Flower (7 page)

“‘I hoped I might catch a glimpse of the girl I’d talked to on the ship. I turned and waved, in case she was looking out of the train window. I wished I’d asked her name, and told her mine. The boy behind elbowed me to hurry up the steps. “Who are you waving at, you daft fool?” he jeered. I put my foot out to trip him.

“‘ “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” I said.

“‘When we finally arrived in Toronto, we were taken to the Barnardo Home for Boys on
Farley Avenue. The minute we were through the doors, they checked us again for lice and disease.

“‘The one disease we all shared was fear. We’d come such a long way, and now we waited for one more destination, waited for what they’d promised us: a family to take us in. Was it going to come true? We’d already heard rumors of boys running away because they’d been badly treated. That night, lying awake in the dormitory, I could hear the sound of muffled weeping.

“‘Next morning Mr. Owen, the superintendent, told me I was going to a farm in Lindsay. He wrote down the address:
Jack Mitchell, Angeline, Lindsay, Ontario.
I didn’t even know how to pronounce the name! I was given a lunch and sent on my way.

“‘I sat up on the train, rigid with anxiety, terrified I’d miss my stop. I was hardly able to take in the pretty countryside, dotted with lakes and rivers. I needn’t have worried. The guard called out, “Lindsay,” in a loud voice, and moments later I was standing beside my new tin trunk, on a platform bustling with life. Trains came and went, and people jostled to greet new arrivals, to pass the time of day, or to find their seats before the next departure. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. It was the first time in years I hadn’t
been part of a crowd of boys, herded from one place to another, obeying rules and regulations. I was on my own, bewildered and uncertain.

“‘How would Mr. Mitchell know me? I’d been told I was to be met, but suppose he forgot–how would I get to the farm? I made sure the name tag pinned to my jacket was facing out. Then I hauled my belongings to the steps beside the station entrance, so anyone going in or out would notice me.

“‘Once or twice people looked my way, but no one stopped to speak. The cold seeped through my boots. I must have waited two hours or more. At last a burly man, whom I’d noticed tying up his horse and buggy and who’d come down the steps to speak to the stationmaster, walked up to me. I jumped to my feet, and whipped off my cap, “Mr. Mitchell, sir? I’m William Carr, your boy from the orphanage.”

“‘“My boy?” He laughed, mocking me. “I don’t have a boy, only a houseful of girls.” He laughed again, enjoying his little joke. Then he walked all around me. If he’d carried a pitchfork, I swear he would have prodded me with it.

“‘“I’ve changed my mind. You’re too small. My pigs weigh twice what I do and they’d gobble you up in no time.” He roared with laughter at
the prospect. “I’ve had a word with the station-master–you can go back on the next train.”

“‘“Please, sir, I’m strong, and pigs don’t scare me.” I hoped Mr. Mitchell wouldn’t guess that the nearest I’d ever been to a pig was the rare occasion I’d tasted a pork sausage, or looked at a pig’s head on a slab in the window of a butcher’s shop in London. But to be sent back would be a disgrace.

“‘“My nephew’s been sent for from out West. The wife decided she doesn’t want anyone who isn’t kin around the place.” Then he turned his back on me and walked away.

“‘It had all been a game. He’d made up his mind long before he even spoke to me.

“‘I tore off my name tag and shoved it in my pocket. I swore I’d never go back to the orphanage. They’d sent me to Canada for a better life, and I was resolved to find it.

“‘I asked the stationmaster if he’d let me leave my trunk in the baggage room while I looked around the town, and he said that would be fine.

“‘Outside the station, porters were handing luggage up the steps of a high-wheeled horse-drawn bus, with
BENSON’S HOTEL
written on the side. I watched the horses struggling to turn
into the muddy main street. Horses! Surely there would be a job in some stable for a boy who wanted to work with horses. I set off to find myself a place.

“‘I walked down Kent Street, and in the next couple of hours I’d called in at six or seven livery stables attached to the hotels. None of them needed a stable boy. At Hamilton’s Carriage-works, a boy cleaning some harnesses told me to try the forge behind Queen’s Square. He’d heard the apprentice had gone back to his home in Bobcaygeon. I crossed the wide muddy street. The mud slopped up to my ankles and over my boots.

