Almost a Great Escape Page 6

  “But the doctor told her —” Alice begins.

  “I know what the doctor told her,” Bert interrupts. “But if Mother sits alone in the restaurant without a drink, she’ll cause more trouble than she will with a bottle of wine.”

  They wait, sipping their coffee and not talking. Uniformed soldiers are slouched on the benches, their legs stretched over dark green duffle bags. A few of the soldiers have brought their girlfriends to the station to say goodbye.

  Alice watches one of the girls crying onto a soldier’s chest. This war is nothing but hellos and goodbyes.

  A whistle blasts across the platform and into the waiting room. Alice feels the floor tremble. The soldiers sit up.

  “The train’s coming!” Alice says to Bert. “I’m going outside.” She hands him her empty mug and is the first through the door.

  Jens jumps from the coasting train, a leather bag over his shoulder. With his free arm he scoops up Alice and swings her to his side, her feet arcing weightlessly above the platform.

  Bert watches through the window and frowns.

  Inside the waiting room, Jens shakes Bert’s hand and says, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Tyler.”

  “Call me Bert. We’d better hurry. Mrs. Tyler is waiting at the restaurant. I’ll get a taxi. I hope that’s the only luggage you have.”

  “Yes. This is everything.” Jens lifts the bag onto his shoulder. “I changed into my dress uniform on the train so I’d be ready to go to the restaurant.”

  “Allez!” Bert orders the driver.

  The maitre d’ is waiting at the door. “Monsieur Tyler!” he says with a slight bow. “At last you have arrived. You had perhaps a little delay at the station?”

  Bert hands him a folded bill. “The train was late. But we’re here now and we’re hungry. I hope your chef has something special for us. My little Blondie wants to make a big impression on her friend.”

  The maitre d’ scans Jens and smiles. “Tall and debonair. Army?”

  Jens shakes his head. “Air Force. Norwegian.”

  The maitre d’ nods in approval. “A pilot! Très gallant. Perhaps one day you will be able to return to your homeland.”

  Très gallant and très handsome, Alice thinks. He’d better return to me.

  The maitre d’ turns to Bert who says, “Thank you for taking care of Mrs. Tyler.”

  “My honour. Mrs. Tyler and her dinner companion have been amusing themselves with la petite Gertrude.”

  “Her dinner companion?” Alice asks Bert. “I thought it was just the four of us this evening.”

  “We’ll see,” Bert answers as he takes her arm and they follow the maitre d’ to an alcove in the back of the dining room.

  Big Marjorie is sitting at the end of the table. On her right is a formally dressed man in his early twenties. On a small table beside him a piglet sucks milk from a baby bottle held by Big Marjorie.

  Bert leans over and kisses Big Marjorie’s cheek. Over his shoulder, her expressionless hazel eyes study Jens.

  “Sorry we’re late, my dear,” Bert apologizes. “The train from Toronto was delayed. Something to do with troop departures.”

  “Graham and I didn’t mind waiting, did we? Gertrude has been amusing us. Another half hour and she might have been fat enough to be our supper tonight!”

  The young man stands as Big Marjorie introduces him. “Bert, you re­member Graham Morton, don’t you? The son of Henry and Babs. I asked him to join us this evening, so we’d have company if the train failed to arrive. Everything about the military is unreliable these days.”

  Graham shakes Bert’s hand. “My parents speak highly of you and Mrs. Tyler. And, of course, your exquisite daughter.” He smiles at Alice and deli­cately shakes her hand. “Your mother mentioned you are considering McGill. I’m in second year accounting there. Perhaps one day you would allow me to introduce you around. It’s important to meet the right crowd.”

  Mother has picked a smooth bastard to ruin the evening, Alice thinks.

  “Perhaps,” Alice replies and turns to Jens. “Graham, this is Second Lieu­tenant Jens Müller. He’s training with the Norwegian pilots outside Toronto.”

  Graham shakes Jens’s hand enthusiastically. “Ah. The famous skiers. Heard all about you chaps from my pals up North. Not a skier myself. Tricky knee. A climbing accident. Put me out of the war game too. Worst luck. Golf’s the only action I see these days.”

