CARTER'S ARMY: WILLIAM CARTER
1
Chapter 18 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
December
Will was out walking the streets. There was a large park in
the centre of the small downtown area, little more than a patch of ground
containing a swing set and a small war memorial. The courthouse, the town
hall, a library and a church surrounded this park. It was, in Will's mind,
a beautiful, if desolate part of town at three a.m..
He had found an increasing need to be outside lately as it drew
ever closer to Christmas. He felt a heightened sense of solitude that kept
him awake at night. Not that he had any rules about when he should be in bed
anymore. He was responsible for himself now. If he wanted to wander the streets
at an ungodly hour of the morning alone with his own thoughts then he was
permitted to.
He was wrapped up in a heavy winter coat he had borrowed from
the hall closet, his own were just not up to the task of dealing with the
extreme temperatures. By all rights he should be huddled up warm in his bed,
but he had to just walk.
They would all be breaking soon for the Christmas holidays,
school would relax its death grip on their lives and allow them some free
time. Lisa had already made it clear that Will was expected at her house for
the big day, and as flattered as he was that she had insisted, he really wanted
to duck and hide.
He kept his hands squarely in the deep pockets of the coat,
glad of its warmth as he soldiered on across the square of white that was
the park, he was on the return trip after making a loop of the town and he
was retracing his own footprints.
He barely noticed at first the car that trundled along the road
parallel to him, black like most Government Issue cars were, and it had white
numbering on the front fender. M-0234. When Will finally noticed it, his heart
went cold. M...military...
He swallowed and tried to keep walking, his head turning to
stare at the car now that was gently rolling along opposite to him. The driver
was in no hurry, and why should he be? He was exactly where he wanted to be.
Will considered walking over to that car, but that thought was
replaced by an irrational fear of what would happen. He stopped in the dead
centre of the park, surrounded by a barrier of white snow on all sides; it
was all that was between him and the road that ringed the park. In some ways
he felt safe there, it made no sense, but just felt safe out in the open,
standing in front of a courthouse.
The car drew to a halt just down on the main street, and the
door opened allowing the broad-shouldered man to step out of it. He reached
down into the car and pulled out his peaked cap, setting it on his head. It
was as if he wanted Will to know exactly who it was.
There had never been any doubt in Will's mind. The military
car instead of the Bronco, Will's father was making a very clear point.
He thought about making a dash for it, if he could make one
of the side streets maybe he would lose him. But that stuck in Will's throat,
he wasn't about to run from this man. He had been afraid of him his entire
life.
He remembered when they had first come to Canada; the Major
had insisted that Will was changing his clothes too often. Fresh shirts every
day, and a clean pair of trousers, in Will's mind no big deal. To his father
it was excessive, and he had padlocked the wardrobe. Will had been furious;
his Father hadn't made any sense... But then the man seldom had.
Defiantly Will had walked to the wardrobe and unscrewed the
handle, something the Major hadn't anticipated, and when the lock had fallen
uselessly to the ground his father had been embarrassed at the futility of
his gesture. That had only enraged him further.
The argument had fired back and forth between them and kept
escalating. Will had been deliberately provoking his father, pushing him to
the very edge, challenging his intelligence. And when he had struck, Will
had barely noticed. He had been knocked from his feet, and he should have
felt pain, but he was too far into the argument for that.
The Major had been surprised the first time Will had stood back
up, not even missing a beat and continuing to verbally fight back. The second
fist hadn't been as restrained, the force behind it hadn't been controlled,
it had been meant to put Will down permanently. When Will stood for the second
time he again hadn't stopped. A combination of shock and adrenaline had fuelled
him past the point where he felt anything, and he had remembered the look
of shock on the Major's face. It was the only fight he had ever won with the
Major.
Though I am wounded I am not slain, I'll lay me down to bleed
awhile, then to rise and fight again...
The words of the ancient poem rang in his ears; he had discovered
it by accident one day when he had been digging through a book. It had been
sound advice. Everyone got knocked down; it was those that got back up who
weren't beaten.
They were staring at each other, a wide expanse of white separating
them. But the tension between the two of them could be felt. The history between
two men who were as alike as they were different. Will fought with words,
the major with his fists. But the difference this time was, Will no longer
had to play by the Major's rules.
That realization washed over him like ice water. He didn't have
to face that man; he didn't have to settle one last argument with him. There
was no point, no need. The Major had ultimately won what he wanted, his new
life bereft of the past, and Will had won the freedom he had so craved growing
up. Any more battles would serve no use; there was no point to them. The Major
was a sad and bitter old man haunted by the past. He felt pity at that moment,
and it must have shown on his face.
