Wheeler's Wake Volume Ii: A Biographical Novel

By Andrew Clyde Little

Volume II of Wheelers Wake continues the story of a
communications pioneer involved in shortwave radio
and the birth of television. Wheeler also managed to
raise a son while dealing with a highly neurotic wife.
It traces how he balanced a demanding career with the
role of a father in a difficult marriage. This support for
his son allowed the author to grow into a responsible
adult who eventually followed in his fathers wake,
shaping his own career, using some of the technology
Wheeler developed. It is a tribute to a remarkable man
from a devoted and loving son, Andrew Clyde Little.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466910782

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ottawa and St. Lambert, 1943-44

It was the morning after Christmas, and Willis was standing at the living room window sipping coffee. Classical music played softly on the radio. Outside, a light snow was falling, dusting the blue spruce across the street in a fine mantle of white powder. It was pretty, Willis thought, but he hoped the snow would let up. His back was bothering him and he didn’t feel like shovelling.

Trudy came into the room and joined him at the window. I wonder if it’s snowing in Montreal, she mused.

Probably, said Willis. They get about the same amount each winter as we do here in Ottawa.

It’s not like Toronto, said Trudy.

No, Willis agreed, as he lit a cigarette.

I wish we were going back to Toronto.

I know, said Willis, and so do I. But we’ll be back there once the CBC’s short-wave service is established.

How long do you think it will take? Trudy asked.

A year… maybe two at the most. Willis put his arm around his wife. But look at it this way. We’ll have time to check out doctors in Montreal. I’ve heard they’re doing some remarkable things, particularly at the Royal Victoria Hospital.

I don’t know, said Trudy with a sigh.

We have to stay positive, Trudy.

It’s hard.

Willis decided the time wasn’t right to discuss another topic, one he knew would upset his wife. He moved from the window and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. He wanted to leave the car behind in Ottawa. Their landlord had agreed to store it for a modest fee until the war was over.

That evening, after supper, he did broach the subject. That’s ridiculous, said Trudy. We’ll need the car. You say the CBC has found a place for us in St. Lambert, but as I understand things it’s clear across the river from Montreal. How am I supposed to get to know a new city without a car?

Gas is rationed, so you’d be pretty limited.

Willis, you know how an important a car is to me. Trudy’s anger was growing.

I know, and as soon as the war is over I’m going to order us a new car. But for now I think we should cut back.

What am I supposed to do in St. Lambert, with you off working in Montreal?

You can always take taxis.

That’s not exactly cutting back, said Trudy, sarcasm replacing anger in her voice.

You know, said Willis, I just read an article in the paper. If people took cabs instead of using their cars they’d save money in the long run.

I find that hard to believe.

Well, you have to factor in depreciation, maintenance, repairs, insurance, and gas. When you include all those expenses and compare the total annual cost of running a car with the cost of taking taxis, you find that taxis come out ahead.

Trudy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. So I’m supposed to get to know our new city by cab?

All right, all right, said Willis, acknowledging defeat, we’ll see if our mechanic can get things tuned up so we can drive to Montreal. But with the war on, there’s likely to be a shortage of parts. If the car isn’t ready by the time we leave we’ll go by train, and I’ll come back and pick it up later.

Willis wondered why Trudy always seemed to win these arguments. It had started shortly after they were married, when she urged him to drop the nickname Wheeler. But everyone knows me as Wheeler, he’d protested. It’s how we’re listed in the phone book.

I know, said Trudy, and it was a fine nickname when you were in college. But now that you’re a professional engineer, I don’t think it suits you.

Willis didn’t give in right away, but over time Trudy wore him down. Now, in Ottawa, no one knew him as Wheeler, and he had little doubt it would be the same in Montreal. He still enjoyed those rare occasions when someone from his past would use the old nickname. But it also made him sad, as if he’d lost something, a part of himself.

Their car wasn’t ready on January 15th, so they took a taxi to the railway station in downtown Ottawa. It would be Andy’s first train trip. Willis recalled how frightened his son had been when they had tried to show him the cab of a locomotive in Leamington. Fortunately the carriage they boarded this time was near the end of the train, so there was no way Andy could know that an engine similar to the one that had terrified him would soon be hauling them east, to their new home.

Once they were underway his son seemed to enjoy the ride, and when his fascination with the scenery that flashed past the windows wore off he ran happily up and down the gently swaying aisle. There were few passengers for him to bother, and the conductor seemed genuinely pleased to have a little boy as a distraction in what would otherwise have been a boring two-hour trip.

