For Excel Aunt, who called this one a while ago.


Mr. Pelham's Funeral


October-November 1941


"Handkerchief?" Father Daniel asked, producing a neatly folded square from somewhere under his cassock and passing it along the pew to Una.

Una had her own handkerchief tucked away in her pocketbook, but it was the gesture that counted and she accepted with a watery smile.

Up in the pulpit, Mr. Arnold had just finished preaching Mr. Pelham's funeral sermon, and was nodding to the Methodist choir director to start in on "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." Mr. Pelham had outlived most of his own set, but he had been jolly and generous, and his neighbors did not find themselves inconvenienced when it came time to sing him home.

Una blew her nose on Father Daniel's handkerchief and kept it, vowing to launder and return it later in the week. It was awfully strange to have him beside her during a service, steady and solid, rather than presiding over the altar. Strange, but not unpleasant. He had a fine singing voice, clear and unadorned, with a comforting sort of rumble that was not discernible at a distance greater than inches. When he offered her an arm to lead her out after the pallbearers at the end of the service, Una gave both her hand and a firmer smile.

The New Methodist Graveyard was too far to walk, so the mourners piled into their cars and wagons to follow the hearse in procession over the flame-tipped hills. Father Daniel had deemed Jenny insufficiently dignified for such service, and had borrowed Shirley's truck, that is to say Carl's truck, or whoever's truck it was, the point being that it was black and available and did not make too loud a noise nor force Una to cling to Father Daniel's back in a way that would surely have stolen the show if anyone had observed it. Instead, they sat side-by-side again, the priest apologizing as his unpracticed driving sent the truck lurching along behind the Newgates' wagon.

"Mr. Arnold preaches very well," Father Daniel said by way of opening conversation. "Do you know him well?"

"He's always been friendly with Father. And I know his son Fred slightly."

"Fred," Father Daniel said thoughtfully. "He's the one with the . . . ah . . ."

Una looked over to see him tapping his nose apologetically.

"Don't try to make me laugh at a funeral," Una pleaded, biting her lower lip to keep from doing just that.

"No one will see as long as we're in the truck," he shrugged. "Besides, I don't think anything to do with Mr. Pelham should be too solemn."

Una tended to agree, but was prevented from saying so by the sudden staggering of the truck as Father Daniel overestimated a turn and jerked the wheel back sharply to compensate.

"Sorry!" he yelped as Una slid across the bench and nearly into his lap.

"It's perfectly alright," Una assured him, though she scrambled to put a decorous distance between them as soon as it was possible.

Really, it was perfectly alright. Unavoidable. Momentary contact that meant nothing, even though Una could still hear her pulse rushing in her ears long minutes later. They rode in silence the rest of the way, Una bracing herself at every bump in the road and Father Daniel apologizing as a red flush crept up past his collar.

When they reached the graveyard, Una took Father Daniel's proffered hand with determination to demonstrate the perfectly-alright-ness of everything. She did not flinch nor jump away, but held his steady fingers for a moment longer than necessary, just to prove that nothing whatever was amiss. He squeezed back reassuringly and guided her carefully over a gully clogged with sodden leaves.

The New Methodist Graveyard had not yet mellowed like the old. Instead of curious inscriptions and antique names that conjured romantic fancies, the little plot of earth was home to memorials whose edges were still sharp. It did command a lovely view, though, with the slope clothed in autumnal splendor dropping away toward the sparkling blue of the harbour.

The mourners took their places around the open grave, with Rev. Arnold at the head and Dennis and Jane Pelham at his right hand. The pair looked as dour as ever, though Una could hardly fault them for dismal affect at a funeral. Indeed, it was a model affair from start to finish, with all the proper obsequies as Mr. Pelham was laid to rest in firm and justified hope of everlasting life.

The scandal came later.

Una had lingered behind the other mourners so that she might say a private prayer for Mr. Pelham without inconveniencing anyone. Most of the others had already departed for the repast when Una's solitary petition was interrupted by voices raised in anger.

". . . no such agreement . . ."

". . . what right do you think you have . . ."

