C H A P T E R   T W E N T Y - T W O

A few days later on Wednesday, August 13th, Jack came to collect them at their apartment. Rene led the way downstairs and they got into his motor car. “An exciting occasion, Father John!”

“I thought you’d enjoy our Mayor’s reception. Apparently, the R100 doesn’t take off till around ten, but we don’t have to stay that long.”

“You know,” Rene said, “at the Ritz the other day when I was having lunch with Hazel, it passed overhead. We all rushed out to see it. Traffic stopped — quite exciting.”

“Yes,” Eric said, “thank you, Jack. I can’t wait to see it up close.”

“We both wanted to go and watch it arrive, but the crowds were impossible. They say a hundred thousand people flowed over the Harbour Bridge and down to St. Hubert airport every day since it arrived.”

They drove along, chatting pleasantly. Rene had no fears of the dirigible disturbing Eric’s tranquillity. That one day he’d been absent, Eric had sent a hobo friend to tell her he’d been inveigled to stay with them. Apparently, the fellow had arrived at their apartment and found it empty.

As they drove along Dorchester Blvd, Jack pointed to the construction of the Sun Life building. “Going to be the tallest office building in the British Empire when it’s finished next year,” Jack remarked. “And a bit further on, I’ll take you through Place d’Armes so you can see the new Aldred building going up. That might even match it.”

“Amazing all this construction with times so hard.”

“The government must be trying to keep people working.”

“Bennett sure got swept in last week!” Eric commented. “Surprised Mackenzie King, I bet! Large majority: one hundred and thirty-seven seats to the Liberals ninety-one.”

Jack navigated down towards Place d’Armes. “The new Prime Minister claimed he’d do something about that Smoot Hawley Act. Amazing how those Americans dared erect such high tariffs to shut out most of our exports. But I doubt Bennett can have much effect.” They duly passed the Aldred building in progress and then headed east onto the great spans of the just completed Harbour Bridge crossing the St. Lawrence, Montreal being an island.

“Remember Jack, our father is said to have worked on the Victoria Bridge? I don’t know how true that is. Longest bridge in the world when it opened in 1860.”

“I believe he did, poor old fellow. As a teenager in the eighteen fifties. Snowshoed all the way to Montreal, did you know that Rene? Over six hundred miles.”

“On snowshoes?” Rene was suitably impressed. “All the way?”

“Yes. I heard him talking to Old Momma when I was little. He allowed as how he might have drowned right under this bridge on a sleigh. The other one went through the ice with a dozen aboard — of course, no one should have tried so late in spring. But Poppa didn’t want to wait weeks to come home and cross the river on a ferry. Times were hard then.”

They drove on, high over the houses below them and then on across the river. “I don’t know how they ever built this,” Rene remarked.

“About time they had a bridge here,” Jack said. “Traffic on the Victoria was getting pretty bad.”

The road was choked with pedestrians and motor cars, so many heading for the small airfield. At last, they saw the great silvered airship tethered a hundred feet above ground at a slim, seemingly fragile, mast. Rene leaned across to look out the window. Its ribs, clearly delineated, stretched from nose to tail. “Amazing they made it across the Atlantic so easily.”

“I expect the crew will be there and we’ll hear about it.”

After making their way through the crowds on the field, they reached the small airport building where the Mayor’s reception was being held. The bigwigs all looked prosperous, with members of the City Council awkward in dress clothes worn especially for the occasion.

Rene was taken aback when approached by a short, heavy dignitary with an enormous nose, dressed in striped trousers, a pale grey waistcoat, Ascot tie and a black coat. Exuberance blossomed from his squat frame. Mayor Camelien Houde greeted Father John, but all the time his small, foxy eyes fastened on Rene. He took her hand, bowed gracefully over it, then kissed the fingers with a loud smack. “You are welcome, Madame, to this humble celebration. It is no surprise the R100 choose our great city for the first visit.” Given to hyperboles, Rene had heard.

Mayor Houde hardly looked at Eric when Jack introduced his curate. Jack went on, “You know, Eric, our Mayor is doing some very fine things for the unemployed poor in Montreal.” Houde stood listening, his froglike smile stretched across his vast jaw, eyes glued on Rene as the most attractive woman in the room. “He’s putting people to work by building new parks, tunnels under the roads —”

“So the lovers, they have place for make love, Madame!” He beamed at Rene and winked.

