C H A P T E R   T W E N T Y - E I G H T

Eric had set the date for the first meeting of the Scouts for the last Wednesday of the month. How soon it came! And how gratifying to find the church hall just crowded with rowdy lads, twelve to eighteen, wrestling, shouting, fooling around; they delighted Eric. “Lots of energy to be channelled,” he told Rene, who seemed taken aback by his untroubled mien.

“I’ll just go over to the house and organize the food. Three parents answered your call to bring sandwiches and soft drinks. We shall have a lovely party at the parsonage when you’ve finished.”

“Thanks. I hope these lads aren’t here just for that!”

As Rene left, Eric snapped into his officer’s demeanour, calling the meeting to order. No doubting his authority!

Selwyn came forward to introduce their new scoutmaster. “Now boys, we’re real lucky. Not only do we have here a veteran of the Great War, but Reverend Alford has been camping and canoeing and exploring all over the back country of Quebec.” Eric could see they were looking at him with new eyes. “Now, how many of you ever heard of Vimy Ridge?” Most in the room put up their hands. “What about Passchendaele?” Again the same response. “The battles around Ypres?” More hands went up. “Well boys, listen to this. Our priest here fought through every one of those battles, commanding a Howitzer group on the Firing Line.”

Eric hadn’t commanded the Howitzer group all through the war, but anything to impress these lads.

“And I don’t suppose many here have been off alone with a real Indian guide, and shot your own food and made your own campsites at night. How many fellas faced winter blizzards on snowshoes with only a rifle and pack on your back, and a knife fer to skin the animal when you shot it? Well, that’s what this here clergyman’s done.”

Eric could see all eyes on him; Selwyn’s introduction had excited them and his own sermons had whetted his congregation’s interests during the month. He had wanted to make sure his parishioners would send their lads. Not enough young fellas in church, but once this Boy Scout troop got going, they’d be there, all right.

So Selwyn handed the meeting over to Eric, and sat down to listen. He seemed as interested as the rest.

Eric took over. “Now boys, you’ve all heard of Lord Robert Baden Powell?” He looked around the room. Several nodded. “He fought in the Boer war. My brother did too, with that first Canadian force in South Africa for our Queen, who was then -- anyone know?” Several yelled with British accents, “Queen Victoria!”

Eric grinned and nodded. “Good lads. Well, my brother probably met Sir Robert, as he was then. Anyway, that great man started this Scout movement in 1907 and it’s spread all over — a million fine scouts, worldwide. So it’s high time you fellows around here enjoyed the same manly training: forest lore, and how to serve your country and your fellow man. That’s what this movement is all about.

“This is Scouting for Boys.” He held the book up. “I’ll be getting several copies for you to pass around. You’ll read about chivalry, lifesaving, dealing with accidents and your duty as citizens. I want everyone to know trees by their bark and birds by their note, and to climb any tree or crag you come across.

“There’s no pleasure that comes near preparing your own meal over wood embers at the end of a long day in the wilderness. And no scent like the smell of that fire. Can you stalk your own stag? Stop a runaway horse? Rescue a drowning person? Close a cut artery? These are some of the skills you’re going to learn. He opened his book and read:

“* The tracks of wheels, of men and animals, and how to read them.

* Fire making, and how to find the right tents for camping.

* Sewing with needle and thread — no laughing now! We’ll need that, and the use of an axe and how to care for it.

* Map reading — finding your way by landmark, compass, stars, and direction of winds.

* Eyesight — by practice, we’re going to strengthen that. Hearing too.

* Your sense of smell — what’s down that burrow? A fox? Groundhog?

* Judging distance, and weather— how to read the signs.

“You see, the whole idea of joining the Scouts is to become healthy, happy, and useful citizens. I’ll leave you to study the books when they come, but I’ve printed out the Scout Law.” Eric handed it out, and then read:

“A Scouts honour is to be trusted

A Scout is loyal to the King, his officers, and his parents.

A Scout’s duty is to be useful and to help others.

