The Alien Corn: The Canadians, #2

The Homecoming

Ontario. Canada, September 1945

The first thing he registered was the smell. It was just after dawn and the sky was still streaked with pink but the scent of ripe wheat told him at once that he was home. Jim breathed in a lungful of air and looked towards the distant horizon, across the shafts of wheat waving in the breeze. He had stood here in this same spot the last time he saw the farm. Back then his beloved dog Swee'Pea had been beside him and it was still a few short hours until he would discover his fiancée, Alice, in the arms of his brother, Walt.

It felt like a lifetime ago, but it was only five years. No, it was a lifetime ago. The Jim who had stood here then was naive, hopeful, uncertain whether to join up to fight Hitler, torn between his duty to his country and his wish to see his wedding plans through. The Jim who stood here now was battle-worn, tired, old beyond his years. The war had chipped away at him, cutting out the softer parts, sculpting him down to the hard rock that was now at the core of him, turning him into a man whom, he believed, could no longer be shocked by anything.

He wanted to whistle for Swee’Pea but it was pointless. His mother had written to tell him when the dog died. He’d been sad for a moment or two but the feeling had passed. Having looked into the damaged face of his dead brother, and with men dying around him every day, there had been little space left to brood over a dog who had lived a long and happy life and he hadn’t seen in years. But now he would have given anything to have his old friend bound up to him, tail wagging, ready to follow in his footsteps wherever he went.

Jim pulled the grains off an ear of wheat, rubbing them between his fingers. It was a reflex action. A few more days until they’d be ready. He walked slowly along the perimeter of the field, breathing in the sweet, fresh smell of the crop. In front of him the ground dropped in a short, steep slope. Beyond, more fields stretched away, ending at a distant line of trees that marked the boundary of the farm. Jim stopped short, surprised to see that instead of another expanse of wheat the land lay fallow. Why hadn’t Pa planted the bottom acres?

He walked on through more land covered with grass and wild flowers where wheat should have been standing tall. What had happened? His father would never have neglected planting in the past. A stab of guilt pierced him. The farm was too much for one aging man to manage alone. His father had said as much the night Jim left to volunteer for the army.

He glimpsed a splash of light where sunlight hit water though the trees. The creek. He moved down the slope to the strip of shallow water which deepened into a pool under a large tree. His throat constricted as he looked at the cottonwood tree with its branches bending low over the water. Home. All his childhood memories began in this spot.

He thought of his brother, Walt. Dead and buried in England in the Canadian section of the cemetery at Brookwood after the fateful Dieppe raid. Jim had visited his grave back in 1943 before he left for the front. The spot was marked only by a temporary wooden cross with a simple metal marker bearing Walt's name, a few rows away from the plot where Jim’s friend Greg was interred. He hoped permanent tombstones would soon be erected.

Picking up a pebble, he ran it round in his hands, feeling its roughness, then tossed it into the stream and watched the ripples spread through the clear water. A tattered rope still dangled from the branches of the tree, too worn now to bear his weight. How many times had he and Walt swung from that rope as boys, hanging on as long as possible before letting go and plunging into the pool below?

The sun was moving higher in the sky and the air was already warm. Jim took off his jacket and dropped it on the ground, slinging his battered, army-issue, canvas holdall beside it and sat down with his back against the trunk of the cottonwood tree. He didn't want to go up to the house yet. The thought of greeting his parents was not a happy one. When they looked at him he feared they would see only the absence of his brother.

Jim hadn't written to tell them about his wife and child. There had been no time between the rushed marriage ceremony and his deployment to Sicily. Afterwards, caught up in the horrors of the battlefield, he had fought day after day with the expectation of dying. It didn't seem right to tell his folks about Joan and the baby when there was little prospect of them ever meeting their daughter-in-law and grandson. Better to tell them in person – if he survived the war. Now he would have to face up to the fact that he was a husband and father. At some point in the not too distant future he would return to Joan and Jimmy: his wife, a virtual stranger, and the son he had seen for a matter of minutes. He would have also to face up to telling his parents that he wasn’t staying at Hollowtree Farm. He was going back to England as soon as he’d sorted things out here.

Why did war make everything so complicated? But it wasn’t right to blame it all on the war. Finding out his fiancée was in love with his brother was already enough of a complication.

Running his hand through his hair, he brushed away the sweat that soaked his brow despite the early hour. It was going to be a scorcher today. He sucked on a stalk of grass, drawing the sweetness into his mouth as he and Walt had done through countless summers lying here beside the creek.

