Trouble and Strife

By Johanne Levesque

Sometimes the smallest voices make the deepest impact.
Josephine Hadley, a 1930s Canadian housewife, fills her days looking after her children, her indifferent husband and a stream of Depression-era visitors. Her contribution to her guests is a bowl of stew and an open heart.
Her small world, however, is soon shattered by a tragic event which forces her to become the breadwinner. Can she run a business without sacrificing herself? And is it possible to act on a long-buried desire without remorse?
Johanne Levesque's first novel, Trouble and Strife, is a poignant and heartbreaking look at a woman's life in a fast-changing time. With intimate details and a deft poetic touch, Levesque has captured the spirit of an age where war and economic hardship altered the workplace, home and women's lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528908603

Johanne Levesque

Johanne Levesque was born in Quebec City, Canada. She had more treasures than she could manage; she had books. Her childhood was a series of events that made her life feel unsafe. Her escape was books. She could be anyone. She could be anywhere. It was so simple, just open a page and read. Her love of reading turned into her love of writing. Her first book, Trouble and Strife, is a Canadian perspective of the Great Depression. This is the sequel following the same family during the Second World War.

Book preview

Thirteen

About the Author

Johanne Levesque graduated from York University with a BA in Psychology.

She has completed seven marathons across the United States and Canada.

She has been a team lead in the transportation, banking, pension, legal and education sectors.

Johanne has been able to make a difference in the lives of nearly two dozen African children by supporting an orphanage in Tanga, Tanzania. She travels to Tanga once a year at the beginning of the school year to make sure all the orphans will be able to afford the fees for tuition, uniforms and school supplies as she believes that education is the key to their success.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband Rory did I tell you today... who is the wind beneath my wings. He is my biggest supporter, coach and mentor. He told me early in our relationship that he believed in me and he has reminded me of this every day for the last fourteen years. He is the one who challenged me to write a book in 2007 and the reason and the inspiration for this book. I also would like to dedicate this book to my daughter who is my soul sister. She understands me better than anyone and loves me unconditionally. She has given me the two most adorable grandchildren a woman can have who have blessed my life in the most magical way. I also want to dedicate my book to my son who shares the same journey in the pursuit of knowledge, the same curiosity and love of learning as I do.

Copyright Information ©

Johanne Levesque (2018)

The right of Johanne Levesque to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786290120 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786290137 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781786290144 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers™ Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Carly Bornstein-Hayward for the invaluable work, professionalism and consideration in getting my manuscript edited.

I believe that it was largely because of Carly’s input that I was able to bring my dream of publishing my first book to fruition.

I am indebted to my husband Rory, whom I nicknamed Eeyore as he had a penchant for gloomy ruminations during the 2008 recession. He is my inspiration for this book. While he worried about his investment properties and about losing what he had worked so hard to build, I wondered how a landlord like him would have equally faired during the Depression in Toronto. He is my inspiration for this story.

Chapter One

Monday, October 20th 1930

Eugene has forbidden me to receive strangers when I’m alone, but I can’t help it. I hate spending the day in solitary. Besides, how can we have so much and they have so little? Why just yesterday a man sat in my kitchen and devoured two bowls of stew as though he hadn’t had anything to eat for several days. I didn’t mind that he ate it as noisily as a child. After he was finished, he sat at my kitchen table and cried.

Today is like any other day. At precisely 11:33 a.m. a young man in coveralls with patches at the knees and a handkerchief sticking out of his hip pocket interrupts my relaxation on the wrap-around porch.

I stand up and say, Hello, there before turning to place my open book, The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie, down on my chair.

I turn my attention to the boy who stands uncertainly on the steps, slowly rotating a cap in his hands.

I’m sorry to bother you ma’am, but I was wondering if you could be so kind as to spare a wee bit of food for a wayward traveller, he says, averting eye contact, while multicolour leaves dance around him.

Yes, of course. I open the door of my Tudor style home with its exposed black timbers interspersed with white stucco on a shady, tree-lined street and gesture for him to enter. We walk together into my mustard yellow kitchen with the bright cheery floral chintz curtains with some rose, green and blue in them.

I pull up a chair. Please, join me for lunch, I say with a smile. I am in the habit of preparing a stew and steaming hot tea as soon as Eugene leaves for work in the morning. By the time he comes home, both pots are empty and clean.

I serve two bowls and two cups, place them on the vinyl tablecloth and sit with the new stranger.

