Almost a Great Escape Page 14
I phone Dad. I’d like to do some genealogical work on the Tyler family Dad. It might make an interesting addition to the work you’ve done on the Trafford family. Not as important but just for the record.
That’s a good idea.
Would it be okay if I kept the boxes with Mum’s papers awhile longer?
Yes. Use anything you want. Keep them as long as they are useful.
Thanks Dad.
We share a faded velvet truce.
FAMILY HISTORY
AND WHERE WAS TED?
Ted never showed up for the birth of their first child. He just let Alice head off from Venezuela to Trinidad where his parents could take care of things.
December 2, 1945
Dearest Mum and Dad,
I arrived in Trinidad safe and sound, on Thursday night. The trip over was long but not rough. The plane came in an hour late. The exciting part of my trip was actually coming out of Casigua. There are two ways of getting out of that part of the world — one by plane and secondly by trolley, a square wheeled vehicle that guarantees to bounce off five pounds at the minimum. From there you have to spend twenty-two hours on a tanker twisting and turning all down the Rio Tara and Zulia until you reach the Maracaibo Lake. In the dry season — May, June, July — the boat gets stuck on the river banks regularly and it is a matter of three or four days before the trip is completed.
Well, up until Wednesday there had been no plane for three weeks. No mail, no nothing from the civilised world!! The regular pilot was ill and could not fly. The R.C.A.F. pilot could not speak Spanish and so was not allowed to fly according to Venezuelan law. You can imagine the excitement — me ready to produce any time and no way out of Casigua. I wasn’t the least bit worried — I imagine I could have made the trolley-boat trip alright although it wasn’t a pleasant expectation. Well “old Joe Shell” came through in the end. They whisked the R.C.A.F. pilot through a Spanish test and sent a special plane to get me. The rumours that went around Maracaibo were very funny — people were asking who it was that had to be rushed out of Casigua in such a desperate rush — some even thought the baby had arrived en route. However it was only me and there was no mishap. I stayed overnight with the Lucie-Smith’s — Ted’s boss in Maracaibo and they were very nice. They took me to the plane the next morning and the Watsons also came to see me off.
Yesterday I went to see Dr. Swart and he pronounced me 100%!!! Good news what!!! Furthermore, in about another two weeks I should have a fine healthy baby and what do you think of that? I am half excited and half scared — It’s all very well when the baby is safely tucked away — but what does one do after that!!?! I can imagine the first time I am left alone and the baby starts to cry. I know I shall grab it and charge to the nearest capable person.
Now I have a favour to ask again! I did try to find something to send Joanie from Ted and I for this big debut. There was nothing, however, absolutely nothing in Maracaibo that was worthwhile. So I wonder whether you would choose something in Birks for me Mother. I think a silver bracelet would be nice (around $25) — can you do that? We do want her to have it special — maybe she has seen something she likes. Tell her I am sorry that we could not send something from here. (You send the bill to me for sure, sure and I will send a cheque return.)
I guess everyone is all excited about Joanie’s party now — I know how nice it will be. It would be fun if we could be there too. And then right after that is Christmas. — Are you going up north? — I am so d--- annoyed that my good things all come at once. Baby and Christmas are right on top of each other — poor management I guess!
I have received two letters since I have been here from you — am looking forward to more. As soon as the baby is born you will receive a cable. I have heard that it is possible to telephone now — Do you know if this is true? — I remember when we thought we could telephone Venezuela and couldn’t. — Ted is very well — but pretty worried about this baby business — I know he will be awful glad when we get back.
Well that’s all my news for the moment. I will write again soon.
All my love to all of you —
And kisses
Your Alice
AN EDEN BROOK STORY
THE GOLDEN GIRL
What’s comforting about your graveyard is the absence of normality. At Eden Brook everybody talks and nobody listens.
The veteran sways, twisting his hands and twisting his hands and twisting his hands. The mother hugs a teddy bear soaking its plush in tears. Everywhere is stone and bronze that a stranger’s grief cannot stain.
The veteran – just a thin remembrance of a gallant day — glancing at me crooked hipped as he salutes somebody I’ll never know. Our eyes meet. Don’t intrude. Stay behind the line of graveyard protocol. We nod to each other as we pass. Nothing more. Although I’d like to ask where he served in March of ’44.
The grass is frozen with Advent snow. A ragged pilgrim limps his religious relics from a rusted pickup to a shining shrine. A splinter from the True Cross. Bless me save me forgive me. A bloody thread from the Shroud. Mary and Joseph are picnicking on the road to Bethlehem today. The Christian year dies. Promises are recalled. We suffer our regret.
I bet you know all the Montmartre whackos living here.
All I’ve brought today are two suitcase photographs. The first is George Nakash’s ’44 portrait of you. The Golden Girl. Honey coloured skin and hair. Blue eyed innocence. The Westmount debutante.
I have wrapped the photograph in clear plastic to protect it and I’m standing it on a small easel by your Memorial. Perhaps the limping pilgrim will like my little shrine. If he notices. He is lost amongst his own relics.
I think about ’44. The Advent days of World War II. March is the Great Escape. June is D-Day.
