She closed her fingers around his, trapping the coins within. “I know, but I still want you to have it. What’s your name?”
“George, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. Your real name.”
He hesitated. “Roy. Roy Bell.”
“Well, Roy, thank you for all you do. I hope you have a good day.”
Smiling, he touched his cap then returned to work, and Adele sank back into her seat, not the least bit satisfied. The very idea that the porters were not only unpaid but had also lost their individuality just because of the colour of their skin, was abhorrent. It wasn’t the first time she’d learned of such inequality either. She knew of a Canadian battalion made up entirely of black men; they had wanted to serve, to fight alongside the white men, but instead they’d been relegated to the No. 2 Construction Battalion, where they worked in the lumber mills overseas. The wood they cut was used in the trenches, made into walkways over the mud, as well as supports for the tunnels and the observation posts. Though she had never seenany members of the Construction battalion come through her hospital, she knew they were crucial to keeping so many alive. She hoped they had survived the war and were headed home, just like her.
The thought of home brought Jerry Bailey’s face to mind. The sweet soldier with the grey eyes hadn’t come back through the clearing station in the past six months, which could mean one of two things. Either he hadn’t been injured again and was on his way home now too or… She chose to believe it was good news.
The train whistle blew, and the locomotive jerked forward, starting its long journey to Toronto and after only a few minutes, Adele felt her eyelids grow heavy. The jostling of the train wasn’t nearly as disruptive as the swaying of the ship, and she woke hours later feeling more refreshed than she had in a long time. When a porter walked past, she handed him a nickel for a newspaper and twenty cents just because. She wanted to catch up on what was happening on this side of the Atlantic.
Schools across Ontario had closed because of the flu, she read, which had killed over fifty-six hundred Ontarians in just two months. Even more alarming wasThe Globe and Mail’s estimate that over six million had died of the virus worldwide in the span of twelve weeks. Adele had seen the disease firsthand; some of the dead had been her own patients. Miraculously, she had not fallen ill herself.
Turning the pages, she scanned the articles, taking in more news. POWs and other British and Canadian civilians were being freed from camps and repatriated, just as Germans held in Canada were being sent back to their own country. She was horrified by a story of forty British POWs finally returning to their homes, sick and skeletal after being imprisoned in a Turkish camp without common decencies for three years. And then there was the whole Prohibition mess, and the fact that the provincial government was planning a referendum about whether to permit the sale of alcohol now that the soldiers were at last coming home.
She set aside the paper and pulled out a novel she’d taken from the hospital’s library before she’d left, hoping fiction would help the journeygo faster. Bridget had obviously planned for the trip because she focused on her book then moved on to the next, barely uttering a word to Adele the entire way. Unfortunately, Adele was disappointed with the novel she’d brought for herself. Virginia Woolf’sThe Voyage Outwas a strange, dark story, and she’d had enough of that. Instead, she chose to close the book and watch the landscape flitting by.
Soon they would arrive in Toronto, and she’d finally see her sister again. So many things had changed since Adele had left—not the least of which was the fact that Marie had married and become a mother. In Belgium, Adele had pinned her dear little niece’s photograph on the wall of her tent alongside Marie’s wedding photo and a portrait of Maman and Guillaume, wishing for the day when she could put her arms around them all. She’d be at Marie’s apartment for only one night, and though she knew it wouldn’t be nearly enough time, she told herself she’d go back to visit again soon. Right now, her heart longed to be home in Petite Côte.
The train screeched into Union Station in the late afternoon, and after picking up her luggage, Adele started toward the terminal. Just as she headed inside, she heard her name being called. She turned with a rush of joy and spotted a feather on a wide brown hat, bobbing as Marie jumped up and down.
“Marie!”
She couldn’t get to her sister quickly enough. With tears in her eyes, she threw her arms around both her and the baby on her hip.
“Oh, I’ve missed you!” Marie cried, squeezing Adele tight.
“It’s so good to see you,” Adele said. Wiping her cheeks, she held out her hands. “And look at you, ma petite Madeleine. Why, aren’t you the most beautiful thing? My goodness, you are going to be every bit as stunning as your mother.”
Madeleine reached out her pudgy hands in reply. Soon her warm little body was nestled against Adele, and she wondered if she’d ever felt anything so wonderful in all her life.
“How are you?” she asked Marie, needing to hear everything all at once.
“I’m much better, seeing you,” Marie said, dabbing her own tears away.
“How’s Fred?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Marie said, flapping a hand. “He’s probably arriving home just about now.”
“I’m looking forward to finally meeting him.”
“I hope you like him.”
“I’m sure I will. But let’s walk slowly. I want you all to myself for as long as I can get.”
They stored Adele’s larger trunk at the station, since her stay would be so short, and that meant she and Marie could pass a drowsy but happy little Madeleine back and forth between them. They talked the whole way on the streetcar, barely stopping for breath. Adele could hardly believe any of it was real after all this time. It felt like a completely different world.
Inside Marie’s apartment, Adele put down her small bag and gazed around, admiring the neat living room with its matching flowered drapes and sofa cushions. It looked like a page fromLadies’ Home Journal. She took off her coat and hung it next to her sister’s.
“What a beautiful home,” she said, but Marie didn’t seem to hear. She was already walking ahead and calling for her husband.
“Adele’s here, Fred! Come meet my sister!”
A tall, slender man appeared from another room, his chestnut-brown hair combed over to the side. He was rather pale, even sallow, in person, and he wore thick, round spectacles over a thin moustache and a somewhat small, pinched smile. Somehow he’d looked better in photographs, she thought, though she’d keep that to herself.
