No Safe Harbour Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1917

  Behind the lines

  September 1917

  October 1917

  November 1917

  December 1917

  January 1918

  February 1918

  March 1918

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Author’s Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Halifax, Nova Scotia,

  1917

  Behind the lines, somewhere in France

  July 30, 1917

  Dear Charlotte,

  If you’re reading this, you’ll see that the first page of your diary has already been taken. Some cheapskate brother, eh? You can tear it out if you like. I bought two of these diaries, one for you (being the writer in the family) and one for me, and I’ll reserve my first page for you. Okay? Then we’ll be square.

  Here’s the deal. I record my life in the trenches. You record your life on the home front. One day we’ll sit down together and compare notes. I promise I won’t look at the entries you mark “secret,” so you can be honest. Don’t bury your feelings behind the blackout curtains. Shout them out bravely.

  You know the song you and Duncan can’t sing for laughing? We’re bunked up in huts near there and I’m practising the few words I know of the parlez-vous. Like bonjour, merci and au revoir. It’s good to go into the local cafés and spend some francs on fresh eggs and chips. We’ll be back in the trenches eating bully beef before you know it. Ugh!

  How’s Kirsty? Is she still scaring off all the neighbourhood cats? Are you and Duncan giving her lots of exercise? How about old Haggarty? Still helping him out on the milk run?

  Gee I miss you and the folks. I’ve been blowing the odd kiss at the mademoiselles, but don’t tell my Jane! I’ll blow you a kiss on September 26 in honour of your birthday. 12 years old!? I won’t recognize you!

  Keep up the knitting! A new pair of socks is a prized possession here in the mudholes.

  Your loving brother,

  Luke

  September 1917

  Wednesday, September 26, 1917

  9:00 p.m.

  Here I am, writing in my new diary. Is there a proper way to do it? One page per day? A few lines about noteworthy events? Something about the weather? (Clear sky, westerly winds, warmer than yesterday.) I don’t suppose it matters, so long as I write something every day, even if there’s nothing much to write about. And if I pick the same time every day, it will become a habit.

  Now’s a good time, before Ruth and Edith come to bed and I still have the room to myself. Privacy! A prized possession, here on the Home Front.

  This diary was a big surprise. It was in the package that arrived last month, but Mum’s kept it hidden until this morning. She’s good at keeping secrets. And Luke’s good at secret codes. The song he mentioned is “Mademoiselle from Armentières,” so that’s where he must have been camped. Where is he now, I wonder.

  His letter was an even bigger surprise. He usually writes a “Dear Folks” letter, not a special one just for me. But tear out the page? Never! Although it does have a few dirty blotches.

  At first I was afraid they were bloodstains. Was it Luke’s blood? Had he been injured? I was some worried until Duncan assured me it was plain old mud. Because blood would be more of a rusty colour.

  Duncan asked why Luke hadn’t sent him a diary, since it’s his birthday, too. Oh, gosh, didn’t he sound hurt and sulky. Not a bit like usual. He even threw in the fact that he’s nine minutes older than me! As if I needed reminding.

  I assured him that Luke hadn’t forgotten him, because what about all the swell postcards he’d sent. Besides, Luke knows that Duncan would never write in a diary. He’d rather draw pictures.

  Well instead of agreeing with me, Duncan pouts and says, “I would so write in it.”

  So I promised to give him a diary for Christmas, and said he could write in mine the same way Luke had. That cheered him up.

  “But no more than a page,” I insisted, and made him promise not to tell the others. I don’t want the whole family taking over my diary.

  He agreed and took the diary away to write something in secret.

  Now that I’ve got it back, it’s tempting to flip ahead and see what he wrote, but I won’t. Why not? Because it’ll be much more fun to find his entry a few days or weeks from now. Then I’ll really be surprised!

  We had a swell birthday, except for Luke not being here. Mum made a cake and Edith gave us a bag of butterscotch taffy. Ruth wasn’t late for supper for a change so she and Dad didn’t get into their usual row. She even cleared the table and washed the dishes without being told. Life was peaceful on the Blackburn Home Front.

