A cutting wind hummed over Passchendaele, among the waterlogged mud, the half-rotting corpses, the giant water-filled crater openings - shell holes - in which men or horses had sunk, disappeared without a trace. The mud was cold, immersive, and treacherous. It had been raining almost vertically for weeks. The battlefield was flooded, as the ancient Flemish drainage systems had been destroyed by heavy artillery fire that had been going on for months. On October 24th General Arthur Currie had given the order that the theater of war should be repaired, and the soldiers had tried to do what they could, according to the orders; removal of the dead, and the building and repair of roads and tramlines to help in the movement of men, armaments and other supplies on the battlefield. Narrow wooden trenchmats hastily constructed, where some of the men, walked, in single file line, carefully, in duck walk, as soldiers and pack animals had to pick their way across narrow duck walk tracks that wound among the craters, because even the slightest slippage could be fatal.
In the dug-out trenches, questionable shelter, where the CEF troops had been moved, Joe Milgrave adjusted his grimy kahki uniform, and glanced at a small photograph of Miranda, in it she were dressed in her borrowed wedding finery looking at him in her earnest sweet way, blush of love in her mien, Miranda Milgrave, Glen's the only war bride. Miranda's letters were full of the disputes of Glen, of her own work, of Junior Reds, as well as keeping house, to her unpopular father, and she wrote faithfully, enthusiastically, of her own wishes, sometimes Miranda very boldly, even referred to that too short night, the wedding night, when their bodies and souls were united at the Lighthouse.
A couple of days earlier, the Fifth Army had joined their forces with the Canadian Corps, as month had turned into November. Capitan Edwards glanced at the men standing in rows of kahki, their faces grim, and he nodded, no more words were needed, it had all been said yesterday. An almost inaudible romantic whistling glowed in the gray of the morning, and to his astonishment, he found himself recognizing the note, it was Bellini's, Vaga luna, and the delicate beauty of that note was at odds with the infernal, hellish conditions around them. The sky was covered with a thick blanket of metallic gray clouds, there was silence over Passchendaele, still for the time being.
Days had passed and the tactical battles had been tight, with few gains, and lot of losses. Joe Milgrave's boot sank into the mud, with a sloshing sound, it was everywhere, there was no escaping it, jammed guns, as small company of soliders were huddled in deep, blasted shell-hole, it was more than half-filled with freezing water. A short distance in front of them spread out the alley between Gravenstafel Ridge and the high ground at Passchendaele, this terrain was the same that the 1th Canadian Corps had held in their control way back in April 1915.
With hand signals, the men moved through the muddy terrain, in a half -crouch, perhaps today they reached one of their objects, as it was 6th of November, third stage of attack, luckily the rain that had turned everything into a muddy swamp had finally stopped. The thunder of the preliminary bombardment echoed wildly.
The Meetcheele–Mosselmarkt road was in front of them and behind it the silhouette of a farmhouse held by the enemy. Joe wiped his eyes, for the sight was utterly absurd, all was a vast, indescribable, broken void, an apocalyptic sight, an endless eyeless destruction, with nothing human in it, only suffering, cold, misery, utter hell, and yet the house and the ruins of the village rose from the mist it was looming, there were a mechanic click of machine guns, they ecohed, and reverbeated in muggy air, as slowly exhausted, stumbling sepia-toned shadows, stumbled into the open. Cadre of grimy trembling men, with glassy eyes, and muddy uniforms, as CEF-corps captured the village and took into posession of machine guns and prisoners.
Joe Milgrave, exhausted to no end, leaned against the wall of a half-demolished house, and shook his head as the cigarette boxes passed from hand to hand. He didn't feel anything, the adrenaline from earlier had worn off, and almost half of his troop that had gone out of trenches two days earlier hadn't been returned and rumors said that butchers bill had been very severe at this late stage of Battle of Passchendaele, that had gone over four months almost, here on the Western Front, in the depths of Belgium, but maybe achieving this goal would help somehow, turn the tide towards final victory. The Huns had been beaten, at least here. Joe glanced across the fragmented village, that did not resemble anything at all anymore. Only pieces of torn mortar, shelled farmhouses, in pieces.
