Kid Soldier Read online

  Vogel rummaged through the long drawer of a pine hutch cluttered with mismatched crockery. “I can’t pay you for working on the tractor,” he said. “But you can take home produce.”

  Richard hadn’t even thought about payment. It was the excitement of getting a vehicle on the road, or field as it happened to be, that attracted him. Unlike Tommy, who washed his father’s car every Saturday, he would be working on a real motor.

  A flat, yellowed book, titled 67 New Thrills in Tractor Operations, landed on the kitchen table.

  —

  “Jimmy Brown wants you to tell us when Vogel cries,” Tommy said with a smirk as they walked Amy to Mr. Black’s. Amy did the gardening for Mr. and Mrs. Black to earn extra spending money. She loved working with flowers.

  Richard was on his way to the cemetery. He visited his father’s grave once a week to pull up the weeds. If he didn’t, no one would be able to find the flat lump of concrete, edges ragged with gravel and the worn letters, spelling out fuller.

  Mr. and Mrs. Black lived across the street from the cemetery. They were the first family on Maple Street to have a telephone installed. Since it was the only one close by they let the neighbours use it. The Blacks had no children, but they lit a jack-o-lantern on Halloween night and handed out small bags of fudge. A large Christmas tree filled their front window, every year.

  “Why does he cry?” Amy asked.

  Tommy’s sister had a blaze of thick hair, like her brother’s. She wore it pulled back in a single braid, but strands always escaped, surrounding her porcelain face with copper curls. Amy was a year older than Richard but they were in the same grade at school. She had been kept back, much to the horror of her parents, but Amy didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t seem to mind much about anything.

  “Who knows,” Tommy said. “Jimmy said Vogel sent him home without a penny.”

  “Jimmy probably bruised the fruit,” Richard said.

  “I don’t get it,” said Tommy

  “That’s because you don’t know what it’s like to bring in a harvest.”

  He would never forget the day the old Dutchman had handed him a first-picked peach. Mr. Vogel held one in his hand and felt the skin with his broad calloused thumb. Richard copied, feeling the tight fuzz. The old farmer said nothing, as he brought the Empire peach up to his nose. Richard did the same, drinking in the sweet smell of nectar, before they took a big juicy bite.

  “Mr. Vogel is very particular about his produce.”

  The Blacks’ house, similar to the Fullers’, was a wooden two-storey box with a long, flat verandah. Unlike Richard’s house, though, it regularly received a new coat of paint. Trellises of roses, morning glories, and sweet peas framed the verandah. A giant circular flowerbed filled the lawn and pots of geraniums marched up the stairs.

  A small clapboard extension stood where the garage used to be. Mr. Black had rebuilt his kitchen to accommodate two new ovens, several bake tables, cupboards, and shelves.

  “Poor Mr. Black,” Amy said to Tommy and Richard on their way up the street. “He strained his back and he’s not supposed to lift anything.”

  “How’s he making his deliveries?” Richard asked.

  “His nephew is helping,” Amy said. She lowered her voice. “But he’s kind of lazy.”

  As they walked up the driveway, Richard spotted the boy leaning back on a wooden chair against the side of the bake house. His flat cap covered his eyes.

  “Hello. Richard,” Mrs. Black called out from behind the screen door. Her soft, plump arms held a large wicker basket full of crispy bread in brown paper bags. “I haven’t seen you around much this summer.”

  Richard ran to hold the screen door open. The aroma of baking wafted over him like a warm breeze. “I’ve been working,” he said, walking her down the drive. “I got a job on a farm.”

  Mrs. Black’s eyes widened with surprise. She blew away the dark curl that fell across her eye. Then she nodded in the direction of the black Ford with the long square snout.

  Richard opened the back door of the car and gave a long, low whistle. The rear seat was gone. In its place was a slotted wooden rack. Mrs. Black placed the loaves in the slots.

  “That should be enough to see him through his morning round,” she commented. She smoothed down the front of her snowy white apron. Then she removed a bobby pin from her hair and pushed the loose curl back under her hair net. This pecan-skinned woman with the shiny black hair always made Richard think she had just stepped out of the oven, like a gingerbread lady.

