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  Murdoch checked his watch again. “I can’t do any more until we know what the tribunal decides to do with your application for exemption. We can talk about what to do when we know what’s what.” He regarded the young man, making his expression stern. “In the meantime, if I see your wife come in here with another bruise I’m going to charge you with assault. I won’t care if it’s an accident or who started what. You’ll go to jail, and neither your wife nor your mother will benefit from that.”

  Aggett sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that…”

  “Just that what?”

  “Lottie tries my temper sore sometimes. She’s always on at me to sign up. Not a moment’s let-up. She’s on one side, ma’s going prostrate on the other. It’s enough to drive a man mad between the two of them.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s also a man’s job to show some character and not lose his temper. Especially when the object of his anger is weaker than he is. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Aggett?”

  The young man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Murdoch returned his watch to his pocket and stood up. “I’m calling this meeting to an end.”

  Ten minutes. He could just make it.

  OFFICIAL POST CARD.

  NOTHING is to be written on this side except the date and signature of the sender. Sentences not required may be erased. If anything else is added the post card will be destroyed.

  [Postage must be prepaid on any letter or post card addressed to the sender of this card]

  * * *

  I am quite well.

  I have been admitted into hospital

  {sick} and am going on well.

  {wounded} and hope to be discharged soon.  XX

  I am being sent down to the base.

  I have received your

  {letter dated _____________}

  {telegram _______________}

  {parcel _________________}

  Letter follows at first opportunity.  XX

  I have received no letter from you

  {lately ________}

  {for a long time ________}

  Signature Only

  Date.

  CHAPTER TWO

  UNION STATION WAS NOT COMPLETELY finished yet but showed promise of being grand. Some people grumbled about the time it was taking and the cost of it, but the city fathers were keen to have a railway station that would befit a city of Toronto’s growing importance.

  As Murdoch hurried down the stairs to the platform he could hear the skirl of bagpipes. A piper was marching up and down at one end. His kilt swished about his bare knees, his sporran bounced, and the tassels at the ends of the pipes danced. Murdoch knew it took a good pair of lungs to get even a squeak out of the bagpipes, and the piper also had to have breath enough to march. This man, older, with a weather-beaten face, had got the routine down to a fine art. He was moving in a way that looked effortless, as if he could walk for hours more and still create enough music to stir the soul.

  Murdoch stopped to get his bearings. The piper began to play an old melody, “Highland Cathedral,” and almost of their own accord Murdoch’s feet moved. He grinned slightly. Amy had often teased him about his response to the sound of the bagpipes, “You’re no different from a hound who picks up a scent and starts quivering.” He’d always replied, “I’m from Nova Scotia, what do you expect?” When the war had continued to gobble up the country’s young men, his son had decided to halt his university studies and enlist. Murdoch hadn’t been happy about that but hoped that, at least, Jack would join the 48th Highlanders. Instead, his son had chosen the newly formed Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. “We’ll create our own history,” he’d said to Murdoch. Fair enough.

  The platform was jammed with welcomers. The mayor, Thomas Church, and a couple of aldermen were the official greeting party, accompanied by several photographers, presumably from the city’s main newspapers. Next to them, a smartly turned out young officer was standing beside a banner that proclaimed “YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU. JOIN UP TODAY.” He was handing out leaflets. The air all around was alive with excitement. No matter what, these soldiers were at least returning alive.

  Suddenly Murdoch heard the sound of chanting behind him.

  “NO MORE WAR. NO MORE WAR.”

  He turned to see a little group of women, all carrying placards, all shouting. They reached the bottom of the stairs and headed with great determination in the direction of the mayor’s party.

  “STOP THE WAR NOW. DON’T KILL OUR SONS AND BROTHERS.”

  The startled crowd gave way before them but the recruiting officer jumped forward, holding out his arms as a barrier in front of his table. The women seemed determined to sabotage the recruitment. One of the aldermen grabbed a woman in the group and tried to pull her away. She struggled violently to get free, shouting, “Murderers! You’re all murderers!”

