Chapter 16

Warning: this chapter describes chlorine gas burns and gangrene.

︻┳═一

September 29th, 1916

︻┳═一

"I need you to talk to me, Lieutenant."

Eddie folded his arms across his chest. He could hear the patter of rain outside, along with the echo of bombs coming from the Continent. The air entering the open office window smelled sweet, muggy, and ever-so-pleasant. A lump swelled in his throat. "Is it raining there, do you suppose?"

Dr. Harris pulled his chair around the desk and sat almost knee-to-knee with Eddie, but he said nothing.

"It rains in the Wipers," Eddie said. "It was so hard to keep dry."

"Trench foot."

"We never saw much of it in the First Division."

"No?"

"Cap insisted upon a foot inspection every day."

"McCarty?"

"Yes. If there was any sign, he sent the man off to the field hospital. Hell of a long walk on bad feet."

"I expect so."

"Better than the Dardanelles, though. There was no help there. Gangrene, dysentery… Gangrene is black, you know. Looks just like a burn but it smells like death."

"The Gallipoli Campaign must have felt rather pointless."

"The whole war is pointless."

"Why?"

Eddie gnawed at his lip.

"You can tell me why you think so."

Gazing at the gray window, Eddie wished he hadn't opened his mouth. The last thing he needed was to be accused of treasonous thoughts.

"I want to know what it's like," Dr. Harris insisted.

"You can't."

"How can I help you if you won't talk to me? Even if you regain your sight, you won't get out of here if there's a chance you're going to commit suicide."

Eddie closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest.

"Edward."

"You want to know what it's like? You're either cold, wet and bone tired, or hot, wet and bone tired. And bored. Thirsty all the time. Water water everywhere nor any drop to drink. ([i]) It's not all fighting, you know. There's a lot of sitting around. But one never relaxes. One is always waiting for the next bomb."

"But you excelled at St. Julien."

"Hah! That was in God's hands and nobody else's. One shift in the wind and I would just as easily have earned a trip to Blighty like so many others."

"With burns from the gas."

"Ever cooked a sausage over a fire?"

"Of course. My brothers and I used to love that when we were boys."

"That's what they look like, you know."

"Who?"

"The boys who were burned. They swell up, crack open and turn red, black and white with char. And the smell. My god, the stench. And it's so destructive they don't even cry. I'm taking it none of your brothers ever fell in the fire or you'd know."

Harris didn't respond to that. "Why is it a pointless war, Eddie?"

"Edward."

"I beg your pardon. I would like to be your friend. Please talk to me."

"Why?"

"You're intelligent and insightful. You have a lot of poise for someone your age. You talk like a leader. You have two damaged men who listen to you, who won't listen to anybody else. And you have a wife of admirable strength and character who is mad about you. Because of all these things, I have trouble comprehending why you are here."

Eddie grimaced. "It was easy to be optimistic when I was deaf. I almost wish I hadn't recovered my hearing."

"You can't mean that. Wasn't it awfully lonely?"

"At times. But I had my wife and my dog, and Mr. and Mrs. Biggins, and the kindness of strangers. My world was small but lovely."

"But communicating with them was hard."

"Ignorance is bliss. I was… happy not knowing."

"You couldn't have earned a living."

Eddie fell quiet for some minutes. "No. And I wouldn't like to be idle."

"According to your wife, you weren't idle at all."

"No."

"So what happened? Mrs. Masen told me you are a God-fearing man with an indefatigable spirit, and she cannot comprehend what would possess you to kill yourself."

Eddie went stiff. "I'm not a coward."

"Of course not."

Eddie leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "If I tell you what happened, you'll think I'm mad." Harris mirrored Eddie's pose. For the first time, Eddie could see his doctor's face, and the doctor looked plenty disconcerted by that fact. He also looked like a kind fellow, which Eddie had not anticipated.

"You're not insane." Harris eyed him intently.

Eddie raised a brow. "Are you positive?"

"Are you?"

