Lethbridge: A tale of love in a time of war

Prologue

August 16, 1921

Nearing Belfast, Maine

Sadness knows Hettie Knowlton’s face.

From her seat by the window of the train, Hettie looks up and smiles at the strangers who walk past, strangers who nod and smile in return. They pause and glance at Hettie’s daughter, a pretty little redhead of two, who is playing with a doll on the floor by her mother’s feet. Sometimes they comment on the fact mother and child share the same auburn hair colour and offer a compliment. Hettie politely expresses her thanks.

Yet throughout, there is that sadness. Some strangers know it well. They see it in the eyes of many women who have lost their husbands to war. For Hettie, it has been two years, but it might as well be a thousand. Or yesterday.

She is an attractive woman of 22. Her husband liked to say she could have been a model in the rotogravures, wearing the latest fashions. She would laugh at the silliness of such a notion, yet her memory of it sometimes leads her now to ponder the path not taken. Still, she has her child. Her Babe.

Hettie turns toward the window, seizing a moment of quiet contemplation while the child plays. Steam from the train’s engine billows across a bright blue sky against a backdrop framed by pine trees, rocks, and the tracks ahead that skirt the New England shoreline. She has never been to Maine before; it’s all new to her. It is her husband’s home, however, and she hopes this trip will help her better understand how growing up here shaped his life and how he lived it. And she hopes, too, it will offer her the chance at a fresh start, and to find a proper home for the memories she brings with her.

It might just be her husband’s last gift to her.

She pulls a letter from her purse. It’s worn by time and repeated readings and she unfolds it gently. The train’s whistle wails just as the conductor enters their car from behind her. Belllllllfast, he pronounces. Hettie looks down at her daughter and smiles to herself at how he pronounced the name. He’s obviously had years of practice, she thinks. End of the line.

The little girl seems oblivious to the commotion as the others in their car begin to gather their things and stand to reach overhead for their bags. Hettie leans forward and looks out the window to catch that first glimpse of her husband’s hometown. Belfast.

Babe, she whispers while never taking her eyes from the window.

Aye, Mummy?

You know how you’ve been asking for six days if we’re there yet?

Hettie looks down. The little girl nods.

Well, we’re there.

Part One

Chapter One

July 1, 1904

London, England

Harry Walker presses his nose to the glass as he looks out the window and up the street. He is watching for his father.

William Walker’s infrequent visits to the east-end flat Harry shares with his family are welcome diversions from the sameness that otherwise smothers the nine-year-old boy’s life. It’s a life in which he sometimes feels as if he is little more than an afterthought to the other people in it. Well, maybe not everyone: there is his brother Syd, two years older. Syd is his best mate.

Still, Harry can’t ever remember a moment when he was the centre of attention, not even on Christmas or his birthday. It’s not as if he thinks of himself as special or more deserving. By all appearances, none of the others feel any different than he. Theirs is a hard-scrabble existence. Harry believes only his mother is special; his dear, sainted, dead mother.

Despite Harry’s anticipation, his father—this harsh, cold, distant father—is not the North Star of Harry’s life.

The lad’s salvation is found in his imagination, nurtured by the books a kindly neighbour shares with him, and in the newspapers and magazines of the day he finds in trashcans, gutters and slagheaps, pages of print where Harry discovers stories of faraway lands with strange sights, of buccaneers and cowboys and brigadoons and castles.

The world where Harry’s imagination is especially vivid is found in The Boy’s Own Paper. It is a world all his own, thanks to a subscription given to him by his half-sister Elizabeth. God love her.

In bed at night, he reads and re-reads the stories in The Boy’s Own Paper to Syd, who otherwise spends every waking minute running errands and doing chores to bring extra coin into the house. Most nights, the boys talk softly in the dark for what seems like hours, about the days when they, too, will travel the world, see all the strange sights and match the daring deeds of the heroes they read about. It’s a bond only they share.

Once Harry turns 10, he, too, will be running errands and doing endless chores. For now, he feels content watching for his father, a man he hardly knows, a man who frightens him—though he dares not show it. The lad steels himself with a stubborn stoicism that belies his tender age.

He's here! Syd, Father’s here.

Harry turns to his brother, who comes to the window to see for himself. The boys are handsome lads, fair-skinned with closely cropped hair, strikingly similar in appearance, though Syd is taller than their age difference would suggest. Everyone says they take after their mother, who died when Harry was three. He remembers her, or rather the feeling of her being close, as the embodiment of love. Her hair smelled of lilacs. Nothing in his life now comes even close to comparing.

The boys go to the door and wait expectantly for the knock.

A woman of about 40 emerges from the nearby kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. It’s Elizabeth, Harry’s sister from his dad’s first marriage. She opens the door and smiles. Hello, Dad, she says. She takes his hat as she kisses him on the cheek. Are you well?

I am, says William. He is an older man, in his 60s, tall and slim with white hair. He nods to the boys but doesn’t say anything, not even a greeting. Harry refuses to be disappointed. He sits again and picks up his magazine. Syd, more eager to please, follows his father and sister as they disappear into the kitchen.

Harry, looking up from his reading, strains to follow the conversation from the next room. Is Laura here, too? Father asks. Laura is Harry’s other sister, seven years older.

She’s at the market. Can you stay?

Yes. I have news. What about Fred?

Elizabeth shakes her head no. Fred Ward is her husband, a carpenter by trade but unable of late to find work. Times are tough in the east end, which has not yet fully recovered from the typhoid outbreak that killed Harry’s mother. He’s gone to Tilbury to pick up some work on the docks. I don’t expect him tonight.