  Her comrades waved their placards. “STOP THE WAR!”

  An older woman in the crowd joined in the struggle, on the side of the alderman. She actually swung at the young woman with her handbag, and the protester fell to the ground. Her allies tried to come to her aid but now there were more people involved. Some of the onlookers were trying to seize the placards but the young women were hanging on determinedly. More women fell to the ground. The mayor was calling for calm but nobody was listening. In a moment, the mood of the crowd had changed from happiness to anger.

  “Police. Let me through. Make way, please. Police.” Murdoch pushed closer to the melee. One of the photographers snapped a picture.

  Mayor Church tried to help a woman to her feet but she shrugged him off.

  “Look,” she yelled, and she waved her hand in the direction of the train that was slowly puffing into the station. “Talk to them about the noble cause. See if they agree with you.”

  By now Murdoch had reached the mayor. The woman had got to her feet and she linked arms with two of her compatriots. Another couple of protesters were grabbing at the leaflets and tearing them into shreds. One of them was a young man, slight of build, well dressed. The recruiting officer pounced on him and gave him a hard clip across the side of the head.

  “Stop that. You’re destroying government property.” He began to shake the young man. “You’re a bloody coward. You just pretend to have principles but you don’t. You’re a thorough slacker.”

  Murdoch had got close enough by now to catch the soldier by the arm. “I’m a police officer. I’ll take care of this.”

  The soldier’s face was suffused with anger. “He’s nothing but a yellow-belly.”

  The young man shrank back but couldn’t get away.

  “Let him go!” Murdoch had to shout above the din from the skirmish going on behind him.

  One of the protesters suddenly shoved her way over to them.

  “He’s half your size. It’s you who’s the coward,” she said to the officer, who raised his hand, looking as if he was too incensed to remember the rules of chivalry. She stumbled backwards. Murdoch caught her before she fell to the ground.

  He was never to know what might have transpired as they were all saved from further demonstrations by the shrill whistle of the train conductor.

  “Train’s coming in,” he called.

  The soldier relaxed his grip on the young demonstrator, but not before hissing, “Coward.”

  The girl reached out and pulled him out of harm’s way. She put her arm around his shoulders and led him into the bosom of the group. For a moment it looked as if the soldier would follow them, but he must have seen the expression on Murdoch’s face because he remained where he was.

  The guard blew his whistle again and the onlookers shifted their attention to the oncoming train. The piper had stopped playing, but with a couple of squeezes he began again.

  “Officers will alight first, then walking cases, then others,” called the conductor. “Please don’t press in on them. Make room.”

  To Murdoch’s relief the crowd obeyed. As one, the mayor and his group moved f
orward, photographers at their heels. The demonstrators had fallen silent. Murdoch could see they were picking up their placards.

  Suddenly the young woman who had been involved in the fracas with the recruiting officer dashed over to Murdoch.

  “Mr. Murdoch. It’s me, Fiona. Fiona Williams.”

  She must have seen in his face that he didn’t recognize her, because she added, “I was at Sackville School the same time as Jack.”

  Suddenly Murdoch saw the girl she had been. Back then she had braided her long hair, but now she had a fashionable bob. Her fair skin, lightly freckled, and her lively brown eyes were unchanged.

  “So you were. I remember now.”

  “Are you here to meet Jack? I saw in the newspaper that he was one of the wounded. I was going to write but…” Her voice tailed off. “How is he?”

  “It could have been a lot worse,” answered Murdoch. “He’s suffered a bullet wound in his upper arm. Also got a whiff of gas.”

  The hissing train, blowing off steam like an overheated horse, had drawn to a halt. Every second coach was hung with a large banner with a red cross on it. Striking and unmistakable.

  Fiona turned to the group of demonstrators, who seemed to be hovering uncertainly. “Come on. We’ve done what we came to do.” She glanced over her shoulder at Murdoch. “Please tell Jack I said hello.”

