the water were green and black with shadows. He had never seen such a blue and green day. But he was still here, on the street, and had not forgotten it for a second. Imagination was as good as sleepwalking any day.
Léopold stood on the porch, watching him through his camera. He seemed to be walking straight into Léopold’s camera, magically reduced in size.
“Why, Léo,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be here,” not caring to show how happy it made him that Léopold was here. They were bound so soon to lose each other – why start?
“Wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Wouldn’t go to Pauline’s. She’s coming back to get us for supper.”
“I don’t want anything more to eat today.”
“Neither do I. And I’m not going.”
Who would dare argue with Léopold? He put his camera down. One day he would have the assurance of a real street, a real father, a real afternoon.
“Well, well,” his father said. “So they’re all gone.” He felt shy. He would never have enough of Léo – he would never know what became of him. He edged past and held the door open for the dog.
“All gone.
Il n’y a que moi.”
Léopold, who never touched anyone, pressed his lips to his father’s hand.
Up North
W hen they woke up in the train, their bed was black with soot and there was soot in his Mum’s blondie hair. They were miles north of Montreal, which had, already, sunk beneath his remembrance. “D’you know what I sor in the night?” said Dennis. He had to keep his back turned while she dressed. They were both in the same berth, to save money. He was small, and didn’t take up much room, but when he woke up in that sooty autumn dawn, he found he was squashed flat against the side of the train. His Mum was afraid of falling out and into the aisle; they had a lower berth, but she didn’t trust the strength of the curtain. Now she was dressing, and sobbing; really sobbing. For this was worse than anything she had everbeen through, she told him. She had been right through the worst of the air raids, yet this was the worst, this waking in the cold, this dark, dirty dawn, everything dirty she touched, her clothes – oh, her clothes! – and now having to dress as she lay flat on her back. She daren’t sit up. She might knock her head.
“You know what I sor?” said the child patiently. “Well, the train must of stopped, see, and some little men with bundles on their backs got on. Other men was holding lanterns. They were all little. They were all talking French.”
“Shut up,” said Mum. “Do you hear me?”
“Sor them,” said the boy.
“You and your bloody elves.”
“They was people.”
“Little men with bundles,” said Mum, trying to dress again. “You start your fairy tales with your Dad and I don’t know what
he’ll
give you.”
It was this mythical, towering, half-remembered figure they were now travelling to join up north.
Roy McLaughlin, travelling on the same train, saw the pair, presently, out of his small red-lidded eyes. Den and his Mum were dressed and as clean as they could make themselves, and sitting at the end of the car. McLaughlin was the last person to get up, and he climbed down from his solitary green-curtained cubicle conspicuous and alone. He had to pad the length of the car in a trench coat and city shoes – he had never owned slippers, bathrobe, or pajamas – past the passengers, who were drawn with fatigue, pale under the lights. They were men, mostly; some soldiers. The Second World War had been finished, in Europe, a year and five months. It was a dirty, rickety train going up to Abitibi. McLaughlin was returning to a construction camp after three weeks in Montreal. He saw the girl,riding with her back to the engine, doing her nails, and his faculties absently registered “Limey bride” as he went by. The kid, looking out the window, turned and stared. McLaughlin thought “Pest,” but only because children and other men’s wives made him
Léopold stood on the porch, watching him through his camera. He seemed to be walking straight into Léopold’s camera, magically reduced in size.
“Why, Léo,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be here,” not caring to show how happy it made him that Léopold was here. They were bound so soon to lose each other – why start?
“Wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Wouldn’t go to Pauline’s. She’s coming back to get us for supper.”
“I don’t want anything more to eat today.”
“Neither do I. And I’m not going.”
Who would dare argue with Léopold? He put his camera down. One day he would have the assurance of a real street, a real father, a real afternoon.
“Well, well,” his father said. “So they’re all gone.” He felt shy. He would never have enough of Léo – he would never know what became of him. He edged past and held the door open for the dog.
“All gone.
Il n’y a que moi.”
Léopold, who never touched anyone, pressed his lips to his father’s hand.
Up North
W hen they woke up in the train, their bed was black with soot and there was soot in his Mum’s blondie hair. They were miles north of Montreal, which had, already, sunk beneath his remembrance. “D’you know what I sor in the night?” said Dennis. He had to keep his back turned while she dressed. They were both in the same berth, to save money. He was small, and didn’t take up much room, but when he woke up in that sooty autumn dawn, he found he was squashed flat against the side of the train. His Mum was afraid of falling out and into the aisle; they had a lower berth, but she didn’t trust the strength of the curtain. Now she was dressing, and sobbing; really sobbing. For this was worse than anything she had everbeen through, she told him. She had been right through the worst of the air raids, yet this was the worst, this waking in the cold, this dark, dirty dawn, everything dirty she touched, her clothes – oh, her clothes! – and now having to dress as she lay flat on her back. She daren’t sit up. She might knock her head.
“You know what I sor?” said the child patiently. “Well, the train must of stopped, see, and some little men with bundles on their backs got on. Other men was holding lanterns. They were all little. They were all talking French.”
“Shut up,” said Mum. “Do you hear me?”
“Sor them,” said the boy.
“You and your bloody elves.”
“They was people.”
“Little men with bundles,” said Mum, trying to dress again. “You start your fairy tales with your Dad and I don’t know what
he’ll
give you.”
It was this mythical, towering, half-remembered figure they were now travelling to join up north.
Roy McLaughlin, travelling on the same train, saw the pair, presently, out of his small red-lidded eyes. Den and his Mum were dressed and as clean as they could make themselves, and sitting at the end of the car. McLaughlin was the last person to get up, and he climbed down from his solitary green-curtained cubicle conspicuous and alone. He had to pad the length of the car in a trench coat and city shoes – he had never owned slippers, bathrobe, or pajamas – past the passengers, who were drawn with fatigue, pale under the lights. They were men, mostly; some soldiers. The Second World War had been finished, in Europe, a year and five months. It was a dirty, rickety train going up to Abitibi. McLaughlin was returning to a construction camp after three weeks in Montreal. He saw the girl,riding with her back to the engine, doing her nails, and his faculties absently registered “Limey bride” as he went by. The kid, looking out the window, turned and stared. McLaughlin thought “Pest,” but only because children and other men’s wives made him
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