The newspaper headlines were grim. They unequivocally proclaimed. There is collapse of the Eastern Front after the Brest-Litovsk peace treaty, as detested Huns were on a rampage there. The Egyptian Expeditionary Force had occupied Jericho, with success and little losses. February's snowy winds were blowing, in side streets as Di Blythe cautiously watched the towering Kingsport Theater in front of her. And with a careless gesture she shook the snow off her clothes as she stepped over the sunken threshold into that space where dreams were made real.
The pale watery afternoon light flooded in from the large windows, everywhere there was the smell of dried flowers, paint and powder, the worn carpet was soft under Di's feet as she walked forward dodging piles of props, and piles of nails that had been carelessly thrown into a bulging zinc bucket in front of a half-open door, as if for a block. The aisles just narrowed, and narrowed, and finally the creaking pendulum door opened, and in front of Di's was the stage. It opened like a worn black opening, in the gloom the stands and rows of seats rose to the heights, full of worn, slightly dusty elegance, for this was by no means glorious Toronto's Massey Hall, of which Persis's letters had sometimes told, but its half-sister.
A flickering light came on the stage and an unfamiliar domineering irritated voice called out, "All in place, please. Where's Colin? He's late again, totally unforgivable. Is there a substitute pianist here?" And just as those words were uttered, a shadow hurried across the stage, nervously sweeping the scales into the air, from a battered piano,as ever rehearshals were rolling.
About four hours later, Winnie leaned back in her chair, her dressing-room a mess of splendor around Di. There were large bouquets of white lilies, in vases, and withered roses, she waved her hand in an arc and said, "Was it interesting, or totally dull? Unfortunately, the only tea we have here is cardamom, so if you want something else, I suggest we go to Helene's, as many of us go there, as the cafe is so conveniently close." Di, glanced at the miscellaneous objects on the dressing table, a pile of hairpins, a powder case, a small thin perfume bottle with a picture of a lily, as Winnie frowned as she murmured, " Odd, very odd."
Intrigued, Di remarked, "Is something wrong perhaps?"
Winnie, stood up, and disappeared behind the rattling clothes racks, and soon the only sound that could be heard was the rustling of clothes. And after a few minutes, flushed Winnie was sitting in her chair again, looking pensive, as she said with theatrical sweetness, "I seem to have misplaced a silk-scarf, well it comes out somewhere, these things always do."
Di, pointed out teasingly, "Perhaps one of your countless of admirers has taken it as a souvenir?" Hilarity flashed across Winnie's face as she riposted, "Dearest lamb, be sensible."
The dim light cast sharp shadows in the corner of the dressing room, as Di pondered aloud, "Could you tell me, why wasn't Colin here today? He's usually so conscientious. I remember once a couple of months ago, I was doing my work, sitting in Helene's café at the same time that he was there, we exchanged a few words. He, said I'm too visible, to be an accompanist." Di pointed out.
Winnie chuckled, softly low and soothing, as she replied, "That answer might have been professional jealousy. Colin is a sweetheart, quirky sometimes, but his heart is in the right place, even though he is not in uniform, flat feet, but he is in the VTC volunteer corps, I think. Perhaps today there were training, or there is flu circling round. Do you want to lighten your heart?"
Di, smiled in a fond way as she replied, "Thank you, but there is no need. I've had a few conversations, and while things aren't quite right, the worst is over, I think. She's been willing to try again lately, in a way that's quite awkward, and totally unlike her."
Winnie's eyes sparkled, impishly as she remarked, "Be merciful, though sometimes I feel you are not, you have a sharpness in you that is sometimes pleasant, I have noticed. But love troubles are never easy, that I do know."
The scent of sharp brewed cardamom tea was pervasive, and a sudden gust of unusual shyness seemed to come over Di. She half glanced through the mirror at Winnie, as she hummed something under her breath, there were touch of dimples in her cheeks, which Di had not noticed at all before. Again a strange sense of security arrived, as if nothing terrible could befall. Di, tasted her tea that had brewed for too long with satisfaction, although it was far too tannic, as she did so she opened her notebook and began to write, letter to Persis.
