Many Happy Returns
September 1, 1939
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
-W.H. Auden, "September 1, 1939"
Shirley leaned against an oak tree near the Glen St. Mary train station, reducing a stick to curled shavings with his pocketknife. He'd carried the knife for more than twenty years, ever since he won it in a poker game off of one of his roommates. Dwyer? Durban? Something like that. Whatever his name, he'd gone out on a training flight one day and never come back. It was a good knife, with a little folding corkscrew that had come in handy more than once, though the wooden handle had begun to shrink away from the blade. Well, they were none of them as young as they used to be.
The noon train from Charlottetown pulled into the station, wheezing to a stop and disgorging several passengers onto the platform. Shirley looked up from his whittling, searching until he spied a tall woman, trim and square-shouldered, wearing a smart, forest-green blouse over wide-legged trousers. Her short red curls were threaded with silver under a brown fedora tilt and she carried a leather valise. She spotted him before he reached her and opened her arms for a hug.
"Shirley!" Di cried, pulling him in close. "You're looking very handsome."
"You too," he said, smirking. "Trousers? In Glen St. Mary?"
"Well I was hardly going to buy a dress just for this," she snorted. "Syl offered to lend me one, but she's so much shorter that it would have been a scandal either way. Besides, she's forever wearing pink and I never can."
Di took Shirley's arm and they started toward the Glen street, disregarding any odd looks from passersby.
"So no Sylvia this weekend?" Shirley asked.
"No." Di said crisply. "She's delighted to have a quiet weekend at home. Christmas here is more than enough for her. How's Carl?"
Shirley grimaced. "Oh, you know Carl. Worrying."
"I don't doubt it," Di said in sober tones. "The news these days . . ."
She shook her head as if to clear it, but there was no banishing the gathering stormclouds. Even here, in sunny Glen St. Mary, they passed a dozen people hidden behind morning editions of the Charlottetown Guardian — LONDON VIEWS SITUATION WITH DEEPEST GRAVITY — and a small crowd that had gathered around the radio at Miller Douglas's store.**
"Odd day for a party, isn't it?" Shirley observed grimly.
"And how is the happy couple?" Di asked through a determined smile.
"Well, Ken hasn't shown up at my door with the Mounties yet, so I assume they're busy."
"He's not still on about Gil spending time with you, is he?"
Shirley gave a derisive snort. "Still afraid I'm going to corrupt his precious boy."
Di squeezed his arm. "You did, too. You made him fall in love with those death traps of yours."
"I don't think it's the planes Ken's worried about."
"Well he should be," Di sniffed.
They walked on through the Glen street, passing the post office and Link Drew's little lunch counter, nodding greetings to Fred Arnold and his teenage son. Beyond the Glen Pond, the street began its ascent to Ingleside, where a great white tent loomed among the ancient hardwoods and the hum of merry voices floated on the gentle breeze. The whole family was up there, along with their friends and neighbors, and there might not be another quiet moment.
"Wait a minute, Di," Shirley said, halting abruptly at the bottom of the lane.
She blinked her confusion, but paused, alert at the fervor of his tone. "What is it, love?"
No sense in sugarcoating.
"I . . . I've been called up. To the training base at Camp Borden. I leave for Ontario in two weeks."
Di's eyes were very round and very green, her intake of breath sharp and audible. "You can't mean . . . you aren't going back into the army?"
"The Air Force, actually," he muttered.
"Oh, Shirley . . . no."
"They need flight instructors."
She caught his hand and squeezed, exhaling through her nose until she was calmer. "It was never supposed to happen again," she murmured.
"I know."
"The last war's babies are barely old enough . . ."
"I know."
"You haven't told Mother, have you?"
Shirley shook his head. "I thought . . . maybe after the party."
Di's lips twisted in sympathy. "Afraid she'll be angrier than Carl?"
It was a feeble attempt to lighten the moment, but Shirley stretched out his hand for the lifeline. "I doubt that's possible."
"Oh, Shirley." Di's hand on his cheek was soft but firm, a caress and a brace all at once. It wasn't disappointment in her voice, but something more resolute, a grim determination to face the inevitable. It might very well have been the tone she used to shepherd mothers through deliveries that would not end well.
"It's only Ontario," he protested feebly.
Di shook her head and patted his cheek forcefully, stopping just short of a slap. "Had much success with that line of argument yet, have you?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
"I just wanted you to know."
Di smiled sadly, but the shock had worn off and it was down to business as usual. Good old Di. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked.
