Causeway: A Passage From Innocence by Linden McIntyre Page B

That the Reds took it over early in the war, but the Allies quickly took it back, then drove them all the way to Manchuria—which was when the Chinese got involved.
    For the rest of the bus ride to Mass, I studied the kerchief map that Joe had brought back for Jean, trying to imagine what Korea and itspeople looked like up close, head swirling with images of the war from the newspapers and a whole jumble of other times and places and their wars. I tried to imagine the rivers named Ponchon and Imjin, and a valley called Kapyong where Canadians fought heroically on Hill 677, according to the papers. Comic books and magazines are mostly pictures of Americans, but because of Joe and the Canadian stories about Hill 677, I know it wasn’t just the Americans.
    I suppose I could walk up the hill behind our house and ask Joe all about Korea—except that I know from Danny MacIntosh and John MacDougall and all the others that you’re never supposed to ask them questions about their wars.
    I know from talk at the post office that Joe Larter is working at the causeway now. Veterans, like Liberals and Masons, never seem to have a problem getting work.
    Mr. Clough is a short, round man who wears glasses that slide down on his nose. He has a large round stomach that projects in front of him and is accentuated by wide suspenders. He complains about his stomach, and I have heard that he has ulcers. He moves slowly and makes puffing sounds.
    Many people seem to be afraid of Mr. Clough. And when they go to buy their things at the larger store, which is farther along the road and which they call R.J.’s, they hurry by looking straight ahead. Going back, they walk on the other side of the road. Sometimes Mr. Clough will stand in the doorway of his store with his hands in his pockets and glare.
    Everybody owes him money because he sells groceries on credit. He has two counters in the store, and behind one there is the post office. Behind the other he seems to have a little office of his own, and he keeps the bill-books there. Everybody has a bill-book, and you payit off at the end of every month. Knowing they have a bill-book at Mr. Clough’s store seems to make the older people nervous.
    But there are certain things you never buy at Mr. Clough’s, even if you owe him money. Meat, for instance. My mother says she doesn’t trust his fridge. And she constantly complains about his bread box. It is a large wooden crate with a lid on top, and the lid is worn and chipped because men sit there when they’re waiting for the mail or when they’re talking business with Mr. Clough.
    My mother hates the fact that men have their big rear ends so close to the bread, and she knows that some of them will fart on the bread box just for devilment. I’ve seen them do it—leaning gently to one side, smirking privately, and letting go.
    Not that it matters to us because we never buy bread anyway. My mother makes our bread on Thursdays.
    But I know all about Mr. Clough because he has sometimes caught me going by the store.
    “Come here,” he’ll say. “What have you got there?”
    I’ll show him.
    “You could have got that here,” he’ll say, frowning into the bag.
    After that I’ll feel guilty all the way home for somehow having betrayed the only storekeeper who lets people buy food on credit even if they’re Tories and Catholics.
    Sometimes if it’s something like salt cod, I’ll buy it at Clough’s even though I’m supposed to go to R.J.’s (which we are beginning to call McGowan’s because Mr. Howard McGowan owns it now). Mr. Clough keeps the salt cod in a wooden box in the back room, and I know how to pick out what we want, always selecting the white thin pieces that are less likely to have the worms.
    But if I had my way I’d always go to R.J.’s because it is a much more interesting place, with clothes and equipment and ammunition and the smell of new rubber boots and leather, and coffins on the third floor.Both Ronnie the Minister