The Golden Girl. Alice’s thick blonde hair and honey tinted skin tones brought her to the attention of Montreal photographer George Nakash in 1944. He hung this Golden Girl portrait prominently in his studio. The McCord Museum displayed the portrait in its concourse during the 1981 Nakash Exhibit.
Photo courtesy of the McCord Museum. MP-1981.133.1.85
The year begins. Ted Trafford junior engineer Shell Oil runs four shallow well drill strings at Lago Grande, Venezuela, while thinking of a skiing holiday in Canada. He books three weeks with his mother in the Laurentians. The Alpine Inn.
You are in George Nakash’s Montreal studio. Hold it there he says from behind the camera.
Number 13 is in the tunnel. Jens Müller. He pauses to say goodbye to his handiwork. The bellows that pump oxygen.
A Friday evening of dancing at the Alpine Inn.
The shutter of George Nakash’s camera clicks.
The beginning of your end begins. Jens is free. Nakash hangs his ’44 portrait of the Golden Girl in his gallery.
You are at the top in 1944. Healthy and only 20 years old. McGill. The world is your oyster. John writes, “Dear Alice, The Golden Girl picture is still displayed at Nakash’s. Right in the best place too. Holy smokes what did you do to the man to make him do that? All my love.”
The Allied troops take the beach at Normandy. The war is almost over.
You stagger 37 years later broken heeled to the McCord Museum exhibition in Montreal. Half your bra empty. The Golden Girl is featured in the glass case by the entrance. You bring me back a copy of the book Nakash, inscribed: “To Tyler — with dearest love from ‘The Golden Girl.’” “The photo caption reads: “Alice Tyler of Westmount. The print was originally finished in sepia, a process which included a lot of gold chloride, guaranteed to last forever, but a tone which accentuated honey-coloured skin and hair.”
Guaranteed to last forever!
The pilgrim chants the Apostles’ Creed. “I believe . . .”
I hear the cadence and am standing in boarding school chapel. An inconsequential boy singing a full heart of rivers and summer stars that nobody cares to hear. My class robustly marches their Advent hymn to glory. Heralding a saviour’s birth. I
am impressed by superstition. I know nothing of life everlasting. I am 13 and can only understand the nothingness of cold water mornings, horse sweat, Dead Man’s Flats, and Mum.
What odd moments you string together.
Here is my second photograph. You’ll see the connection. Fifteen years ago I climb the hall stairs and ask are you awake? I have a new horse. Here’s a picture. Caressing it softly with fingertips, as if dream connecting the swirls of flanks and foreheads, you whisper, “When you ride, think of the Golden Girl sometimes.”
You sleep and do not hear me say the horse’s name is Emily, after Emily Dickinson. I read to you:
To fight aloud, is very brave —
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Cavalry of Woe —
Like you, Emily punctuates the Woe with dashes. Far more gallant you than me I cavalry charge.
What’s comforting about your cemetery is the absence of normality. Nobody talks and everybody listens.
FAMILY HISTORY
THE MARACAIBO HOSPITAL
We would ride without talking until lunch. Then me eating a sandwich you laughing more stories. They weren’t about us, but they were. The truth is always about us, nobody else.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Our poet Emily Dickinson said.
In the navy blue suitcase I carry your life after The Jens Album. He, too, had a suitcase. Big X worried that it might not fit through the tunnel. As if Jens who knew the narrow height and width as well as anybody would make a mistake. What did he pack? Probably only what a Norwegian electrician would take when working away from home. Leaving behind photographs books letters.
At Eden Brook I read aloud the small slants of while married to Ted stories — telegrams, excerpts of letters received, excerpts of letters shown me by your friends.
Tonight I write, finding order beneath your dishabille. Right or wrong it is all interpretation. Certainly Ted would tell the silly things differently.
To myself, I write a medical report about your deterioration by disease — including alcoholism as a disease not a weakness of character even though nobody knew back then — as if you were a clipboard of doctor’s notes.
Alice’s athleticism and drive first deserted her during the Jens gone months when she pushed herself to pass her Matriculation examinations and be accepted at McGill where, she believed, she would become a writer. The physical exhaustion of long nights. The mental exhaustion of refusing to give in to the you’re wasting your time attitude of her family.
Alice’s second pregnancy led to an ectopic operation in a filthy Maracaibo hospital that started her on a lifelong fight with illnesses ranging from infections to breast cancer and polymyalgia rheumatica. None of these fights were made easier by her drinking and smoking.
After the ectopic pregnancy, the specialists told her it was unlikely that she would have another child. Alone in the Maracaibo hospital, she managed a cheerful letter to Ted.
Friday June 29, 1946
My own dearest Ted,
I am so anxious to see you — I feel Wednesday will never come. There are about a million things I want to tell you. Everything seems so bloody complicated. I want to go home, or get away from here at least, and just as much, more, I want to stay here with you. Being very practical — I must go away. Since I have been here I have even had boils — they are almost gone now. But the whole thing is just a result of the bloody operation. — and Venezuela is no place to recover. However, it is impossible to discuss all this in a letter – or on the radio so we had better wait until Wednesday.