The Major read it like a slap, realizing it for what it was,
he slowly rested a hand on the door handle of his car, staring at Will once
more before he pulled the door open and stepped inside. When it roared away,
Will was once again alone standing in the snow.
* * *
Morning rituals were always the same for Andrew. His mother
had been up at the crack of dawn every day since his father had died. She
sat alone at the dining room table wrapped in her pink robe, hands curled
around a mug of coffee as she greeted the dawn. The carafe was always in front
of her, and she drank it always black with no sweetness to it.
He would always find her like that and it saddened him to see
her alone each morning. She had borne the brunt of the loss hard. Once a vibrant
and charming woman, she had become a different person. She was stronger in
some ways; the formidable force of nature one of his aunts had described her
as. But in others she had grown weaker.
There had been plenty of gossip at the church over what had
happened to Mister Highmore. The accident had been work-related, and the conclusion
had been 'death by misadventure' a generic term used when no one knew exactly
what had happened. And like most things that could not be explained, it was
a popular topic for the hens who gathered at the church.
Andrew knew that his mother hated the gossipmongers. She wasn't
about to be ground beneath the rumour mill; she had too much personality for
that. And Andrew often wondered at those women who viewed his mother as a
shrew. If they could see the sad woman staring out of the patio windows at
the fields behind their house, would they still dislike her?
"How are your exams going?" she asked, surprising
him as he poured a bowl of cereal. She rarely got into a conversation with
him this early.
"They're going well," he said joining her at the table
and pouring milk into the bowl, "Last one is this morning."
She nodded at him absently, turning her head back to the sunrise.
She was a beautiful woman, thin with natural blond hair that was almost white,
cut short against her head that brought out her pair of striking blue eyes.
Andrew had inherited her eyes, and his father's looks, a lucky combination.
"What's her name?" Micheline asked, offering a slight
hint of a smile as she looked over the table at him.
He was startled, and he looked down at his bowl of cereal trying
to regroup.
She saw that she had guessed correctly when she looked at his
shy reaction. It was so unlike him, he was like his father in that as well.
Strongly confident in everything. That, more than his looks, would get him
far in his life. And lately there had been a warmth about him that she had
recognized as well. Again, like his father, love showed on his face. The mystery
girl, whoever she was, was very lucky to be loved like that.
"No one, Mom." Andrew said nervously as he hurried
through his breakfast, looking for a viable escape before she questioned him
further.
Micheline gauged his reaction to her question with the measure
years of watching him grow up had afforded her. Her curiosity was definitely
aroused now, but she wouldn't let it show, let him have his kisses in secret;
let him enjoy himself - he needed it.
"I'm working at the Church dinner tonight," she said
as he got up to drop his bowl in the sink, "I want you to be there to
give me a hand."
Andrew nodded his head in assent as he began to pick up his
books and stuff them in his backpack, "Sure thing, what time?"
She pursed her lips, "Come by there after school and I
will put you to work setting up the tables." She watched as he pulled
on his beloved jacket, remembering how proud her husband had been when Andrew
had first earned the right to wear it.
"Okay, I'll be there..." he said scooping up his keys
and heading for the door.
"Andrew," she said stopping him one foot out the door,
"I love you."
He smiled at that as he left to go to school.
* * *
The Catholic Church was one of those old buildings that had
withstood the test of time. It had been standing upon the same foundation
from the time Merrickville had been nothing more than a small farming community.
It was an old stone building; the original builders had felt they owed something
more than wood to whatever deity watched over them and their crops. And the
stained glass windows had been a gift from an old church that had been torn
down nearly fifty years ago in Ireland, a gift that had tied the town to its
Irish roots.
Andrew had parked the car and had ducked inside to find his
mother. As usual she was in the church hall beneath the main church directing
the small group of volunteers to set everything out for the Christmas dinner.
The pungent aroma of roasting turkey filled the air, making his mouth water.
He reported to his mother who directed him to assist in setting
up the folding tables so that a couple of the other male volunteers could
set out the chairs. Manual labour was for the boys to do, and his mother wasn't
about to go easy on anyone.
It was good to see so many of the Church regulars about, Majella
and her husband Arthur were present, Majella hard at work in the kitchen area
baking up some fresh dinner rolls. Arthur was busy rigging Christmas lights.
It reminded Andrew of Will, and he felt his cheeks getting warm again and
he bent back to work.
He had caught Will earlier in the day, on his way to his exam.
They had exchanged shy smiles, but what worried Andrew had been Will's tired
eyes, like he hadn't been getting sleep lately. He reminded himself to say
something the next time they were alone.