William nods. Harry wonders what the news could be.

Just then, Laura shows up at the door. Harry notices and runs to answer, as she is carrying a bag laden with market fare. I’m home, she announces as he lets her in. She disappears into the kitchen.

Harry goes back to his reading as the sun begins to set behind the church down the street. Though he does not yet realize it, this will be an evening Harry will remember the rest of his life.

Before long, Elizabeth beckons Harry to join the others in the small kitchen. He sees his father seated at the head of the table, his demeanor even more dour than usual. The old man motions for Elizabeth to sit and she takes the seat opposite him. Laura, Syd and Harry follow. The boys sit together, their backs straight.

Harry studies Elizabeth’s face. She has always, to his mind, been pretty and kind, but in this moment, he thinks she looks different, somehow less sure of herself. Only years later, while reflecting on this moment, will he come to appreciate what he was seeing: how she was surely wondering if she was strong enough to face what she knew was to come.

As I told Elizabeth, I have news, William says.

Harry, Syd and Laura all exchange glances. They turn to Elizabeth for a hint of what it might be, but she looks away.

It’s been six years since your mum died, and it’s no secret we’ve had a hard time of it. Thank the Good Lord for your sister and Fred taking you all in. I don’t know what we’d have done if it wasn’t for them.

No one else offers a word. William presses on.

But now Fred has lost his job. William pauses, girding himself. And you know I can’t work no more. A fall off a roof while doing some masonry work was the culprit there. So, I’ve made a few decisions. I can see no reason to put this off any longer.

Put what off? asks Laura. Harry fixes his gaze on their father.

Leo is 24 now. Leo is their older brother. He’s in the King’s Navy, so he is up to the mark. Elizabeth says she and Fred will find a way to manage. She is taking in laundry. But I’ve still got you lot to sort.

William’s voice trails off. He turns to Laura, who suddenly looks scared. Elizabeth’s eyes are cast downward; she squeezes a napkin in her hands.

Laura, I’ve arranged for you to go into service. I have found a position for you with a family in Brixton. The gentleman of the house is an architect, an up-and-comer, and the missus has three little ones she needs help managing. There is already a housekeeper and a cook on staff, and you will be helping them as needed. It’s a good way for you to learn a respectable trade.

Laura’s eyes grow wide and she bites her lip but doesn’t say a word.

Now as for you lads—

Father, says Laura, looking up, fearful. No.

William looks sternly at her, then returns his attention to the boys.

I’ve been to see Dr. Barnardo.

Laura starts crying. Elizabeth brings the napkin to her face. She, too, is in tears. Syd looks down, his hands clasped together on the table. Harry, however, continues to stare intently at his father.

The mere mention of Dr. Barnardo’s name is reason enough to stir anxious feelings in London’s children. He’s known for the orphanages he runs; they take in not only the kids who are without parents, but those whose parents cannot care for them. These Barnardo orphans, commonly referred to as Home Boys, are shipped overseas to work on farms as free labour. That part of it, however, is kept from families who agree in desperation to give Dr. Barnardo their children. They believe they’re giving their kids the path to a better life.

He has agreed to take you both, William says. There is an audible gasp in the room, as if the oxygen has been sucked out. You’ll be going to Canada. Dr. Barnardo has assured me he will keep you two together.

Laura begins to sob. Tears run down Syd’s face. Harry strives harder to quell his roiling emotions.

Please, Syd says. Father don’t do this. We’ll get jobs here, too, like Laura. You’ll see. We’ll get it sorted.

No. My mind is made up.

Syd crumbles in tears. Laura is now wailing. Elizabeth sobs. Harry … Harry just stares.

WE’RE LOOKING FOR Sydney William Walker.

It’s been 30 days since the boys’ world has been turned upside down. They are aboard the S.S. Southwark out of Liverpool, and the ship has just docked in Montreal. It is hot and muggy, and Harry feels a heaviness in his chest he has not felt before.

The booming voice can be heard coming from the hallway that threads its way through the ship’s steerage. Suddenly two men appear in the doorway to the cramped cabin the boys share with six others. The men scan the room, and all the boys do their best to ignore them. All except Harry. He thinks the men look like the dockworkers he would often see in the east end, but he wonders if they really work on the docks. They are big and burly, with thick arms and barrel chests and they smell of sweat and whisky. He tells himself they don’t look like nice men.

The boys continue to busy themselves packing their bags. They are all dressed the same: cub scout-type hats, shirts with collars and ties, and short pants, probably still too warm for July in Eastern Canada.

Walker. Sydney William, one of the men repeats in a gruff voice. The other boys look up for just a second, then turn away again once they are sure the brutes are not asking for them.

The man looks down at a photograph in his hand, then up again, scanning the room. His gaze settles on Syd. The lad braces himself.

That’s me, Syd says with all the courage he can muster. He steps back toward the wall behind him.

Come with us. The train is waiting.

But what about my brother?

We’re not here for him, just you. Let’s go. Now.

The boys look at each other. There is a sudden panic in Syd’s eyes, something Harry has never seen before. He feels it, too, and is frightened in a way he hasn’t felt for … well, he can’t remember when, but he knows it’s been a long time.

But we’re supposed to stay together, says Syd with a newly discovered defiance in his voice. Our father said.

Well, your father ain’t here now, is he, says the second man. Let’s go.

The first man grabs Syd by the arm. Syd resists and pulls his arm