  After supper we played cards. Edith made cocoa. Right on cue, Dad started to quote the cocoa ad, and we all chimed in, “More food value than a cup of bouillon.”

  Lucky for us that cocoa’s cheaper than bouillon!

  After cocoa, Edith played the piano and Dad played his accordion and we sang a few songs. Mum always picks “Keep the Home Fires Burning” even though it makes her cry. Duncan and I played “Pack Up Your Troubles” — me on the piano and Duncan on his harmonica — and Kirsty started to howl! We didn’t sound that bad. Then we sang “Mademoiselle from Armentières,” because Luke’s right, it always makes us laugh. Mademoiselle from Armentières, she hasn’t been kissed in forty years, hinky-dinky parlez-voo! Which means, “Hinky-dinky do you speak?” What kind of nonsense is that? As usual, Mum corrected our pronunciation. “Armentières doesn’t rhyme with years,” she says. “It rhymes with air.”

  Well we like it sounding silly!

  Oh, no. I just spotted Ruth going into the bathroom. Better put this away before she comes in and demands to see what I’ve written. So just one more paragraph.

  I wonder what scenes from the Home Front will fill these pages. Nothing tragic or sad, I hope. But no matter what happens, if I feel the urge to hide my true thoughts and feelings, I’ll re-read Luke’s words and bravely plunge ahead. Not that I’ll have thoughts and feelings worth hiding, but now that I’m twelve, who knows?

  (Luke, when you’re reading this, I hope my first entry isn’t too long.)

  Thursday, September 27

  I haven’t even had breakfast and here I am, starting a new entry. So much for writing at the same time every day. I can’t wait that long!

  Right now I’m curled up on the landing beside the stained glass window. The house is warm and cozy. Dad’s stoked the furnace and Mum’s making porridge. They’re talking in the kitchen.

  Ruth is muttering in the bedroom, trying to find something she’s misplaced (as usual).

  Edith’s in the living room, practising for her Conservatory of Music exam. She’s playing my favourite piece, a waltz by Chopin. It sounds perfect.

  Now Kirsty’s barking at the back door and Dad’s yelling at her to pipe down. She whines a complaint but does as she’s told. Good dog.

  The sun’s shining through the window, making coloured patterns on the page and on my hand. Rose and green and amber. I feel as if I’m tucked inside a glowing jewel.

  I love this window because Dad gave it to Mum when they were married. “I can’t afford to buy you the kind of home you’re used to,” he said. “But I can afford a lovely window for my lovely bride. And when our ship comes in …”

  “We’ll take the window with us,” said Mum.

  Of course I wasn’t around to hear this conversation, but
they’ve told the story so many times I might as well have been. Once I asked Mum what kind of home she was used to, before she married Dad. She said she couldn’t remember. Well I wonder about that. She remembers going to a ladies’ college in Boston and she remembers some of the French she learned when she went to Paris, but she can’t remember her own home?

  Maybe it was a castle! Wouldn’t that be a story — how John Blackburn, the humble (and handsome) dry dock worker (now foreman) spied Lillian the Fair in her castle tower and rescued her from the clutches of a wicked king!

  Now I have to have breakfast and get ready for the milk run. Haggarty will be here in no time.

  Still Thursday, bedtime

  Back to this morning. After breakfast I went outside and soon enough the milk wagon was stopping at our gate. I gave old Queenie a carrot and a kiss on the nose, then climbed up beside Haggarty.

  He gives me a wink and says, “I wasn’t expecting you this morning, seeing as you’re a young lady of twelve now.”

  I had to laugh. Give up the milk run just because I’m twelve? Never! I feel right posh sitting high up on the driver’s seat, especially when Haggarty lets me take the reins. I cluck my tongue and go Gee-up and Whoa even though Queenie’s the one in control. And doesn’t she know it!