  “Did your husband put in that rack?” Richard asked.

  Mrs. Black nodded. “There are shelves in the trunk,” she told him, “and a special compartment to hold pies.” She walked around to the back of the car and lifted the trunk lid.

  The built-in cupboard in the trunk had removable shelves. “This is where we put the special orders,” she said. “You know, like wedding cakes.”

  Mrs. Black reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out two pieces of paper. She removed the red thumbtack from the door of the cupboard and affixed a list. “These are the names of the customers and what they have ordered.”

  “This is the most amazing car I have ever seen,” Richard said.

  “You like it?” came a voice from behind. Mr. Black, a short stocky man with a large protruding stomach, clasped his hands over his stomach. He reminded Richard of a fat squirrel on haunches, staring out of gold circle glasses.

  “Are we fully loaded?” he asked.

  His wife nodded. “Here’s your copy.” She handed him his list and assisted him into the driver’s seat, arranging a green brocade pillow behind him. “He’s hurt his back,” she explained to Richard and Tommy.

  Everyone jumped at the blare of the car horn, everyone except the boy on the chair. He raised his cap from his eyes and then sauntered towards the car.

  “The only thing that boy has to do is hop in and out of the car while I drive,” Mr. Black complained to the three of them out the window. “And leave those cigarettes behind,” he shouted. “No one wants a loaf of bread that stinks of cigarette smoke!”

  Amy appeared behind the screen holding an empty pitcher. “Can I make Richard and Tommy some lemonade?” she asked through the screen.

  Mrs. Black nodded and went back into the bakery.

  “Let’s pull up those weeds in the front garden,” Richard suggested to Tommy. “That way Amy can get off work earlier.”

  Tommy scowled, but pitched in. By the time the lemonade was ready, two large bundles of limp greenery tied with string lay beside the porch steps.

  Richard walked into his mother’s kitchen that night with a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a half dozen jam tarts. The afternoon of weed pulling had burnished his skin and turned his hair flaxen. “I just might have myself another job,” he told her.

  Except for the sound of a wet wad of material slapping and sloshing up and down the washboard, the room was quiet. For a few minutes, his mother washed and rinsed in a steady determined way. Then she looked up. “You’re not thinking of quitting school, are you?”

  “Nah,” Richard said, biting into one of the tarts.

  Grace Fuller let out a heavy breath. “I know you dream about seeing the world,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. “But you have to get yourself an education.”

  Richard stood at the side of the galvanized tub, munching. “Don’t worry, Ma,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs. “I’ll work it out.”

  Grace turned her body to him, her work-worn face meeting his. “And what do you plan to do with all this money that you will be making?”

  Richard spread out his hands in front of him. He spotted a few crumbs at the end of his fingers and sucked them off before replying. “Mr. Black can’t pay me a lot, but I make tips.” He didn’t want to tell her about the bike. He hoped it would bring a smile of surprise to her face when she saw it.

  “What about Mr. Vogel?” his mother asked. “He’s expecting you to pick late pea
ches.”

  “I know,” Richard said.

  With a smile, he thought about Mr. Black’s words. “I’ll use my nephew until you’ve picked your last peach. I’m very impressed by your loyalty and sense of commitment.”

  Richard went to his room at the back of the house on the second floor. He crawled under his bed and pulled out the thin square tin with the picture of a bearded sailor that he kept beneath a loose floorboard. He tossed in the dime Mrs. Black had given him for pulling the weeds. This must be what it feels like to be a banker, he thought, looking at the pile of bills and loose change.

  Richard opened his dresser drawer and took the picture of his father out from underneath his socks. It used to sit on top of the china cabinet in the dining room, but when his mother sold the cabinet the movers broke the frame. Richard had rescued the photograph and kept it in his drawer ever since. Once in a while he found it on top of his socks.

  He gazed at Arthur William Fuller in full army uniform. His father had sat for the photograph the day after he’d joined up. After he returned from war Richard was born. But Richard never got to know his dad. No one could believe he’d dodged all those bullets and shells to die of pneumonia in his own bed at home.

