Come from Away Page 2

  Was it silly for a woman of twenty-four to still cherish those words from her father? She didn’t care. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

  “I love you too, princess.”

  There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” she said, rising and heading down the hall.

  Grace opened the door, giving the pale young delivery boy standing there a cheery hello. Then her eyes fell to his hand.

  “Dad?” she whispered. She tried again, louder this time. “Dad?”

  She heard him get up, grab his crutch from beside his chair. He came down the hall towards her: step, tap, step, tap, his pace quickening when he spotted the figure in the doorway. When he finally stood before him, the boy wouldn’t meet his eyes. He placed a small envelope in her father’s hand, touched his cap, then turned and fled.

  Her father’s expression had gone completely blank, and he wouldn’t look at Grace. He opened the envelope, his fingers moving very slowly, as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. She knew he didn’t want to scare her, but he couldn’t help that now. She had heard of these telegrams. She had prayed they would never, ever see one in her house. But here it was.

  He read the paper; it trembled in his hand. “Get your mother, Grace.”

  She flew out the door to find her, and moments later the three of them crowded together in the hallway.

  “What is it, Danny?” Audrey asked.

  “Norman was at Dieppe,” he said, lifting his eyes. In minutes, he had aged ten years. “He’s dead.”

  TWO

  Norman is dead.

  Those three words whispered through Grace’s head, squeezed through the crack in her heart. After three months they were still there, pushing and tearing, building scars upon scars. They would always be there. But not Norman. Norman was buried in a cemetery in France along with hundreds of other dead Canadian soldiers. Norman was never coming home.

  The house felt like a tomb. These days her mother spent a great deal of time in her room, behind a closed door. Her father stayed out at the plant, sometimes not coming in until long after dark. Norman’s widow, Gail, rarely looked anyone in the eye anymore. Life within the old walls had never been this quiet.

  Outside those walls, the war had gotten louder. It crept closer every day, practically washing up on their beach. Just a month ago, a Nazi sub had sunk the SS Caribou, the passenger ferry that travelled between Newfoundland and Sydney. A hundred and thirty-seven souls lost, mostly women and children just trying to get home. That attack had made front-page news across the country. It had convinced the rest of Canada—any who hadn’t figured it out yet—that they truly were at war.

  To make everything worse, winter was on its way. Most of the time it felt like everything around Grace was smothered under a mantle of cold, clammy fog—or maybe it was she who was stuck inside, barely seeing out. The long stretches of grey days wore her down. The only place she felt alive was at the store. There she could distract herself with sweeping and dusting, stocking shelves and placing orders, listening to customers’ stories when they were offered. Only then could she remember briefly what it felt like to be herself. She tried very hard not to let her unhappiness show. People already had more than enough troubles these days, and she was determined to keep hers to herself, to bury them whenever she was around people. On her walk home from work she dropped the mask for a while, but she always made sure to slip it back on as soon as she opened the front door.

  “I’ve invited Linda for supper, Maman,” she called, closing the door behind them. She and her best friend crowded into the front hall, peeling off wet coats and hats and slipping out of their boots. Being around Linda helped sometimes—when her friend was in a good mood, anyway. When Linda was down she dragged everyone with her, but she was cheerful that night, and Grace hoped her mood could rub off on her a bit. “We bumped into each other at the store.”

  In the sitting room, Gail and Grace’s mother were sitting with Catherine, Eugene’s wife. They were already tucked in for the evening, knitting by the fire, the little ones playing at their feet. The Philco played big band tunes in the background, and the comforting aroma of corned beef and cabbage filled the air.

  “How nice,” her mother said. “How are you, Linda?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, Mrs. Baker.”

  “The new Eaton’s catalogue came in,” Grace offered brightly. She and Linda settled in next to baskets filled with big skeins of grey yarn, and Grace handed her friend a pair of needles. They’d all been knitting socks for years; after they finished outfitting the local fishermen, the rest were sent overseas.

  Linda set her needles to the side and picked up the Eaton’s catalogue instead.

  “How was work today, Grace?” Catherine asked.

  “The same as always, I guess. I moved things around a little.”

  “Mrs. Gardner doesn’t object when you change things?”

  “She probably doesn’t even notice,” Linda muttered, flipping a page.

  Grace shot her friend a look. “She lets me do what I want for the most part. I convinced her a while back to take catalogue orders for customers, and I rearrange the shelves so whatever’s in demand is easy to find. I like doing things like that. And Mrs. Gardner, well, she—”

  “She’s talking to herself more than to the customers these days,” Linda finished for her.

  Leave it to Linda to bring up the elephant in the room.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Life gets more difficult as you get older, and Mrs. Gardner’s been alone for so long, what with her husband’s passing ten years ago. What a sin that God never chose to bless them with any children. I can only imagine how tiring it is for her, being on her own. I’m sure she appreciates your help.”

  For a while now, Grace had had a bad feeling the sweet old woman was more than just tired, but she was glad the bulk of the responsibilities at Gardner’s General Store had fallen on her shoulders. It was a popular place around the area, and she enjoyed keeping it that way. The store’s shelves were always full to the brim with everything from a needle to an anchor, apples to butter. Gardner’s had it all, and if it didn’t, Grace was always happy to order it.