  “Gentlemen,” Big Marjorie interrupts. “Please sit so we can all talk. I’d like Bert at the other end of the table and Alice on Bert’s right. Graham will stay on my left, and Jens will sit on my right.” She pronounces his name with a hard J.

  “Mother,” Alice interrupts. “It’s pronounced Yens. Not Jens.”

  Graham holds Alice’s chair and slides it under her as she sits.

  “Now then,” Big Marjorie says. “I suggest we all begin with a glass of the red wine that Graham and I started before you arrived. We’ve been having such a delightful time we’ve barely had time to taste it.”

  The maitre d’ opens a second bottle and circles the table pouring.

  Big Marjorie faces Jens and holds her hand over his. “Now, tell me Jens, would you like to feed Gertrude? Or is that not a custom you have yet de­veloped in your country?” Again, she pronounces his name with a hard J.

  He meets her eyes. “If that is the custom here, I should like to try.” He reaches across the table and holds the bottle while the piglet sucks.

  Alice claps her hands lightly and says, “Well done, Jens. Now let me have a turn.”

  As Alice is holding the bottle, the restaurant photographer steps into the alcove. “May I take a complementary photograph of your daughter with Gertrude?” he asks Big Marjorie.

  “Only if you promise to display it prominently,” she answers. Graham hands Gertrude to Alice who holds her for the photographer as if she were feeding a baby. Two waiters carry Gertrude into the dining room where other guests are photographed with her.

  “Would anyone care for a cigarette?” Graham asks as he opens a gold case. “How about you Alice?”

  “I’ll save that temptation for another time,” she replies. “Jens is always talking about self control and I’d like to show him I have it, too.”

  “Good for you Blondie,” Bert says. “The Tyler family has never had much self control.”

  “Nonsense!” Big Marjorie snaps. “Life is dismal enough without feeling guilty about a few pleasures. I’ll have one of your cigarettes Graham.”

  Graham pulls two cigarettes from under a thin gold spring in his case. Just as he hands one to Big Marjorie, Jens opens the box of matches Alice had given him.

  “Allow me,” he says as he strikes one and holds it for Big Marjorie.

  “Let’s order,” Bert says. “Jens must be starving after the train ride. I don’t suppose they offer much on the troop trains. I want to give him a real Montreal meal so he’ll have good memories of Canada while he’s shooting down the Luftwaffe. Where are the menus?”

  “There is no need for menus,” Big Marjorie says. “When I rightly antici­pated the train would be late, I ordered a special meal for everybody so it would be ready when you arrived. We’re going to share two Gertrudes this evening. The chef has them roasting. He promised me they’d be ready by 7:30. So we have an opportunity to talk and hear more about our guests. Graham can begin by telling us about his plans after McGill.” She turns to Jens. “I won’t ask your plans. We can’t expect pilots to have plans for after the war.”

  You goddamn bitch, Alice thinks.

  Graham talks about university and his father’s investment business until the waiter interrupts to say the roast piglets are ready.

  “Nicely spoken, Graham,” Big Marjorie says while the waiters carry the trays to the table. “You certainly have your life thoroughly planned. When this war is over your father’s firm should do quite well with their investments. Bert and I have been doing splendidly with our textile business. We were
clever getting our Celanese contract before those fools in government started controlling prices. Otherwise, the war might have proven less to our advantage.”

  Graham nods in agreement. “The Tyler family is a fine example to my genera­tion.”

  Bert taps his fork against his glass. “In honour of Jens’s upcoming departure from Canada and the dangers he will face, I think it would be appropriate if we asked him to give the blessing for this meal.”

  Oh, no, Alice thinks. Now there’s going to be trouble.

  Everybody is looking at Jens who says, “I cannot give a blessing. I am not a believer, Mr. Tyler.”

  Big Marjorie gasps, her hand at her throat.

  “Allow me the privilege,” Graham offers before Big Marjorie can speak. “Would you like it in Latin or in English, Mr. Tyler?”