“And not only tunnels, but he’s installing new equipment all over. I don’t know how many men he’s actually putting to work, but a good many.”

“Oh yes oh yes oh yes,” the mayor said. “But you have not told this lovely lady about my Vespasiennes...”

Rene looked up. “What are they?”

“Madame, they are where our citizens make pee-pee.”

“And Your Honour,” Jack quipped, “I’ve also heard them called Camiliennes...”

They all joined the Mayor in his laughter, and then off he went to greet more visitors.

“Quite a character,” Father John told them. “I’ve been to his office a couple of times. He has a brass spittoon in it.”

“Has he?” frowned Eric.

“Oh yes, and a silver shovel for sod turning, and three telephones. You know, he gets up early, works hard, never takes a drink. The French just love him. He’s the leader of the provincial Conservative party, too.”

Jack went to find a member of the crew, leaving Rene and Eric to sip their champagne and look out at the falling dusk. Then Rene noticed a couple of men and a tall woman looking in their direction. She had become accustomed to men singling her out, so was taken aback when a woman came over and addressed herself to Eric. “Are you Lieut. Alford? I’m Katie Dickson.”

Eric nodded. “How you do?”

“I heard from Mrs. Whitehead you visited her last week. We thought we might find you here with your distinguished brother, the Canon.” She paused. “I believe you knew Edward Whitehead.”

Oh heavens! thought, Rene. Here it comes again. In this crowded room, too. What on earth should I do now?

Eric stared at the young woman — certainly striking, with dark curly hair, flashing eyes, and stunning features. “Bombardier Whitehead? He was my best friend on the Howitzer. We were all so fond of him. But what did you say your name was?”

“Katie Dickson.”

“Katie? You mean, Edward’s Katie?”

Rene held her breath.

Katie nodded. “He was my fiancé, Father.”

Eric was silent for the longest time, staring at her.

Katie went on seriously. “It took me such a long time to get over... But now,” she held out her arm and waved over her tall, distinguished companion, “this is my husband, Wallingford.” They greeted each other. “We have a lovely family, two girls and a boy. He knows all about Edward. He helped me get over it.”

“I often wanted to write, Katie, to tell you what a brave man Edward was. When you said that you were his forever, he told everyone.” His voice broke slightly. “He would have been so pleased to know how you have gotten on with your life.

“And his end was sudden?”

“Very sudden,” Eric lied. “He died in my arms. Quickly. Painlessly.”

Katie nodded to herself and then, perhaps to hide her tears, turned away with her husband to rejoin their group.

Rene looked at Eric anxiously. But it seemed that the pain of that experience had so fully been borne so often before, that now, he was free enough to stare after Edward’s love, seeming almost happy at having met her and knowing she was herself at peace. “I can see why Edward was in love with her. An exceptional woman.”

“Now, Eric! You’re married to me, remember!” She joked, relieved.

Just then Jack brought over a slightly taller man with bushy black hair and a prominent nose. “May I present Mr. Nevil Norway? Deputy chief engineer of the R100. As you may also know, something of a writer — under the nom de plume Nevil Shute. He’s been telling me about the trip across.”

After the introductions, Nevil went on, “I was saying to the Canon here, it took us only seventy-eight hours — following the great circle route, about 3,300 miles. Average speed forty-two miles an hour.”

“And how high were you flying?” asked Eric.

“Normally fifteen hundred to two thousand feet.”

“And not one problem?”

“Oh well, yes, we had leaks in a couple of the gas bags. So up we went to 3,000 feet to let one of the crew mend them. And then, some tears in the fins. I had to go out into the backbone and pull loose the beating fabric to stop the spread till the riggers came. We also had a pretty bad storm between Quebec and Montreal. But that’s it.”

“I’d like to know how big it really is,” continued Eric. “Where do the crew and passengers stay? Inside somehow? Are there bedrooms?’”

“Oh yes, substantial quarters, about a third of the way back from the bow. Lots of window space to look down on the terrain below, and comfortable beds. The whole envelope is over seven hundred feet long and about a hundred and thirty across.”

“And you’re leaving with them tonight?”