  Richard smiled, knowing his father would be proud of the fact he was only $22.40 short of a brand new bike.

  Chapter 4

  Morse Code

  Richard set his alarm for five thirty, but his eyes opened long before it rang. He put his hands behind his head, watched the sun rise through the lace curtains, and thought about all the places in Niagara Falls he was going to see that day.

  His clothes, except for his shirt, lay across the walnut dining-room chair that served as his bedside table. When he got to the kitchen, a freshly ironed white one hung from the ironing board.

  “Whose is that?” Richard asked.

  “Found it in a load of towels from one of the hotels,” his mother replied. “No way of knowing who it might belong to, so you might as well wear it.”

  Richard smiled. He’d never worn a crisp white shirt with a starched collar before. It made him feel important, kind of like being in charge. He was glad he’d taken the time to find his father’s shoeshine kit in the basement and given his boots a good polish.

  After putting a jam sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a small bottle of Borden’s milk into his father’s lunch box, he polished its aluminum sides until he could see his face.

  Mr. and Mrs. Black sat on their front porch sipping morning tea from cups with saucers.

  “You’ll never make it through the first day of action,” Mr. Black called out over the china rim. “That lunch pail reflects so much sun a sniper would take you down in a second.”

  Richard’s smile faded as he stood at the bottom of the porch step.

  “Stop that,” Mrs. Black said to her husband, as she put down her tea cup. “This boy doesn’t need any of your army survival tips.” She walked down the steps and took the lunch pail from Richard’s hand. “You look very nice Richard,” she said, “and you don’t need to bring a lunch.” She glanced over her shoulder and scowled at her smiling husband. “The morning route ends back here. We all have lunch together and then fill the car for the afternoon route.”

  The deliveries started with a neighbourhood full of massive oaks, manicured lawns, and stone houses. Many of them had magnificent walkways, gardens, and cars in the driveways.

  “Here,” Mr. Black instructed. “We deliver to the back door.”

  In the next neighbourhood they delivered to the front door. Richard noticed lamps with lace doilies over their shades, pianos, and fresh flowers on hall tables.

  All morning Richard took the items from the car as Mr. Black directed. He darted up the steps, past empty milk bottles, sunning cats, and barking dogs to deliver bread, pies, cakes, and tarts. By Richard’s standards, all of Mr. Black’s customers were well off. Most of them didn’t bother taking their change. Richard held it out, but they just smiled and waved it away.

  At noon, Richard experienced a lunch unlike anything he had known before. Mrs. Black’s carrots sparkled as if they were made of sugar. Mashed potatoes billowed out of the bowl, and the roast beef swam in creamy gravy.

  “You forgot to tell me what the doctor said about your back yesterday,” Mrs. Black said.

  “One word,” her husband mumbled as he helped himself to more mashed potatoes. “One word was all he said.”

  “And what might that one word be?” Mrs. Black asked.

  Richard ran several words through his mind as he waited to hear the doctor’s.

  “Diet,” Mr. Black said before tucking into his second helping. The buttons on his striped shirt strained. He looked at Richard and smiled. “Looks like you’ve never had that problem.”

  “Nope,” Richard replied. “My mother wonders how I manage to stay so skinny with all the eating I do.” He didn’t repeat the part about her being glad other people were helping to fill his hollow leg.

  “He also told me I had one of two choices, either stop baking the most delicious bread in town, or stop eating it,” Mr. Black continued.

  “But that’s way more than one word,” Amy protested.

  Mrs. Black, serving ice-cream, laughed. “More than one word and more than one helping,” she said, placing a dish of twin creamy mounds in front of Richard.

  For Richard, it was his first taste of real ice cream. His mother had always called the frozen top of the milk ice cream. He ate it, but never understood what all the fuss was about. Mrs. Black’s creamy frozen dessert, however, didn’t taste anything at all like that.

  After reloading the car and collecting the special orders phoned in that morning, Richard and Mr. Black set out to make their deliveries to the south end of the city.