Bless us Lord for these gifts we are about to receive, we thank you for the food on our table, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen, I say, as I make the sign of the cross.

Amen, echoes the boy.

What is your name, son?

Thomas, ma’am, he says as he promptly devours the stew. He looks ravenously hungry, weak, and exhausted.

Where are you from, Thomas?

Claybank, Saskatchewan, he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

I stand up and ladle more stew into Thomas’s empty bowl.

Thank you, ma’am, he says looking up.

That’s a long way.

There is no work back home, ma’am. My ma and pa are farmers and the crops have dried to dust. The black blizzards have blown away our land and my parents will starve if I don’t find a job. I did find work in Simcoe at twenty-five cents an hour, but I heard that I if I get a job in Toronto, I might be paid sixty cents an hour, says Thomas, who appears older and wiser than his teenage years.

You’ve travelled so far. Do you mind if I ask how you know to come to my house especially?

There isn’t much to do when riding the rods but talk, smoke, eat and sleep. I learned that hobos look out for one another by leaving messages. For instance, on the post in front of your house there’s a drawing; it means kind-hearted lady.

Really? I always wondered why I received so many visitors, and now I know! Where will you sleep tonight?

I go to the box cars, ma’am. If I go early enough I can find a warm one.

Why don’t you go to the hostels instead?

Them places is all filled up, ma’am. Besides, I tried ‘em. Well, not all of ’em. One place had blankets that were so full of vermin that I figured I’d rather freeze than go through all the trouble of gettin’ rid of ’em. I tried the Coliseum. There were over 600 men sleeping there. A lot of ’em are none too clean, you know, and they keep the windows shut. The air is poisonous. Don’t you worry ma’am, back home all I got to sleep on is a straw tick. I’d rather sleep in a box car. All I get there is a little stiffness in my knees and feet; that's all.

Thomas stands up and picks up his cap, I better be off now. He places his cap on his heart and bows his head. Thank you much for your kind generosity, ma’am.

No problem Thomas, come whenever you need to, I always have a pot of stew on the stove. Good luck on your job search.

Thank you, ma’am, you’re too kind. I would like to work for my meal. Is there anything I can help you with?

Yes, actually. Can you add another sign on the post in front that means it’s not good to come here at night? If my husband found out I was doing this, he would put an end to it.

Sure ma’am, I’ll do it right away, but I would like to do a chore for you before I leave.

All right then, Thomas. Could you water the front lawn for me?

Sure ma’am. Happy to.

I stand at the threshold. Above me, a horseshoe is positioned like a ‘U’. I watch Thomas as he completes his chores. The lawn looks dreadful this year after an uncommonly hot and dry summer. The grass and leaves are burned by the sun. Eugene keeps telling me I should take better care of the lawn, but he's the man of the house. I say it's his job.

Thomas says his goodbyes again and thanks me for lunch. I smile and watch him walk away. I am both fascinated and saddened by the stories of my visitors. Having no money and no job forces a person to make decisions they wouldn’t make otherwise.

Maybe through his suffering Thomas will acquire some special knowledge of life. Maybe his disappointments and loneliness will help him become his best self. I hope Thomas will be able to help his family.

On a daily basis, all kinds of people end up at my doorstep. I let them in to give them access to the telephone or the newspaper; sometimes I give them a little money for stamps. Most people don’t realize how impossible it is to get employment without cash for car tickets, stationary, shoe polish and toilet necessities. I’m aware of the paradox of poverty amidst Rosedale’s plenty. It remains baffling to me that my neighbours do not appear to have the same desire to do something about the matter. I have met plenty of men of high calibre who are victims of circumstances through no fault of their own and who have to resort to begging for life’s necessities.

I wish I could do more for my visitors, but all I can do is to lighten the shadows which are cast into their difficult lives.

I put a record on the Gramophone and listen to Sonny Boy by Al Jolson while I wedge the clean clothes through the wringer of the washing machine and take them outside to hang on the clothesline. At three p.m., the children will arrive from Rosedale Public School.

Chapter Two

Monday, October 20th 1930

The children walk into the kitchen; they drop their school books on the floor before hugging me. I gently kiss Melvin, Gloria, Evelyn, and Alvin on each of their foreheads and then watch them as they run outside to play. I smile and feel content now that my brood is home.

