She had to tell the story of the song, put the text across, enunciate the consonants, remember where the stops should be, keep her air flowing. She talked to herself, reviewed the places where she should slow, knowing that Luc, on piano, would follow every nuance of expression she was about to deliver. She loved the lines. She loved to sing the words about “the sun and I.”
But it was onstage, close to the end of the concert and during Elgar’s “Peace, Gentle Peace,” when she fully understood what was happening through her voice, through her singing, through all of the voices around her. Hope was expressed when the singers asked that peace “return and come.” Hope was expressed with the tender drying of the “mourner’s tears.”
Yes, there was hope, and healing, too. Through Luc’s playing of “Liebestraum,” through every one of the selections offered. Each person in the audience was poised to join in with the rousing “Land of Hope and Glory.” The anticipation could be felt by every singer. But only moments before that, the completion of “Peace, Gentle Peace,” with its mood of calm and serenity, permitted a palpable hope that sifted out over the listeners, most of whose lives, in one way or another, had been affected by war. For those few moments the mood filled the space and encircled every man, woman and child. The soloists stood in strength, side by side, Andrew’s tenor and Corby’s bass, and Zel’s dusky alto next to Maggie’s soprano. The chorus sang behind them, all of the singers delivering what their art had taught them, what their music director had guided them to create, what their spirit allowed them to do.