When the guests began to arrive, the volunteers had been given
a break and Father Fitzpatrick made his appearance. Like most aging Catholic
priests, he had a round smile that suited him, and the kind of outwardly forceful
personality that made an impression on his parishioners. He shook hands with
everyone with whom he came into contact; a smile and a friendly wink and he
was on to the next one. The good Father enjoyed being social and events like
the dinner were his element.
Mister Greenwood put in an appearance; the New Age English teacher
was a rare sight at Church functions, but his wife Katherine was a regular
member of the congregation. She took a moment to hug Micheline, a silent show
of solidarity and gratitude, leaving Andrew an awkward moment facing Greenwood.
Greenwood didn't hesitate, he gave Andrew that measuring look
he affixed whenever he came face to face with the boy after the hallway incident,
and shook his hand, "Merry Christmas." He said in a robust kind
of way, and moved on to exchange pleasantries with the priest.
The rustle of whispers in the room caused Andrew to look up,
and to his shocked dismay, Will's father and his new wife entered the hall.
The Major was dressed in his uniform, the medals and brass seeming to shield
the coward of a man that hid behind them. A British officer was supposed to
be a model of gallantry, a gentleman in the darkest places of the world. The
Major used it as a place to hide.
Andrew felt his resentment growing inside of him as the man
marched past him to shake a firm hand with the priest.
Fitzpatrick wasn't a naive man; he looked past the Major at
his wife and the young girl she carried in her arms. He looked puzzled, "Your
son couldn't join us this afternoon Major Carter?"
It was the first time Andrew had ever had a true respect for
the priest. The pomp and bluster of the Major had been deflated in a single
question. It was a spectacular gesture, and Andrew could see his mother affixing
the Major with a look of disdain.
"I never liked that man," She murmured as she sat
down beside Andrew, lifting a cup of herbal tea to her lips and blowing gently
to cool it down.
"Yeah," Andrew said distantly, "he's a bastard..."
he realized he had just sworn in front of his mother and turned quickly to
apologize.
She simply regarded him with a bemused smile, "Your dad
thought the same thing when the Major first moved into town," she shook
her head, "I feel sorry for the children..."
Andrew sighed as he sat down at her table, "Carter's a
good guy..."
Micheline nodded, "Well it looks like he has a good friend,"
She was remarkably astute, and Andrew felt a touch nervous on the subject.
"Yeah... well he needs one..."
She nodded and looked up at the Major who was lecturing over
some political point to some parishioners who looked like they would rather
be elsewhere. She let out a low sigh, "Well I think William needs a good
friend this Christmas, you should invite him to join us Christmas Eve."
Andrew was surprised, and realized that his mother was doing
it more out of honest concern than any ulterior motive. She was simply thinking
about one lonely soul on a day of families. He nodded, silently thanking her
for her kindness. "I'll ask him."
She stood, setting her tea aside, "Good, now I need to
start serving."
Andrew sat back in his chair wondering at his mother, and the
one thing that made her so special in his mind, her unselfish caring for other
people. She had a capacity to bring a room to life with her presence, and
when she was there, there was no doubt who was in control.
"Andrew Highmore isn't it?" The Major's crisp accented
voice startled him, and he stared up at the medalled chest to the craggy face
of the man who had tormented Will. There was the man that had put an innocent
young man through hell on earth for no other reason than to ease his own bitterness.
Andrew felt his anger rising as he stood slowly. Realizing he was taller than
the Major made him bolder and he met the Major's eyes with a hard look.
"What do you want?" he demanded, his tone one of barely-controlled
fury.
The Major frowned, taken aback by Andrew's sudden hostility,
then his shoulders squared in a military fashion and his face became a cold
mask. "I had wanted to say I have heard good things about you. The Legion
is considering you for a scholarship this year." His voice was clipped
and his words were spoken flawlessly; he was squarely confident in a position
of power.
Andrew didn't flinch; he remained standing as he did, feet loosely
apart, hands at his sides. The Major didn't miss the combat stance; his eyes
flickered down to gauge it, before they returned to Andrew's eyes. There was
a look of humour in them, an appreciation of a spirit ready to fight him if
it had to.
"I just wanted to say hello to you and tell you that I
will be watching you closely. Good luck, Mister Highmore." He accented
the "Mister"; it was stressed the same way he would use it against
his subordinates. He respected titles, and anyone without rank was beneath
him. And as quickly as he had materialized he had returned to his table and
his wife.
Andrew seethed, looking over towards his mother who hadn't seen
the exchange. Mister Greenwood sitting close to the Priest caught his eyes.
The teacher was studying him, his fingers brushing his beard thoughtfully.
As he noticed Andrew had seen him, he inclined his head and returned to his
conversation.