Shirley could have said no, he could handle this himself. After all, things had been alright with Mum and Dad lately, hadn't they? He'd even volunteered to go down to the old House of Dreams this past spring to help Mum repair the shell-lined paths in the garden, and that had gone alright. Still, Di always seemed to know what to say to them, and it couldn't hurt to have her by his side.
"Maybe stay after the party with me? When I tell them?"
Di hefted her valise into view. "I'm staying overnight with Faith and Jem," she said. "Not going anywhere."
"Thanks, Di."
She squared her padded shoulders and tossed her head briskly. "Alright, flyboy," she said. "Are you ready for Rilla's twentieth anniversary party?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
With a nod and a determined stride, they walked hand-in-hand toward Ingleside, prepared to face whatever the day might bring.
The magnificent old hardwoods of Ingleside were at the height of their late-summer glory, lush with dark green canopies that shaded the gaily dressed crowd. Victoria Ford had helped Jemmy and Cecilia Blythe festoon the boughs with crepe streamers and balloons, and bedecked the white buffet tent with a hand-painted banner reading, "Many Happy Returns!" Rilla and Ken, beaming in silk voile and seersucker, stood nearby, greeting Mary Douglas with cheek kisses and exclamations of delight. All of the original wedding guests had been invited, along with the spouses and children they had accumulated in the intervening decades. Shouts of youthful laughter from Rainbow Valley floated up the lawn accompanied by the ever-so-faint tinkle of fairy bells. Closer to the house, the eldest of the post-war babies flirted and flounced, giggling into their glasses of iced lemonade while their parents and grandparents howled over re-told tales and gasped at the distilled gossip of half a lifetime.
Escorting Di toward the veranda, Shirley looked for Carl and found him under the star-leafed horse chestnut, chatting with Bruce and a heavily pregnant Agnes. Beyond, Jerry and Nan's girls flitted between the trees like a flock of brightly colored raptors while their parents helped Faith and Jem carry laden platters from the kitchen to the buffet table. Nearby, Wally Blythe danced attendance on Zoe Maylock, the flaxen-haired belle of Lowbridge, whose presence at his side was something of a victory for the gangly, red-headed lad. It was widely known that his grandparents were not enthusiastic about the match, perhaps out of loyalty to Dr. Parker, whose grandson had been unceremoniously jilted by the fair Miss Matlock last summer. There had been rumors that one Mr. Gilbert Ford of Toronto had had something or other to do with that unfortunate business, but Shirley had never asked and Gil had never told. Either way, Gil was nowhere in sight and Wally appeared to be delighted with his companion, so what did it matter?**
Shirley and Di climbed the veranda steps toward a circle of elderly revelers who were quite as giddy as their progeny. Their approach seemed to remind John Meredith of an urgent engagement elsewhere, but he was hardly missed in the clamor of greeting.
"Di!" Mother exclaimed, hurrying across the porch with all the verve that seventy-four could muster on an arthritic ankle. "Darling, we've missed you!"
"Sorry I couldn't get away earlier," Di said as they embraced. "Babies have notoriously inconvenient timing."
"I recommend retirement," said Dr. Blythe, greeting his daughter with a kiss. "No midnight calls. Best sleep I've had since I was a baby myself."
"I wanted to take the phone out entirely," said Mother. "Drastic measures, you know. Even moving out of Ingleside didn't convince him to stop entirely."
"Oh, I've hung up my stethoscope," he objected, ruffling his steel-gray curls. "I just give a little free advice here and there."
"By which he means that any trip to the post office invariably turns into an impromptu clinic," Mother said, patting Di's hand and leading her toward the group, where she was engulfed in salutations from Rosemary Meredith and Aunt Leslie and Aunt Diana and Uncle Fred and Auntie Phil and the Reverend Jo. Shirley thought he just might be able to slip away . . .
"So Gil tells me you let him fly your new plane," Dad said jovially.
"Ah . . . yep," Shirley replied. "This morning."
"How'd he do?"
"Well, we're both still alive," Shirley said noncommittally.
"He gave me the impression that it went very well."
Dad didn't give a fig about flying. But he was making an effort to converse, and Shirley reminded himself that he didn't have to freeze him out. He's trying, said the tiny Carl on Shirley's shoulder. You could meet him halfway.
"It did go well," Shirley said, consciously relaxing. "He's very good. Intuitive. He needs a good scare or two to make sure he's always as careful as he should be, but he'll be better than I am someday."
Shirley was confused by his father's dazzling, chuckle-laced grin. Had he said something funny?
"Would it surprise you," his father said, slapping him on the shoulder with a still-strong hand, "to know that that's exactly what I used to say about Jem when he was a kid?"
"Jem?" Shirley asked, brow quirked.
"That he was a natural at medicine, but he needed a good scare to make him careful."