At Windsor Station in Montreal a redcap took their luggage to one of the taxis waiting in a row. The cabby’s face lit up when Willis told him the destination. St. Lambert, across the St. Lawrence River, was a highly prized fare. He was less enthusiastic when a second redcap turned up with their dog, Taffy, in a cage.

Willis assured the driver that the dog would be kept in the cage, and he placed it on the back seat. After the redcaps had loaded the baggage into the trunk and he had tipped them, he suggested to Trudy that she sit up front. You’ll be able to see more that way.

As they drove off, the driver turned to Trudy. You’re lucky, he said in his French-Canadian accent. Yesterday we had a big storm, lots of snow.

I can see that, said Trudy, glancing out the window. Those banks are piled awfully high.

The crews worked all night, said the cabbie. At least the streets are clear.

They headed down a hill, and in the distance Trudy could make out a river. A short tunnel took them under the Lachine Canal, and ahead lay the Victoria Bridge. The sound of the car changed subtly when they moved onto the bridge surface, and the two-way traffic left little space for cars to pass each other. A wide truck approaching made Trudy tense up, but the driver, unfazed, didn’t even bother to slow down.

Lord, she said once they were safely past the truck, there isn’t much margin for error, is there!

Nope, said Willis with a smile, but I guess our driver knows what he’s doing.

Andy was staring out the window. Are you sure this is a river? he asked. Seems more like a lake to me.

No, Willis assured him, it’s a river. The St. Lawrence. A couple of miles wide.

I don’t see much water.

Most of it is frozen over. But come summer you’ll be able to see it better.

Once they were across the bridge and into St. Lambert, Willis asked the cabby to cruise the main street so that Trudy could get a sense of the town. She noted that there were two movie theatres, a small department store, a pharmacy, and a dry cleaner. She had to admit that it did remind her a little of her home town, and that was reassuring.

Then Willis gave the driver instructions on how to get to 81 Upper Edison. He hadn’t yet seen the house, but the owner had provided an information sheet, complete with directions. It was a rental property, and it was furnished.

They drove under a railway trestle and along Victoria Avenue, then turned left on Upper Edison.

The good thing about our new place, said Willis, is that it’s on a dead-end street. There won’t be any through traffic.

The car turned right onto a short stretch of private road where four similarly designed homes, two on each side, faced each other.

There it is, said Willis, pointing. Number 81.

Wow, murmured Trudy. Impressive.

Number 81 Upper Edison was a large two-storey cedar-shingled house with a curved wraparound front porch.

It’s big, said Andy.

Bigger than I expected, said Willis. The pictures they sent didn’t do it justice.

Let’s have a look inside, said Trudy. She got out of the cab and moved toward the front porch.

Willis removed their belongings from the cab, paid the driver, then mounted the steps, carrying two suitcases. Trudy had the key, and she had already opened the door. Willis put down the suitcases and went back to the curb to pick up the dog’s cage.

When everything had been brought in, they shed their winter coats and hung them in a vestibule off the hall. The house felt spacious and formal. It reminded Trudy of the parsonage where she’d lived with her folks in Wheatley. They explored the dining room, the living room, and the bright, airy kitchen.

This is a nice house, said Trudy. The furniture’s a little old-fashioned, but it will do. The ceiling was high, and the trim was dark oak, in the fashion of the day.

It’s spooky, said Andy, adding his two cents worth.

What do you mean? Willis asked.

I dunno, said his son with a shrug of his shoulders.

Taffy, freed from her cage, was busy sniffing out the new surroundings.

Let’s check out the bedrooms, Trudy suggested.

They climbed the carpeted stairs. The master bedroom was at the front of the house, and it had French doors that opened onto a small balcony. There were two more bedrooms in the back, and the bathroom was at the top of the staircase.

Plenty of room, Willis remarked.

And it’s certainly clean, said Trudy with a smile. Nothing like that awful cottage in Britannia Beach.

It smells funny, said Andy.

Nothing serious, Trudy assured him. It’s just been closed up for a while, so it’s stuffy. We’ll open some windows and air it out. Which bedroom would you like?

Andy looked surprised. You mean I get to choose?

Sure, said Willis. But we get the front bedroom. Yours will be one of the two at the back.

Andy went back into both rooms, then returned and announced, I’ll take that one, pointing to the one closest to the bathroom.

Good choice, said Willis, thinking his son was showing a practical side. Trudy, for her part, understood that Andy’s choice had another motive. His bedroom would be the closest to their own.

Chapter 2

St. Lambert, 1944

On the first night in their new house they let Andy stay up a little later than usual. Trudy made a simple supper, and they sat in the living room listening to the radio. One of their favourite programs, the Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy show, was on, and while Andy didn’t always get the jokes, the idea of a ventriloquist and his dummy intrigued him. When Ray Nobel’s orchestra began to play the final theme, Trudy rose from the sofa.