  Well off we go, with Kirsty bounding ahead or trailing behind, sniffing, exploring, greeting every dog as if she’d never set foot in the neighbourhood before.

  Clip, clop, Queenie’s hooves on the cinder streets, clang-clang the metal milk cans, swish-swash the fresh milk lapping the sides. I’m thirsty just thinking about it! Especially the thick rich cream on top.

  Haggarty always gives me a cup of cream to sip on the route. He says I need fattening up. Mum says the same thing, but she doesn’t give me all the cream at home.

  The milk run’s a fine way to pass the time between breakfast and school, and I wish I could do it more often. It’s fun to greet the neighbours and give them a hand when they come out to fill their pitchers, and they ask about this and that, like how many socks I’ve knit for the Junior Red Cross and has my mum got over her migraine and what’s the latest news from Luke.

  The sad part of today was when Mrs. Mortimer came out for her two pints. She was dressed in black because yesterday she learned that her Tommy was killed in France. He went to school with Luke.

  I meant to show Haggarty my diary this morning, and Luke’s letter, but I forgot.

  Better stop now. This entry’s so long, my diary will be finished before October if I don’t restrain myself. Long-winded, that’s me.

  Friday, September 28

  Typical Friday.

  Chores, breakfast, school.

  Mental arithmetic drill, spelling test, round-robin reading, geography lesson, Mr. Barker blowing his top. Special Projects in the afternoon.

  Knitting in Special Projects. Started a new contest with Muriel, Eva, Deirdre and some of the other girls. This time it’s for a balaclava helmet.

  Piano lesson after school. Misery. Miss Tebo cross because I haven’t been practising. “Birthdays are no excuse!”

  There you are, a short entry for once.

  Saturday, September 29

  Fed the chickens, brought in the eggs, helped Duncan muck out Billy the Pig’s pen and dumped in a fresh load of scraps. He snorted happily, poor old Billy. I wish we could keep him as a pet, but he’ll be fit for the table by Christmas.

  After that we cleaned out the furnace and put the cinders in buckets for the collection wagon.

  The rest of the day was fun. Took the trolley to town with Mum and Duncan. First we went shopping for Duncan’s cadet uniform. Then, as a special treat for twelve-year-olds, Mum took us to the Corona Café for a mid-day dinner! For 25¢ you could get a dressed spring chicken (or cod or roast beef) with steamed potatoes, creamed carrots and a choice of desserts. We all chose the chicken dinner. For dessert I had tapioca pudding, Duncan had ice cream, Mum had raisin pie and we all had a taste of each other’s. Duncan ate so much it’s a wonder he didn’t have to get a bigger-size uniform.

  After lunch we went to the post office so I could mail a thank-you letter to Luke. I promised him I’d keep a daily record in my diary, even if some days are dull and uneventful.

  Back at home we had a fashion parade with Duncan strutting around the house in his new uniform. Ruth played a sergeant, of course. Eyes right! Forward, march! Hup, two, three, four! Attennnnn — shun! She’s some good at barking orders.

  Mum was teary-eyed, watching Duncan play the soldier. She might have been thinking what I’m thinking — what if the war’s still on when Duncan turns eighteen? What if he goes off to France like Luke?

  Sunday, September 30

  Church in the morning.

  Sunday dinner after church.

  Weather sunny and fair, so we spent the afternoon at Point Pleasant Park (everyone except Ruth). Lots of Sunday strollers.

  Dad, Duncan and I walked along the beach and watched a tug opening the gate in the anti-submarine net. There was a convoy coming into the harbour so we watched that for a while. Then Dad lit a fire on the beach.

  While Mum was boiling the kettle for tea and Edith was laying out the cloth, two soldiers came by and stopped to chat. They were nice and friendly so Mum invited them to join us.

  Turns out they’re from Winnipeg, and with the Army Medical Corps. Right now they’re looking after the wounded that come off the ships, but in another two months they’ll be sent overseas to work in a field hospital.