  “Would you look at these dresses?” Linda gushed, tapping the page. “How lovely!”

  Her mother peered over, and the lamplight caught the faded line of her scar. Grace hadn’t noticed it in a while. A shard of glass had cut straight across one cheek during the Explosion, narrowly missing her mother’s eye and taking part of one ear. The cut had healed cleanly, but every time Grace saw it she felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl her mother had been.

  “They’re nice,” Audrey acknowledged, “but there’s nowhere to wear them around here.”

  “I bet those Wren girls wear things like this when they’re not working.”

  “Wren?”

  “Oh, you know about them, Maman. The WRCNS—Women’s Royal Canadian Naval Service.” Grace scowled at a tangle in the wool, plucked it free with a finger. “They’re doing the odd jobs now that the men are all gone.”

  “Not just odd jobs,” Linda clarified. “Women drive trucks and cabs, too. Even work with secret codes! Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  “They’re still hiring switchboard operators,” Grace reminded her. “Ever think of joining them?”

  Linda shook her head, traded the catalogue for the wool. “Who would take care of us up here?”

  “What’s it like, running the switchboard?” Gail asked, surprising everyone by speaking up. “And being by yourself all day.”

  “I like it,” Linda replied. Not a lot of places along the shore had telephones yet, but any that did went through the local switchboard. It was run by Linda’s family out of their house, which also served as the post office.

  “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “Lonely? No, no. People call me all day long. I’m never alone.”

  “Oh, I see. Of course,” Gail said. “I hadn�
�t thought of that.”

  Catherine’s mouth twitched. “You must hear some pretty interesting things in your job.”

  “Oh, I hear plenty of things I probably shouldn’t.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Oh, you know. Some people just say hello, and I connect them to whoever they want, but others are just ridiculous. They act as if they have a big secret, then they tell me all about it as if I had asked. And that’s before they even ask to be connected. After that I’m certainly not the only one who hears things. People are always picking up on the party line even when they aren’t being called. People are always listening in when they’re not supposed to.”

  Catherine lifted her daughter onto her knee. “I imagine you hold a lot of secrets in that head of yours, Linda.”

  Audrey clucked her tongue with disapproval, and Grace rushed to defend Linda.

  “It’s entertainment, Maman. Just like the stories on the radio. You know that show Nazi Eyes on Canada that we listen to every week? That Nazi spy they talk about, Colin Ross, isn’t real. None of the stories are true—”

  “Thank heavens for that!” Gail interjected.

  “—but loads of people tune in to listen. Imagine those people who call Linda, sharing all their stories and secrets.”

  Grace and Linda glanced sideways at each other. “Sometimes it’s fun to think of doing it, you know? Writing them down, I mean.”

  Her mother’s hands fell to her lap. “You would never do that, would you, Linda?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Baker. My lips are sealed.” She paused. “But speaking of secrets, did you hear what Captain MacLellan said the other day about security? He said that so many people in Halifax and Dartmouth are blabbing on about our defences that the German spies probably have to hire extra people to write it all down.”

  “Well, he’s right,” Audrey said shortly. “No one should spread rumours, whether they’re about the war or not. People are entitled to their secrets.”

  The side door squawked open. “Everything is very quiet in here,” Grace’s father said warily, entering the room. The familiar reek of fish clung to him like the scales he handled all day long. His arms and hands were powdery white, cracked by salt. “Always makes me nervous when you ladies aren’t going on about something.” Danny turned towards Audrey. “How is my beautiful wife?”

  Her fingers were still working, but her face relaxed. “ ‘Beautiful’ indeed. You need your eyes checked.”

  “Most beautiful girl in the world,” he said fondly.

  How he loved her, Grace thought. Her father could be a hard man, stubborn as well, but when he looked at her mother he softened. Sometimes Grace wondered about their story. She knew it had been traumatic—they’d met during the Great War, then lost each other during the Great Explosion—but a small part of her thought it must also have been exciting and romantic.

  “Any mail?” her father asked.

  “Oh!” Grace hopped to her feet and ran back to the door. She’d been too distracted by the catalogue and Linda’s stories. She handed the envelope to Catherine. “How could I forget? A letter from Eugene.”

  Catherine lit up as she opened the envelope. She drew out two folded letters and handed one to Audrey.

  “This one is for you, Mrs. Baker. You should read it to the family. Eugene sent me a separate one.”

  “What a thoughtful husband,” Audrey said, smiling at the paper in her hands. “Well, at least stay and listen to this one before you go.”

  “Of course. I never get enough of his letters.”

  Audrey’s eyes lifted to Danny’s. “Eugene.” It was more of a sigh than a statement.

  “The children will be hungry,” Gail said, getting swiftly to her feet and reaching for her sweater.

  There was no reason for Gail to stay and listen. Her husband would never send her another letter. Grace thought of the stack of letters Norman had sent to the family. They were all tied up tight with a blue ribbon now, gathering dust in her parents’ bedroom.