Time for bed, young man, she said. Kiss your dad goodnight and we’ll go upstairs, get you into your ‘jamas, and brush your teeth.

Andy crossed the room, gave Willis a hug and a kiss, then followed his mother up the stairs. When he was tucked in, Trudy asked which bedtime story he’d like.

No story, he said. I think I’d like a song.

A song? Trudy was surprised. Reading had long ago replaced singing as their bedtime ritual. Which song? she asked.

Remember the one about the little fishes? said Andy. We used to sing it when I was little.

I remember, said Trudy, and she began to hum. Soon her young son began to sing the words:

Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool

Swam three little fishies and a mama fishie too.

Swim, said the mama fishie, Swim if you can,

And they swam and they swam all over the dam.

Trudy joined in for the chorus:

Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!

Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!

Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!

And they swam and they swam all over the dam.

They sang the rest of the song as a gentle duet:

Stop, said the mama fishie, or you will get lost.

The three little fishies didn’t wanna be bossed.

The three little fishies went off on a spree,

And they swam and they swam right out to the sea.

When the song finished, Andy gave a sigh and Trudy bent over the bed to give her son a goodnight kiss.

Leave the door open, Mummy, please?

All right, honey.

The sound of her footsteps as she reached the head of the stairs were replaced by another sound, a tapping at the bedroom window.

Mom, Andy called out, frightened.

What is it? Trudy’s voice was distant and tired as she started down.

Mom, there’s a noise.

Don’t be silly, honey, it’s just the wind.

I’m scared, Mom. It’s not the wind.

Willis’s voice carried up the stairs. It’s his imagination, Trudy. He spoke again, louder this time, Go to sleep now, Andy.

In the silence that followed, Andy was aware that his mother had paused halfway down the stairs. He could also picture his father seated in the living room. Maybe they were right, perhaps it was only his imagination.

Then the tapping resumed.

Mom, it’s not the wind.

He heard the stairs creak as she turned to come back up.

You’re babying him, you know. It was Willis’s voice again.

I’ll just settle him down, she said as she started up. After all, it’s his first night here. When she came back into the room, she sat down on the bed and rested her hand lightly on Andy’s leg. Now what’s this all about?

Listen, Mom. They both listened in the half-light of the bedroom. For what seemed like the longest time there was only silence. Then, to Andy’s immense relief, it came again. A faint tapping. There, he said. Did you hear that, Mom?

Trudy rose, moved to the window, and looked out. The tapping resumed. She turned back to the bed.

It’s only the wind, Andy. It’s blowing the branches of the tree against the side of the house. We’ll get Dad to trim them tomorrow. She crossed back to the bed and leaned over for another kiss. You go to sleep now; it’s nothing to worry about.

I didn’t say my prayers.

My goodness, that’s right.

Do I have to get out of bed and kneel?

"No, not tonight. Just say them in bed, warm and cozy.’

Trudy stood in the doorway, listening. As Andy was blessing the various family members she slipped away and tiptoed down the stairs.

Much later Andy awoke, roused this time by a faint hum. The house was dark and there was no other sound. The wind had died down… there was no tapping. But the hum was growing louder. It was coming from the window… The windowpane was vibrating. Then another sound, at first just a low rumble but gradually becoming louder. Then the two sounds, the rumble and the hum, blended into one. The room began to shake as the noise level rose. This wasn’t Andy’s imagination. As the sounds and the vibration filled the space, the whole house shook and Andy screamed, but his voice was drowned out by another much more frightening sound—the high-pitched whistle of a steam locomotive.

Then Trudy was in his bedroom holding him in her arms, rocking him gently. There, there, it’s all right. It’s only a train, that’s all. It’s just a train going by.

Andy trembled, and she held him closer. It was a long train, and the house continued to vibrate as freight car after freight car rumbled by. His trembling continued long after the sound of the last car had faded into the night.

Why don’t you come into our bed? Trudy whispered.

The next morning Andy went back to his own bedroom and peered out the window. Below, he could see the gentle curve of the railway track. It ran past the backyard, very close to the house. Too close, he thought.

Chapter 3

St. Lambert and Montreal, 1944

Early Monday morning, before Willis left for work, Trudy bundled Andy into his warm winter clothes and walked him to the nearby Victoria Park Elementary School. It was a two-storey red brick structure set well back from the street. While the children filed in for the start of the day’s classes, Trudy had a brief meeting with the principal and handed over Andy’s Ottawa report cards.