Una and Father Daniel both turned back toward the road, where Dennis Pelham and Archie Newgate were shouting at one another, with Amelia and Jane poised to enter the fray. They hustled over as quickly as possible, Una slipping on the wet leaves as Father Daniel pulled ahead to interpose his person between the combatants.

"What seems to be the trouble?" he puffed, holding up placating hands to stay both parties.

"The house is ours!" Archie growled. "His father sold it to me and let me pay him back in installments."

"He did no such thing!" Dennis spat. "You're renters and I'm perfectly within my rights to sell the property as I see fit!"

Una reached Amelia just as she was about to sally forth under full sail, catching at her arm to restrain her. There must be some misunderstanding here, and it wouldn't help matters to escalate.

Father Daniel looked from one reddened face to the other, gathering both breath and wits. "Am I to understand that Mr. Pelham wishes to sell Mr. Newgate's house?"

"He can't!"

"I can!"

"Gentlemen!" Una jumped a little as Father Daniel deployed his voice at full volume to quell the squabbling. "Please, begin at the beginning, Mr. Newgate."

Dennis Pelham looked things not lawful to be uttered of Archie Newgate, but held his peace as he spoke.

"Amelia and I came to pay our respects, all good and proper, to old Mr. Pelham for all he's been so kind to us these many years. The old man ain't even cold yet and this bloody . . . sorry, Father . . . this ill-mannered fellow comes up to me and says he owns my house and means to sell it! I told him the truth: his father sold the house to me twenty years ago and has let me pay it off a bit at a time ever since. It will be ours free and clear in 1944, and this . . . this . . . person has no right to sell it!"

"I have every right!" Dennis countered. "I have a deed to the property and there's no other paperwork, just a handshake deal. It will never stand in court!"

Una goggled — surely this couldn't be true — but one look at Archie Newgate's face confirmed that it was.

"Now, Mr. Pelham," Father Daniel implored, "this is hardly the time . . ."

"The sooner the better," Dennis interrupted. "I want them out so I have time to find a buyer before planting. The land is poor, but the house is sound, and once we get some competent tenants, it will bring a good, reliable rent."

Amelia was shaking with fury, Una's slim hand on her arm doing nothing to placate her rage. Archie looked stricken, initial disbelief solidifying into horrified realization. Neither was in any fit state to negotiate, even if they had had a hand to play.

"I see . . ." Father Daniel stalled. "In that case . . . well . . . I know you'll want to do everything by the book, Mr. Pelham. So the Newgates will . . . ah . . . await the letter from your attorney. With the official notice of eviction. And a notarized copy of the deed, of course."

Dennis Pelham blinked and looked ready to say something snappish, but Jane cut in.

"Indeed. We will send the papers over as soon as they are prepared."

She took her husband's arm and steered him away from the confrontation, walking purposefully toward their Chrysler. Una watched, astonished, as they drove off to receive the community's condolences and agree that yes, it was a terrible shame to lose the old man.

"What will we do?" Amelia whispered. "It's our home."

Una did not know what to say, so she squeezed Amelia's hand and said nothing. But that did not mean that she was not thinking.


7 November 1941

Newmarket

Dear Kit,

Just received your last. Thank you for sending me that clipping from the Guardian about the graduation at Camp Borden. It's the sort of thing that doesn't make it into the papers here, but it's good to see how the boys are getting along. Thank you more for the postscript. Of course I do and no, you shouldn't write such things, as I do not like to burn any of your letters. Though I am still up to the task of memorizing the important bits.

Every day, it gets colder here — too cold to sit out in the gardens and read now. Grayson says I should get down to London or take a trip to the shore when I am not on duty, but I'm content to stay back and practice my French and write letters - very long ones, as you can see. And I walk the gardens. The little red squirrel that lives in the walnut tree by the grotto isn't so little anymore. Do they hibernate? I passed along your regards.

Today, one of the junior pilots played a good prank on us before he went on leave. I've mentioned the stuffed birds that plague us in our billet — they're everywhere. Well, this kid got his hands on some colored paper and rolled little dunce caps for all the owls. They don't look so fearsome now. They remind me of the time you tried to convince Mugsy it was her birthday. I think there is still a speck of ossified frosting on the kitchen ceiling if you look closely (above the dish hutch).

