There was, for instance, her contumelious attitude, expressed physically but not verbally, toward the other picture in the nursery, which was of A Certain Person. Bella-Mae did not hold with images or idols; she belonged to the small assembly of the Salvation Army in Blairlogie, and she knew what was right, and a picture of A Certain Person, in a room like the nursery, was not right.
To remove the picture, or alter its position, was out of the question. It had been hung beside Francis’s bed by Aunt, Miss Mary-Benedetta McRory, who ought by rights to be called Great-Aunt. Bella-Mae was not the only one to have reservations about pictures of A Certain Person; the Major was not happy about it, but rather than have a row with Aunt he tolerated it, on the ground that women and children had soft hearts about religion, and when the boy grew older he would put an end to all that nonsense. So there it hung, a brightly coloured picture of Jesus, smiling sadly as though a little pained by what his large brown eyes beheld, and with his lovely long white hands extended from his blue robe in the familiar Come-unto-me gesture. Behind him were a good many stars, and he seemed to be floating.
From time to time Aunt Mary-Ben had a secret little whisper with Francis. “When you say your prayers, dear, look first at the picture of Jesus, then close your eyes but keep the picture in your mind. Because that’s Who you’re praying to, isn’t it? And He knows all about little boys and loves them dearly.”
Bella-Mae was sure that Jesus didn’t like to see little boys naked, and she hustled Francis out of his clothes and into them with great speed and certain modest precautions. “You don’t think he wants to look at your bare bottom with his big eyes, do you?” she said, managing to include both Francis and the picture in her displeasure. For her displeasure was immense. The faith of the Salvation Army expressed itself in her through a repertoire of disapprovals; she lived strongly in the faith of the Army, and from time to time she murmured the Army war-cry, “Blood and Fire”, with the vigour usually reserved for an oath.
She saw that the Army figured in Francis’s life as much as possible, though she would not have dared to take him to the Temple; the Major would not have stood for that. But at least twice a week he beheld her in the splendour of her uniform, and he was the first to see her in the glory of the Chapeau. The Army uniform cost a good deal of money, and Bella-Mae bought hers garment by garment, as she could afford it. The sensible shoes, the black stockings, the skirt, and the tunic with its wonderful buttons, were achieved one by one, and then the great decision had to be made. Should she buy the bonnet, which was the familiar headgear of the Salvation Lassies, or should she opt for the Chapeau, a flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat of blue fur felt, glorious with its red-and-gold ribbon, and strongly resembling (though Bella-Mae did not know this) the hats worn by Catholic priests in nearby Quebec. After deep inward searching, and prayer for guidance, she chose the Chapeau.
In full Salvation rig at last, she marched around the nursery, for Francis, singing in a style of her own, which included noises indicative of the band’s contribution:
It was irresistible. Francis hopped off his bed and paraded behind Bella-Mae, and under her guidance was able to shout, “Thine the glory!” and “Blest Redeemer!” ecstatically at the right intervals. He was elevated. He was free of the repressive influence of A Certain Person, whose sad eyes he ignored. He did not know what he was singing about, but he sang from a happy heart.
The nursery door opened. It was Aunt Mary-Ben, tiny and smiling, her little soft cap nodding pleasantly, for she was not a bit disapproving. Oh, not she! She motioned Francis back to his bed, and drew Bella-Mae toward the window, where she spoke very softly for a few minutes, after which Bella-Mae ran out of the room, crying.
Then Aunt said, “Shall we say our prayers, Frankie? Or I’ll tell you what—you shall hear me say mine.” And Aunt knelt by the bed with the little boy, and brought out of her pocket a sort of necklace he had never seen before, made of black beads of different sizes, strung together with silver chain, and as Aunt passed the beads through her fingers she murmured what sounded like poetry. When she had finished she reverently kissed the cross that hung on the necklace and, with a sweet smile, held it out to Francis, who kissed it, too. Liked kissing it, liked the reverential quietness, liked the effect of poetry. This was every bit as good as Bella-May’s march, in an entirely different way. He held the cross in his hand, reluctant to let it go.
“Would you like it for your very own, Frankie?” said Aunt. “I’m afraid you can’t have it right now, dear, but perhaps after a little while I shall be able to give you one of these. It’s called a rosary, dear, because it’s a rose-garden of prayer. It’s the garden of Jesus’ dear Mother, and when we say our prayers with it, we are very near Her, and we may even see Her sweet face. But this is our secret, dear. Don’t say anything to Daddy.”
No fear of that. Conversation between Francis and the Major was in a very different mode. “Come here and I’ll show you my gun, Frank. Look down the barrel. See? Clean as a whistle. Always keep your gun clean and oiled. It deserves it. A fine gun deserves decent care. When you’re older I’ll get you one, and show you how to use it. Must learn to shoot like a sportsman, not like a killer.” Or it might be, “Come with me, Frank, and I’ll show you how to tie a trout-fly.” Or, “Look at my boots, Frank. Bright, what? I never let the girls do my boots. You’d never think these were eleven years old, would you? That’s what proper care does. You can always judge a man by his boots. Always get ‘em from the best maker. Only cads wear dirty boots.” Or, in passing, “Stand straight, Frank. Never slump, however tired you are. Arch your back a bit, too—looks smart on parade. Come tomorrow after breakfast and I’ll show you my sword.”
A good father, determined that his son should be a good man. Not entirely what might have been expected of the Wooden Soldier. There were depths of affection in the Major. Affection, and pride. No poetry.
Mother was entirely different. Affectionate, but perhaps she turned it on at will. She did not see a great deal of Francis except by accident, for she had so much to do. Amusing Father, and taking care that there were no unfortunate encounters when the Cornishes set out for St. Alban’s church on Sunday morning, and the McRorys’ carriage might be making toward St. Bonaventura; reading a succession of novels with pretty pictures on the covers; and playing the phonograph, which gave out with Gems from The Wizard of the Nile, and a piece Francis loved, the words of which were:
It was wonderful—better than anything. Just as good as Father’s sword, or Aunt’s mysterious beads, and far better than Bella-May in her uniform, which he never saw now, anyway. Mother took his hands and they danced the turkey-trot round and round her pretty drawing-room. All wonderful!
As wonderful, in their own way, as the ecstatic first moment with the peony, but perhaps not quite, because that was all his own, and he could repeat it in summer and remember it in winter without anybody else being involved.
All wonderful, until the shattering September morning in 1914 when he was led away by Bella-Mae to school.