Winnie, glanced amusedly in Di's direction, as she said, "Are the libraries so full that you have to do your correspondence here, if it so, I for one do not mind. But remember, we really must go to Helene's cafe, as it is Wednesday. Can I count on you to accompany me if the patrons want to dance? And now the really important question of the hour. What dress, I shall wear?"
Thoughtfully, Di looked up at the clothes racks, "You look gorgeous in any shade. I'd love to see you in pale lavender, but tonight, I'd say black." A slight smile came to Winnie's lips as she said, "Well, then, black it shall be."
Winnie, still humming, turned off the lights, and in the clear mirror Di saw Winnie's shadowy silhouette behind the japoniserie screen. Di felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks as Winnie came from behind the screen a moment later, sleek black dress fitting like a glove, as her shoulders gleamed like creamy ivory. Pressing her cold fingers together with an effort, as her pulse was throbbing in faint way, Di said, impishly, "Shall we, go for I think your adoring audience might be impatient already?" Winnie, only smiled as she said, " Lead on, then."
A clear, silvery joyfully abundant laugh echoed through the half-empty theater corridors.
On the far side of Kingsport, the door to the upper story of a house was broken open by force. The landlady's muffled scream came from the stairs, "Someone call the police, now."
Exhausted, Ned Burns of the Kingsport Police Department´s vice section, took a nervously jumbled call. Twenty minutes later, Burns looked coldly at the disheveled blond hair, colorless features, delicate, slender fingers clutching the shimmering red silk scarf tightly, as his officers carefully went through the belongings in the worn-out rented room. There was a hook hanging from the ceiling and a rope on the hook. On the table were a few newspaper clippings from last week's Kingsport Herald, with headlines announcing the frontline situation on the Western Front and nothing else to mention. There were a few worn suits in the wardrobe, and a VTC uniform with shiny brass buttons.
Impatiently, Burns opened the desk drawers, they were lined with newsprint, there were sheet music folders, and a fountain pen, box of matches with the Kingsport Theater logo on them. Wrinkled business card with an address scrawled on it, curiously he turned it over, "Aspidistra Corner Cafe." There was also a crumpled clipping from a Toronto paper describing a benefit concert at Massey Hall, December 14, 1917, Ned Burns read the article with a flourish.
Besides a variety of performers and old vaudeville numbers, the crowning glory of the evening was Eva Willard - the famous Lily Maid of Song, once again charmed with a selection of songs that struck straight to the heart, as she as also done on her wildly succesful tours in Westernfront Covalecent Hospitals, in France. Willard with her golden Mary Pickford-like curls, and airs and graces, all draped in shimmering white silk. The audience included all the cream of Toronto, Frederik and Ede Wyatt, whose piano factory has conquered all of America and part of Canada, and also a brilliant author Owen Ford and his family. The article featured a photo black and white variety, of a resplendent crowd dressed in their best.
An officer remarked slyly, "Sir, perhaps he's the ones we've been chasing in the fall, in the park, like? It fits does it not. All theatrical nonsense, and the boys said there was a cache of something interesting under a loose board."
Curious, Ned Burns leaned over to look, and after a moment he said decisively, "Grease paint, and powder, and kajal, and perfume, and no cologne. I think I'll go to that address alone. The rest of you, do the usual process."
It was snowing, light flakes, as Ned Burns walked the intersecting streets of Kingsport. Finally, the building he was looking for rose up in front of him. A hoarse clock chimed, above the threshold, as he entered the dim cafe, but the place was not at all what he had expected. There were no seediness in place, only tea and pastries, and dancing citizens. Not a hint of theatrical rouge anywhere, even though there was elaborate slightly out of tune piano, played by a familiar-looking red-haired girl, and on stage another red-haired, lush woman dressed in a black dress performed a similar repertoire, in creamy voice, which had been in the Toronto article, Over There, The Bells of St. Mary.
A tall blonde woman, dressed in an ice blue dress, strode between the narrow tables to Ned Burns and inquired, "Good evening, what would you like?" He looked at the woman sharply and said briefly, "One house tea and information please."