A Scout is friend to all and a brother to every other scout.

A Scout is courteous, and a friend to animals.

A Scout obeys orders of his parents, his patrol leader, and his scoutmaster.

A Scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties.

A Scout is thrifty.

And finally, a Scout is clean in thought, word and deed.”

“When you’ve had some training, we’ll go on hikes up Pine Mountain and over on Spruce Mountain, and then further into the real wilderness; we’ll go in the sun and we’ll go in rain. We’ll go on snowshoes and in canoes. We’ll learn the knots for rope and the tracks of animals. We’re going to have the time of our lives. By the time we’re finished, you’ll all be trained as fine scouts and, when we attend the Scout jamboree next summer, who do you think will be the best troop there?”

The room erupted in cheers: “We will, we will!”

And by the next summer that indeed proved to be true.

***

“Have you finished your preparations for the jamboree?” Rene asked. She glanced at her husband, smoking his pipe beside her on the balcony. On this peaceful mid-summer evening in early August, 1932, their little son was playing on the lawn with a toy dump truck.

“Just a few touches tomorrow, but we are as ready now as we’ll ever be.” He glanced at her. “Did I ever think I’d see the day you sat rocking on a veranda, knitting?” He chuckled. In the distance, a team of horses mowed hay on one of the rolling fields. The year had been good. Eric had all three parishes under control, his Scout troop was the envy of other villages, he’d developed other sports, and intended to set up a soccer team this autumn.

“I’ve been hearing a bit of that new Canadian radio station,” Rene said, casting off stitches, finishing up a wool sweater for little Paul. “This parliament, though they don’t seem to be doing much right, did establish the new Canadian Radio Broadcasting Commission in May, funded by the government. I hated having to listen to American stations all the time.”

Eric nodded. “Would we ever hear of my brother being made an Archdeacon on an American station?”

“I thought he’d refused that position before.”

“He did,” Eric replied. “He’s done so much administration, he now wants only to minister to a flock. Otherwise he’d have been a bishop long ago.”

A load of hay came rattling by on the road. Rene and Eric waved to Walter Mount, from Britain, and his son Stanley lying at the back, waving at his collie dog trotting behind. Not many cars these evenings, just the occasional buggy.

“What about Amelia Earhart’s solo flight over the Atlantic?”

“She took off from Newfoundland, didn’t she?” asked Eric.

“Yes, in a Lockheed Vega, whatever that is. May 20th, I believe.”

“But Amy Johnson did that two years ago. Flew from England to Australia. A lot further in my estimation. And more adventuresome.”

“No, Eric, she flew eastward, and in short hops, mostly over land. Never across a great ocean. And look at the dangers she faced. Didn’t you read about her weather changing, how her altimeter broke and gasoline was leaking into the cockpit. Her plane even went into a spin but she got out of it. Fifteen hours before she reached the coast of Ireland. May 21st.”

“Courageous lady,” Eric agreed. “Crossing the Atlantic by plane — seems to be getting easier nowadays.” Then he added quickly, “Not to put her down, of course. It was a tremendous achievement. But we’re going to see that more and more.”

“Talking of achievements...” Rene dropped the knitting in her lap and leaned forward to watch little Paul run off to one side, then soon toddle back. “What do you think of this new CCF formed in Winnipeg? I read in the Family Herald: our first Socialist party! Frank Scott from McGill went out there. And J.S. Woodsworth, he’s the head. They do seem to be concerned about our terrible unemployment, the thousands upon thousands riding the rails with no homes and nowhere to go. That awful Bennet, he keeps on saying everything is fine.”

“We can but hope.” Eric sighed. “I may miss that hobo jungle sometimes, but I do prefer it here. Did you like my sermon the other day about welcoming the stranger at our door as if it were the Lord himself?”

Rene nodded. “Yes, very good. But not a lot of tramps coming by. Two last week.”