A letter came from Gil this week and one from Sam as well. Gil's had his fourth victory, another Me 109. He sounded apologetic that it wasn't more, but I told him the truth, which is that it's a damn sight harder to shoot down these duralumin kites than the canvas-and-kindling ones we flew in the last war. That might not be good for Gil's numbers, but it's awfully good for his neck, and mine as well. Rest assured that these machines can take a real beating and still come flying home safe.

I hear from Sam that he is still at the training camp near Basingstoke. It might not be Hell, but it sounds a lot like Purgatory. They've just been sitting around in the mud a whole year. I suppose we should all be glad there isn't more for the infantry to do, but I'd go spare. At least I have my missions to keep me feeling useful. Sam's cheerful enough, though. The Royals put on a lot of sports, evidently. He says he never realized war would involve so much baseball. We don't get up to much by way of sports here. The boys are very daring poker players but imprudent enough that I generally leave the table with more than I brought. They all think they can draw to the inside straight and of course it never works.

May get to see Gil and Sam soon. Sylvia's determined to conjure something approaching Christmas, which certainly would be a feat if she can manage it. I'll be awfully glad to see her, too. I miss Aster House and evenings on the sofa with you reading all your letters and Mugsy trying to steal things off the coffee table.

Everything is fine here. I miss you of course, and think of you every time I see a small creature. There aren't so many rats around our billet, which is clean and snug. Perhaps the aviary has scared them off. Rats or no, you're never far from my thoughts.

Yours Truly,
Shirley

P.S. I strongly suspect that you already know the answer to the question in your last and ask it only to amuse yourself by imagining my answer. I should not give you the satisfaction of knowing how delighted I was to bid Grayson adieu when he went to London for the week and left me some measure of privacy for once. S.J.B.


20 November 1941

Lowbridge, PEI

Dear Shirley,

Allow me to begin by conveying greetings from your dog, who is currently asleep on my feet. This is very good for warmth but not for mobility, so I have no choice but to write you a good long letter. Not even my usual patchwork, but a proper letter from beginning to end. You may read it to the squirrel if you like, though if you do, you should leave out the dog part. They don't hibernate, by the way. She should have enough nuts stored up for the winter, but would probably appreciate a bit of apple or carrot from time to time if you're feeling neighborly.

Last Sunday, I went with Una to her church festival. We missed the Maylock sisters, who have apparently broken up their singing act. It's too bad; they were very good. I said hello to Mrs. Maylock at the cider stall and she glared at me fit to kill. I haven't the foggiest idea why, when we are only on nodding acquaintance anyway, and Una doesn't have any guesses either. I was dragooned into being a tie-breaking judge in the pie contest (thankfully Mrs. Maylock was not one of the entrants). It was very good for my spirits, but not for my digestion.

Lately, Una has been pulled into another sticky situation. You'll remember the Newgates, our neighbors down by Pelham's Pond. Well, Mr. Pelham died a few weeks ago and now his son is trying to evict the Newgates so he can sell the farm. I can't say why — the land is poor enough, though I suppose it is a fine, sturdy house and might do for someone who wasn't too serious about the farming. Archie and Amelia swear that Mr. Pelham sold the house to them on the installment plan, but he was never really one for official paperwork. Never even left a will, though he was unwell for a long time. Mr. Pelham (the younger) has said that the Newgates must vacate the property before the first of February or he'll have the law on them, though he hasn't sent over any official papers yet. I don't know what they'll do, but Una is fretting over it. I suppose she and Father Daniel will come up with something. I have no doubt the whole family would end up here if we had the space, but we can hardly host a family of five for dinner, let alone for the winter. Their house is twice the size of ours, and it will be difficult for them to find another place half as nice in their reduced circumstances.

My love to Sylvia if you do see her. I hear from her every once in a while, but gather that Matron's work is quite taxing, even if the Canadian boys have nothing to do but play games and march about. I know she'd be glad to clap eyes on you, and I wouldn't mind a corroborating report, for all you claim to be fat and idle.

