upward note of someone who has asked the same question twice.
“Cameron. Donald Cameron.”
That meant nothing, still; McLaughlin had worked in a place on James Bay where the Indians were named MacDonald and Ogilvie and had an unconquered genetic strain of blue eyes.
“D’you know about any ghosts?” said the boy, turning to McLaughlin. McLaughlin’s eyes were paler than his own, which were a deep slate blue, like the eyes of a newly born child. McLaughlin saw the way he held his footing on the rocking train, putting out a few fingers to the window sill only for the form of the thing. He looked all at once ridiculous and dishonored in his cheap English clothes – the little jacket, the Tweedledum cap on his head. He outdistanced his clothes; he was better than they were. But he was rushing on this train into an existence where his clothes would be too good for him.
“D’you know about any ghosts?” said the boy again.
“Oh, sure,” said McLaughlin, and shivered, for he still felt sick, even though he was sharing a bottle with the Limey bride. He said, “Indians see them,” which was as close as hecould come to being crafty. But there was no reaction out of the mother; she was not English for nothing.
“You seen any?”
“I’m
not an Indian,” McLaughlin started to say; instead he said, “Well, yes. I saw the ghost, or something like the ghost, of a dog I had.”
They looked at each other, and the boy’s mother said, “Stop that, you two. Stop that this minute.”
“I’ll tell you a strange thing about Dennis,” said his mother. “It’s this. There’s times he gives me the creeps.”
Dennis was lying on the seat beside her with his head on her lap.
She said, “If I don’t like it I can clear out. I was a waitress. There’s always work.”
“Or find another man,” McLaughlin said. “Only it won’t be me, girlie. I’ll be far away.”
“Den says that when the train stopped he saw a lot of elves,” she said, complaining.
“Not elves – men,” said Dennis. “Some of them had mattresses rolled up on their backs. They were little and bent over. They were talking French. They were going up north.”
McLaughlin coughed and said, “He means settlers. They were sent up on this same train during the depression. But that’s nine, ten years ago. It was supposed to clear the unemployed out of the towns, get them off relief. But there wasn’t anything up here then. The winters were terrible. A lot of them died.”
“He couldn’t know that,” said Mum edgily. “For that matter, how can he tell what is French? He’s never heard any.”
“No, he couldn’t know. It was around ten years ago, when times were bad.”
“Are they good now?”
“Jeez, after a
war?”
He shoved his hand in the pocket of his shirt, where he kept a roll, and he let her see the edge of it.
She made no comment, but put her hand on Den’s head and said to him, “You didn’t see anyone. Now shut up.”
“Sor ’em,” the boy said in a voice as low as he could descend without falling into a whisper.
“You’ll see what your Dad’ll give you when you tell lies.” But she was halfhearted about the threat and did not quite believe in it. She had been attracted to the scenery, whose persistent sameness she could no longer ignore. “It’s not proper country,” she said. “It’s bare.”
“Not enough for me,” said McLaughlin. “Too many people. I keep on moving north.”
“I want to see some Indians,” said Dennis, sitting up.
“There aren’t any,” his mother said. “Only in films.”
“I don’t like Canada.” He held her arm. “Let’s go home now.”
“It’s the train whistle. It’s so sad. It gets him down.”
The train slowed, jerked, flung them against each other, and came to a stop. It was quite day now; their faces were plain and clear, as if drawn without shading on white paper. McLaughlin felt responsible for them, even compassionate; the change in him made the boy
“Cameron. Donald Cameron.”
That meant nothing, still; McLaughlin had worked in a place on James Bay where the Indians were named MacDonald and Ogilvie and had an unconquered genetic strain of blue eyes.
“D’you know about any ghosts?” said the boy, turning to McLaughlin. McLaughlin’s eyes were paler than his own, which were a deep slate blue, like the eyes of a newly born child. McLaughlin saw the way he held his footing on the rocking train, putting out a few fingers to the window sill only for the form of the thing. He looked all at once ridiculous and dishonored in his cheap English clothes – the little jacket, the Tweedledum cap on his head. He outdistanced his clothes; he was better than they were. But he was rushing on this train into an existence where his clothes would be too good for him.
“D’you know about any ghosts?” said the boy again.
“Oh, sure,” said McLaughlin, and shivered, for he still felt sick, even though he was sharing a bottle with the Limey bride. He said, “Indians see them,” which was as close as hecould come to being crafty. But there was no reaction out of the mother; she was not English for nothing.
“You seen any?”
“I’m
not an Indian,” McLaughlin started to say; instead he said, “Well, yes. I saw the ghost, or something like the ghost, of a dog I had.”
They looked at each other, and the boy’s mother said, “Stop that, you two. Stop that this minute.”
“I’ll tell you a strange thing about Dennis,” said his mother. “It’s this. There’s times he gives me the creeps.”
Dennis was lying on the seat beside her with his head on her lap.
She said, “If I don’t like it I can clear out. I was a waitress. There’s always work.”
“Or find another man,” McLaughlin said. “Only it won’t be me, girlie. I’ll be far away.”
“Den says that when the train stopped he saw a lot of elves,” she said, complaining.
“Not elves – men,” said Dennis. “Some of them had mattresses rolled up on their backs. They were little and bent over. They were talking French. They were going up north.”
McLaughlin coughed and said, “He means settlers. They were sent up on this same train during the depression. But that’s nine, ten years ago. It was supposed to clear the unemployed out of the towns, get them off relief. But there wasn’t anything up here then. The winters were terrible. A lot of them died.”
“He couldn’t know that,” said Mum edgily. “For that matter, how can he tell what is French? He’s never heard any.”
“No, he couldn’t know. It was around ten years ago, when times were bad.”
“Are they good now?”
“Jeez, after a
war?”
He shoved his hand in the pocket of his shirt, where he kept a roll, and he let her see the edge of it.
She made no comment, but put her hand on Den’s head and said to him, “You didn’t see anyone. Now shut up.”
“Sor ’em,” the boy said in a voice as low as he could descend without falling into a whisper.
“You’ll see what your Dad’ll give you when you tell lies.” But she was halfhearted about the threat and did not quite believe in it. She had been attracted to the scenery, whose persistent sameness she could no longer ignore. “It’s not proper country,” she said. “It’s bare.”
“Not enough for me,” said McLaughlin. “Too many people. I keep on moving north.”
“I want to see some Indians,” said Dennis, sitting up.
“There aren’t any,” his mother said. “Only in films.”
“I don’t like Canada.” He held her arm. “Let’s go home now.”
“It’s the train whistle. It’s so sad. It gets him down.”
The train slowed, jerked, flung them against each other, and came to a stop. It was quite day now; their faces were plain and clear, as if drawn without shading on white paper. McLaughlin felt responsible for them, even compassionate; the change in him made the boy
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