“Yes, I didn’t go when the R100 toured Ottawa, Toronto and Niagara Falls,” he explained. “I was off at Lake Magog in the Eastern Townships with a friend, instead. But our reception here has been just unbelievable. Functions every day. And you know, when we arrived over Quebec City in the evening, it was still light. They were all massed on the promenades and parks to see us. A tremendous hooting with sirens. Rather exciting, I must confess.”

“And I hear your sister ship, the R101, is going to India next,” Rene said.

Norway looked worried. “They are supposed to. They’ve been rushing.” He turned to her. “We’re in competition, but I don’t like what’s going on there. They’re not taking the care they should. Pushing to get finished.” He shook his head again. “Not a good idea. Especially with the novelty of what we’re trying to do.”

“I do wish them well,” said Rene. “I have a mother and sister in England. I can’t wait till all this gets to be a normal event, crossing by airship.”

“I know, Rene,” Eric said, “but it’ll probably be far beyond our means. I’m afraid when we go, it may be on a ship.”

Soon afterwards, the crew left the reception and climbed the ladder into the dirigible. Rene, worried that the motors overhead might affect her husband, urged him to leave early. But he wanted to wait, as did his brother. So they stayed to see the great ship take off, drinking more champagne and eating assortments from the buffet.

On October 5th, Nevil Norway’s worries were realized: on its maiden voyage over France, the R101 crashed, killing 48 people, which effectively ended dirigible transportation.

***

The summer passed uneventfully and autumn began with more and more work at the church, as the numbers of the indigent increased daily. Rene was gratified to see Eric in such good spirits. Her vigilance lessened.

Father John was the one to bring up the subject as they were discussing arrangements for the next day’s luncheons. “I think perhaps, Rene,” he said, “for those Armistice Day ceremonies at the Cenotaph tomorrow, my brother had better not attend.”

“Why ever not?” Rene asked. “He’s been looking forward to it, you know.”

The Canon nodded. “I’ve even persuaded my old friend Arthur Currie, Eric’s commanding officer, to lead the ceremonies. So perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” he went on, “but if anything will remind him of the war, surely those disabled veterans, a good number legless in wheelchairs, some without arms, the military band and...” He paused. “The salute being fired...”

Rene thought hard. It had not even crossed her mind. But she knew that Father John respected her, and treated her as his special confidante when it came to matters concerning his brother, so she nodded. “Right-oh, Father, I’ll say we need him downstairs to help prepare the special lunch. He’s so awfully good at getting people to do things. But I know he’ll be disappointed.”

Father John seemed relieved. “These last weeks, I’ve noticed he’s becoming a little more agitated. Perhaps I’ve been giving him too much to do.”

The next morning, November 11, 1930, Eric sat down for his modest breakfast having shaved, dressed and said his morning prayers. When Rene brought him his egg, she announced: “I have some rather important news.”

“And what is that?” Eric began to tinker with the egg shell.

Rene sat down. “We’re going to have a baby.”

She thought she saw a look akin to fear cross his face. “Can you be sure?”

“You know the hospital just behind the church down the street?”

“The Queen Elizabeth?”

“I had tests done there; the results came back yesterday. It’s true. We are going to have a baby.”

“That’s ... that’s wonderful, dearest, really.” Eric came round the breakfast table and hugged Rene tightly.

When he sat down again, Rene was filled with misgivings. For some reason, she felt that he was not as pleased as expected. “Are you not happy, Eric?”

“Of course I am! Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know...” She sat down slowly.

“Well, it’s confusing. .. You see, I would want the best for the baby. And as a curate ... as a curate, how will I ever provide?”

Rene thought for a moment. “Eric, we’ve surmounted so much already, you and I. Remember, where there’s a will there’s a way. We shall certainly be good parents, of that I’m sure. And we shall give our child a lot of love. Let’s leave the rest up to the Good Lord Above.”

Eric looked at her with genuine admiration. “That is exactly what I might have said myself.” He seemed much relieved.

After breakfast, when Eric mentioned the ceremonies, Rene told him what Jack had suggested. Eric looked downcast. “I always mark Armistice Day with the one minute of silence at eleven o’clock. And my prayers. But if my brother asks me to help in the kitchen, of course, I shall. Funny he didn’t tell me himself.”