"I am not certain."

"Please trust me, Lieutenant. All I want is to help you get well."

Eddie examined the doctor's earnest appearance and saw no reason not to trust him. In for a penny, in for a pound. He nodded slightly and Harris visibly relaxed.

"When Isobel told me about the bloodbath, I reeled. My darling, brave little woman—who has been unfailingly supportive—had hysterics because of me. My actions hurt my wife and I regret that profoundly. But all those men, all my boys… dead and long gone. It hit me so hard. Then, I found myself back there, in the muck. I heard my men crying for help."

"A delusion."

Eddie sat back and wrapped his arms around himself. "See? You do think I'm mad."

"No." Harris touched his arm. "I thought, at first, you had Neurasthenia. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Like McCarty? What causes it?"

"We don't know. I am absolutely certain that almost none of the sufferers I've met are falsifying their symptoms. The officers who don't go to the field contest the patients' veracity despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary. The field officers argue in support of the men and the upper Brass is afraid. The military's been decimated by cases and there's no cure in sight. But, unlike most men with Neurasthenia, you seem to be recovering. Please… you may be in a position to help. Please continue."

Eddie wiped his palms on his trousers. "You don't believe we're malingerers?"

"No. Not at all. I know my patients are truly suffering."

"I'm not certain that I'm not mad." He wanted to bite back his confession. The spectre of the asylum loomed like a voracious beast, just waiting to gobble him up forever. He broke out in a cold sweat.

"I want to help. Please let me help."

Eddie clenched his jaw and closed his shaking hands into fists. "After I found out… I could swear I was back there. I thought I was about to be captured. The enemy doesn't take prisoners. ([ii]) I knew I would be tortured before they killed me, so I tried to off myself before they could get to me."

"So you tried to end yourself to avoid capture and torture?"

"Yes."

"A lot of officers have done exactly that. Why didn't you say so? When you got here, you refused to speak to anyone."

"I was… ashamed."

"But that doesn't add up. It's an honourable act. Men do that not only to die with dignity, but also so they cannot give away military secrets." Harris gestured at him irritably. "You're telling me now that you didn't want to be tortured. When we brought you in, you knew you'd outlived your men. You kept asking why we didn't let you die."

Eddie sighed and rubbed his temples. "It was very confusing. It's difficult to express…"

"Try."

"Part of me realized I wasn't in Beaumont-Hamel. I got glimpses of what really happened."

"That isn't what you expressed for nearly two weeks. You insisted Eddie Masen had died. You refused to acknowledge reality."

"I didn't want to face the truth. It isn't easy to accept what I did."

Harris nodded sympathetically. "What really happened, Eddie?"

His eyes stung. He turned his head toward the window. "I had my orders and I followed them. I relied on discipline instead of common sense."

"But that's commendable."

Eddie glared at Harris even though he understood that the doctor couldn't possibly relate. "Bull. I betrayed my God in order to honour King Edward. I should have ignored my orders and saved my men."

"In which case, you would have been court-marshalled and shot for treason."

"So be it."

Harris gasped. "You can't mean it! It would have been throwing your life away. You know very well that your commanders would have shot every deserter for treason, anyway. You would never have been able to take the fall for them!"

"But I would have died happy." Sitting back, Eddie smiled without humour. "Is it not dreadful that we non-coms had to consider that sending the boys out of trenches, to face machine guns and heavy artillery, posed more of a promise of survival than retreating and facing our own Brass did?"

"Why is the war pointless?"

Eddie rolled his eyes. "You are relentless."

"Please answer."

"Then answer my question! Is it not a dreadful way to treat the boys? Is it not terrible that our own leaders don't value those PBIs enough to allow them to retreat and live to fight another day? That thousands of men die just to maintain possession of an arbitrary line marked in the dirt?"

"It… I understand your position. But I assume our soldiers' sacrifice cost the Huns a great deal."

Eddie stroked his chin, then, scratched his head. "How much ground have we gained in the Somme?"