After quickly scanning them, the principal looked up. These look fine, she said to Trudy, then turned to Andy. I’m sure you’ll fit right in here.

He’s a good boy, said Trudy.

I’m sure he is. Any health problems?

Trudy shook her head.

Well, why don’t we give you a quick tour of the school and then I’ll introduce you to Andy’s teacher.

As they walked the corridors and peered into the steadily filling classrooms, Trudy felt a surge of relief. She’d never liked the sprawling elementary school in Ottawa, with its large crowd of rough, older students. This school was smaller, with just three grades, and it had a friendly, intimate atmosphere.

Andy’s new Grade Two teacher, Miss Wallace, was a plump middle-aged woman who smiled easily.

We’ll take good care of Andy, she assured Trudy.

Willis had decided to walk to the St. Lambert train station, and was pleased to note that it took him less than fifteen minutes. On the platform he bought a copy of the morning newspaper, The Gazette, and when the commuter train pulled in he boarded the last car, found a seat, and watched out the window as they crossed the Victoria Bridge.

From Windsor Station he strolled up to Ste. Catherine Street and headed west, passing the King’s Hall building, home of the CBC’s main studios and offices. He walked a few blocks farther along until he reached the Keefer Building, which housed the engineering headquarters. He’d visited there briefly the previous fall while on his way to the short-wave transmitter site in New Brunswick. Willis took the elevator to the third floor and was met by his old acquaintance, Alphonse Ouimet.

Welcome, said Alphonse, shaking Willis’s hand enthusiastically. I don’t know what strings were pulled in Ottawa, but I’m glad to have you aboard. We’re finally getting our hands on some of the material we need for the transmitter, particularly the steel for the antennas, and we need your expertise.

I guess the Prime Minister has decided it’s time our soldiers in Europe heard some Canadian news directly from home.

Why don’t you hang up your coat and I’ll introduce you to our team of engineers.

Willis did so and followed Alphonse into a meeting room that held a half-dozen people. It smelled of freshly brewed coffee and cigarette smoke.

This is Gordon McInstry, said Alphonse. He’s from Toronto.

They shook hands. McInstry was a red-haired, slightly built man with a few freckles. Good to meet you, Willis, said McInstry. You left for Ottawa just a few months before I signed on with the CBC. In fact, I inherited your old office.

Do I get it back when the war is over? asked Willis with a grin.

Oh sure, said McInstry, laughing. These days, though, I’m in Montreal, at least until we get the short-wave facilities working.

Where did you study? asked Willis.

Your old alma mater, Queen’s. I was a few years behind you, and I took one of the classes you taught after you graduated.

Willis tried to place the name, but came up short.

We all knew you as Wheeler back then.

Willis smiled. That was a long time ago.

Ouimet introduced Willis to the other men in the room. Several were French-Canadian, but they all spoke English.

Let’s have a look at those plans, said Willis.

Later, Gordon joined Willis and Alphonse for lunch at Murray’s Restaurant on Dorchester Boulevard. They discussed the problem of sunspots and the way they interfered with short-wave transmissions.

No one has been able to solve it, I’m afraid, said Gordon. Both the Brits and the Yanks are working on it.

There has to be a way, Willis mused. The main difficulty, as I see it, is that you only realize there’s trouble after the fact, after your programs have already been interrupted. But by then it’s too late.

That’s right. If we knew in advance, we could simply delay beaming until we were sure they’d get through.

When they’d finished eating and had ordered coffee, Alphonse changed the subject. How’s the family?

I’m glad you asked, said Willis. I need some advice. It’s personal.

Sure, his friend replied.

Do you want me to leave? asked McInstry.

No, no, stay. Willis knew he’d be away a good deal, working with his new friend in Sackville, and he wanted him to understand a little about Trudy’s illness.

My wife hasn’t been well. She was fine until the birth of our son, but she hasn’t been the same since. It’s something the doctors call postpartum depression. In her case, though, it’s a little more complicated. The condition usually clears up within a year or less, but it’s been seven years now. She’s been to doctors in Toronto and Ottawa, but no one has been able to help.

Let me ask around, said Alphonse. I went to McGill, and they have a solid medical reputation. Someone there may have advice for you.

I’d appreciate it, said Willis.

The aroma of shepherd’s pie, one of his favourites, greeted Willis when he returned home from work that evening. It was a good sign. He hung up his winter coat and went into the kitchen, where Trudy was at the stove. He bent over and kissed the back of her neck.

Willis, she said, good-naturedly, what will your son think?

Last time I looked he was in the living room, glued to the radio.

Just the same… Trudy turned and smiled. How was your first day at work?