Rene made some excuse and went on to say, “We’ll have fun, Eric. Not only will we be feeding the hungry, but Father John asked me to make something special for the few officers coming back after the ceremony. They’re going to have a drink in his study, and we can join them. Afterwards, they’ll come down to eat in the church hall.” She smiled. “I think Jack would like to open their eyes to our hungry poor and their families.”

Later after the officers came back to church from the ceremony, Rene left Eric in charge of the kitchen and went upstairs with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Father John introduced her around and brought her to Sir Arthur Currie, superbly decked out in his general’s uniform.

Rene could see that he was charmed to meet her and she fell into conversation with him. “I hear one of your professors, Frank Scott, is taking up the cause of our underprivileged citizens. They say he’s a real advocate for workers who are being cheated everywhere.”

Jack saw that Sir Arthur was taken aback, and so tried to divert the topic. “I told the General here about Eric: how he fought in the Firing Line through every major battle of the Great War. And indeed, how he was an admirer of the General.”

Sir Arthur, looking stern, ignored him and turned to Rene. “You mention Frank Scott. You know, as Chancellor, I had to write and ask that he not use our good university’s name in his newspaper letters supporting the Communists.”

Jack and Rene both looked surprised.

Sir Arthur must have noticed, because he went on lamely, “You see, I did that at the request of our Board of Directors, all industrialists and, of course, wealthy, powerful, men.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m rather at their beck and call. It was, I hope, an innocuous letter.”

Again Father John stepped in. “You know, Sir Arthur, I’m a great friend of Frank’s father, Fred Scott, one of my finest chaplains in the Great War. We often see each other. In fact, he wrote a poem about the two of us. I’ll get it.” Jack disappeared into his study, leaving Arthur and Rene together.

“And how is your husband doing, Mrs. Alford?” the General asked. “Fighting through so many battles up in the Firing Line, he bears no scars, I hope? So many of our brave men do, alas.”

“He does have bouts of what they call shell shock, General. But he manages to keep them under control. Father John thinks he is doing a great job here at the church. He is a very fine man, my husband.”

“I’m sure he is.” Sir Arthur turned to see Jack come in with a paper bearing the poem.

“And what is the latest,” Jack asked, “from our old enemy, General? I’ve heard times are really bad.”

Currie nodded. “Apparently some demagogue has been rather coming to the fore. Fellow named Hitler. Not sure what he’s up to, but they say the results might be rather dangerous. When this blasted Depression caused the U.S. to reduce payments to the Weimar Republic, Germany’s struggling new democracy fell apart. Now what did you bring us?”

“Listen to this.” Jack read:

Two Archdeacons on the stage,

One shows youth, and one shows age.

One is dark and one is fair,

One is bald and one has hair.

Everyone with eyes can see

Each has got the C.M.G.

Both can duck and both can run,

So they thought the war was fun.

One writes poems, one does not,

One is Alford, one is Scott.

One has eyes of piercing gleam,

One looks always in a dream.

Both wear gaiters now and then

Just to show they’re Clergymen.

Woe to Bishops should they dare

To provoke this dauntless pair.

But of this I am most certain:

When they slip behind life’s curtain,

They will never, never go

Where they’ll have to shovel snow.

The three of them burst out laughing, and then the door opened and Eric came in. At the same time, a loud boom of cannon rattled the windows.

The room fell silent.

“On the mountain,” Jack muttered, “always fired on Armistice Day. Twenty-nine-gun salute.”

Rene looked anxiously at Eric. He stood as though struck. She could see him staring oddly at the military brass assembled. The cannon sounded again. Eric opened his mouth wide as though he were about to scream. But no sound came out. He turned and rushed out.

Rene glanced at Father John. “I’ll be right back.”

In the hallway she stood uncertain. Then something told her — the chapel. She hurried down the side aisle and, yes, there was Eric, kneeling at the altar rail of the Lady Chapel, hands clasped, lifted in supplication, his whole body shaking.

She came and knelt beside him.

She put her arm around him and held him as tightly as she could. “Don’t worry, Eric, it will pass.” As she hugged him, she felt his tension like steel, enwrapping him. “But now,” she nodded, “something will have to be done...”