"Hardly any but we haven't lost any, either. Our soldiers are valiant men."

"And how many Triple Étante soldiers have died?"

"I don't know that figure."

Eddie nodded. "But you know how many casualties there were at Beaumont-Hamel."

"Yes. Seventy-five thousand of our allies fell in three hours."

"And the Triple Alliance casualties?"

"Estimated at sixty thousand."

Eddie nodded. "So, was it a stalemate, then?"

"Effectively."

Eddie leaned forward on an elbow again. "And that's why this war is pointless. We are neither gaining nor losing ground. This, sir, unless something major happens, is going to be a war of attrition. Whoever has men left standing at the end is going to be the victor."

Harris pressed his lips together. "That's not a very patriotic answer," he breathed.

"I fear, since our Upper Brass ordered me to lead my men to be slaughtered, I'm not feeling terribly patriotic right now."

The doctor's face contorted with anxiety. "You cannot afford to act based upon sentiment. The Brass won't acknowledge the validity of your argument. They'll brand you a traitor and kill you."

"And you don't think I ought to become a martyr to the memory of my dead men?"

"You have a wife!" Harris hissed. "A very fine woman who will be ruined if you lose your reputation!"

Eddie ducked his head and felt his face burn. As soon as he gathered his thoughts, he reached out and touched his doctor's hand. "Thank you for your care of Isobel. I am grateful. I will be more careful of what words exit my mouth."

Dr. Harris took his hand and gripped it. He leaned closer so Eddie could see him properly. "Good. I don't want to see anything happen to you. I expect I would feel just as you do, in your place, but it is unwise to say so. Henry VIII killed his best friend Thomas More because More honoured God over Henry. Not much has changed with kings. There are other ways to honour those you loved than tossing yourself into the grave."

"How do you suggest I honour them?"

"Help the living or fight their enemies. But don't imagine you can change centuries of political thought to save PBIs. The government is going to quash any protest."

"All right."

"You must function within the system if you want to influence it. Rebels are eradicated."

Eddie frowned and smoothed back his hair. "I see your wisdom."

"You're not wearing your uniform jacket."

"It weighs too heavily."

"It is your duty. You must be seen to be fulfilling your duty, Lieutenant."

"I have done my duty. And I have paid the price for it."

"Not with your soul, as you seem to believe."

He rubbed his chest. "I pray I can do something to redeem myself. I don't wish to be pitied, doctor, but I think you can agree that this war has taken a heavy toll on every subject of the King. Our lives will never be the same."

Harris nodded. "What if your blindness can be cured?"

Eddie huffed and shook his head. "We both know that's not going to happen. My eyes are full of shrapnel. They're torn inside and out, and at times they still bleed."

"Say you could be cured. Would you go back to the Somme to avenge your fallen companions?"

"Would I have a choice?"

"Just tell me if you would want to."

Eddie leaned forward. "I would rather be shot dead. I would rather have someone gouge out my eyes and cut off my ears than go back there."

"That's—"

"Treason?"

"Don't you love your country?"

"Which one?"

"You tell me."

"I adored Newfoundland but I don't belong there anymore. I love Canada the most but there's nothing there for me at present. And I love England because Bella is here. People here accept me as I am, without expectations. I expect I shall love Scotland, too."

"Good! So which of these is to be your country?"

"All of them."

"Do you want to go home?"

"With Bella. Yes."

"Then you must regain your mental and emotional stability."

He made it sound so easy. "How do you propose I do that?"

"Tell me about the nightmares."

Eddie closed his eyes and counted to ten. "What do you want to know?"

"You had a bad one last night, even though you seemed to have had a very good day."

He swallowed hard. "In Gallipoli, there was this… Turkish boy soldier. He had unusually beautiful eyes. He tried to bayonet me, so I stabbed him. He writhed to get off my knife and all that did was cut him up more. I kicked him down and slit him open like a fish, right down the middle. Stumbled, and ended up with my whole forearm inside his body. He cried out…"

"That must have been…"

Eddie waved his hand dismissively. "That's only the half of it. We habitually check them over for ammunition and take it. He had on a gun belt under his jacket and that's how I found out."