“Several over in East Farnham.” Eric travelled to the other churches on Sundays, and one evening for vestry meetings and such. For his hospital visits, Delmar Hadlock had offered his truck two evenings a week after finishing work. Normally they were much too busy to enjoy gentle evenings like this, when nothing seemed to be happening, and they could bask in a brief communication, soul to soul. Eric took the pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem. “Our red tailed hawk, I see. Wasn’t around the early part of this week.”

Rene nodded. Well, she thought, this is a far cry from teaching dancing in Australia. But every day she found something to delight in her little son and to admire in her husband. This country life seemed to be doing them both good. She hoped it would last...

***

Eric burst into the house, excited. “We won again, Rene. Last game of the season!” He took off his coat and threw it on the chair. November was cold, bare trees, ground hard. Farmers were battening down their hatches for winter.

“I know, my dear. You must be so excited.” Rene was sitting with her son Paul on the floor as he daubed coloured paint onto a large sheet of paper.

“Our team only started this summer and we’ve ended second in the league. Can you imagine!”

“Your Scout Troop was pretty well best at the jamboree, the soccer team finished strongly. What other worlds will you conquer?”

“And we’ve been here just over a year.”

Rene nodded. “Do you know, I’ve been thinking about starting a troop of Guides. The girls are getting jealous of your Scouts. Last time I went to Montreal, I bought The Handbook for Girl Guides and I’ve been studying it. I’ll start right after Christmas, if that’s all right?”

“Wonderful idea.” Just then the telephone rang, and Eric sighed. He looked exhausted. He shook his head, rose and went into the dining room to pick it up.

Rene watched him, as he grew serious, then frowned and spoke into mouthpiece of the black upright phone. He came back.

Rene asked, “Who was that?”

“Bishop Farthing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He wants me to take on West Shefford as well. They don’t have enough money for another priest and theirs left last month.” Rene shook her head: her husband was taking on far too much.

“It’s far too much,” echoed Eric, reading her thoughts, and growing agitated. “I can only just handle these three parishes already. You know what a job it’s been. And now West Shefford! Right there, that Church of St. John, it’s almost a full-time occupation by itself. I can never handle all that.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Well, I tried. But he would hear nothing of it. Reports have come back that I’m such a success, he seems to think I can do anything. But he is just asking too much.”

Indeed, thought Rene. Her husband did not do well under stress.

Events bore out her misgivings. Two weeks later, after Eric had delivered four church services in one day, he seemed not only worn out, but at the end of his tether. “I can’t do it, Rene, I just can’t.”

“You preached awfully well, Eric.” Rene tried calming him. “Your three services in the morning and one in the evening, they worked well.”

“But just giving a church service is not enough. What about all the parishioners that need looking after?” He swept his arms wide, clenched his hands into fists. “The sick to be visited? The lonely to be comforted? The rifts and arguments to be healed? The organizations to be managed, churches kept in good repair... It’s not just giving a church service!”

Rene said nothing. Not often she had seen him in such a state of agitation. Better keep silent.

“Well, what do you say?” Eric snapped, and looked at her with a frown.

Rene paused. “Would you like me to call the Bishop for you? I’ll just tell him it’s too much.”

“That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You think Our Lord would have said, no, I can’t help? I’ve been called to do it, and I shall just have to.”

“But you won’t have to, if I phone —”

“Rene, I want to do everything right.”

“You are doing everything right.”

“No. The Lord has said, be ye therefore perfect. He never stopped, day or night. I’ve got to be like Him.”

“Eric, you’re only human. You’re not like Him.”

“I’ve got to try.”

Rene could see such arguments were useless. She didn’t know where to turn. Even in this quiet parish that had engendered such hope, that ghastly war had once more driven him to despair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He slammed his palm against the door. “I just don’t know, I don’t know.” He slammed it again and again.

Paul started to cry. Rene picked him up. “Eric dear, do be careful.”

“I know, I know.” Rene knew that agonising expression. And then he dropped to his knees, lifted his hands in prayer. She almost saw the proverbial drops of blood on his forehead. Well, she thought, we’ve surmounted everything else, this is just another challenge we must overcome.