The Beleaguered. Lynne Golding

in the past two years working part-time with me. I wonder if you shouldn’t think of joining the division. Mr. Foster will be at Valcartier for the next month. You should meet with him there!”

      The statement had an equal and opposite effect on two people at our picnic. Thinking that such a position would better keep Roy out of harm’s way, Aunt Charlotte was quick to encourage him to consider the opportunity. For that exact same reason, Roy refused.

      “Sounds like a desk job to me,” he said. “No thank you. They need brave men on the battle lines; men willing to hold and shoot a gun. That’s where you’ll find me.”

      Aunt Charlotte’s shoulders slumped a little. But only a little. She was not surprised Roy would take that position. When she heard what came next, she realized it likely did not matter. The positions were equally dangerous.

      “A desk job? Well, I suppose, but the desk may well be at the battle lines—or very near them. Some of their work will be done in England, but much of the supply management will occur near the men in combat. The members of the corps carry a gun; they receive full combat training. Think about it. At the very least, meet with Mr. Foster when you get to Valcartier.”

      Of all those in attendance, the only one who seemed not to be following the conversation about the movement of war supplies and men was Ina. She had not uttered a single sentence during the entire meal. Her attention seemed focussed on something closer to our original picnic location. Jim noticed it too.

      “Ina,” he said as the women began to scrape the picnic dishes. “Go see if any of the McKechnies want to join our baseball game. We could use a few more players.” Ina hesitated but then agreed. By the time she returned, ten minutes later, Jim and Roy had established the baseball diamond, employing four small burlap bags of sand.

      Only Katie McKechnie accompanied Ina back to our location. Her sisters could not be convinced to leave their picnic blankets. With similar refusals to play provided by Father and Uncle William (there was never any suggestion that the ladies would play), we were eight players. Roy quickly divided us into two teams of four. Not the best, he declared, but we would have fun.

      We did have fun—for about three innings. Jim and Roy, the two team captains, each hit a home run. Jim might have scored a second if Ina had not caught the ball he hit in his very glove, loaned to her while he was at bat. I stole a base, and so did Hannah. In the third inning, Bill hit a long ball, which bounced on the ground just behind Katie. Before she could retrieve it, she screamed. Running toward her, with a pack of eight boys in its pursuit, was a small pink pig covered in some kind of slime. John, who was in the process of stealing third base, did not look back. He ignored Katie’s scream and would have made it to home plate had the greasy piglet not crossed his path. John went flying. The pig touched home plate, as did the eight pursing boys.

      “Catch the pig,” Ina announced, stating the name of the game they were playing. It had clearly gotten out of hand.

      “I’m not sure that they will,” Bill said.

      “Say,” I said to Ina as we watched the group recede in the distance. “Isn’t that Michael at the back of the group?”

      “I have no idea,” Ina said, moving to check on John.

      We played one more inning before our game was interrupted again. The piglet had doubled back and was once more running toward us. “Catch it!” the boys yelled. “Catch it!” I wondered how they expected us to do so, when I saw, approaching us from the other direction, a number of older men, one holding a leather halter and a towel. That man, who appeared to be a farmer, kneeled down on the ground before reaching our baseball diamond. Within minutes, he had the piglet in the towel.

      “Suffice it to say, you lost the game, boys!” shouted the man with the greasy piglet. He and the other men began walking back to the church group near the parking area.

      “I’m not sure we should go back,” one of the church boys said to no one in particular.

      “Don’t go back!” Jim cried. “Harry! Michael! Sam!” he called, referring to those he knew by name. “Stay and play with us. We’ll reconstitute the teams. The Methodists versus the Catholics. You good for a game?” They were. Introductions were quickly made, a coin was tossed, and the Methodists lined up to take the bat.

      The remaining portion of our game took on a very different character. The St. Mary’s team, being comprised of male members mostly the size of Roy and Jim, assumed they would have a clear advantage over our team. In that, they underestimated the athletic abilities of both the male and female descendants of my sportsman grandfather, Jas Stephens. Our knowledge that the St. Mary’s team members had not even been able to capture a piglet led to a high degree of confidence on the part of the Methodists.

      Eventually, our little game became the entertainment for the rest of our family, a good number of the St. Mary’s parishioners who came in search of their missing boys, and dozens of others at the lake that day. It was a good game, with each team leading at various points.

      After nine innings, the score was tied and we agreed to end it that way. The most interesting aspect from my perspective was not the home runs made, the other runs earned, the fly catches, or the number of strikes. The most interesting aspect was a small event that occurred at first base about halfway through the game. The Methodists were at bat. The bases were loaded. There were two outs. Ina bunted the ball just beyond first base, which was then being manned by Michael. He slipped back to retrieve the ball as she ran for the base. He arrived back at it before she did, ball in hand. At full flight, she ran toward the base, where he caught her as she collided with him. I could not help but notice that his arms were around her approximately one second longer than necessary; that she blushed when she was ruled to be out; and that she smiled when our bases were emptied. As everyone else changed positions, I thought I was likely the only one to notice it. In that, I forgot the observant nature of my aunts.

      * * *

      We did not get home until about eight o’clock that evening. The day had been hot, and our house, so long closed up and empty, was stuffy. After opening the second floor windows, Mother and Aunt Charlotte joined Ina, me, Aunt Lil, Uncle William, and Father on our verandah. Jim had left for Millie’s house. Aunt Rose, Hannah, and John were at their house. Bill and Roy were there too, packing their belongings in preparation for their departure the next morning. Aunt Lil sat on two of the four matching wicker armchairs. True to her word, Aunt Lil had not once the entire afternoon, despite the temperature rising to over eight-five degrees, removed her heavy jacket.

      “The house will be cooled down in no time,” Mother said as she and Aunt Charlotte claimed the last two armchairs. Father and Uncle William stood leaning against the railing, each with a pipe in hand. I was perched on a small stool next to Aunt Lil. Ina sat on the chaise lounge, her right leg causing it to swing gently back and forth.

      Although our verandah was the location of many lively conversations, it did not appear that it would be so that evening. The activities of the day had deprived us of much of our remaining energy. Aunt Lil and Aunt Charlotte stared into the star lit sky beyond the verandah’s roof. Eventually, Aunt Lil broke the silence by beginning a conversation, high on the outlandish scale.

      “Ina,” she said, “I am a little vexed with you.”

      “With me, Aunt Lil? What did I do?” Ina was clearly surprised by any suggestion that she would annoy her favourite aunt.

      “Surely, dear sister,” Aunt Charlotte interjected, directing her statement toward Aunt Lil, “this is not something to be discussed at this time.” She furrowed her eyebrows and nodded slightly, identifying me and the gentlemen on the verandah as those who should not be present for such a conversation.

      “I don’t know what you mean, Charlotte,” Aunt Lil replied. “I am certainly qualified to determine whether it is the appropriate time to speak about a matter with my niece.” Although the conversation may have begun as one between Aunt Lil and Ina, by this point everyone on the verandah was following it.

      “As you say,” Aunt Charlotte conceded. “Sometimes discretion is the