No, said Willis, you first. Did you get Andy enrolled in school?

Yes, said Trudy. He can tell you all about it when we’re having supper.

Willis sat down at the kitchen table. My day was interesting. The prime minister’s pressure for a Canadian short-wave service for our troops has helped move things along. The material we need to build the towers is finally being manufactured, and we hope to go on the air sometime later this year.

At dinner Andy told them about his first day in the new school. We played kickball outside in the snow at recess. And I like the teacher.

I was so relieved about the school, said Trudy. It’s much smaller than the one in Ottawa. And it felt… I don’t quite know how to put it… friendlier, I guess.

That’s good, said Willis.

When they woke up the next day it was snowing. It wasn’t exactly a blizzard, but three inches had fallen overnight and it was still coming down. Willis bundled up and headed out the door. As he walked along Victoria Avenue, a car pulled up beside him. The driver reached over and opened the passenger-side window.

Can I give you a lift?

I’m just going to the train station.

Climb in, I’ll drop you off.

Willis brushed the snow from his coat and opened the car door. He slid in closed the door behind him.

I’m Al Kerr, said the driver, and extended his hand. He was older than Willis and was smoking a cigar.

Willis Little. They shook hands.

We’re neighbours, said Al.

We are?

Yup, we live right across the street.

In the short drive to the station Willis learned that his neighbour owned a printing company in St. Lambert, had three children, and loved sports.

Chapter 4

St. Lambert, 1944

Andy soon discovered that three other boys who lived on Upper Edison were also enrolled in Victoria Park School. Frank and Bob Deegan lived next door, while Brian Perry lived across the street, beside the Kerrs. Although Trudy was relieved to learn that her son would have company on his walks to and from school, she nevertheless continued to emphasize the importance of exercising care when they crossed Victoria Avenue, a busy street.

Andy hit it off best with Bob Deegan. Although Bob was a year older, he was easygoing, and took the time to show Andy some of the features of the neighbourhood, such as a dead tree in the woods to the north of Upper Edison. It was higher than the other trees and the children used it as a lookout.

Bob’s brother Frank was Andy’s age and had a temper. He liked to throw his weight around.

Just stay out of his way, Bob advised.

Brian Perry had a twelve-year-old brother, Lorne, a devoted railway fan. He could identify all of the engines by name and number, and knew the schedule by heart. Come on, he said to Andy, I’ll show you the level crossing.

Andy hesitated. I don’t know, he said.

It’s perfectly safe, Lorne assured him. There are no trains due here for another hour.

The two boys trudged west on Upper Edison to a raised crossing. Lorne glanced to his left. Those tracks go to the station in St. Lambert and then cross the Victoria Bridge.

My dad takes the train across the bridge.

Yes, but that would be a passenger train. Most of the traffic along this line is freight.

How come you know so much about trains? Andy asked.

I dunno. Living this close, I just became interested. It’s become a hobby for me.

What’s a hobby?

Oh, it can be just about anything. Lots of kids collect stuff—coins, stamps, matchbooks.

I had a friend in Ottawa who made model airplanes.

There you go, said Lorne. I think that because of the war a lot of guys are interested in planes.

That night at the dinner table Andy surprised his father. I’d like to have a hobby, he said.

Willis looked at Trudy, but she looked as puzzled as he was.

What did you have in mind?

Collecting something, said Andy. He recounted his conversation with Lorne Perry.

Well, it’s up to you, said Willis. Stamps, coins, matchboxes, bottle caps… the list is pretty long.

Matchbooks, I guess said Andy.

Matchbooks it will be, then.

Later that night, after Andy was asleep, Trudy registered a concern.

I’m not sure I like the idea of matchbooks, she said. We’ve warned him about the danger of playing with matches.

We can make sure there are no actual matches in the collection. Take them out of the books. That should take away any risk.

I suppose, Trudy agreed, still uneasy at the prospect.

Willis and Al Kerr quickly fell into a casual arrangement. Willis explained that he liked walking to the station, that he enjoyed the exercise, but he would be more than happy to accept a ride if it was snowing or the temperature dropped below zero. Al was intrigued when he learned that Willis was working for the CBC.

Do you know anything about public address systems? he asked.

Willis smiled. I sure do. In fact I spent a year working for Northern Electric in Montreal after I graduated. Most of my time was spent on PA systems. Why?

We’re trying to get some organized sports going in St. Lambert. Get kids involved. We need someone to set up a public address system, particularly for football games.

I’d be more than happy to help, said Willis.

Weeks passed and while Trudy had met most of the neighbours on Upper Edison, she had yet to make friends with anyone in particular. That changed when Al Kerr suggested to Willis one blustery morning that he and Trudy drop by for drinks.