You may be glad to hear that my own work is going very well. I don't plan on sailing in December and am thus happy to declare a whole year without a single unplanned dip in the Gulf. I gave a lecture in Charlottetown earlier in the month (the miraculous recovery of the Brant geese since the Eel Grass Blight of '31. They've learnt to eat sea lettuce instead - isn't that clever of them?). I'm going to give another in Kingsport in March - not just to Prof. Michelson's class, but a real public lecture in one of the big lecture halls, with advertising and everything. I just have to choose a subject. Not superclutches, I'm afraid, though my notes are getting to be significant enough to add up to something. I'm not sure what to do about them exactly. Perhaps an article. I'm still mulling it over. Anthony says that people deserve to know about the diversity of God's Creation. I think he is right, and that such an article might do some good, but I confess that I fear for my job if I write it.

Last week, I made a last visit out to the Jubinvilles, wanting to see them one last time before the weather turned. They're awfully worried about the situation on St. Pierre and Miquelon. The islands are nominally under Vichy control and the Nazis could be using the radio station there to communicate with U-boats and spy on our shipping. More than that, the islands are crowded with men. France fell so quickly that the French fishing fleet was caught out at sea and didn't know where to go. Many of them holed up at St. Pierre rather than going home. St. Pierre can't feed that many people and it's been a mess trying to get Canada to sell food to a Vichy territory. The Jubinvilles have plenty of friends there, as you may well imagine, and are very concerned. Make no mistake — when the Jubinvilles think that a situation is dismal, you can be sure that it is nearly beyond human endurance.

Our own straits are not so dire. There is much talk of rationing, but nothing has been formalized except some restrictions on gasoline. I've garaged your truck out at the hangar for the winter, so you needn't worry about what I'm doing to the brakes. As for food, we'll get along fine. We never needed much meat anyway (I swear Mugsy whimpered in her sleep just as I wrote that). The garden harvest was good this year and we have a whole pantry jammed with pickles of nearly every variety (neither of us can stomach the squash anymore, though Una would never admit it). We are flush with pears this autumn, so Una is making enough preserves to last a year or more, knowing we might not have much sugar by the time next pear season season comes along. I did one last harvest today - those little trees have gotten so big there were a few pears at the top that I had to leave. At least some of our own squirrels may have a fine feast.

Very kind of you to assure me that those machines of yours can "take a real beating" and go on flying. I will not ask how you know it. I don't believe for a minute that you do nothing but chat with squirrels and catch up on your correspondence in between hands of poker. I know you can't tell me anything at all about your work, and perhaps that is for the best at the moment. I can imagine you safe always, with your garden and your book and your dunce-cap owls (though I preferred the long-eared owl who shared your tree in the summer). I can guarantee that any time you think of me, I am also thinking of you, and not just because there are so many more planes in the sky now than there used to be. The boys at the Summerside training school keep us company constantly and I would complain of the noise and the disruption to migration patterns except that I always find myself watching them until they fly out of sight.

Even Mugsy thinks that this letter has gone on quite long enough. She is yawning and stretching and leaving my feet cold where she covered them. I am very glad to have her with me, especially when I have a bad night. She stays by me and I'm grateful. I think I will be alright tonight, though. All this writing has tired me out and I may be able to fall asleep for once. Have I ever told you how much I envy your falling asleep as soon as you close your eyes? Just another facet of your ability to be where you are, I suppose. I don't mind being where you are either, only it is a bit of a strain when it is only in imagination.

Yours truly,
Kit

P.S. Indeed, it does amuse me. Almost as much as it does to imagine you with a roommate/chaperone while I suffer no similar constraint. I continue with my literary education and hope that you will not mind too much that I have underlined some passages in "From Pent-up Aching Rivers." "Plenty of persons near" and all that.


Notes:

Sincere apologies to anyone who has messaged me recently and not received a prompt reply. I may finally have bitten off more than I can chew, devoting much of my time these past few weeks to canvassing ahead of election day in the US. But the day is here and there's nothing left to do but watch and wait (after one last round of canvassing today, despite the fact that my voice is completely shot). Tomorrow, I fly off to France to attend some of the 100th Anniversary commemorations of the Armistice. I will do my best to respond to PMs/reviews from now on!