in the breeze.
What Angus remembered since was not their words so much as the spaces between them, the unspoken certainty of their decision that he should go and the heart-stopping reality that he was. What he remembered, too, was the feel of his hands around her slim frame, the slight arch of her back as she handed Young Fred off to Ida. He knew that arch, the vulnerable small of her back, her head thrown back. Even there on the platform, it seemed a long-ago dream.
As Angus stepped onto the train, she clutched his arm. Don’t, he thought. Don’t have doubts now.
“Promise you’ll be safe,” she said.
“You know I will. It’s London! I’ll be completely safe,” he’d said as the wheels started to roll and her hand slipped away. “I’ll find him,” he said. “You’re the man of the house now, Simon Peter!” he called out to the boy, whose face was crumpling. “Proud of you already.”
“Must miss her terribly, eh?” Publicover opened the tin of matches. “She’s a peach from that picture you carry. Lucky for me I left no sweetheart behind. Maybe find one in Paris when the war’s over. Course by then I’ll be too old for romance.” He flashed a grin and sat down. He had a beautiful smile, full of grace and happy expectation, as if the world had nothing but good things to offer. He struck a match on his thumbnail, watched it burn out, then struck another.
“You intending to use up all those matches?”
“That’s my plan . . .”
Angus screwed the cap on his pen and held out his hand. Publicover reluctantly handed over the jar of matches. It was not the first time they’d been through this. Angus put them on the shelf, then glanced at the picture of Hettie once more before putting the envelope in his breast pocket. She was a beauty, alright. Spitting image of her mother, it was said—the wild and beautiful Ellen Langston, from Alberta. Buried out there when Ebbin and Hettie were barely out of the cradle. Angus had seen Amos Hant, with a few drinks in him, shake uncontrollably at the sight of Hettie entering a room. Trying to comfort him only made it worse, Hettie said.
Publicover leaned back on his bunk, arms behind his head. “Here’s my plan, when we’re off the line. Hot bath, first off, then a long, uninterrupted sleep. The Princess Pats can’t get here soon enough for my money. I know a couple of those boys. Good lot, mostly, but I’ll be happy to say, ‘see ya boys,’ as we pass in the night. Or wait, did I say the Pats? It’s not them. It’s some McBride’s Kilties taking our places. Anyway, hot bath. Down pillow. Mother, mother, mother, pin a rose on me. How about you?”
“Me? Billets aboveground will do—a place that you don’t burn down. Then, sleep without rats and your snoring. Then see if I can find out more on Ebbin.”
“So, ‘missing in action’ isn’t good enough . . .”
“No. Plus a friend at home thought he saw him around Courcelette.”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t be enough for me either, if he was my brother or pal or whatever he was—is, I mean.”
“Brother-in-law. You have a brother?”
“Nope. Tons of sisters. I told you before. Back home baking pies.”
“Pies?”
“Apple pies. Apple butter. Apple jack. Don’t you listen? The apple orchard in the Annapolis Valley—a place called Paradise?”
“Ah yes, Paradise.”
“Born and raised there.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lucky me—long as I end up there.” Publicover swung his legs onto the floor and leaned forward with his head down. “Not everyone is, you know. Lucky. Can’t always find the tags. It’s not always bodies, it’s bits. Hate to say it, but you know it’s the truth. The 12 th went through it. We all did.” He looked up slowly.
Angus held his gaze and without warning found himself flung across the dugout. A few feet away, Publicover hunched on the shuddering ground. In the thunderous boom of the explosions and stuttering confusion, a crate rattled toward Angus. The shriek
What Angus remembered since was not their words so much as the spaces between them, the unspoken certainty of their decision that he should go and the heart-stopping reality that he was. What he remembered, too, was the feel of his hands around her slim frame, the slight arch of her back as she handed Young Fred off to Ida. He knew that arch, the vulnerable small of her back, her head thrown back. Even there on the platform, it seemed a long-ago dream.
As Angus stepped onto the train, she clutched his arm. Don’t, he thought. Don’t have doubts now.
“Promise you’ll be safe,” she said.
“You know I will. It’s London! I’ll be completely safe,” he’d said as the wheels started to roll and her hand slipped away. “I’ll find him,” he said. “You’re the man of the house now, Simon Peter!” he called out to the boy, whose face was crumpling. “Proud of you already.”
“Must miss her terribly, eh?” Publicover opened the tin of matches. “She’s a peach from that picture you carry. Lucky for me I left no sweetheart behind. Maybe find one in Paris when the war’s over. Course by then I’ll be too old for romance.” He flashed a grin and sat down. He had a beautiful smile, full of grace and happy expectation, as if the world had nothing but good things to offer. He struck a match on his thumbnail, watched it burn out, then struck another.
“You intending to use up all those matches?”
“That’s my plan . . .”
Angus screwed the cap on his pen and held out his hand. Publicover reluctantly handed over the jar of matches. It was not the first time they’d been through this. Angus put them on the shelf, then glanced at the picture of Hettie once more before putting the envelope in his breast pocket. She was a beauty, alright. Spitting image of her mother, it was said—the wild and beautiful Ellen Langston, from Alberta. Buried out there when Ebbin and Hettie were barely out of the cradle. Angus had seen Amos Hant, with a few drinks in him, shake uncontrollably at the sight of Hettie entering a room. Trying to comfort him only made it worse, Hettie said.
Publicover leaned back on his bunk, arms behind his head. “Here’s my plan, when we’re off the line. Hot bath, first off, then a long, uninterrupted sleep. The Princess Pats can’t get here soon enough for my money. I know a couple of those boys. Good lot, mostly, but I’ll be happy to say, ‘see ya boys,’ as we pass in the night. Or wait, did I say the Pats? It’s not them. It’s some McBride’s Kilties taking our places. Anyway, hot bath. Down pillow. Mother, mother, mother, pin a rose on me. How about you?”
“Me? Billets aboveground will do—a place that you don’t burn down. Then, sleep without rats and your snoring. Then see if I can find out more on Ebbin.”
“So, ‘missing in action’ isn’t good enough . . .”
“No. Plus a friend at home thought he saw him around Courcelette.”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t be enough for me either, if he was my brother or pal or whatever he was—is, I mean.”
“Brother-in-law. You have a brother?”
“Nope. Tons of sisters. I told you before. Back home baking pies.”
“Pies?”
“Apple pies. Apple butter. Apple jack. Don’t you listen? The apple orchard in the Annapolis Valley—a place called Paradise?”
“Ah yes, Paradise.”
“Born and raised there.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lucky me—long as I end up there.” Publicover swung his legs onto the floor and leaned forward with his head down. “Not everyone is, you know. Lucky. Can’t always find the tags. It’s not always bodies, it’s bits. Hate to say it, but you know it’s the truth. The 12 th went through it. We all did.” He looked up slowly.
Angus held his gaze and without warning found himself flung across the dugout. A few feet away, Publicover hunched on the shuddering ground. In the thunderous boom of the explosions and stuttering confusion, a crate rattled toward Angus. The shriek
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