For a moment it seemed as if the woman was startled, but then she said smoothly, a little icily, "Tea will be here soon. I can assure you that the permits for this place are perfectly fine."
Ned Burns smiled, few could resist his smile, as it was full of rugged charm, as he said dryly, "I believe so, ma'am, but I am here to investigate a unfortunate case. I suppose do you know a gentleman named Colin Burrows, he could be a customer or perhaps a waiter here?"
On the stage, Winnie's attention suddenly sharpened, towards Helene, as the chords of the last song still shimmered in the hall, and the people reddened from dancing clapped wildly. Winnie bent towards Di, carefully, stretching, and whispered in her ear, " There is trouble in the air, look at Helene how stiff she is." Di, looked up from the notes and frowned, and said in a whisper, "What can we do, that man is hardly a tax inspector or a food board member or a policeman, don't they usually come rushing in?"
Winnie smiled, captivatingly, impishly, and said, "I think it's time we improvised a little."
A pale, fair woman who said her name was Helene, she lightly stretched, and said calmly, " It may be, there have been many customers here. Many people have played that piano here, sir. This tea is on the house naturally, I'm always happy to work with Kingsport's finest. But now, other customers and kitchen will need my attention, so please, have a enjoyable stay, here." So, almost like slick smoke Helene turned, and walked away. Ned Burns's neck itched, as it always did when a witness dodged questions, but there was nothing that could be done. The owner had answered the questions directly, if somewhat evasively.
There was sense of lovely peace at the little nook of a café, despite that the counter was improbable shade of lavender tiles, tulle and dried flowers in the windows, the flowers were so shriveled that it was hard to tell what kind they had been. Quite curiously Ned Burns found that he loathed the idea to any disturbance of the place, as all patrons of both sexes, men and women, middle class citizens, there were no Bluenoses, seemed to enjoy themselves hugely, despite dreadful news dripping from newspapers.
There was a wild clapping and cheering from the little dance-floor, and Ned Burns, turned to look, curious, in spite of the fact that he was there in an official capacity, as a red-haired vocalist, crooned meltingly, as she slinked in smooth, in a delicately provocative way across the stage that was almost indecent, in a cabaret style that one wouldn't normally expect to see in a coffee shop, the wildly passionate ragtime music created an atmosphere that was enchanting. Burns felt that his ears were red, and his collar felt too tight, as he quickly finished his tea, he slipped out of the cafe as discreetly as he had arrived.
When the clock over the door chimed, after detective Burns had left, Helene felt like she could breathe again, albeit with difficulty. Behind the counter, she surveyed the clientele, as the cafe slowly emptied. Carefully she took out three glasses, a bottle, from one of the side cabinets, and when only Winnie and Di were left, Helene locked the door, and turned off the lights, and beckoned both women to the back room, where there was a narrow staircase. At the end of the stairs, there was a small apartment that consisted of two rooms. Looking around, Winnie sat down on the floral couch, and said seriously, "What's wrong, Lene, and is it related to that customer earlier?"
Di, walked a restless circle in the small room, looking around curiously, nothing very personal was on display at all. There were few potted plants, and ferns, an old ragged framed art print depicting Alfonso Mucha´s Seasons. Helene wiped the hem of her dress, as she said in a low, jagged voice, "It's about Colin, it seems that he has passed."
Some incommunicable tension flared between Helene and Winnie as Di heard Winnie let out one small broken sigh as she said, "Well, that explains it, then." Three thin glasses clinked and rose as the smell of spicy brandy filled the room like a whisper. In half-light of the rose-colored lamps gloom, Winnie´s eyes were wide very darkly glistened with tears. Di, turned her head so quickly that she almost felt her neck snap, as Helene, continued "That customer was a policeman, or detective rather, named Burns, apparently he was just making a routine visit, lets hope so, at least."
In a colorless voice, Di heard herself say, "Helene, did you say Burns?"
Helen's gray-blue eyes glanced worriedly in Di's direction as she nodded, once.
And again Di, felt herself drowning in a cold, clammy mist, as the light had cut the mist in half. Shivering Di gasped faintly. Then suddenly Di felt Winnie's soft curls tickle her cheek. Slowly Di, felt Winnie stroking her hair, and the notes of lily perfume and brandy scent mingled with each other, as she gently murmured, "there, there my lamb, let those tears come. Everything will be right at the end, it will, sooner or later."