Sure, said Willis. We’d like that.

Trudy was nervous at the prospect, but with the help of sodium amytal she managed. It might have been the medication, the rum and coke, or the combination of the two, but Trudy soon found that she was enjoying herself. One look at the interior of the Kerr’s fashionably decorated home told her she was dealing with a woman who had taste. Janet was reserved but friendly, and began to open up when she learned that Trudy had trained as a piano teacher and had sung professionally on the radio. Soon Janet was sharing her knowledge of the St. Lambert social scene with her new neighbour.

Al was quizzing Willis about the cost of PA equipment.

It’s probably going to be hard to get, Willis told him. Everything is in short supply these days.

Al shook his head. I know, he said. The war. We’re making do at the printing plant, but we can’t get replacement parts.

I know the folks at Northern Electric, said Willis. I could ask around. Maybe they have some second-hand equipment.

We need something for the outdoor skating rink, too, said Al.

I’ll see what I can do, Willis promised.

Later that night, at home, Willis asked Trudy what she thought of their new neighbours.

I really liked them, especially Janet. And Al has a droll sense of humour.

Good, said Willis. I think we’ve made our first St. Lambert friends.

So do I. I’m grateful you don’t smoke cigars, though, she said with a smile.

Although Andy was only seven, he was beginning to develop a curiosity about girls. And there were several living on Upper Edison. It was Taffy, his cocker spaniel, that broke the ice with the Kerrs’ twin daughters, Jocelyn and Cindy. One Saturday morning when the girls were playing outside with their two dachshunds, Taffy slipped out the Littles’ front door. The three dogs began chasing each other up and down the snowbanks. Andy frantically joined in the chase, eventually cornering his dog so that he could slip a leash around her neck. When things had settled down, Jocelyn shyly introduced herself.

Hi, she said. I’m Jocelyn, and this is my sister, Cindy.

Andy had seen twins before, in Ottawa, but these were different. Jocelyn had helped in the chase to tether Taffy, but Cindy hadn’t. When Cindy walked, she seemed off-balance, and her speech was halting.

How old are you? Jocelyn asked.

Seven.

We’re eight, said Jocelyn with a touch of pride.

I’m almost eight, said Andy defensively. My birthday is in April.

Jocelyn introduced Andy to three other young girls on Upper Edison. Isabelle, Shirley, and Jane Strange lived in a bungalow on the stretch of road beyond the level crossing. Shirley and Jocelyn were best friends, and often walked to school together, along with Jane, who was two years younger.

Isabelle is older, said Jocelyn. She goes to another school, with my brother Peter and Lorne Perry."

What about Cindy? Andy asked.

She goes to a special school.

At dinner than night Andy asked his mother about Cindy.

I’m not sure what her problem is, said Trudy as she searched for the right word. I guess you could say she’s handicapped.

Handicapped? It was a new word for Andy.

Some children are born with problems, and others develop them when they get sick.

Like if they get polio? Andy knew a boy in Ottawa who wore braces to walk, and Trudy had explained that he’d contracted infantile paralysis.

Yes, but it isn’t something you should talk about.

Why not?

It isn’t polite.

The answer didn’t really satisfy Andy, but he decided he’d ask his father later. Willis always seemed able to explain things.

Your mother’s right, said Willis. Cindy is handicapped.

How did she get that way?

We’re not sure. But look, ‘handicapped’ isn’t a word you should use when you’re talking among your friends.

Because it isn’t polite?

That’s right, but it’s more than that. When someone is handicapped they have to struggle to fit in, and if you use that word it makes it harder for them. They want to be seen as normal.

Andy thought this over. I’m glad I’m not handicapped.

And so are we, said Willis, and he swept his son up in an embrace.

Chapter 5

St. Lambert and Montreal, 1944

In February the call came from the garage in Ottawa. Their car was finally ready. The reason for the delay, the mechanic explained, was a shortage of replacement parts.

Rather than take the train to Ottawa to get the car, Willis phoned Owen St. John, a young friend he knew at the National Research Council, to see if he’d be willing to drive it to St. Lambert. Willis would pay for the gas and give him money for the return trip to Ottawa.

Sure, I’ve always wanted to see Montreal, said Owen.

It was agreed that he’d come on Saturday. That morning over breakfast Trudy was excited. I can’t wait, she said. I’ve really missed that car.

Owen was expected by lunchtime, and Trudy set about preparing soup and sandwiches. She even baked a batch of cookies, which meant splurging with the week’s ration of sugar. When Owen hadn’t arrived by two o’clock, she began to fret.