"Found out what?"

"He had a bosom."

The doctor's jaw dropped. "A woman? Fusilier?"

"There are more female infantry soldiers than you'd think, but not very many end up on the front lines."

"And your nightmare was about her? This girl?"

"Yes. I kill her and then she turns into Bella."

"But your wife is not a soldier, or a Hun."

"My wife spent nearly two years within ten miles of the Ypres Salient nursing casualties. She is as brave as any soldier. And as for the Turks and Krauts…"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes, even though I hate them, I can't help supposing that they're just like us."

"Why?" Harris gasped.

"I've looked them in the eye. Everyone on the battlefield is exhausted and filthy and thoroughly lacking any emotions save fear and revulsion. We don't kill for emotional reasons, we kill before the other bastard can kill us. Besides, I spent a lot of time stuck with my four prisoners after St. Julien." He almost smiled at the memory. "One of them liked to sing with his friend, who had an accordion. Another offered me his cigarettes. The fourth was teased for his red hair. They didn't seem any different from me, really."

"You don't mean to tell me that you sympathize with the Huns?"

Eddie snorted. "I hate them and everything they stand for. I hate every man who ever waged war against my people. But they're subject to their Brass just as we are. I hate their Brass. Sometimes, I hate our Brass, too. But I don't hate them for being Huns, no." He shrugged. "It's just that one can't entertain the notion that they're like us if one wants to shred their guts for garters."

"I see." They paused and then Harris asked, "Why do you think you don't have Neurasthenia like McCarty?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it's because before I went over there, I submitted myself to God's will."

"What do you mean?"

"I had come to the understanding back in Gallipoli that I was very unlikely to survive for long. Since there was no ability to flee with my men, I came to terms with my death long in advance."

"Do you think Hale and McCarty did not?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. As I said before, I think they both desperately want to live. Well, I did, too, despite the fact that I didn't think I would. However, I had one thing with me in the trenches to comfort me that they did not."

"What was that?"

"Letters from my sweetheart." He smiled softly. "Her assurance that I was wanted. I knew I had a future after the war if I managed to make it through. I had faith in the promises written in those letters. I wish I still had them, but they're gone." Resentment stabbed at him. "Ground into the muck somewhere in Beaumont-Hamel, I suppose."

"McCarty," Harris said hesitantly, "was speaking freely to you yesterday, but he said nothing to me at his appointment this morning."

"He was under the influence of cannabis yesterday. When he is sober, he can barely speak at all."

"Which would indicate that his inability to speak is due to a nervous condition."

"Isn't that what Neurasthenia is? A blanket term for various unidentifiable neuroses?"

"Your range of knowledge is impressive."

Eddie shook his head. "My wife is an army nurse. I asked her about it."

"Neurasthenia is a kind of shell shock that attacks officers. They go blank and forget the words for things. They are exhausted and can't make decisions. Sometimes, they lose one of their senses."

"McCarty can't walk or talk and there's no discernable cause, am I correct?"

"You have no medical background?"

"No." He rolled his eyes. "Trust me. I have sworn no Hippocratic Oath. I am a destroyer, not a saviour."

"You have brought about an almost immediate improvement in Hale and McCarty. Your argument makes no sense."

"Does it not?"

"You have a gift. People trust you. Teach me. How do I cure the men with shell shock?"

Eddie tapped his foot on the floor and shifted in his chair. "You want to know how I get them to calm down. How I coax them to do things when nobody else has had any success."

"Yes! The whole Allied Army and the medical community are desperate to save these soldiers. Thousands of men have been rendered completely useless and the Brass keeps accusing them of malingering. They're honestly sick and illness can be cured."

Eddie nodded. "Love them. Forgive them. Let them talk."

