Originally published Dec. 19, 2004.
To a five year old, the Second World War began like a storm with bewildering sounds rumbling on the other side of far-off mountains. I could feel the tension. I could hear the strain in my mother's voice, but I did not understand what it meant, until the excited cries of newspaper boys woke us at 5:30 one dark September morning: "Extra. Extra. Read all about it. Britain Declares War On Germany."
My father, Art, scrambled for his dressing gown. He took a nickel from the top of the dresser, and in bare feet rushed outside to catch one of the hawkers. I fretted as he settled at the kitchen table while my mother, Betty, nervously stuffed kindling into our black and silver kitchen stove. There was a stripe of soot on the back of her hand and a look of pain in her brown eyes.
I studied my father carefully for signs of dread, but was surprised to see the glow of a strange elation as he hurriedly read the front page crowded with oversized block letters: BRITAIN AT WAR. FRANCE JOINS ENGLAND TO END NAZI MENACE. I listened, amazed at how vigorous he became and how quiet my mother remained. The worry in her eyes I recognized all too easily. It was the same look I would see when the landlord knocked on our door at 1820 Waterloo to collect the monthly rent of $12. This tiny cottage had barely enough room for the three of us, but it had a fireplace for heat, and a shed out back which my longshoreman father had filled with drift wood from Jericho Beach not far away.
On winter afternoons before Dad came home from the docks, I would go out to the unlit shed to fetch firewood. I took a candle, trying not to think about the never-ending Saturday afternoon serial at the Hollywood Theatre on Broadway where a nickel ticket guaranteed the scarring of young minds with the evil ways of Dr. Fu Man Chu and Ming the Merciless. These villains were so frightening that sometimes it was a relief not being able to go because there wasn't enough money left over for the rent, let alone a movie. Then, when my mother heard the landlord's knock, that haunted look would widen her eyes and we would hide under the bed until his footsteps faded down the wooden sidewalk back to the street. I would never forget her shame.
During the Great Depression of the 1930s there was never enough money. My dad worked the spare-board as a longshoreman, so even at age five I knew a dollar was hard to come by, and so I was not that surprised when Father came home one day in a prickly khaki uniform. My mother patted him attentively, trying to sound playfully exhilarated but her feelings weren't genuine, I could tell, even though my father's were.
When he drove away from the Seaforth Armoury over the Burrard Bridge and waved from the back of a growling army truck, my confusion grew. We moved to my grandfather's house. It was like a refuge, this double lot in Kerrisdale. With no lane, it seemed to be a large, safe anchorage out of the storm.
My grandmother had turned the yard into an English garden, with trellised roses and graceful dogwood trees that are still there today. Gone are the chickens that would follow her around as she emptied the earwig traps of rolled newspaper. There were apple, cherry, plum and pear trees to harvest, and a flourishing garden of white corn, squash, green beans and sweet peas. I was given a patch of ground to turn into a "victory garden" filled with earthy potatoes, carrots and beets. How I wished my father could have seen it; or better yet, tasted the fruits of my labours.
Now, at Sunday dinner, the kitchen nook seemed only to remind me of his absence. There was a big map of Europe tacked onto the wall, and Granddad would circle with blue crayon the cities taken overnight by the German blitzkrieg as they were listed dispassionately by a droning BBC voice over a scratchy radio band. The map seemed to be covered with blue, except for a tiny space around Dunkirk in northern France. For 11 days in May 1940, the beach remained uncoloured as the troops were rescued and evacuated to England where my father was safe, I was told. But soon even Paris was ringed with blue, and it seemed as if nothing would stop the advance of those blue circles day after day, week after week--until December 1941 came around, and my friend Jimmy came out of his house on a Sunday morning to tell me that Japan had just attacked the United States. To me, the United States was my Aunt Grace's house in Seattle and so the terror ran on. It was to be the third Christmas without my father. There were distractions of course.
My grandfather had four spirited daughters: Mother was the eldest. The youngest, Dot, had married a soldier named Phil. Pat, the calmest of the family, had married Frank, a former navy officer now too old for active service. Ebullient Joan, the nurse, had married Louis, a handsome man from Montreal who didn't have to go to war because of his three young children. I liked Louis, with his rugged good looks. He played football with my father's team, the Meralomas, and he made Aunt Joan's eyes shine. My mother's eyes almost never sparkled anymore, not until Christmas Eve as we all gathered around the fireplace and there was an unexpected sound of sleigh bells and a muffled chuckle coming down the chimney. "Ho, ho, ho." Suddenly, my mother looked joyful again. She saw the surprise on my face, when the deep voiced asked, "Is there a little boy named Teddy down there?" and she laughed.
"Yes, yes there is," Auntie Dot shouted excitedly.
"And has he been a good little boy?" Santa asked.
"Yes, he has!" they all shouted.
I was stunned. I worked hard but had never really thought about being good. While Granddad dispatched power at the B.C. Electric, Nana and Mother were occupied with the food preserves — string beans, pickles, jams and chutney sauce. They kept me busy storing potatoes and beets, winter pears and apples in bins tucked into dark corners of the basement. I would wring out the washing with a roller, then pack the water from the laundry tubs, bucket by bucket, to empty onto the fruit trees and vegetable gardens. The 32 chickens needed constant attention — finding their nests, collecting eggs, cleaning pens, and putting them away before dusk so they would not roost in trees outside our neighbour's bedroom. I thought everyone did this.