I am feeling lots and lots better. In fact my skin is even looking a fairly normal colour. I walk around quite a bit and don’t sit on the bedpan any more — which is a great lift to my morale in itself.
Dorothy and Ken were all in last night. Ken is an absolute riot. Did he ever tell you the story about when he was in here — and one night some guy came along and peed in his ear! God — I thought I would roll out of bed laughing.
. . . Your Alice
The strain on the marriage soon followed, beginning with money problems when Bert’s business slowed and he had to take a break from making investments for them. Harder to accept for Alice was Ted’s loss of interest in her after the doctors told her she would not have another child. Ted, who wanted her to produce enough heirs to ensure the Trafford line would last in perpetuity, told her she was disappointing him. To wear down her ability to fight back, he began belittling any attempts she made to revive her writing.
On her way to Montreal she wrote Ted, still believing in his ability to love. Her last paragraph is all Alice style and attitude.
July 29, 1946
My dearest,
. . . The trip up wasn’t at all bad — a little tiring. The baby was wonderful but I had to keep my mind on him and the baggage the whole time. I knit one line on my sweater — and read less than a paragraph in my book. Flying is certainly the best way to get places in a hurry. I flew up from Miami to New York — non-stop in a DC4 — 56 passengers. Huge thing.
. . . My darling — I think about you so much. I hope you are getting decent meals and not living too badly — generally. (I got the curse today so that is okay. It should be all over when I go home on Thursday or Friday.) Mummy thought I looked a little thin — but otherwise 100% — very pleased in fact.
. . . Well my lover — I guess that’s all the news for now — oh no — H. was in the hotel at Maracaibo and his family — I snubbed them all. The bastards.
Well that’s all.
Your Alice
At St. Marguerite’s where she spent most of her time recovering, she soon realized she had made a mistake leaving Ted on his own. He had no intention of joining her as she recovered. He didn’t need her as much as he needed money. In one letter to him she describes happiness she finds with her “bohemian” existence, hinting at the healthful simplicity in life she would seek and never find with Ted.
August 6, 1946
Dearest dearest,
John called Dad about your cable on C.W.C. shares. He has not explained it in detail to me yet, but I think he bought a thousand shares for himself and a thousand for us.
. . . I feel like a stinker sitting up here in all this glorious weather and you in the rotten tropics. However, my health has become an obsession with the whole family and I just wish you could see the difference already. I am dying for you to get here and get some of this air or sun or whatever it is — which makes you feel so good.
. . . Dad is buying the shares in his name. Tyler. OK? (We do not talk about it. He is trying to buy 2000 shares. Naturally that goes down in the books and they will know plenty about him — Does it matter as long as they are in his name? Two thousand shares is a hell of a lot and may boost the market price.)
. . . I am living such a bohemian existence — I have forgotten everything but you. God I love you darling — and if I had searched the whole world over I would never have found another like you. I hope you feel the same way. . . . It is certainly a most glowing feeling inside me — like a light that never goes out.
Your Alice
“I hope you feel the same way.” I find it difficult to believe My Goodbye Mother wrote that forlorn plea.
Thirty years later, broke and in despair, Alice would write a friend:
Save a nest egg for your old age. Your children will be busy with their careers and need all they can earn. You must be able to count on yourself no matter what happens — old age, ill health whatever — at least you can be independently comfortable. I would never have believed that this could happen to me of all people. Why didn’t I at least take out an insurance policy. My Dad was always giving me money for my own use. Ted’s career, children’s education, sports, home and so on all came first. They were so important in those days but a little common sense would have helped.
From Venezuela, Shell transferred Ted to Egypt where the marriage almost ended when he b
egan an affair. Alice left him and returned to Montreal again. There, Big Marjorie unsympathetically insisted Alice forgive her husband and return to Egypt after he had written the first of many letters she would receive over the next 55 years with the common apologetic theme: “I promise I’ll never be that way again — if you’d only come back.”
My own darling,
I just knew right away when your telegram came that there was something wrong; I guess because you didn’t put “all well” on it like you usually do.
Gosh darling, how I miss you. I rushed back from Hurghada Wed. morning — then no Alice on the plane. Then your telegram saying “probably” Sat. and now it looks like it won’t be till next week some time. This sort of life is no good. Can’t sleep, no appetite, and all on edge. I stretch out my hand in bed and nothing there —
I love you so and when you are away I think about how mean I sometimes am and then I promise I’ll never be that way again — if you’d only come back. And I wonder how I could even get mad at little Teddy and right now I could forgive him even if he wet his pants, covered the house in paint, tore up the furniture and broke all the crockery.
Well, time for a beer, a pink gin, and lunch then to lie down and dream of you and love, and then wake up and realise I am alone.
All my love my angel — my sweetheart and kisses to Teddy.
Your Ted XXX
His promise, of course, was never kept. How strange for me to recall Jens’s promise to return for his Alice, and the risk he took to keep it.
But Alice took Ted at his word and returned to Egypt where, three years after the doctors had told her she would not have a second child, I was born.
For 13 years she would unpredictably hug me and laugh as she whispered in my hair, “You are my miracle. Nobody expected you after Maracaibo. You are my miracle.”
She was mine.