What was the point of delaying? Better to get it over and done with. He sprang to his feet and moved towards the farmhouse, visible in the distance. Before going to the house, he walked across to the barn. In the gloom of the interior he gasped. Where once there had been neatly piled bales of hay, sacks of feed and potatoes, bundles of corn and dozens of barrels of apples, now there was a large empty space with a few buckets containing cornmeal and grain. This was where he had discovered his fiancée Alice with his brother. The pain of that memory was gone now, erased by his experiences in Europe and the passage of time. He sat down on an upturned bucket and looked around at the empty space. It made no sense. The barn should be bursting at the seams this time of year. He felt a hollow fear. What was going on? He hadn’t wanted to return to Canada at all, but after five years service, almost all of it overseas, and his involvement in the battles in Sicily and Italy, he had been high up the queue for demobilisation. He intended going back to England to settle but first he had to say goodbye to his folks, or maybe persuade them to come with him. Seeing the way the farm had been neglected perhaps that wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

When he emerged from the barn his mother was in the yard, hanging out the washing, her back to him. A rush of affection swept through him. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed her. He glanced at his watch, surprised that she must have been up before dawn to get the washing done already. Unable to sleep perhaps? He waited until she had finished the task before calling her. She was bent over, in the act of picking up the empty basket and she froze for a moment, then turned and ran to him. But how changed she was. Barely fifty, she looked like a woman in her late sixties, her face lined and careworn. Her eyes had lost their sparkle and her mouth was set in what deep grooving suggested was a permanent downward turn.

Jim hesitated, guilt for his part in bringing about this change weighing heavy on him. Then her arms were around him and her head was against his chest and he could hear her sobs. Her body pressed against his, while he stood rigid, uncertain what to do or say.

After a few moments she lifted her head and looked at him. ‘Oh, Jim,’ was all she said, then again, ‘Oh, Jim.’ In those two words there was a wealth of emotions: joy, sorrow, recrimination, regret, possibly even fear or dread. She raised her hand and ran it down his cheek. ‘Oh Jim,’ she said again, this time with a hint of finality.

‘Hello, Ma.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We’d have met you from the station. How did you get here? We thought you were still in Europe. They’ve been saying how it’ll take months to get you all back home. I’d no idea you’d be here so fast.’

‘I had pneumonia. They sent me back to Canada on a hospital ship with the wounded.’

'Pneumonia?’ His mother’s face was concerned. 'How did that happen?’

'The last few months were pretty rough. Rain then snow.’

‘You’re used to snow, son.’ She smiled at him and touched his arm.

‘Not sleeping out in the open, underfed and being bombarded all the time.’

Helga’s eyes were wide. ‘I thought Italy was warm and sunny.’

Jim grunted. 'Actually it's a while since I left there. The army had me escorting wounded men home after I landed in Halifax.'

‘So you’ve been in Canada a while?’ She spoke with an accusatory tone.

‘Since early April. When the war in Europe ended in May they stuck me behind a desk dealing with transportation. Then out of the blue they demobbed me a few days ago. Guess I was lucky.’

As soon as the words were out he wanted to take them back. Lucky. Yes he had been lucky. Walt had not been lucky. The guilt that had haunted Jim since his brother’s death touched him now like a cold hand. If he hadn’t joined up, Walt wouldn’t have felt he had to follow him. If he hadn’t run away from the knowledge that Walt and Alice had betrayed him, Walt would still be alive.

Pushing thoughts of Walt aside, he added. ‘Some of the men shipped straight out to the Pacific.’

‘Well thank God, you didn’t have to.’

'I’ve been travelling all night. When I got off the train at Kitchener one of the guys gave me a ride into town and I walked from there.’

‘You must be exhausted. And hungry. Let’s get you some breakfast, son.’

There was the sound of coughing, a rough, rasping rattle of a noise. Jim’s father stood in the doorway. Jim swallowed and taking his mother by the hand, walked towards the house, his heart heavy with dread.

There was no display of emotion from Donald Armstrong. He held out a hand to shake his son’s and gave him a nod, while avoiding meeting his eyes. The three of them turned and went inside the house.

Jim ate with a hunger he hadn’t known he was feeling. It was a generous breakfast and a delicious contrast to the years of army rations. Home-cured bacon, eggs fresh from their own hens, sausages, fried potatoes and home-baked bread, washed down with hot coffee.

They ate in silence, Helga Armstrong frequently patting Jim’s arm, as if to reassure herself that he was still there, while her husband kept his head lowered over his breakfast plate, chewing in silence. But when Jim looked at his father’s plate he saw it was barely touched.