“‘The smith was shoeing a horse. I stood at the entrance feeling the heat of the fire and watching the sparks fly into the dusk, like fireflies on a summer night. The blacksmith cradled the horse’s front foot in his lap, starting with the heel of the shoe, loosening it gently before he removed the old nails with his pincers. Then he cleaned out the mud and gravel before fitting the new shoe. When he picked up the hind foot, the horse shifted about. Horses do that because they can’t see what’s going on. The blacksmith talked to him quietly, slid his hand down the horse’s leg to the fetlock, picked up the foot and swung his
knee under the horse, holding the upturned hoof in his lap ready to shoe. The smith had positioned himself so that even if the horse did kick, he could step away without getting hurt.

“‘When the horse was shod, the blacksmith straightened up. He watched the owner lead the mare away and looked at me, waiting patiently to see what I wanted. I had a feeling that I had found what I was looking for. This might be my only opportunity to speak up for myself, and my future in the New World.

“‘ “My father worked with horses, and so did my grandfather,” I blurted. I hadn’t planned what I was going to say, but it all came pouring out: about the orphanage and leaving Frankie behind and being turned down by Mr. Mitchell and how this was the life I’d always wanted – to work around horses and one day to be a blacksmith like him.

“‘He handed me a broom. I swept that forge as if my life were at stake, and in a way it was. I gathered the old horseshoes, adding them to a barrel already filled with other discarded shoes. I picked up bent nails, found some wood to chop, and stacked it near the furnace. When the forge was tidy, I stood the broom back in the corner.

“You must keep that fire going, morning and night. Make sure it never goes out,” he said.

“‘Yes, sir, I won’t. I promise.”

“‘The blacksmith struck the anvil with his big hammer so that it rang out like a bell–the sign that work was ended for the day. He shifted the hammer to his left hand, and held out his right for me to shake.

“I’m Joseph Armstrong,” he said.

“‘ “My name is William Carr,” I answered.

“‘Then he took me into the house for supper, and that’s how my five-year apprenticeship began. We worked twelve- or fourteen-hour days for six, sometimes seven, days a week. We fixed wagon wheels and cutting knives, made bolts and hinges, forged ax handles, and mended sled runners. Mr. Armstrong made his own nails because they lasted longer than the ones turned out by machines. But over half the work we did was shoeing.

“‘A couple of months after I’d started working for Mr. Armstrong, Jack Mitchell brought his horse in to be shod. He looked at me, and said, “It’s you, is it? I heard Mr. Armstrong took you on. How’s the Home boy making out here? Giving you any trouble, Joe?”

“‘“I’ll need you to walk the horse round, William, so I can see what’s required,” Mr.
Armstrong told me. When he’d taken a good look at the horse, and I had brought him back into the forge, Mr. Armstrong said, “My new apprentice will shoe your horse, Jack.” Then he added, “The boy has good hands.” I must have grown at least half an inch taller when I heard that. Compliments were rare in my life.

“‘It took me two hours to shoe the horse–a job Mr. Armstrong would have finished in half the time–but he never said a word, just grunted now and then to encourage me.

“‘Bit by bit I became part of the rhythm of the forge. Mr. Armstrong taught not through words–there were few of those–but through example. By the time I was a striker, the second pair of hands at the anvil, we worked as one and the same person. I rarely missed when he pointed with his hammer to where I was to strike next.

“‘At first I was given the worst jobs–that was how you learned. Apprentices were expected to handle the kickers, the nervous bad-tempered horses who kicked out when they were shod. Mr. Armstrong told me I had a way of talking to them that calmed them down, that I had the right way with troublesome animals. “A horse is like a human; he needs kindness,” he said.

“‘When I was fourteen, I was paid my first wage of a dollar a month. I’ve never felt richer in my life. I banked most of it. I was too busy to spend it, except when the circus came to town. Everyone turned out for it: the procession headed by the elephants and the show afterwards. But I was always glad to get back to the forge. It made me feel uneasy looking at the mangy wild animals in their cramped cages.

“‘I remembered the girl on the boat, the way she’d gripped the rails. Sometimes I’d look up when I saw a girl with dark curls pass by, or heard a laugh that reminded me of her.

“‘I stayed with Joe and his wife until 1914, the year after my apprenticeship ended. In September, a month after World War I broke out, I went to the armory on Queen Square and volunteered for the army, hoping to be sent to a cavalry regiment. “Come back safe, Will,” Joe said.

“‘We embarked for England, where we were to receive training before they sent us to France. I was anxious to see my brother again. I managed to have one leave with him. Frankie joined up the following year. I never saw him again; he died in France, at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in 1917. After the war, I returned to Canada and married your mother.’