He’s probably just taking his time, Willis assured her.

At three o’clock the phone rang and Willis answered. It was Owen.

Bad news, he said, his voice shaky. There’s been an accident.

Are you all right?

I’m okay. Just a few scratches, nothing serious.

Anyone else hurt?

No, but I’m afraid the car’s in bad shape. I’m sorry, Willis.

What happened?

I hit a patch of ice just east of Hawkesbury. Slid off the road and into the ditch. The water in the ditch had frozen over, but the car went through the ice. I just managed to get out in time.

Jesus, said Willis.

I flagged down a motorist and he took me back into Hawkesbury. I’m calling from a garage right now. A tow truck is on its way to pull the car out of the ditch, but I doubt it’ll be salvageable.

Owen’s assessment proved to be accurate. The owner of the garage called to say he didn’t think there was much point in repairing the car. The impact had shifted the engine, and water had shorted the electrical wiring and ruined the upholstery.

I can probably sell it for scrap, he told Willis. There’s quite a demand these days, because of the war.

Willis accepted the suggestion, but Trudy was devastated. She was close to tears.

We’ll get a new car as soon as the war ends, Willis promised. He didn’t tell Trudy he’d let the insurance on the old car lapse.

The important thing is that no one was hurt, he said.

Yes, thank God for that, said Trudy. What will Owen do?

He’s going to hitchhike back to Ottawa.

Trudy retreated to her bedroom. In the living room Willis turned on the radio, sank into his easy chair, and soon dozed off into an uneasy sleep.

There was a good deal of work for Willis in Montreal as the CBC geared up for the launch of the International Service. It was understood that programs would be transmitted by land line to Sackville during the slack overnight hours, when there was little regular domestic traffic. These shows would be relayed to Europe by short-wave from a bank of towers. The initial plan called for bilingual programming, but Willis foresaw the day when this would expand. The BBC’s World Service was already beaming propaganda to Europe in German. Citizens there risked death if they were caught listening to the programs, but many did, particularly now that the war seemed to be turning in favour of the Allied forces. Willis’s friends at the National Research Council told him the federal government’s Department of Foreign Affairs was already discussing the possibility of introducing foreign language transmissions. And he’d noted that a number of Europeans from different countries had been visiting the I.S. offices in Montreal.

By March, the time had come for Willis to visit the transmitter site in New Brunswick. He’d been putting it off because Trudy hated it when he was away. In the past they’d had housekeepers who’d stayed over whenever Willis travelled, but they had been unable to find anyone in St. Lambert.

Do you really have to go? Trudy asked. Isn’t there someone else?

I’m afraid not, said Willis. Some of the decisions require me to be on site.

How long will you be away?

I’m not sure. A week or so at least. Have you thought of inviting Alice?

I don’t like to impose on her. Gas is rationed in the States now. And they have a dog—that complicates things.

Does Janet Kerr know anyone who might be willing to stay with you?

Oh, Willis, I’d be too embarrassed to ask. I hardly know her. I haven’t told her anything about my problem.

In the end it was decided that Trudy would have to try to tough it out. There really was no alternative. And at least Andy was old enough now to provide a degree of companionship.

I’ll phone you every night, Willis promised.

Chapter 6

Sackville and Montreal, 1944

In Sackville Willis could see significant progress. Steel towers were beginning to rise into the sky. An antenna network linked to two powerful RCA 50,000-watt transmitters was taking shape. The location was ideal; it offered an unobstructed view of the Atlantic. Profiting from the BBC’s engineering experiences, the CBC had incorporated the latest short-wave design features into the facility. The towers reminded Willis of the WOR transmitter he’d seen in New Jersey.

They should do the trick just fine, he commented to one of the steelworkers.

We’ve worked on a few, the man replied, but nothing as complex as these. It’s not the height of the towers but the proximity of the other antennas that makes our work difficult. We have to manoeuvre our cranes carefully.

Inside a construction shack Willis went over the plans with one of the on-site engineers. When do you think we’ll be able to conduct the first tests?

Barring any material shortages we should be ready by the fall.

I’ve noticed from the files that this wasn’t the only location to be considered, Willis said.

No, we borrowed some equipment from the Americans and pumped out test signals from half a dozen different sites. The results from this marsh were outstanding. The reason? Probably because it’s barely above sea level.

I agree, said Willis as he continued scanning the schematics for the transmitter building. His previous experience, at the Hornby facility outside Toronto, had also included provision for short-wave transmission, so some of the technical details were familiar. But a lot had changed in the intervening seven years, and Willis had to spend several days to bring himself up to speed on the innovations.