  “I won’t need you the last two weeks of July,” Mr. Black announced when they began the afternoon route. “Looks like you’ll have some farm time before school anyway.”

  “Are you and Mrs. Black going on holiday?” Richard asked.

  “I’m off to camp,” Mr. Black informed him. “My brother and his lazy son cover for me.”

  “You’re going camping?” Richard asked. He couldn’t conjure a picture of Mr. Black sitting on a log roasting wieners over a fire.

  “Army camp,” Mr. Black replied. “The Lincoln and Welland Regiment train in Niagara-on-the-Lake each year.”

  “What kind of training?” Richard asked.

  “Communications,” Mr. Black replied. “Sending messages on the field, by flag, radio, and telegraph.” He slowed the car to a stop at the sign and turned to Richard. His eyes lit with excitement. “The trainees use the rifle ranges, practice marching, and set up signal stations at different places. You know Morse code, don’t you?”

  Richard shook his head.

  As Mr. Black drove, he said. “All important news comes by telegraph, you know.”

  Richard nodded. Whenever his mother saw the telegraph boy on the street, she’d say, “It’s birth, death, or marriage.”

  “Knowing how to run a telegraph could get you a good-paying job on a train or ship.”

  Richard thought about the steamer at Queenston.

  “I learned the code as an artillery man during the First World War. I served in Europe first, then in northern Russia for the Bolshevik uprising.”

  “How long were you in Russia?” Richard asked in awe.

  “From September 1918 until June 1919,” he replied. “Then I returned to Canada.”

  “My dad was an army man,” Richard told him.

  “I know. And a fine soldier he was,” Mr. Black said with a nod of his head. He pulled the car to the side of the roadway while Richard adjusted the baker’s back pillow.

  “How do I learn Morse code?”

  “Well, now,” the baker said with a smile. He lifted his hands from the wheel and rubbed them together. “I can teach you that.”

  “What are you training for this time?” Richard asked.

  The large man in
the driver’s seat threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “I’m afraid my training days are over, my boy,” he said. “I’m the cook! Why don’t you come and see the camp for yourself? It would give your mother a day out.”

  Chapter 5

  The Demonstration

  Mr. Black extended the invitation to Richard’s mother for the two of them to accompany him and his wife to the opening ceremonies at Niagara-on-the-Lake. Richard’s brown pants held a knife-like crease, and his plaid cotton shirt was spotless. His mother wore her grey suit, black hat, and white gloves.

  Mrs. Black appeared in a flowered chiffon dress. The blue feather on her hat matched her elbow-length gloves. Mr. Black dressed in his best blue suit, as he was no longer able to button up the jacket of his army uniform.

  When they arrived at the Niagara-on-the-Lake military camp that hot summer afternoon, the cavalry rode the common, bands practiced, and troops flowed like the Niagara River.

  “The Lincoln and Welland Regiment, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, and the Dufferin and Haldimand Rifles are all here for the summer,” Mr. Black told them.

  “I didn’t know there would be horses,” Richard exclaimed. He stopped to watch them gallop in formation, stop, wheel about, and begin again.

  “Those Royal Canadian Dragoons are P.F.”

  Richard had to smile. Mr. Black always used initials when talking about the army. “What’s P.F.?” he asked.

  “Permanent Force,” Mr. Black replied. He pointed to the regal officer on a huge white horse crossing the green. “Camp commandant, Colonel Elwood Ford, and M.C.D.S.O.,” he informed Richard. “Everyone stays out of his way.”

  Richard nodded. He didn’t bother to ask what all those initials meant. With that many, he knew the man was important.

  The crowd, sitting in stands around the grassy common, watched horses jump rail fences and bales of hay. Then soldiers removed the fences and the area filled with army trucks and small track vehicles. As the roar of the single-engined biplanes echoed across the sky, everyone looked up. Mr. Black pointed to the pin-pricks of red, green, and white in arrow formation as they swooped through the clouds. “They’ve come from the air force base in Trenton,” he told Richard. “I knew this would be something to see.”