Harris sighed. "There must be more to it than that. That's too simple."

"If you cannot empathize with what they've been through, it's the hardest thing in the world."

︻┳═一

Isobel marched into Eddie's room, waving the newspaper in her hand at its occupants with a flourish. "I've brought ye something I thought ye might enjoy, gentlemen."

"What is it?" Eddie wondered aloud.

She held up the paper in front of the Captain's nose. "Do ye think this will prove entertaining, sir?"

Emmett's eyes lost their glaze. "Ohhhh!"

"What is it?" Hale asked eagerly.

"Times!" Emmett exclaimed.

Isobel handed the paper to Eddie and he turned his head to the right and practically put his eye on it. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's an old copy Mr. Biggins had in his sitting room, but I thought it might amuse ye sae I asked him tae lend it to us."

"The Wipers Times," Eddie said reverently. ([iii])

Hale practically levitated off his bed. "The Wipers Times?"

"Roberts!" Emmett yelled. "Theatre!"

"Yeah, that was fun, wasn't it?" Hale asked him.

"Read it to us, Bella!" Eddie hopped off his bed and placed a chair by Emmett's. He sat next to Emmett's feet and Hale scrambled up on the far side. The three of them watched her eagerly. It was the first time she could remember that the trio had displayed any joy.

"What do ye know," she said haughtily, pointing at each man in turn. "See No Evil, Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil."

Eddie and Cap laughed, but Jasper's forehead creased. "But I can hear."

Eddie flicked him on the ear. "We can fix that for ya!" A boyish scuffle ensued.

"Shh! Shh!" Cap waved at them both, then, pointed at Isobel. "Please!"

She ruffled the little newspaper in her hands. "Are ye a victim to optimism?" The three men hung on every word. "Ye don't know? Then answer the following questions. Do ye experience a feeling of cheerfulness? Do ye wake up in a morning thinking all is going well for the Allies?" She read out all the questions while the men beamed. "Well, we can fix that for you. We'll send ye tae the Front. In two days, we guarantee all signs of optimism will be gone."

Jasper laughed so hard that he keeled over and fell off the bed.

"We have to share this!" Eddie said, jumping up. "Come on! Downstairs!"

Emmett held out his hands and Eddie pulled him up and put him in a fireman's carry. Isobel bit her tongue against advising the blind not to carry the lame down marble staircases. Jasper was right behind them. Isobel found herself alone in the room.

"Well," she said to no one in particular.

"Come on, Bella!" Eddie shouted from somewhere on the stairs.

"All right." She hopped up, smoothed down her skirt and followed them.

In the lobby, Eddie and Hale were calling out to every available human. Isobel went into the parlour to claim a seat before all those available were taken. In no time at all, the room was bursting at the seams with men and even a handful of nurses.

"Read, Bella!" Eddie ordered as he deposited Emmett on the floor.

Everyone was staring at her hopefully. Isobel cleared her throat. "This is an advert from the front page of an April edition of The Wipers Times." She held up the paper. "Wipers Salient Taxicab Service. Are ye having trouble getting home from the Front? No worries. All ye need to do is hail one of our taxis. Ye will know them when ye see them. They all have a big, red cross on the side."

The assembled crowd roared with laughter. Pink-cheeked, Isobel continued to read and the patients laughed and joked and whispered to each other. She had read three quarters of the paper to them when Dr. Harris and a couple of other doctors slipped in and stood at the back of the room.

Isobel cleared her throat. She prayed she was not about to get into trouble. "May I haff a glass of water, please?"

A nurse at the back poured her one from the standing pitcher and handed it to one of the men. The water passed from hand to hand all the way to the front, where an enlisted man effectively kowtowed while handing it to her.

"Thank ye." Isobel sipped at the water and handed the cup back to the man. "Will ye hold this for me, PBI?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Isobel glanced fretfully at the doctors and read another advert.