Prisoners were sitting, they looked like him, youths who had been spent beyond their strength, if it weren't for the uniform, they wouldn't be able to tell each other apart, probably, maybe. The faces of the prisoners were expressionless, but there was fear in the eyes of some of the men, and with a small frown Joe nodded, for the fear was justified, for the Canadian Corps had a reputation for ruthlessness that had been cultivated by sortie-attacks, and trench-raids over No Man's Land, over last four years.
An expectant hum descended on Glen's Junior Reds meeting as Rilla Blythe tapped her hands together thrice. Una Meredith glanced cautiously towards the corner where Irene Howard was holding her court. About twenty minutes earlier, Irene had swept into this room in her familiar confident style, as if she had never left. Una had noticed how Rilla's features had tightened as Irene pointed out honeyedly, "I was in Charlottetown a couple of days ago to see my aunt, she is so devoted to me, even if she has her hands full, as she meddles in her borders affairs, with great success rate, there has been quite lot of engangements, and war weedings, ever since August, that is the one of effect of conscription! Nevertheless quite by chance I happened to cross Charlottetown square I happened to notice your very quant green velvet hat, my dear Rilla, it's well, worn, isn't it time to get a new one, unless you want to look like a ragamuffin, maybe Ingelside's standards have dropped? There are such deliciously lovely millneryshops in Charlottetown, with almost the latest fashions, of sleek military lines, not a ruffle or silk-ribbon in sight!"
Betty Mead, said sharply, "Irene, if you are going to be here again, I suggest you would cease your social babbling, for a moment or two. We have many things to attend to today, for as we all know what the newspaper headlines have been, after the Canadians' victory in Passchendeale Ridge."
Miranda Milgrave's pale face reddened as she heard Betty's words, and Una noticed how tired but quietly luminous Miranda looked, for she had received a word from Joe, but those days after the battle, when casualty-lists, and yellowing black bordered telegrams had arrived like a tidal wave to Lowbridge and Glen there had been uncertainty and severe burning loss in the air, as the toll had ben heavy. Reverend Meredith had almost done memorial and Sunday-services back to back, as mourners flocked to the Manse, as Rosemary boiled tea, bucket quantaties, of it, seemed so. Even Bruce had been listless and worried lately.
With an internal sigh Una focused her attention towards meeting as relatively heated speeches were given, as the Junior Reds argued, and discussed the afternoon's agendas, but in the end a consensus was reached, somehow. And then Irene said into the silence, "The piano in Glen's hall is in pretty rough shape, wouldn't it be better to replace it with a piano from the Wyatts Piano Factory, in Toronto, they are the finest these days!"
Rilla glanced questioningly at Una, and to her own surprise, Una remarked, "Irene, for once I agree with you, but I don't think we can afford a Wyatt, their sound is simply delicious, or so I´m told."
Irene sniffed and Una had a hard time reading that look on her face, it flirted with slight contempt, but not quite, and then Irene said pointedly, to Miranda Milgrave, "I've always thought Joe wasn't very handsome, but a uniform makes a man look like a man." Hearing Irene's words, Miranda said softly, "I think he was very handsome dearest Irene, even before our wedding. I do have a husband, still Miss Howard, and not many here can say that."
The Junior Reds exchanged amused glances over Miranda's head, as Miranda's tone was simply filled with matronly air.
The temperature had dropped, behind the windows of Ingelside's cozy living room, a gusting storm wind beguiled, yellowish birch, vividly crimson maple leaves, their bright colors seemed to be muted, as sleeting rain drip dropped on the roof. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, and Susan and Gertrude Olivier were passionately discussing the Wartime Election Act, a topic that had often been on the lips of the married women of Glen throughout the fall, ever since the bill had been passed in September, as well as the issue of Conscription that too was ongoing.
Gertrude´s voice climbed into uncommonly agitated register as she brust out, "It's downright inconsolable that women, like Anges Carr, who until the last prevented her husband from going to the front, can vote, but I can't, because Robert is only my fiancé. If things had gone differently, I could vote now, and then at least one vote would be certain, but the finger of fate pointed otherwise! Of course Anges Carr will vote against the Union Government, I can literally feel it in my bones!"