  “English will do,” Bert replies.

  “Our Father. We thank You for this food and the life it brings us. In Your name we ask You to bless this food and make us worthy to do Your will. In Your name we also ask You to bless the Tyler family for their generosity in raising funds at their annual horse show and community events for the brave men who are fighting for our country. Amen.”

  “Well done, Graham,” Big Marjorie says patting his hand.

  The waiters carve and serve the piglets, leaving the apple stuffed heads on the trays.

  “Now it is your turn, Jens,” Big Marjorie says. “Tell us about life in Norway.”

  You goddamn bitch, Alice thinks again. More trouble. If he tells her about his motorcycle racing, we’re both doomed.

  For the first time that evening Jens smiles. He folds his napkin and sets it beside his plate. “First, I must tell you I have one plan for after the war. I will return to Canada.”

  I hope so, Alice thinks.

  “What about your family?” Big Marjorie asks. “Won’t they expect you to return to Norway?”

  The smile leaves Jens’s face. “The last I heard, my father is a prisoner in China. I have not heard from my mother and brother since the Nazis occupied Norway.” Jens lifts his wineglass. “To happier times. Now, Mrs. Tyler, it is your turn. Tell us about your life. Alice is always saying how interesting your life has been.”

  “How sweet of my daughter to say that about me. I must admit I wonder occasionally if she appreciates all I do in her best interest?”

  “Tell Jens about New York,” Bert urges. “About the convent in Malone.”

  “That’s not a cheerful story,” she replies.

  “Please, Mrs. Tyler,” Jens says. “There must be some cheerfulness in it. Look at the marvellous life you have now. I am sure your account will give me many pleasant memories to take overseas.”

  Nothing my mother loves more than talking about herself, Alice thinks.

  Big Marjorie studies her watch. “This may take more than a few minutes. Graham, will you be terribly disappointed if we missed the wrestling at the Forum?”

  “Whatever you want, Mrs. Tyler. Or we can go another evening. I’m as curious as Jens about your life. My parents speak so often about your parties and good work in Montreal that I never considered until now your life as a child. I am sure it is fascinating.”

  Big Marjorie snaps her fingers at a passing waiter. “A bottle of Scotch. Pour me a double and leave the bottle. We’re going to need it tonight.”

  Under the table, Alice slips off her shoe and slides her toes over Jens’s ankle. He doesn’t change expression. Poker Face, she thinks.

  LETTERS

  “WE ARE GOING TO GET MARRIED . . .”

  In June 1941, the first RNAF squadron of fighter pilots, including Second Lieutenant Jens Müller #125, flies across the Atlantic to join the British air defence. Jens writes Alice from the last refuelling stop in Canada, wondering if she has told her mother about their engagement . . . the promise he reminded her of but knew would be hard for her to keep.

  June 1941

  Dearest!

  Heaven only knows when you will receive this, and when I’ll hear from you.

  Since we left the camp and Toronto I’ve been able to center my mind and thoughts more clearly on you and me and the future. The only thing that really matters though, had never left my thoughts: we love each other and are going to get married as soon as this war makes it possible. Alice dear, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you and will miss you till we meet again. However, the training and service I’ve got ahead of me, will require all my ability and concentration so I guess the time will fly anyhow. Besides I can not imagine this war will last the year out.

  For the first time in a couple of years I’ve got time to read, which I’m doing all day. I hope I’ll get time in England. By the way, how about the “Readers Digest” you promised me?

  The first days of this trip has been rather dull but we got a good deal more excitement yesterday than we really cared for.

  I do sincerely hope your mother is well by now. She looked so tired at the hospital. I’m afraid your sister’s wedding will be a little much for her.

  I wonder if you have ever spoken to her about our plans for the future?

  Please write me often Alice, although it may take several weeks between each time you hear from me. And remember I’ll always love you dear, with all my heart. And I’ll be counting the days till we meet again.

  My best regards to you all.