  Duncan told them he’d just turned twelve so now he can join the Richmond School Cadet Corps. Oh didn’t he go on about it, the uniforms and rifles and drills. The soldiers listened politely, but anyone could see they were more interested in talking to Edith. She can turn a soldier’s head without even trying.

  And wasn’t Ruth sorry she hadn’t gone with us! Especially when I told her that Charlie, one of the Winnipeg soldiers, is as handsome as her idol, Douglas Fairbanks!

  October 1917

  Monday, October 1

  Went down the tracks after school with Duncan and Carl and waited for the train. As soon as it came alongside we hollered and pretended to throw rocks at the engine, and Carl’s dad pretended to be annoyed and threw coal at us from the tender. Then we put the coal in a sack and took it to Carl’s house.

  Carl’s mum gave us a bit to bring home. We took it down the basement and put it in the coal scuttle. Secretly, so Mum and Dad won’t know. They think it’s stealing from the railway. But aren’t they always complaining about the high price of coal? It’s our way of helping out, and it’s only a few little chunks.

  Tuesday, October 2

  Luke, when you’re reading this, here’s an example of what you’re missing on the Home Front.

  Today, after school. Mum, Ruth and I are sitting around the kitchen table, eating fresh-baked bread. (Duncan’s outside feeding Billy the Pig.)

  Mum always wants me to eat more, even though I eat as much as anyone else. “You’re too thin,” she says. “People will think I’m not feeding you properly. Here, have another slice of bread. Look at Ruth, how nicely she’s filled out.”

  “You’ll never get a husband, scrawny thing like you,” Ruth says with her mouth full.

  A husband? I’m only twelve!

  Mum says it’s the worrying that makes me thin, and the food that’s meant to fill me out gets eaten up by nervous energy. “You’re wasting away,” she says. “We need to fatten you up.”

  “Why? So you can slaughter me like Billy the Pig?” Ha ha.

  A rare attempt at humour but didn’t it fall flat. Mum gave me her “don’t be cheeky” look. Ruth rolled her eyes in disgust. If Ruth had said it, Mum would have laughed.

  Weather clear and cool. Leaves turning colour.

  Wednesday, October 3

  A letter from Luke, written August 24.

  He says he’s fine, and we’re not to worry, but it’s grim, this letter, the way he describes the open stretch of ground called
No Man’s Land — the mud and shell holes, the smell of dead bodies — where a line of Huns on one side faces a line of Allies on the other. All of them stuck in their trenches until the order goes out — “Over the top!” — and the killing begins.

  The letter says he’s just finished a tour of trench duty, so he’s safe for now, behind the lines. Three or four days on the front line might not sound long, he tells us, but every minute feels like a year, with the “earth-shaking bombardments” and “fireworks night after night,” and “no picnic” when it’s raining, which is most of the time. And the place is overrun with giant rats.

  He has to do chores, too. Horrible chores like digging latrines or draining a trench with the mud to his knees.

  Sometimes the front lines are so close, you can hear a Hun sneeze. That’s what Luke says, but I think he’s joking. Luke with the sense of humour.

  Mum gave me the letter so I could copy a bit in my diary:

  The next parcel you send, could you tuck in a box of sleep? A good forty winks would be a luxury. If it’s not the fireworks keeping us awake, it’s the itching caused by the blasted lice.

  More than anything, keep sending your prayers.

  I wish we could send him a box of sleep.

  Thursday, October 4

  Showers all day and a cold wind.

  Milk run this morning. Haggarty said that Princess’s puppies should be born some time this week.

  Eva came over after school with her knitting. I told her what Luke had written about No Man’s Land and how sometimes you could hear a Hun sneeze. I said Hun without thinking and right away felt bad because of Eva’s dad being a German. Eva didn’t mind. She said it was a good thing her dad came to Canada, because otherwise he might have been one of the soldiers that Luke heard sneezing. Except that he’s too old to go to war, and now that he’s a Canadian, he’d be fighting on our side.

  While we were knitting we made up limericks like we did last year, but we only had time for one:

  There was a young girl called Muriel