"No children's party is complete without fireworks. Presently available at the Salient, nightly. Whizzbangs, crumps, pipsqueaks and Minnies provided, courtesy of Fritz." ([iv])

At the word whizzbang, a handful of the men in the room threw their hands over their heads and began to rock. Men around them, however, gave them friendly shakes and pats and soon, the shell shocked were listening attentively again. Isobel avoided looking at the doctors and read until she'd read every item aloud.

"All right, boys. That's all, I'm afraid." She took her water glass from her helper.

"Thank you for reading, Nurse Masen," Jasper called from the back. Those gathered began to chatter and applaud. Isobel waited for men to get up and leave so she could remove herself, but none of them did. One of the men raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"Ow come yer inn't in uniform if yer a nurse?"

"I'm on leave so I can spend time with my husband. We've both been in Blighty since July."

Another man raised his hand. "Where'd you serve, ma'am?"

"I was at one of the base hospitals near the Wipers for two years." She pointed at the next man who thrust his hand in the air.

"Ma'am, how did you read that limerick without blushing? Do you know what it's about?"

Isobel tipped down her chin. "I wonder if you will think more highly of me if I do or if I don't."

The men combusted with laughter. They chatted and joshed with each other for some time before Dr. Harris stepped further into the room.

"Where did you get that newspaper?" he demanded loudly. All the talking ceased.

"You aren't going to ban it, are you guv?" one of the non-com officers asked.

"Certainly not! I want more! Do any of you have more?"

The crowd began to mumble and whisper.

"I will pay each man to lend their copy to be read! And if more copies can be found, I will pay to put them in the hospital library!"

An ensign stood up. "I have three issues I will lend you, sir."

"Splendid! If you would be so kind as to lend them one at a time, Ensign, we shall read them to the men every Saturday afternoon."

"Huzzah!" one of the men yelled. Three cheers went up for Dr. Harris. Three more went up for Isobel.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin and Dr. Harris was able to pick his way across the room to Isobel. He bowed his head to her. "Mrs. Masen."

Isobel inclined her head. "I was worrit ye were fashed with me, Doctor."

"Do you realize what you've done?"

She winced.

Dr. Harris gestured around him. "The chief obstacle to healing the men with shell shock is that they lack heart. They are either unable or unwilling to communicate or otherwise engage with others. And here you are, reading ridiculous articles to men who haven't laughed in nearly two years, and they are laughing and chatting with their mates." He bent, took her hand, and kissed it. "I am in debt to you, ma'am."

"All I did was read!"

"About a topic to which they can relate! Communication is the key, I just know it. I must talk to the Director. Do you know if your friend has any more issues of this paper?"

"No. I can ask him."

"I will pay him well for them if he is willing to part with them."

"I will ask him this evening."

"Did you see?" he demanded of one of his colleagues.

The man nodded, his eyebrows raised. "When Burns started to keen, Auden and Richards got him to stop."

"Ferris laughed!" Harris appeared giddy.

"I know!"

Harris grabbed onto Eddie's hand and pumped it fiercely. "Do you believe God works in mysterious ways, Lieutenant?"

Eddie's brow wrinkled. "I'm not sure what the big deal is, sir. It was just a bit of fun."

"Just a bit of fun! Just a bit of fun? God bless you." He marched out of the parlour, arm-in-arm with his chattering colleagues, leaving Eddie, Isobel, Jasper and Emmett to stare at each other.

"He'll be wanting pantomimes next," Jasper said. Emmett snorted.

︻┳═一 ︻┳═一 ︻┳═一 ︻┳═一

[i] Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1834.

[ii] Statistics collected after the war showed that the Germans held only 200 POWs, while the Allies had 8000.

[iii] The Wipers Times: In February of 1916, two British officers and two of their men stumbled upon a printing press in an abandoned building. The senior officer, Roberts, had an idea to boost morale by producing a weekly newspaper reminiscent of Punch. They looted the press and dragged it all over Europe with them. The magazine was full of jokes, satire, poems and limericks, and lambasted the Upper Brass. They wrote it without using any profanity. The newspaper was so well-written that it became iconic and you can still buy print and Kindle copies of the complete edition. It was recently made into an extremely entertaining BBC movie which can be found on Netflix and Amazon.

