Clara went outside to look at the Drakes’ cows basking in the late-day sun. She heard the mooing, suggesting it was milking time. The sun disappeared in the woods at the western edge of the fields. A little laugh escaped her lips at the recollection of a walk in the forest one spring day with George. He had put his hand down the front of her dress, not noticing a pair of elderly neighbours behind them. She had screamed, “Get this wasp away from me!” Swatting at her dress, she pretended George was trying to capture the offending insect. The couple turned modestly away and later asked if she was allergic. George teased her that she would make a great actress. “You are naughty, George,” she said.
The memory comforted her, and gave her thought as she went back in the house to fetch Ivy.
“Let’s go for a walk. Maybe we’ll see a rabbit or a fox before sundown. That’s when they are most active. Settling down for the night, I suppose.”
After she’d gathered up Ivy and they’d started their walk, Clara stopped to chat with the same neighbouring couple that had caught her with George’s hand down her dress. Mr. Hewson, clad in breeches and green wellingtons, leaned with both hands on his silver-handled walking stick as he chatted. He looks so British in his gentleman’s walking uniform, she thought. Mrs. Hewson wore a kerchief that allowed strands of salt-and-pepper hair to escape. Her tweed coat, the same colour as her hair, was loose and baggy, leaving her figure formless.
“Do you remember when Margaret tripped over the laundry basket hanging out the washing, Mrs. Durling?” Mr. Hewson asked, referring to his wife. “Her face was covered in blood and dirt, and she couldn’t move her arm. There weren’t many doctors on call during the war, but you came right away and popped her arm back into its socket. Then you made a splint before I took her to the hospital. The doctor was pleased with your quick reaction.” Mrs. Hewson lifted her arm and made circling motions to show how well she could move it. Clara nodded approvingly.
Bringing the conversation to the present day, Clara said, “James and Dorothy Aston are the new owners of my house.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “Let them know that despite the sadness at the end, we were a happy home. I’m leaving behind some good memories. When we get settled, I’ll send you news.”
An officious-looking man in a blue uniform shouted, “Cabin-class passengers with children, board first.”
“That’s us,” Clara said, pushing Ivy gently in the direction of the gangplank, grateful that Miff had provided the needed cash to upgrade their travel.
They walked along the deck to a spot where they could watch what was happening below on the quay. Clara tried to focus on the commotion and ignore the inner voice insisting it wasn’t too late to change her mind. She watched Ivy affectionately as she chattered away with fellow passengers on deck.
“Once them that’s on the upper deck is boarded, we’ll load on the handicapped,” announced the official down on the quay. “Third-class passengers go last,” he continued, in case anyone stepped out of turn. Clara imagined this puffed-up man with his dissolute red face bicycling back to his modest two-room cottage after the ship departed. She did not resent him relishing his short-lived importance. She pictured him enjoying his pint of beer at the end of the day.
“Oh, my goodness,” Clara said, looking down at the quay. “Auntie Di’s down there, arguing with the official.”
Dressed in a black sheared-lamb coat and hat, Di was shooing away well-dressed passengers who were starting up the gangplank. “Please, make way for the wounded,” she said. “The able-bodied can wait.” She started up the ramp with a man in a wheelchair. His head and eyes were wrapped in white gauze.
“You’ve got no ticket, lady,” the official yelled as though Di were a stowaway.
“Auntie Di is bossier than you, Mummy,” Ivy said. Clara nodded her head in agreement as she watched Di block the boarding passengers. She drew Ivy close and let her snuggle into her old wool coat. Di had urged her to buy a warmer coat before leaving for Canada. “I know, I know. I wasn’t born yesterday,” had been Clara’s irritable reply. She smiled down at Ivy in her white rabbit fur. “I might look a bit tatty, but you look splendid, darling.” Ivy’s arms tightened around Clara’s waist.
Within minutes, the scene below them on the quay was transformed as strapping Canadian officers helped their rank-and-file soldiers get on board. Nurses in blue capes stepped up their pace, fearing another scolding from Di, who they thought must be the matron of the nearby military hospital. Di had no financial worries with her husband a successful financier, but with the onset of war she’d hired a nanny and gone back to nurse at St. George’s Hospital.
Watching Di commandeer captains to push injured enlisted men reminded Clara of her last visit with her friend at St. George’s. There had been a peace parade that day, and it had passed in front of the hospital on its way into Hyde Park. Clara and Di had watched from a second-floor window overlooking the park. Decorated generals and ordinary soldiers in their distinctive uniforms were a vivid reminder that the war had been won through the collaboration of many countries. After the spectators dispersed, Di and Clara had crossed over to the park to sit one last time at their chosen meeting spot as nursing students. Di had liked to smoke there, and it used to be Clara’s job to keep watch so she wouldn’t get caught.
The day after the peace parade, The Times had published an editorial describing how rich and poor had mingled as one for the celebration, “high-born ladies making way for modestly dressed onlookers.” After reading it, Di had put the newspaper down, unimpressed. “Clara, this is the reason you’re moving to Canada. Even the war couldn’t unite the classes here for more than one day.”
Di continued as the self-appointed chargé d’affaires until twenty-five soldiers — some of them amputees, some with head injuries, and some blinded or coughing — were on board.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Di said to the first-class passengers, now embarking behind them. They shook her hand as she stood at the bottom of the gangway.
Clara grabbed Ivy’s hand and rushed down the boarding ramp to meet Di. “You’re the consummate nurse,” she said, linking her arm through Di’s and laughing to hold back her tears.
“Ivy looks wonderful in the fur coat,” Di said, equally emotional. “Promise me you will return soon, Clara. I’ll be waiting at this same dock.” Di took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You’ll do well. I know you will.”
“We’re going to miss you, Di.” And then the officious man shouted for Clara to get back on the ship as though it were a car that could drive away fast.
“When you’re lonely, think of Hyde Park,” Di said, puffing an imaginary cigarette. She turned to leave, still dabbing her eyes.
Clara watched her until she was out of sight; she had curled her fingers into her palms so hard she looked to see if they were bleeding. She took Ivy’s hand and rushed up the plank.
Passengers were settling into their cabins. The steward, who introduced himself as Joseph, answered questions as to various services, mealtimes, and activities. “What sort of entertainment is offered on the ship?” a woman dressed in a smart brown wool dress asked him. She held on to her wide-brimmed hat with her left hand and slapped at the hem of her dress with the other. Each gust of wind exposed her fancy stockings. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I think I shall return to my cabin until the wind dies down.” As she retreated, she removed her hat and used it to hold down her dress.
“How old is the ship?” a decorated officer asked. Clara recognized the Canadian uniform.
“I’m not sure of the age, but she’s recently been refitted in Glasgow,” the steward said. “We’re down to six hundred passengers in Cabin Class, or Third. The vessel was redesigned to take more cargo. Rest assured, Canadian Pacific will provide you with excellent service.”
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