March, arrived, not at all like a lion. Atmosphere in Ingelside was very bleak, for the Germans were advancing like a train, still. Susan remarked to Gertrude Oliver with sharp passion, "I never thought I'd see you Miss Oliver to be as pessimistic and gloomy as my cousin Sophia."
Gertrude Oliver fingered her rosary tightly in her pocket, and said bitterly, "The newspaper headlines are not encouraging at all. Hindenburg has kept his word until now, he is threatening to sacrifice thousands of lives to break the Allied frontline, and we are just waiting for this cruel blow, or any blow, to arrive. I think there is no hope left."
Susan stirred the cake batter briskly as she said, "I believe in our boys."
Rilla was knitting a sock, and looked up as Mumsy said in an unusually hopeless sounding voice, "Oh, oh, if only this Armageddon were over." Rilla glanced at Susan, whose face was atypically grim, when she heard Anne's words, but then she said with her atypical wim, "Dear Dear, please, don't fret, read the Bible, there you can find comfort, always."
And a couple of days later, with the landscape of the Glen watery gray and miserable, Rilla walked into the post office, and saw the latest newspaper headlines, they declared "The Germans have attacked massively on the Western Front, March 21, 1918, according to General Haight, "severe fighting continues, fierce."
That night, after Rilla had written the secrets of her heart in her diary, she glanced at the Mona Lisa print on the wall, her last Christmas present from Walter, and a patch of light glinted in Walter's photograph, his deep gray eyes seemed to look straight into Rilla's soul, and exhausted, yet encouraged, she reread Piper´s immortal verses, once more. Black anxiety did not dissipate, but it seemed lessened somehow. Pale moonlight sparkled in the Glen sky, and looking at it, Rilla hoped with all her heart that Ken would be safe, that maybe he would hold the French lines, in place.
The streets of Quebec were bustling and buzzing, the atmosphere was not at all as calm as it usually is the day before Good Friday. A young boy hurried past Athénaise as she cheerfully inquired, "Little one, where is the fire?"
The boy turned, and said frantically, "The riots have started, rumor has it that the military has cordoned off one who didn't have the necessary papers. And now angry anti-conscription protesters are attacking, businesses have been vandalized. There will be soon blood in the air, and gunpower too!"
Athénaise tossed the boy a coin and said gently, "Go to your mother, and lock the door. This is no place for children." The boy grinned, dark eyes slanting against a narrow face, as he snidely remarked, "And is that Mademoiselle's place, then?"
Athénaise, laughed wildly with glee and lifted her gray, practical skirt, above the knee, as she began to run, and blurted out, "Perhaps, no, but I won't miss this for all tea in Japan."
The sharp whistle echoed, and echoed, and the crowd moved restlessly but determinedly. The troops arrived in a clear formation towards the protesters, the atmosphere was tense and nervous. The threat of violence was clear. Athénaise, heard an angry hiss, like the sound of a huge beehive, and half to herself, she muttered, "Persis, forgive me, I don't know where this is going, but I promise I'll write quite a letter, afterwards."
The woman wrapped in a worn scarf turned, next to her as she said sharply, " Ma fille, le temps des prières est termine. Mon fils est emprisonné, au front, et mon autre fils a été emprisonné par eux, Parce qu'il ne voulait pas aller au front, dans une section régimentaire pleine de gens qui n'était pas les nôtres, tu comprends? Et maintenant, ce foutu gouvernement Borden, et ces foutus uniformes, nous disent quoi penser. C'est fou, c'est ça. Je pense que Borden lui-même est l'Antéchrist, Laurier a essayed, mais même lui ne peut pas tout faire."
Two days later, in first of April 1918, Quebec Conscription Riots were over, had been put down, bloodily.
A/N: Eva Willard - Lily Maid of Song and Wyatts, are taken from Findley´s Pianoman´s Daughter(1998) All the songs mentioned in this chapter are traditional, well-known ones typical to the era.