  No one said anything until the door creaked closed behind Gail, and even then it took a moment. The sense of awkwardness she left in her wake was still new to the family. When Norman had been alive, Gail’s laughter had rung through the house and across the yard. Just one more sound that no longer echoed through their days.

  Her mother stared at Eugene’s letter until Gail’s footsteps had faded away, then she opened the envelope and stared a few seconds longer, savouring every pencil stroke. Grace sat on her fingers, lips glued together. She was impatient to hear the words that said he was safe, that he was all right. When her mother cleared her throat, Grace closed her eyes, trying to hear her brother’s voice while her mother read aloud.

  November 15, 1942

  Dear Family,

  I hope this letter reaches you before Christmas, because then I can say “Merry Christmas!” and not sound like a dolt. Feels like it’s already passed, with all the parcels I got from you this week. Thanks loads for the new socks, Maman, and I know that sweater was from you, baby sister. Thanks to you two, I’m toasty even on the coldest nights. I already sent Catherine a letter thanking her for her package. Did you know she sent me a book and a cake as well as shaving cream? What a girl. I’ll be all clean shaven and smelling good for a change. Too bad I can’t say the same for some of the other boys!

  It looks like I’ll be on the water for Christmas Day. Some of the others are staying in England, but I’m posted on the next ship. I’m hoping Father Christmas brings us nothing but clear sailing all the way. Rumour has it we’ll be feasting on chicken with all the trimmings. It’s not Maman’s delicious spread, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe next year I’ll get to sit at that table with you all again.

  Just wishing for that makes me think of Norman. I know it’s not cheerful Christmas talk, but I can’t help thinking of him. Out here every one of us knows guys who won’t go home again, and in general we don’t talk about that. Almost like it’s a curse if we do. But I’m hoping that doesn’t count in a letter home, because writing to you is almost like talking to you, and I miss that a lot. Every time I think of home, I think of Norman and feel that big empty space where he should be. I’m so sad for Gail and the kids, and I’m so sad for the rest of us. Norman was one of the best men I ever knew, and this Christmas I hope he’s looking down on us and missing us even half as much as we miss him.

  Hard to believe we’ve been out here three years. If you asked, I’d say that sometimes I’m actually glad I signed up, because I can’t imagine sitting at home and watching the war from the couch. But most of the time I’m calling myself a fool. I’d love to be miles away from all this right now, even if it meant I was stinking of fish. Don’t get me wrong. I’m fine, really, and I’m safe. But it does get tiresome. I miss you all like nobody’s business, and I hate knowing that me and Harry make you worry so much. Keep your chins up. It’s not so bad most of the time.

  If I don’t get a chance to write again before the big day, I wish you all a very festive holiday. Please give little Claire and baby Susie an extra special hug and tell them that their daddy misses them very much. Maybe next Christmas I’ll be home to hug them myself. That would be a gift indeed.

  I’d better sign off before the others see me getting all soft.

  Love to all,

  Eugene

  P.S. Grace, I know I promised you a present from jolly old England, and you’re probably wondering where it is. Sorry I didn’t get around to shopping this time around, but you never know what might happen in the new year.

  Grace let out a small laugh for the benefit of everyone in the room, but even to her own ears it sounded flat. She didn’t want anything from jolly old England except her brothers, and nothing would ever bring Norman back. Was she supposed to feel hopeful about the approach of 1943? All she’d seen this year was death and destruction. All she’d felt was loneliness and grief. What could the future have in store? That was the s
cariest question of all.

  THREE

  The Christmas Dance offered hope, or at least a distraction from all the sadness. It was a much-needed opportunity to step outside the day-to-day realities, if only for a few hours, and Grace was determined to make those hours special.

  “I bought myself some dark red velvet,” Linda confided. “I’ve made a skirt of it, and a matching bow for my hair. Won’t that be the cat’s meow?”

  She’d stopped in while Grace was working, and they were enjoying a cup of tea at the counter. The poster for the dance said everyone had to wear something red, even if it was just a sweater. That was almost as exciting as the dance itself, since the whole world seemed to dress in nothing but blacks, browns, and greys those days. Grace didn’t tell her friend that she’d actually purchased a brand new dress from the catalogue. Not velvet, but a lovely, deep red cotton sprinkled with cheerful white polka dots. She’d bought it on impulse, and she wasn’t sure where she’d ever wear it again after the dance, but she didn’t regret it.

  “You look hotsy-totsy in everything, Linda.” Grace tilted the teapot, added steaming tea to each of their cups. “So tell me what you’re hearing on the switchboard. Do you know who’s going to the dance?”

  “Oh, everyone, really.” Linda blew on her tea, then looked up at Grace from under her dark eyelashes. “Was Harry able to get time away? You said he was trying.”

  His letter had arrived the day before, and the whole family had been ecstatic. Maman had spent all night planning his favourite meals.

  “He is. He’ll ‘escort’ me, he says.”

  The corners of her friend’s eyes creased. “I hope he’ll escort me onto the dance floor.”

  Grace was uncomfortable talking about her brother in a romantic context, so she said, “I’m bringing marble cookies and ginger snaps. You?”

  Linda lifted her chin a little, and Grace realized she’d just started a competition.