Rilla exclaimed fervently, "If only I was 21, then I could vote. Surely the twins at Redmond will vote for Union Goverment?" Susan carried the steaming tea tray to the small clawed sidetable and remarked in a decidedly bitter tone, " Godless hun-minded, Laurier fannish vermins, can vote, and I as declaired old maid, no not, but still I'd rather be an old maid than Mrs. Josiah Pryor! Don't worry Rilla, I'm quite sure your sisters will vote, as is right and proper, for of course no Ingelside child will vote for the sinful Laurier! Mrs Doctor Dear as I understand those over-harbour folks, Allisters and Crawfords are now on a tizzy, because the political lines have always been clear there, either Conservative or Grit, but now everything is all catawampus, there too, as Conscription is too important an issue. Girts must bend and vote for Borden, and for the Conservatives, for a certain wing Laurier's politics has always been poison, as it should! As Mrs Marshall Elliot, the last time she was here, she confirmed my assumption, for her husband has kin there, unfortunately. It is true that the end times are almost at hand when Cornelia Elliot, while furiously knitting socks, for our boys, she spoke for a wide-ranging inter-church cooperation, Union Church, I have not liked Reverend Meredith's ecumenical approach at all, but in a way it has been a foretaste of this, and in the end, not even Metodists are as bad as those beastly Germans."
Anne had restrained her smile, and remembered how only last night dear Cornelia's graying figure had sat in this room as friendly, and efficient as ever, but a little shrunken, as she had said in a confidential tone, "Anne, my dear, I have heard that the Methodists have taken a downright charming war-positive attitude to this war, and especially to conscription. And in the direction of Lowbridge, Dr. Parker's house now looks almost deserted, still, while Teresa Parker is still, in the provinces, as if things there were like in the South in the 1860s, endless visiting of relatives of not a worry how things will look. I did see Dick Parker, he looks drawn and worried, as he rattles around there all alone, as all his children are gone, Alice is up at Redmond, the boys are in front, but I must say that I don't know anything about Parker's politics, I hope he too votes for Union!"
Susan, made a small noise, as she had remarked, "Dear Mrs. Elliot, you may suppose that all the local doctors, even the Lowbridge ones, are on the right side. Sophia my cousin might know, but I don't want to see her now, but if I know I will let you know. Namely in these times, conviction is of the utmost importance."
Gertrude went with determined steps to the piano, and glanced at the pile of sheet music, wearily on stand, and quietly she started to play, Elgar, A Song of Flight, the words were a poem by Christina Rossetti.
It is time to arise
To race for the promised prize,
The Sun flies, the Wind flies.
We are strong, we are free,
And home lies beyond the stars and the sea.
At the end of that uplifting moment, Rilla quietly inquired, "Mumsy, do you happen to know anything about the Wyatt piano factory, I guess it's Toronto based? I wouldn't ask otherwise, but I can't stand the fact that Irene Howard previously lorded her knowledge over the rest of us. If you've received a recent letter from Aunt Leslie and have not yet drafted a reply could you may ask her?"
The living room slowly emptied, as Susan went about her chores, Rilla and Gertrude retreated upstairs to have a confidential conversation, which they quite often did when they found time to do so.
Anne, went back to her correspondence, a few letters had arrived, from Avonlea, Orchid Slope, Toronto, and Kingsport, not from Nan, but from Di. Di's handwriting was dark, emphatic, and the ink pen had almost torn a hole in the envelope. Anne spread them out in front of her like a papery fan. She then cut open a letter from Toronto. Seeing curlicued lines of Leslie's greeting with the decorated watermark, on the fine thin letterpaper, warm feeling welled into her heart, still.
Rosedale, November 1917
My dearest Anne! You know how hard all our children "over there" and in the homefront, are working tirelessly to put an end to this catastrophic situation, as we are, for our part, are keeping up the war effort and smoothing the seething tempers, you in Glen's Laidies Aid and I in the Rosedale district as well.
It is probably useless to ask what topic is being discussed in our beloved Ingelside, because the same topics are here as well, albeit with varying perspectives, which especially Persis brings to our breakfast table, with her sets contancs in Quebec. Owen's days are spent in hard toil, and his hands smell like printing ink, like in our first years, when I was still learning to live without shadows, shadows don't disappear, they just change shape.