Eventually Donald looked up and fixed his eyes on the cooking range as he spoke. ‘So you saw him after he died then?’

Jim grunted assent. ‘I was at the port when they brought him back.’ He felt the blood suffusing his face. His throat felt dry and he gulped another swig of coffee.

‘How did he look?’ He started coughing.

‘Don, no.’ Helga got to her feet and started to clear away the plates. ‘Don’t ask that.’

‘I’m entitled to know.’

‘He looked…’ Jim searched for the right words. ‘Peaceful.’

His father snorted in disgust and the snort degenerated into more coughing. ‘Cut out the clichés. I was a soldier myself. There’s nothing you can tell me that I didn’t see at Vimy Ridge–’

Jim was suddenly angry. Angry at his dead brother and angry at the man sitting at the other end of the table. He thought of the last time he had sat at this table, Walt and Alice guarding their secret from him, probably already looking forward to their tryst in the loft of the barn. He’d had no choice but to get out of here then but it was clear his father blamed him for going and for his brother following him to war. But how could his pa have seriously expected him to stay here to face Alice marrying Walt?

He was about to give his father the details he had asked for. He wanted to tell him about Walt's half face, the jagged hole where his right eye had once been, the charred and blackened edges, the burnt vestiges of his once luxuriant sun-bleached hair. Why shouldn’t his father be haunted the way he was by that image of Walt? Then he saw the anxious look on his mother’s face and instead turned to her and said, ‘Like I said, he looked as though he was sleeping. He was at peace.’

Donald Armstrong scraped back his chair and went to move away from the table.

Jim stretched out a hand to stay him. ‘Wait, Pa, there’s something I need to tell you. Sit down, Ma.’

He swallowed, breathed slowly to steady his nerves then said, ‘I got married when I was in England. I have a son. You have a grandson.’

He studied the grain of the table, listening to the sharp intake of breath from his mother.

‘Married? A child?’ Helga’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘What about Alice?’

Jim leaned back in his chair, distancing himself, disbelieving what he thought his mother was about to say. ‘Alice? What’s it to do with Alice?’

‘We thought –'

‘Thought what?’ Jim could feel the anger rising inside him.

‘That you and she… after all, you were going to be married before… We thought now that Walt’s gone and her with little Rose to bring up–’

Jim got up so fast that he knocked his chair over behind him. ‘Well you did too much thinking. There was never going to be anything between me and Alice once I found out she’d been screwing my brother. My wife is called Joan, since you ask.’ He dripped sarcasm. ‘And my son is called Jimmy. Not my choice of name but then I wasn’t around when Joan had to pick one for him. Maybe if I had been I’d have suggested calling him Walt.’ He jerked a hand behind him and pulled the chair up from the floor, shoving it back into place at the table. ‘I’m back here to say goodbye to you. I told you when I left before that it was for ever. I couldn’t help them repatriating me but I’m going back as soon as I’ve sorted things out with the army. Joan is British and wants to stay there and I like it just fine over there. Now I’m going to get some air.’

Turning round he saw Alice standing in the doorway. How long had she been there? How much had she heard? Was she a party to the cosy scenario his parents had imagined? Was she harbouring the hope that he, the man she had unceremoniously ditched for his brother, would marry her on his return from Europe? He didn’t wait to find out but pushed past her, out into the yard, gulping in lungfuls of air, and began to run towards the pool by the creek.

By The Creek

Oblivious to Helga calling her name, Alice turned away from the farmhouse kitchen and went towards the little cabin beyond the barn that Walt had constructed as a temporary home for them when she’d told him she hated sharing the house with his parents. She sat down on the battered wooden bench outside and tried to pull herself together after the shock of seeing Jim and overhearing the words of her mother-in-law.

Alice was used to people talking about her. When Jim went away after finding out about her and Walt, she sensed everyone in the town of Hollowtree whispering behind her back. She’d tried not to heed the fact that they appeared to be labelling her a scarlet woman, a Jezebel, who had committed the unforgivable sin of abandoning the man she had been engaged to marry, in favour of his brother. The fact that Jim had up and left town to join the army as soon as he found out, had made matters worse. What if he were to die? It would be Alice’s fault. But he hadn’t died. Walt had. And that was her fault too.

The malicious gossiping of the townspeople was one thing, hearing what her mother-in-law had just said and seeing the look of horror on Jim’s face, when he turned round and saw her standing by the kitchen door, was another. Alice felt humiliated. Diminished. How could Helga Armstrong have seriously harboured the hope that she would marry Jim? That Jim could ever replace Walt for her? That he could step into Walt’s shoes as Rose’s father?