Santa's voice continued. "If your name is Teddy, then look on the back porch for a special present," and his voice was drowned out by the stampede of laughing aunts and uncles in a rush to the back door where I was allowed to squeeze through to see a beautiful wagon. It had "Spitfire" written on the side, and there was a brake for the rear wheels. If only my dad could have been here, I thought.
Life went on. My grandfather let me help measure and build the blackout frames for all of our windows — for when the air raid sirens sounded. At school we were given bakelite necklace tags so that our corpses could be properly identified after the anticipated bombing attacks. We all had gas masks.
The federal government built an airport down at Jericho Beach where my father had often taken me swimming. Hangers housed nine amphibious planes which were towed out to the edge of the pier then lowered by crane into the water. The pontoon planes would roar frantically across English Bay, bouncing over the chop, practising their take-offs for the time they would confront the Japanese navy expected to sail around Point Grey at any time.
The blue crayon circles advanced across France, Norway, Russia and North Africa. Each day was like a muffled hammer thumping out the beat for a march to a world inevitably covered in Prussian blue. And then in 1942, suddenly, with no warning whatsoever — just before the fourth Christmas without my father — a small change. Perhaps nothing more than a flicker of hope, but at least it was hope. My grandfather covered over a blue circle with an orange one! Right there on North Africa at El Alamein. An orange circle! My grandfather looked so happy I wanted to hug him, but of course I didn't. He was on the other side of the table and besides we didn't do that kind of stuff. It wasn't that I didn't admire him. I did.
He came to Canada for the Klondike gold rush in 1898. He had been one of the few with enough determination to complete the journey — along the coast to Skagway; up the steep face of the Chilcoot Pass, time and time again until he had hauled a ton of supplies, a year's outfit, to the top; sledded it down to Lake Bennet; than rafted the outfit to Dawson Creek where he tried to find gold. With everything staked by early-birds, Granddad worked in Wyatt Earp's saloon for a year and a half, saving enough money to buy a lot in Kerrisdale, return to England to marry his childhood sweetheart, then build the home that I now shared.
He had cleared the land himself. Then he built the perimeter stone walls, the rock gardens and the stepped lawns as mute testimony to the labour he had undergone. A wonderful man — it was just that he was not my father. My dad had soft skin, I remembered, and at the beach I could hang all my weight from his strong right arm, the muscle bulging like a rock. If all went well, I thought, I would be just like that; but I hadn't been able to watch him for four years now, and here it was Christmas again.
My grandfather set a beautiful tree by the piano. The presents were gaily wrapped, and there was the smell of mulled wine from a happy kitchen. Dinner was loud with stories. Joan was expecting and her energy was contagious. Her sisters were noisily jealous, much to her delight, only my mother and I were detached from the merriment.
The turkey was moist and sweet with cranberries. Hot gravy poured onto the buttered mashed potatoes, and Nana's homemade bread was intoxicating but I wondered if my dad was safe. I was not in the Christmas mood.
After English pudding with creamy hard sauce, we retired to the living room for presents under the perfume of a Douglas fir. My aunts sat close to their husbands. Mother sat next to me by the fireplace. I did not feel much like talking. Instead, I passed out presents from the tree and listened to the squeals of delight as they were opened. And there it was again: the sound of sleigh bells bringing the room to a hush. My aunts and uncles leaned toward the fireplace to listen, and I heard Santa's laughter once again. "Is there a boy named Teddy down there?" he asked.
"Yes there is!" cried my aunts.
I listened as in years before, spellbound. My friend Brent Kenny, the goalie for our Grade 3 soccer team, had been skeptical about my Santa Claus encounters. "Did you actually see him?" he asked at school, and he recommended that before I got too focused on my gift I should see who was on the roof. Ready to run, I listened for Santa's instructions. "If you have been a good boy — there is a special present for you..." but what was that? Santa's voiced cracked. It sounded emotional — just like the split note in Grandfather's voice on occasions like El Alamein. Where's Granddad? I looked around the room. He wasn't there! My aunts called up the chimney. "He's been very good."
For the first time, I noticed that there was no fire in the hearth and under the grate the metal cove to the ash shaft was ajar. Mother watched me carefully as the voice continued. "There's a special present on the front porch." I ran as usual, although I was sure I would not be able to catch anyone on the roof. My grandfather, I realized, was in the basement calling up the ash flue. Brent was right. There was no Santa Claus. I was in a turmoil until I opened the door. Then I went numb.
A yellow cab was backing out of our driveway and there stood my father in uniform, a canvas kit bag leaned against the stair and a suitcase was clutched in his hand. He pulled my head to his side against the rough khaki blouse. I could smell tobacco, and him — my father's smell. I could feel that strong arm but I couldn't speak. "My God, you've grown," he said with a smile.
He looked at the crowd behind me. "Sorry I'm late, everyone. My train took five days from Halifax." There was a great cheer from my aunts and uncles and I watched my mother run down the hall to collapse into his arms.
Then, with noisy applause, they were both swept into the living room where the laughter and questions were to continue all night. Uncle Phil scooped up the bags and took them upstairs. Grandfather and I were left alone in the hallway looking at each other. There was a weak smile on his face and I was surprised by the tears in his eyes. I had never seen a grown man cry before, but somehow I began to understand.
At last I found my voice. Hugging my grandfather and kissing his cheek, I whispered, "Thank you, Santa. Thanks for everything."