  Murdoch watched as they all made their way back to the stairs. The sole young man appeared to be in need of succour, and one of the women had her arm around him. A few people scowled, one older woman hissed at them, but the rest of the crowd was now preoccupied by the train.

  The piper blew a trill.

  The conductor called out, “Stand clear, folks. They will all be getting out. Just give them some room.”

  The officers disembarked first; there was a shout of excitement as they pushed open the train doors and stepped down onto the platform.

  Murdoch could see a familiar figure leaning out of a window in the second coach. Jack. He felt a moment of joy so intense everything else was blotted out. He was irresistibly pushed forward until he was directly in front of the carriage door. Jack saw him.

  “Hello, Pa.” He held up one hand. “Hold on.” It took him several minutes to get to the door in the crush but finally he was there.

  “Give me that,” said Murdoch. He grabbed Jack’s haversack and set it on the ground as his son climbed down to the platform. Jack’s right arm was in a sling but they were able to clasp hands at least.

  “How was the journey?”

  Murdoch knew how banal and inadequate his question was, but at that moment he didn’t trust himself to say anything else.

  “Bit tiring. Glad it’s over,” answered Jack. His voice sounded hoarse and raspy. Murdoch had known to expect that effect of the gassing Jack had suffered, but it was nevertheless shocking. As was his son’s appearance. Jack had lost a lot of weight. His army greatcoat hung on him, and his face was too pale, his cheeks and eye sockets hollowed.

  He stood back and surveyed his father. “You didn’t have this many grey hairs when I saw you last, surely?”

  “It’s your imagination. I couldn’t have changed that much in a year,” spluttered Murdoch. He flicked at his moustache. “Besides, it makes me look wiser.”

  “Pa, you always look wise. It’s your most compelling feature.”

  Before Murdoch could think of a suitable response, Jack bent to pick up his haversack.

  Murdoch forestalled him. “I’ll get that.” And he grabbed it as if it held a fistful of jewels in danger of being stolen. Jack didn’t protest.

  They started to walk along the crowded platform. Jack had fallen silent again and was looking around as if he were a country boy come to the big city for the first time.

  “My God, Jack,” Murdoch burst out after a few moments. “You look like you could do with a good scrub. Not to mention some clean clothes.”

  “The boat didn’t have the greatest of facilities, and they took us directly from the dock to the train.” He gave a faint smile. “Sorry. Do I pong?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  Jack indicated the slowly moving soldiers all around him. “Good thing we’re all the same. Nobody notices.” Suddenly he called out, “Hey, Percy. Over here. Hold on a sec, Pa. It’s my chum. I wondered where the silly sod had got to.”

  He waved at a soldier leaning on a cane next to the coach from which Jack had disembarked. The fellow waved back enthusiastically and headed toward them. Murdoch noticed he had a strange, wavering sort of gait. As he got closer Murdoch could see a V-shaped scar, still raw and livid, between his eyebrows. It puckered his brow and had the disconcerting effect of making him seem to be in a constant state of bewilderment.

  “This must be your father,” he said when he reached them. “You look a lot alike.”

  “Pa, this is Percy McKinnon,” said Jack. “We’re in the same platoon. I wrote to you about him.”

  “So you did.”

  Percy held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Murdoch. Jack has talked a lot about you.”

  “All good, I hope.”

  “All exemplary.”

  They shook hands, and Murdoch was struck by how icy cold the other man’s skin was.

  “Is somebody meeting you?” he asked.

  “No. My folks couldn’t get in. Too far to come.”

  “Where are you staying?” Murdoch asked.

  “At a boarding house for the time being.”

  “Where is it? I can drop you off. I’ve got a motor car.”

  His son gaped at him. “A motor car? We are going up in the world.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” said Murdoch. “It’s borrowed.”

  “And you know how to drive it?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Where’s your wheel?”

