Freddie had gone to Brazil on a company ship with a load of salt cod. They’d stayed in Rio de Janeiro while the ship called at ports farther south. They had taken a cable car up Sugarloaf Mountain, in the middle of the bay, and ridden a bus up to the base of the Finger of God. The place was, Iris said, merely squalid. She had not felt comfortable at all. She described the favelas , where the poor blacks lived in shacks terraced down the mountainside like so much accumulated debris. Dogs and babies, that’s all you saw and heard. Little pickaninnies with their hair all matted and something wrong with their eyes. Freddie told her about the half-naked Negro men loading sacks of coffee, the smell offruit in the market stalls in the early morning before the mist had burned off the hillsides.
Finally, after almost a month had gone by and Vivian had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, Jack rang. It was a Friday night, a week before Christmas. He’d been to sea, he said. “Escort duty, almost to Ireland and back. Even bandsmen have to go to sea sometimes,” he said.
“You could have told a person.”
“No, I couldn’t. I didn’t know myself until the last minute, none of us did. Loose lips sink ships.”
As soon as he said it she realized she ought to have trusted him. All the while she’d been mooning around St. John’s he’d been on a ship at sea, fighting the enemy. He might have been killed. Just that morning she’d been reading the Newfoundland Bulletin , which gave all kinds of unsettling news about soldiers and airmen and sailors wounded and lost. She’d looked for names she recognized. “ Signaller Edward Flanagan of the 166th (Newfoundland) Field Regiment and Corporal Duncan J. Mercer who was serving with the Canadian Army have been killed in action. Pilot Officer Kevin J. Evans and Sergeant Walter Sweetapple, both serving with the R.A.F., have been killed in air accidents. Gunner Frederick Robertson died on September 15th at a Military Hospital at Shrewsbury .” Jack’s name might easily have been among them. What would she have done?
Chastened, she agreed to see him again. Longed to see him again. She would go to the K of C on Saturday and watch him play, and they could talk during breaks, she would like that, she said.
“And I could walk you home again.”
And she said, “Yes.”
“And what about during the week?”
“I work during the week.”
“Can’t you get a day off?”
No, she couldn’t, not unless she called in sick again. And if she did that, she would have to stay home and let Iris look after her. With the war economy, the store had never been so busy, and Mr. Baird was a friend of her father’s. But everyone was taking time off work to do their Christmas shopping. “I might be able to get an extra hour for lunch one day,” she said. Not much of a war effort, was it? “Tuesday,” she said. “Don’t come to the store. I’ll meet you someplace.”
“Where?”
She couldn’t think. Her father had spies everywhere. “The train station,” she said, “at the lower end of Water Street. It has a lunch counter.”
The train station was full of people, mostly men in uniform but many in fedoras and civilian clothes, government men, she guessed, although more interesting than that. Movie actors, perhaps, a scene from Heaven Can Wait . They didn’t look local, anyway. Those in uniform were either American GIs going back to their base at Stephenville or airmen from Fort Pepperrell, the U.S. Air Force base on the shore of Quidi Vidi Lake that she’d heard had been laid out in the shape of a cowboy hat. Shedidn’t know where the civilians were going. Off the island, presumably, off the map. They sat at the tables or on the benches reading newspapers, or paced back and forth in the waiting area, smoking. There were a few other women, WRENs and local girls kissing their Yankee boyfriends goodbye. She would kiss Jack like that when he got there. He would swoop her up in
Finally, after almost a month had gone by and Vivian had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, Jack rang. It was a Friday night, a week before Christmas. He’d been to sea, he said. “Escort duty, almost to Ireland and back. Even bandsmen have to go to sea sometimes,” he said.
“You could have told a person.”
“No, I couldn’t. I didn’t know myself until the last minute, none of us did. Loose lips sink ships.”
As soon as he said it she realized she ought to have trusted him. All the while she’d been mooning around St. John’s he’d been on a ship at sea, fighting the enemy. He might have been killed. Just that morning she’d been reading the Newfoundland Bulletin , which gave all kinds of unsettling news about soldiers and airmen and sailors wounded and lost. She’d looked for names she recognized. “ Signaller Edward Flanagan of the 166th (Newfoundland) Field Regiment and Corporal Duncan J. Mercer who was serving with the Canadian Army have been killed in action. Pilot Officer Kevin J. Evans and Sergeant Walter Sweetapple, both serving with the R.A.F., have been killed in air accidents. Gunner Frederick Robertson died on September 15th at a Military Hospital at Shrewsbury .” Jack’s name might easily have been among them. What would she have done?
Chastened, she agreed to see him again. Longed to see him again. She would go to the K of C on Saturday and watch him play, and they could talk during breaks, she would like that, she said.
“And I could walk you home again.”
And she said, “Yes.”
“And what about during the week?”
“I work during the week.”
“Can’t you get a day off?”
No, she couldn’t, not unless she called in sick again. And if she did that, she would have to stay home and let Iris look after her. With the war economy, the store had never been so busy, and Mr. Baird was a friend of her father’s. But everyone was taking time off work to do their Christmas shopping. “I might be able to get an extra hour for lunch one day,” she said. Not much of a war effort, was it? “Tuesday,” she said. “Don’t come to the store. I’ll meet you someplace.”
“Where?”
She couldn’t think. Her father had spies everywhere. “The train station,” she said, “at the lower end of Water Street. It has a lunch counter.”
The train station was full of people, mostly men in uniform but many in fedoras and civilian clothes, government men, she guessed, although more interesting than that. Movie actors, perhaps, a scene from Heaven Can Wait . They didn’t look local, anyway. Those in uniform were either American GIs going back to their base at Stephenville or airmen from Fort Pepperrell, the U.S. Air Force base on the shore of Quidi Vidi Lake that she’d heard had been laid out in the shape of a cowboy hat. Shedidn’t know where the civilians were going. Off the island, presumably, off the map. They sat at the tables or on the benches reading newspapers, or paced back and forth in the waiting area, smoking. There were a few other women, WRENs and local girls kissing their Yankee boyfriends goodbye. She would kiss Jack like that when he got there. He would swoop her up in
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