When it came to funding, he had been fortunate in his two most recent assignments. During the early years of the war the Research Council had been financially strapped, but by the time he arrived money was no longer a problem. And the International Service would be using the latest short-wave equipment, with the result that the I.S. signal would be superior to those of the United States and Britain.

Each evening he called Trudy. She was having a difficult time, but after he had been four days in New Brunswick she had some positive news. Janet Kerr had dropped by for a visit.

I couldn’t keep my condition a secret, said Trudy. Before I knew it I was carrying on about my breakdown and the anxiety attacks. Janet is the only person I’ve told, outside of the family and various doctors.

How did she respond?

She was wonderful. Very understanding. Her reserve melted away completely. She even confided in me about her own fears for Cindy, who has had problems from the day she was born.

How did you feel after talking to her?

I felt relieved. It was as if a weight was lifted from my chest.

Sounds as if you have a real friend there.

I do, Willis, I do. But it’s still hard without you.

I should be home by the end of the week.

When Willis returned he was able to provide a first-hand progress report to Ira Dilworth, the Director of the International Service.

What’s the score down there? Dilworth demanded. He was a crusty former academic who didn’t suffer fools lightly.

They seem to have everything they need, said Willis. The towers are going up, and—

The Director interrupted him. When can we begin broadcasting?

By the fall if all goes well.

The fall? Willis, that’s six months from now. I hate to be sucking hind tit to the BBC. And the damned Yanks, who got into the war later than we did, are already beaming programs to their troops.

Willis remained silent.

I know we’re behind the ball on this one, and frankly I blame our own government, he fumed. If they’d been quicker off the mark we wouldn’t be having this discussion.

The crews in New Brunswick are doing their best. There was a lot of downtime while they waited for essential equipment. Now that they have it they’re working double shifts.

I suppose I’ll have to be patient, but it galls me just the same.

I’m not thrilled either, said Willis, but you can’t blame our people. They could only work with what they had. But there’s a bright side to this delay. When we do launch we’ll be a step ahead of everyone else. Our service will be second to none.

Yes, that’s true, Dilworth conceded.

Later that day Alphonse Ouimet dropped by Willis’s office. Did you survive the Dragon? he asked with a smile.

Barely, said Willis.

Isn’t he something?

I’m just glad he’s on our team. I know he’s a thorn in the side of the feds. The folks in the Department of Foreign Affairs dread his visits to Ottawa.

Well, he lights a fire under them whenever he wants something.

Willis shook out a cigarette and offered the pack to Alphonse.

No thanks, he said good-naturedly. Your brand is too strong for me.

That’s what Trudy says.

How is she?

She still hates it when I have to travel, but she’s made friends with a neighbour in St. Lambert. We’re interviewing a housekeeper this week.

I spoke to the people at McGill, said Alphonse.

Any luck?

There’s a new man at the Allan Memorial Institute who might help.

The Allan Memorial?

It’s a mental health facility, part of the Royal Victoria Hospital.

Who is the doctor?

His name is Ewen Cameron. He’s a Scot and very highly thought of.

Is he a psychiatrist?

Yes, and from what my friends at McGill have told me he has a unique approach to mental health.

What does that mean?

Well, for one thing, he adopted an open-door policy at the Allan. No padded cells or bars on the windows. The patients are free to come and go as they please.

What about dangerous ones?

He doesn’t see them. They’re still confined in the asylum at Verdun.

How do we get to see this Dr. Cameron?

I’ve already put in a word with my friend at the Royal Vic. Alphonse handed Willis a piece of paper. I’ve written Cameron’s number down. His receptionist will be expecting your call.

That’s great. Trudy and I both appreciate your help.

Chapter 7

Montreal and St. Lambert, 1944

Willis took the day off for Trudy’s first appointment with Dr. Cameron. She’d asked him to come along for moral support, and he had readily agreed, curious to meet this renowned psychiatrist in person. They crossed the Victoria Bridge by streetcar, transferring at the Montreal and Southern Counties terminus on McGill Street. They made their way north, then turned east along Craig Street and north again on Rue Bleury. The streetcar climbed the gentle eastern slope of Mount Royal until it reached Pine Avenue, where they got off. Since it was a relatively mild day and they were early, they proceeded to the Allan Memorial on foot. On their right, overlooking the city, was a cluster of grey stone buildings with peaked turrets.

It could be a castle, said Trudy.

That’s not the Allan, said Willis. That’s the Royal Victoria Hospital. The Allan Memorial is in a separate building behind the hospital—an old mansion. Willis had done his homework. He knew that it had once been the home of Sir Hugh Allan, the founder of the shipping