A couple of weeks ago I happened to participate in a charity event, which was a bit mix and match, and there I met Ede Wyatt. Over the years, the Wyatts have climbed into the center of Toronto's art and literature and cultural circles, which is natural, because the Wyatt piano factory produces top-quality pianos throughout North America. Ede has such charm, so it's no wonder that the Wyatts' dinner invitations have become a tradition in our Toronto circles, just like the secondary glamor of rows of boxes in Massey Hall, inteperced with honorary patrons celebrated in plaques with glit, all that usual stuff, that is so far removed from my humble origins, in beloved edensque peace of Four Winds. In the background of all this is a glowing, heated debate, of war, hoping, wishing that the tide would turn.
There are dances in the King Edward Hotel, afternoon tea dances, with wild, ragtime, and cadre of uniformed soliders all waiting for their turn, or so Persis has informed me. Sometimes when my dear whirlwind spends an afternoon free from her duties, from Red Cross Offices with cotierie blossom of lasses from work. She had seen a special scene, a slim red-haired woman handful years older than her, dressed in a loose blue dress and a small hat got up from a small table and walked towards the dance floor, and next to her was a redheaded boy of about eight years old, wearing an oversized sailor suit, with red embroidery on lapels. And that mismatched couple, danced, they floated, between all the modish dances, and pairs, they walked in fox trot, diagonal line, all over that luminous space, and slowly the dance floor was filled with uniforms and desperately bright laughter of young girls that rattled the tall windowpanes. The dancing woman's name was Lily Kilworth, and the boy's name was Charlie, and they seemed to be separated from the others in some hard-to-define way, and the little boy was the most unchildlike child Persis had seen in a long time, part of it might have been the war, but it might also have been something deeper as they exchanged a few words after Lily and Charlie finished their dance. Lily Kilworth´s eyes were blue green shade, and they never looked anyone directly in the eye, under her military influenced hat. She seemed unsettled, and seemed to be looking for something, or someone, and beside her was an embroidered handbag with an oblong box of matches, peeking out. Persis, when she told me this while we were drinking tea, she seemed a little pensive, for usually words come easily to my child, and her golden hilarity was muted with a silence that I recognized all too painfully, for such deep silence was my own property, before you, Anne, when with your open friendship, and with your sensitivity you broke and melted the shell that life had grown around me. I don't like to walk in a certain area of Rosedale, because it's too painful, as Cloister looms, it is very beautiful, and a proper building, even if its connotations are unpleasant, in short, the Cloister encloses all deviant, mentally ill and strange individuals. I have often lately thought of heredity, of blood and kindred, that melancholy strain that occasionally crops up in us Wests, and also of my old burden, from which Gilbert's diagnosis and your friendship relieved me, and also of Owen's love, which was kindled that summer, but of course you partly know this, for you witnessed this change, but I think that even after all these years you still do not fully know what a gift your move to the Glen gave me that summer. Because even though we've talked and shared almost everything over the years, there are things I don't talk about, and this is one of them. Now that the world and order have completely fallen apart, I find myself seeking a special kind of comfort by doing an accounting, as West I like to settle my accounts, and my debt, even if that debt is only between bosom friends, or kindred spirits, as you might say. I hope you are able to take this in the spirit in which it is intended.
And finally I received an exceptionally delighted letter from Kenneth, and he praised Di's novel in glowing terms, apparently a friend of the twins had sent it to him. You must be extremely proud and happy about Di's achievement. I can tell you that though, Owen was informed, recently, that Into the BlueBell Woods the book hasn't sold very many copies, not these days, but there's always a chance that as circumstances change, the sales numbers will rise.
Don't lose hope, and tell Diana the same if she doubts her own abilities, because she need not.
Loving greetings to all to denizens of Ingelside,
Leslie.