  Jens

  AN ALICE STORY

  MAIL FROM ENGLAND

  Graves are supposed to be a person’s final resting place, but you are restless with me at Eden Brook. I know there can be no going back to before The Jens Album. So I will write for you and live quiet for awhile.

  Today you are 17 going on 21, as Uncle John would say. Studying for your exams. Jens is in England.

  Spring, 1941.

  Number 588 Lansdowne Avenue, Westmount, Quebec.

  Alice opens the door, barely letting the hinges squeak as she edges sideways into the hallway. She closes the door slowly, holding the latch so the catch won’t click.

  There is no mail on the table by the door. She stands for a minute at the bottom of the stairs listening for Big Marjorie upstairs. Say Mother. Think Big Marjorie. Keep it straight.

  Then she hears the sliding silk of bed covers. Then the bell’s silver ring.

  “Alice? Is that you?” Big Marjorie calls and shakes the bell again.

  Alice leans against the door and closes her eyes. Maybe if she pretends she is not there the bell will stop.

  “Alice!” The tone has changed from a question to a demand.

  Alice opens her eyes. “Yes,” she calls back.

  “You’re late. School was out an hour ago. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I told you I was going to be studying. Matrics start in a month. I need to study.”

  “Well, I needed you this afternoon. That lazy Annie has taken the day off again and I haven’t had my tea.”

  “I’ll make it for you and bring it up in a minute.”

  Alice drops her books on the stairs and goes into the kitchen. Annie has left Big Marjorie’s silver inlaid teapot and matching cups on the counter. Alice fills the kettle and sets it on the stove.

  There’s an envelope on the table with “Alice” written on it in her father’s fast scrawl. Probably an apology. She opens it.

  Dear Blonde Bombshell —

  Sorry we quarrelled this morning. I was worried about how hard you have been studying. I thought a weekend of golf would be good for you. John and Joan are coming with me this afternoon — we will all be home Sunday night. Little Marjorie is staying with the Fairchilds.

  Take good care of your mother — her nerves are bad again. The doctor says she has to be kept quiet. Call me at the Inn if you need anything.

  All my love

  XXX OOO

  Dad

  The kettle boils and she fills the teapot. Carrying the tray, she climbs the creaking stairs. Her mother is sitting up with pillows behind her back. She lifts the silver bell from the table so Ali
ce can set the tray down.

  “You may pour,” Big Marjorie says.

  Alice pours, adds two lumps of sugar, and passes her mother the cup and saucer. Then she sinks into the maroon velvet armchair beside the table. Her father says the colour is too bordello. She is Mrs. Tyler. She can choose any fabric she wants from his warehouse. She chose the maroon velvet. Another argument. It is her room. She will choose what she wants. He has his own bedroom.

  “Dad left me a note,” Alice says, her eyes closed, her head resting back on the chair. “He’s taken Joan and John golfing at the Inn for the weekend.”

  “At least your brother and sister didn’t disappoint him. He wanted you along. He’s so proud of you. He loves to show all his friends his attractive daughter.”

  “I told him I have to study.”

  “What nonsense! You’ll get your Matric. It doesn’t matter what your marks are.”

  “I need good marks to get into McGill.”

  Big Marjorie turns her gunner eyes on Alice. “McGill! As if that was going to do you any good. You already read too many books. What’s the point of going to university if all you’re going to do is read more books?”

  Alice feels her jaw tightening, the way it always gets hard when she’s about to argue with her parents. She remembers her father’s note about keeping her mother quiet and changes the topic.

  “At least you and I will have the weekend together. We can play cards if you like. And I can study in my room so I’ll be close by if you need anything.”

  Big Marjorie frowns. “I’d be happier if you were accepting invitations on the weekends like Joan. She knows how to meet the right men. Don called today and asked if you were available for supper this Saturday at the Normandy.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you would call him this evening.”

  “Oh.” Alice pauses. “He’ll understand when I tell him I have to study. He knows how important my exams are. When he wrote his exams last year, he barely left his house for weeks.”

  “And what good did that do him? He’s in officer training now.”