When she had fallen in love with Walt, Alice had been a woman possessed. A creature strange to herself, hungry for the arms of her lover, heedless of reputation, of Jim’s feelings, of the carefully laid wedding plans, of the shock of family and friends. Mindful only of the need to be with Walt. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, remembering. It had been a kind of madness – and completely out of character. As soon as that first kiss with Walt had happened, she had felt as though she was breaking the surface from deep underwater, lungs bursting, gulping down air, suddenly and completely free.

Jim’s only sin had been respecting her too much. Placing her above him, as though she were some kind of deity to be worshipped but not touched. Walt hadn’t cared two hoots for conventions, for reputation, for respecting her. He wanted her and he wasn’t going to wait for her. His hunger had shocked her, frightened her and then infected her too. In those first passion-crazed days, Alice hadn’t stopped to think, to measure the consequences, to weigh them, to balance them, to acknowledge what she was giving up as well as what she was gaining. All she had wanted was Walt. His skin against her skin, his hands tangling her hair, his stubble burning her face as he kissed her with a hunger that she was afraid might consume them both.

Alice hadn’t weighed what it would feel like when she wasn’t in his arms: when she was facing her parents and his, when she was seeing the hurt in Jim’s eyes, when she was being talked about in corners and discussed in the post office or over cups of coffee in the ice cream shop in town. In those moments she wondered whether she had lost more than she had gained. Until Walt would come upon her and touch her, his hot breath on her neck, his hands seeking a passage through her clothing, his mouth pressed hungrily upon hers.

But since the telegram had arrived to tell them that Walt had died in August of 1942, along with nine hundred of his countrymen in the failed raid on the French port of Dieppe, Alice had been hollowed out. Her loneliness and loss were so painful that some days she ran down to the creek out of hearing of her in-laws and screamed until her lungs were bursting. The photograph they had had taken in Toronto on their honeymoon was worn round the edges and stained by her tears. Holding her new-born daughter in her arms she hunted for Walt in the baby’s features and wept for the fact that her husband would never see his child.

How could Helga even imagine she would contemplate marrying anyone, let alone Jim? She wished she could get away from here. Take Rose and go and live in the anonymity of the city. Not Toronto. Too many memories of the brief honeymoon they’d spent there. Ottawa perhaps. Maybe she’d find work in a library there.

She got up from the bench and opened the cabin door. Rose was still sleeping. Alice thought of cooking breakfast for them both but didn’t feel hungry. The child had been late to bed last night. When she woke and found her mother gone, she’d wander over to the house and Helga would give her breakfast. Alice closed the door and set off, walking slowly to the creek, where she knew she’d find Jim.

Sunshine had turned the pool into a plate of polished silver. It dappled Jim’s legs under the canopy of the tree and bathed his feet in light. The warmth made him drowsy, heavy-eyed. He had slept little on the train. But his head was in turmoil, resisting sleep.

Why had he come home? When he’d left in 1940 he’d told himself it was forever. He wished he were back in England.

He looked up as Alice sat down a few feet away from him, her legs tucked beneath her on the ground. Jim said nothing.

‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Helga said nothing to me before. That was as much of a surprise to me as it must have been to you. It’s been hard on both of them. Losing Walt, then living in fear they would lose you too. I’ve become very close to them. And there’s Rose, of course.’

Jim closed his eyes.

They were silent for a few moments, then Alice said, ‘Did he really look peaceful? Did you really see him?’

‘The dead always look peaceful. If you’d seen as many as I have, you’d know it doesn’t make a lot of difference how they die. Once they’re dead they all look at peace. Maybe they are.’

Alice gave a little sob. Jim squeezed his lips together. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Alice, but I don’t want to think about the war anymore.’

‘I’m glad you were there when they brought his body back from France. I’m glad you were with him. Did you see his grave? Where is he?’

‘In a cemetery called Brookwood, close to where we were garrisoned. He’s in the Canadian section.’

‘The Canadian section,’ she repeated. ‘Is it a pretty place?’

Jim looked up, uncertain how to answer. ‘I suppose so. There’s grass and trees.’

‘Grass and trees. He’d have liked that. I wish I had a photograph of his grave.’

‘I’ll ask… I’ll ask my wife. Maybe she can borrow a camera and get a photograph or ask someone in the garrison to get one for her. I’ll write.’

‘You would? Thank you, Jim.’

Alice pulled her skirt down over her knees where it had started to ride up. Jim looked at her again, for the first time noticing how pretty she still was. There was a sadness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before