The tea had cooled bitter, sharp mess at the bottom of the gilded rose cup, a few crooked tea leaves floated in it, as Anne tilted the cup and poured the tea away, because it was completely undrinkable. In doing so, she remembered Leslie as she had been then, in those first, tentative months, because the letter had brought old memories to the surface very clearly. Leslie's piercing, sometimes macabre dark silence, and mood swings, sparkled with golden laughter, with that eerie grace, of form, of golden hair, and porpotion, plain blue linen, with a twist of crimson, those so fleeting moments which made Leslie so alive, lively, still stately, naturally, but no longer cynical closed off and embittered woman made old before her alotted years, by life. How attentively Miss Cornelia had watched Leslie out of the corner of her eye, during the times when they had both been guests in the House of Dreams, and in time everything had become clear.
With a tired smile, Anne glanced at Walter's photo, and then Gilbert's strong arms wrapped around Anne's waist, and an impish whisper sounded next to her ear, "Anne-girl, you look dreamy, I hope the correspondence was a pleasant reading experience?" Anne looked up, and carefully with her fingertips she touched, a few graying curls from Gilbert's temples, as she repilied, " Old memories, form our early days, at Four Winds, Leslie sends greetings, to all." At this juncture, Rilla ran down the stairs, and as she passed, Anne remarked, "Darling, Rilla, I got the answer to your earlier question. Leslie knows the Wyatts, so perhaps this contact can be used, as I'm sure she doesn't mind." Rilla laughed happily, as she twirled her pale skirts wildly, on the carpet, and said, "Oh, if that were to be arranged, I know that at least Una would be in seventh heaven, for as we all know she loves pianos!"
In Perennial's office, Dorian Gardiner, wearily wiped his tie. The day had been long, and exhausting, but the thought of going to Gardiner Hall was altogether terrifying, for Adeline had been in an extremely bad mood ever since two days before, at the breakfast table, Royal had announced, "Addie, I have done several calculations, and the result is that we are not having a Shamain Soiree, this year, the cost would be too much, and anyway we must now cut back everything possible. I suggest you talk to Dorothy about how she manages her finances. I have already informed Thompson of this, and he will make the necessary arrangements among our staff."
Adeline had said in an eerily calm voice that revealed how furious she was, as Dorian well knew from personal experience, "Isn't the first step to sell the conservatory and its contents, for they are utterly useless. If we are in trouble, why haven't you told us about this before, every time I've tried to bring it up, you've dodged."
And there had started a great quarrel, which had only continued, and Dorian had fled to the peace of the library, and he had eyed a shelf full of Hardy's marbled leather-backed first editions, and with a heavy heart he had made three stacks, into large packing cases. All the art that glowed on the walls of Gardiner Hall, acquired from Florence, Rome, and Venice, in earlier times, perhaps could be turned into currency, so that his family would be able to survive even into the next year, without complete destruction. To his surprise, Dorian found himself mostly relieved that they would have to downscale, that way there wouldn't be a so large divide between him and the other youths still in enrolled Redmond, there were few of them. Most of his age group were either in Western Front, or buried in unmarked mass-graves, as Walter´s Piper had played his floating, roasing song, as men had followed, as they now did too in generous numbers, all according to rules and regulations of conscription.
Cautiously, Dorian opened the locked drawer on his Perennial's desk, it was full of white feathers, as were all the other three drawers in that dresser. That sight no longer bothered him, so much as it had used to, but still it stung. Resolutely, Dorian closed the drawers, as he straightened his posture, took out a new clean sheet of paper, and began to draft a new essay for the December issue of Perennial, humming at the same time a charming vaudeville song, it had been something about gallant or not so gallant heroes and trumpets blazing, that Winnie had performed it at the theater in Kingsport, as he did so he pondered of few of verses of Wilfred Owen that Ken Ford had quoted to him, in his most recent letter, they were very apt, as usual, as they told him the hellish experience that he was not part of.
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us.
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent...
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient...
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow...
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.
A/N:
A Song of Flight, by Elgar, Op. 31, No. 2, it was written in 1895. Ede Wyatt and Lily and Charlie Kilworth are borrowed from Timothy Findley's multi-faceted and multi-dimensional historical novel The Piano Man's Daughter, (1995). Let´s all be kind to each other. I want to send my best wishes to everyone, readers, reviewers, lurkers whenerver you are.