[iv] Whizzbangs, crumps, pipsqueaks and Minnies: trench slang for mortar shells, canon, rifles and Minenwerfers aka missile-throwers.

︻┳═一 ︻┳═一 ︻┳═一 ︻┳═一

EXCERPT from MOMs ON MISSIONS by Jess Molly Brown:

"He'll never go for a blind date." Diana pushes a forkful of pecan pie around on her tea plate. "Remember the last one? She tried to make him quit painting. He said, 'Never again'."

"Oh, she wasn't even Italian." Constance waves her hand dismissively. "Vince needs a nice Italian girl." She chooses a rum ball off the three-tiered silver dish in the middle of the table. "One who will make him feel all manly and powerful."

Diana is shaking her head before Constance is even finished speaking. "I don't think so. The girls he dates are usually well-off businesswomen." She tips her head to the side, narrowing her eyes in concentration. "He needs somebody who's artsy and outgoing, but not focused on money. Someone . . . clever, independent and resilient."

"He prefers blondes," Mia says.

"Leggy blondes." Lu is 6'2" and appreciates men who aren't threatened by that.

Constance perks up, eyes aglow. "I know just the girl."

Diana, Lu and Mia stare, waiting for the pretty bunny to pop out of her hat.

"Mary diGiordano!" Constance lifts her cup in salute. "I went to university with her mother, Gloria."

Diana is taken aback. "Isn't Mary in high school? Vincent is nearly 28, you know."

Constance sips her espresso and wrinkles her mouth at the taste. She sets it down and focuses on Diana. "She's 22 and graduated in Music from the University of Toronto. She wants to relocate somewhere with job prospects for her band."

"She's a musician?" That sounds promising. "What kind of band does she have?"

Constance shrugs. "They play the blues. Gloria says they're really good." She puts three spoons of sugar in her espresso.

"What does Mary look like?" Diana tries not to get excited.

"Mary's petite, with long golden hair and the biggest blue eyes you ever saw." Constance reaches for another dessert, hesitates, and then chooses a chocolate biscotti. "Beautiful girl. But she daydreams a lot."

A little blue-eyed dream-angel for Vince? How perfect. Diana can practically see them dressed in their wedding clothes. For once, Vincent's messy brown curls will be cut. His father, Carmine will beam down from Heaven and the Russos will have the most beautiful wedding the neighbourhood has ever seen . . .

"I'm all ears," Diana says eagerly. "How are you going to set them up without them finding out? Vincent hacked our Facebook group months ago."

Mia turns to Constance. "You said Mary needs a new place to live, right?"

"Yes."

Mia ponders this, then smirks at Diana. "And Vincent is still living in the bottom half of your nephew Damon's house, right?"

"Yes," Diana nods. "Ever since Mrs. P. moved out, the upper unit has been empty."

"Sounds simple to me," Constance says. "We'll get Mary to move in upstairs. Vince is a nice boy, she's a nice girl . . . they'll fall together on their own. Easy."

"Is Mary's bio on our Facebook page?" Diana must research this girl.

"Yes, but her album's out of date." Constance stirs her espresso with the biscotti. "I'll call Gloria to see if she'll update the bio and recommend Damon's house to Mary. Romance aside, Gloria worries about groupies and shady characters." She lifts a shoulder. "I suppose Mary's safety is a valid concern considering she performs in clubs at night."

Diana purses her lips.

"What if Vince discovers our plans?" Mia cuts a corner off her Neapolitan square.

Constance leans forward conspiratorially. "We don't post a word about either of them, unless it's to share that they're seeing other people." She winks and polishes off the last bite of her biscotti. "Once they've met, let them go online, read up on each other and view some really cute photos."

"Nobody can let anything slip," Mia warns. All the ladies nod solemnly.