It did surprise him. In sync with Dad?
"Did he get it?" Shirley asked.
A shadow passed over the hazel eyes, dimming their sparkle, though they still shone.
"He came home careful."
Shirley looked out over the lawn, scanning until he spotted Gil, golden crown thrown back in merriment as he joked with Sam Blythe and Jims Anderson.
He almost said, at least he came back.
But truth be told, he didn't want to hear what Dad might have to say about that.
Lunch was served, but only after the assembled guests gathered 'round to witness Rilla and Ken renew their vows under a trellis of late-summer roses, fragrant and drooping under their own blood-red weight. Shirley retreated to the fringe of the crowd and lit a cigarette. After all, they were already married, weren't they? Wasn't once enough?
But the ceremony was mercifully short and soon the renewlyweds were leading their jubilant guests to the buffet, where they loaded their plates with flaky biscuits and chicken salad, tomato pickles and crustless sandwiches, dressed greens and creamy custards.
Shirley took spartan helpings, not feeling equal to the festivities. He wasn't sure where to sit, either. The family had retired to one of the long tables, with the older crowd taking up the lower end while the various Blythes and Merediths of his own generation found seats below the bride and groom. Even Una had been convinced to stop running back and forth to the kitchen long enough to take a chair between Faith and Di. Rather than commit to a seat, Shirley stood beside a nearby tent pole, close to the table if not quite at it.
"We'll have to do this all again next year," Rilla sighed, "for Mother and Dad's 50th."
"Fiftieth?" Dr. Blythe called down the table. "Impossible! I'm not a day over forty!"
The company rewarded this jest with rather too much over-bright laughter while Dr. Blythe met his own bride's exasperation with a twinkling grin.
"Our fiftieth anniversary was lovely," said Aunt Diana, reaching for Uncle Fred's hand. "The children treated us to dinner at the White Sands hotel. Small Anne Cordelia even wrote a little poem to commemorate the occasion."
"I forgot all about ours," Auntie Phil admitted. "I would have missed it entirely, except that it was the same day as a concert to raise money toward a new furnace for the church. Jo had the children's choir learn 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart' and presented me with fifty chrysanthemums."
Nan turned starry eyes toward Jerry. "It's hard to believe it's seventeen years for us."
Jerry pursed his lips and patted his waistcoat. "Seventeen? Are you sure about that?"
Nan poked him smartly, provoking a round of indulgent chuckles. "Of course I am. You graduated Law School in '22 and we got married that May. Seventeen years."
There was something mischievous in Jerry's smirk as he caught his wife's hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Oh, well," he said. "I never was any good at maths. I could have sworn it was twenty. As they say, ipsum matrimonium."
Nan gave him a warning look, but he only chuckled and leaned over his potato salad to kiss her on the cheek. Shirley was quite certain he caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he looked, Carl was absorbed in his green beans, eye fixed resolutely on his plate.
"Your wedding was lovely, Nan," Rilla smiled. "I have one of the photos framed in my parlor at home so I can always remember us all as happy as we were that day. I wanted to make Susan's wedding cake for today, to remember her by, but no one knows the recipe."
That was news to Shirley, but far be it for him to contradict the bride.
"Whose idea was it to throw daisies?" Ken asked. "That's what I remember from that day — your daisy tunnel and cheering when you kissed on the bridge."
Carl in his groomsman's tailcoat, leading Di through a foxtrot, a stolen moment under the candling horse chestnut, a soft brush of sleeve against sleeve and some blather about castles and monsters . . .
"All credit to my best man," Jerry said, raising his lemonade in salute to Jem. "A true romantic at heart."
"Do you ever regret not having a wedding, Faith?" Rilla asked earnestly.
Faith, who had just put a rather large forkful of chicken into her mouth, seemed caught between chewing and choking. She pressed a napkin over her lips to swallow, all the time looking across the table at Jem with her hilarity barely bottled.
"I'm fairly certain I did have a wedding," she said when she could speak.
"But I mean a proper wedding. With bridesmaids and cake and dancing . . ."
"What do you say, Jem?" Faith asked, one honey-brown brow arched in challenge. "Do you wish we had waited any longer?"
Jem's own incredulous laughter was infectious, plunging most of the table into a round of side-splitting mirth. Even Shirley, still standing by the tent pole with his plate in hand, cracked a smile.
It was short-lived.
Before the company could muster another round of do-you-remembers, there was a commotion up by the house.
"It's happening!" came a boyish shout that struck Shirley's heart like a driven icicle.
All attention pivoted toward the veranda, where Gil Ford leaned over the rail with Sam and Wally and Jims, shouting, "It just came over the radio! Germany has invaded Poland!"