While I prepare the evening meal, I spill salt and quickly toss some of it over my left shoulder. From my kitchen window, I can see that Evelyn, my six-year-old, has chalk and a small rock and is playing hopscotch with a couple friends on the sidewalk. I can hear five-year-old Alvin, my youngest, playing the harmonica. Melvin is no doubt shooting spit balls at the big oak tree from his slingshot he made out of a branch and a rubber band. Gloria is probably upstairs in her room, combing her hair in front of the mirror. Being thirteen has distracted her mind with thoughts of boys.

Within a half hour, Evelyn bursts into the kitchen and with a whiny irritating voice she says, Mommy, Mommy, Melvin hit me!

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I wipe my hands on my apron and squat to look into Evelyn’s eyes.

Where does it hurt, dear? I ask, knowing full well Evelyn loves any opportunity to get her siblings in trouble.

Melvin hit me real hard on my arm with his slingshot! she cries as she lifts her elbow for my scrutiny. There is no mark on her arm, no redness.

I kiss her arm, stand up and look down at Evelyn. You’re all right now. Go on outside dear, and tell your brother I need to talk to him.

Melvin walks in with his head low. I can see from the corner of my eye Evelyn sticking her tongue out at him and wiggling her fingers with her thumb on her nose.

I look at Melvin in an affable manner, Melvin how could you hit your sister with your slingshot? You are eleven years old; you should know better!

I didn’t mean to! It was an accident! She ran in front of the tree when I was shooting at the target. I’d take my oath on it!

Melvin, it hurts me when you hurt your little sister.

I’m sorry, Mom, he says as he extends his arm and relinquishes the slingshot to me.

Don’t apologize to me. Go apologize to Evelyn.

I don't want the kids to see me frazzled and frustrated, but sometimes their little squabbles really bother me.

I dispose of the offending weapon and place it into the kitchen drawer while Melvin goes outside.

* * *

At 4 p.m. the prevailing custom is that the children all march in and sit at the table to do their homework. Meanwhile, I continue the task of making dinner. Tonight’s supper is sausages, mashed potatoes and fried mushrooms.

While Gloria helps her younger siblings with their homework, I can overhear my youngest son, Alvin, reading from a Dick and Jane reader:

Come, d-d-d-d…

Dick, says Gloria.

Come, Dick. Come…

Gloria and Alvin recite together: Come and see.

As I peel a potato I walk over to Evelyn and look at her notebook. She’s not doing her homework. She’s doodling.

Evelyn can be quite contrary. It is like she has made it her life mission to oppose everything I say. She is a bit of a wild child. Some days she irritates me so much that I pray to God to find a way for me to love her.

Evelyn, do your homework!

Yes, Mother, she says as she rolls her eyes. Evelyn always calls me ‘Mother’ when she’s unhappy. When she’s pleased, she calls me ‘Mommy’.

Mom, my teacher asked me to remind you that you need to sign a form for each one of us to get treated for diphtheria. She said we had less chance of catching it if we get the needle, says Gloria.

While I sign the four forms, Evelyn, who hates needles, has a worried look on her face and says, Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Eugene is working late tonight, like many other nights. His dinner will have to be warmed when he arrives. After dinner, Alvin and Evelyn clear the table while Gloria washes the dishes and Melvin dries them. I see Evelyn throw a glass on the floor and it shatters to pieces. I run in and try to control my anger.

Evelyn, sit on a chair while I clean up this mess. I am too worked up to try to figure out why Evelyn tries my patience constantly.

Evelyn likes to protest when she doesn't want to do something. My friends tell me she will grow out of it. It just plain irritates me. I really don't know how to handle her.

When I walk out Alvin pushes his footstool to the sink to help his older siblings while Evelyn sits at the table cutting the heads off her paper dolls. When the chores are done, Gloria takes her book and reads it next to the open fire in the living room. Melvin works on his model airplane on the coffee table, and Alvin sits on the floor and ties his shoelaces. He makes many attempts until he is satisfied with the results, then he sits on a chair and plays his harmonica.

Tuesday, October 21st 1930

After my morning ritual of getting the children ready for school, I watch them leave from the living room window. Every day I notice more and more children poorly shod and thinly clad, wan faced and ill-nourished, right here in Rosedale.

What a pity.

I take the handle off the iron and rest it on the kitchen stove to heat. While it heats, I prepare a pot of stew and then return to my ironing. I spray water lightly on Eugene’s shirt. I take my time ironing each shirt because Eugene likes them just so. If they do not look the way he wants them, I have to do them over again.

The house is so empty now that the children have returned to