  “I could hardly give you a lift home on that.”

  “You used to. Often.”

  McKinnon laughed. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I’m fine with walking. The place isn’t far.”

  “It’s cold out. Let us take you there.”

  Murdoch didn’t miss the quick exchange of glances between Jack and his friend.

  “He’s all right, Pa,” interjected Jack. “He needs the exercise. It’s good for us, so the sawbones tell us. Speeds up the healing. Isn’t that so, Percy?”

  McKinnon gave Jack a mock salute. “Absolutely right, Corporal. We can’t take too long to recover. We might have to go right back in a couple of months.”

  “Good Lord. I hope not,” said Murdoch. “I hope the war’s over before then.”

  Jack frowned. “Didn’t look to me like it was going to end any time soon. Wouldn’t you say, Percy?”

  His chum nodded. “Fritz is a tough customer. They aren’t giving up yet. But then neither are we.”

  Suddenly Jack froze. He was staring back toward the train, where the last of the injured soldiers were being lifted to the platform.

  “Percy. Look. There’s Tim.”

  His friend startled and looked in the same direction. He shook his head and said, quietly, “It’s not Tim, Jack.”

  “Yes, it is. I have to speak to him.” He took a step but Percy caught him by the arm.

  “I tell you, it’s not Tim, Jack. It couldn’t be.”

  His voice was low and intense but Jack reacted as if he’d been doused with cold water. He shuddered.

  “Course, it’s not. Just looked like him for a second.” He turned to Murdoch. “Let’s see if we can get out of here. Pa, why don’t you lead the way. You can clear a path for us.”

  Murdoch obeyed. Over his shoulder, he addressed McKinnon. “Come and have a meal with us as soon as you’re settled.”

  “Thank you, sir. Perhaps later in the week. Tonight I intend to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “We’re actually on the telephone now so you can ring,” said Murdoch. “Shall I give you the number?”

  “My father’s
very proud of having all the latest modern conveniences,” interjected Jack. “Don’t worry about it, Percy. Sending a pigeon will be just as good.”

  “Right. Just give me some time to rest up.”

  There seemed to be an anxiety coming from the young man that Murdoch didn’t quite understand. He had the strange sense it had to do with Murdoch himself. Perhaps Percy had had some trouble with officers of the law in the past.

  There you go again. Always the suspicious mind of a policeman, seeing things that aren’t there.

  By now they had caught up with a woman walking slowly toward the exit beside a wheeled stretcher, which was being pushed by a Red Cross nurse. The man lying there was engulfed in bandages. His wrapped hands were outside the blanket; his head was a white, shapeless lump. There was a hole in the bandage, presumably for breathing and eating, but that was all. The woman, fashionably dressed, of middle age, had brought a small brown terrier with her and it trotted alongside. It was wearing a bright tartan coat against the cold.

  Jack turned to his chum.

  “Hey, Percy, do you remember that dog who came into the trench? It was shortly before the last push. Poor little beast was out of his mind with fear but when he saw we had food, he jumped down and started begging. He’d lost part of his tail but he was still wagging the bloody stump to beat the band. He was actually white but he was so caked with mud he seemed to be brown at first. Do you remember?”

  “Of course. He was a pathetic little beast.”

  “There were a lot of stray dogs,” said Jack to Murdoch. “They’d been left behind when the villagers evacuated. Some cats, too. They came to us.”

  “What happened to him?” Murdoch asked.

  “He was blown to pieces. I saw the remnants in No Man’s Land. He must have been trying to get home.”

  His voice sounded strange, and Murdoch saw to his dismay that Jack was fighting tears.

  FROM CANADA IN FLANDERS BY SIR MAX AITKEN, M.P.

  …The expeditionary force marching from their billets towards the trenches—they had been at the front for months, yet they stepped as freshly as though they were just from home…Their faces shone with health; their eyes were as bright as those of a troop of schoolboys….They whistled as they marched.