Beneath the blinking eye of the Four Winds light, Shirley had danced enough to throw off any suspicion, enduring the company of Irene Howard and Ethel Reese and a put-upon Miranda Pryor. He didn't dare seek Carl out overtly, but suspected he might be in the lighthouse kitchen with Una, pulling taffy with the others who couldn't or wouldn't dance. Shirley was Una's escort, wasn't he? And who could fault him checking in on her?
He had only just made his way to the door when Jack Elliott pushed past him, brandishing a folded Charlottetown newspaper and announcing to the room, "England declared war on Germany today." Outside, Ned Burr's fiddle had stopped and a low moan rose from the gulf, the presage of a storm already on its way up the Atlantic. Shirley looked across the crowded, buzzing room and found Carl easily enough, staring back at him, both blue eyes startled wide.***
The boys made their way across the lawn and into the tent.
"The war's started!" Wally said, his voice cracking on the awful word.
Jem cleared his throat, all his mirth lost. "Has England made a formal declaration?"
"Not yet," Sam said. "But the CBC says that Britain and France have mobilized, and Parliament has been summoned for six o'clock this evening."****
"Then we'll just have to wait and see what they decide," his grandfather said with a desperate look at his own eldest son.
"Oh, they'll declare war," Gil Ford said, face alight. "They have to."
There was a general muttering, punctuated by cries of despair.
There had been light surprise and idle interest in the lighthouse kitchen, but few had realized the import of the message — fewer still had realized that it meant anything to them. The fiddle started again, and soon nearly everyone was chattering just as they had been before. Walter had turned pale and left the room, but he was one of the few.
Shirley fought his way through the throng til he reached Carl's side. "A war?" he asked, disbelieving.
"Not for us, I don't think," said Carl, who was still two months shy of seventeen. "Do you suppose Jerry will go? And Jem?"
"I guess so," Shirley shrugged. "Jem always said he wanted to be a soldier. Don't see how anyone could stop him."
"Please!" Ken Ford said, standing and calling out in a commanding voice. "We don't know anything for certain yet. I would ask everyone to keep calm and wait until we have definite news."
"But Dad . . ." Gil protested, breaking off at the look of warning in his father's eye.
"There's no reason to rush into anything," Jem agreed, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ken. "We'll know what there is to know soon enough."
"Do you think they'll call for volunteers, Dad?" Sam asked.
Jem's eyes fluttered shut for a moment and Shirley saw the gray shadow of age fall across him for the first time. "I hope not, Sam."
"Well, if they do, I'm for the RCAF," Gil said, bowling over any objections. "I can fly as well as anybody, can't I Uncle Shirley?"
Shirley had no wish to be drawn into this conversation in any way, but was transfixed by the score of heads that swiveled to the spot where he stood.
"It's not my place to say," he said quietly.
"Fiddlesticks!" Gil shot back.
"Gilbert!" Rilla warned, but her son ignored her.
"You know flying better than anyone," Gil said, half-accusingly. "Why, if they call men 18 to 45 like they did before, you'll go again yourself, won't you?"
The flurry of admonishment from parents and grandparents alike gave Shirley cover to dart a glance toward the place where Carl had been sitting a moment ago. His chair was empty, and Shirley caught a fleeting glimpse as he disappeared through the back flap of the tent, headed toward Rainbow Valley. Shirley licked his lips, but remained still and silent. When he did not answer, an awkward silence expanded among the company like a chilled bubble waiting for someone prod it.
"Shirley?" his mother asked at last.
The week after he had turned eighteen, he had sat on the edge of the table in the living room, swinging his jangling legs, and asked permission to go.
"I can get into the flying-corps. What say, Dad?"
His father's hands had shaken as he folded up a powder, and his mother's face had gone the same flat white it was now.*****
Shirley looked to Di for a single nod of solidarity.
"I . . ." he stuttered, unaccustomed to having the undivided attention of the gathering. "I . . . already got called up. I'm to report to Camp Borden on the 14th."
Notes:
*The archives of the Charlottetown Guardian (back to 1890) are available for free at islandnewspapers dot ca.
**The Blythes are Quoted, "An Uncommon Woman"
***bits from Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 3: "Moonlit Mirth" and chapter 4: "The Piper Pipes"
****You can listen to the announcement broadcast by the CBC on September 1, 1939 on the cbc dot ca website.
*****Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 25: "Shirley Goes"
I changed the cover image for this story, wanting something a bit brighter (though I recognize that it's still small and hard to see). It's a little 1930s Piper Cub promotional matchbook I picked up recently.
