Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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20 The Branksome Slogan was married at an early age to a much older man, a prosperous neigh- bouring farmer. She had led a lonely, hard-working life, for her husband was taciturn and miserly, and his temper did not improve throughout the long years of their marriage. He had died recently and she had inherited a few thousand dollars for which she had paid with the best years of her life. Now at last she was free to enjoy her- self. She bought a gaudy new wardrobe and a ticket to the West Coast. She had always wanted to travel and this would be her adventure. On the train she was instantly attracted to the kind young man who spoke pleasantly to her. Soon she was telling him all about herself . . . her lonely life, and her sudden new wealth with which she would now live comfortably. He was so sympathetic. They were engaged a very short time afterwards. In Vancouver they were married and lived quite happily — until her silly grin began to irritate him more and more, and her thrifty ness increasingly infuriated him. He used a hatchet and with one blow she was quite dead. The ending I worked out for the story shocked me. I was dis- gusted with my melodramatic imagination — for it was only imagina- tion that had prompted my inquisitive mind. I was infinitely more shocked some time later when I glanced through a Vancouver newspaper. The headlines, telling of a grue- some hatchet murder, blazed up at me. Underneath them was a picture, that of a familiar grinning woman. The article told of her unhappy marriage to an older man, a farmer in her neighbourhood, at whose recent death she had inherited a few thousand dollars. She had married a young soldier whom she had met on the westbound train, and had settled in Vaucouver . . . I realized doubly how poor my psychology had been . . . She had murdered her husband . . . with a hatchet! JEANNE ROSCOE, Form IV.

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The Branksome Slogan 19 even using all his strength and all his endurance. He gritted his teeth in desperation, and the scalding tears of impotent rage filled his eyes as he realized that he was helpless. The red mists threatened him again and he was sinking down and down into bottomless depths, with clouds of pain piling up on top of him ; he could do nothing. He heard a voice, a harsh frightened voice cry out in pain ; then the clouds could no longer be held off. They rolled inexorably over him. The moon rose over the little wood and shone down on the broken foliage and on the smashed and ru ined trees. The squirrel and the blackbird had fled, and there was no life in the wood; there was only death. The red-headed boy lay still, with all the pain gone from his face. Beside him, one anem.one remained, lifting her delicate head in the pale moonlight. The moon passed on, leaving the boy and t ie anemone alone in their glory. ANN MERRIMAN, Form V. The Case oF the Curious Conductor I first noticed her when I punched her ticket shortly after we left Toronto on the westbound train. She was at dinner in the restaurant car and seemed quite alone. She was a very ordinary looking woman, perhaps in her late thirties, sHghtly overweight, and dressed lavishly, but in remarkably poor taste. It must have been her first train trip, or, at any rate, her first one alone, for she was very self-conscious. When I passed through the diner again, the waiter had seated a young soldier at her table and she was grinning shyly across it at him. During the next three days I often saw them together. His seat was opposite hers, and I noticed particularly that while the young man talked long and vivaciously to her, except for an occasional shy remark, her face remained fixed in a frozen grin; her eyes never left his face. I never saw them after they left the train together at Vancouver, but I thought of them often. I have an insatiable curiosity about people. In fact, after half a lifetime of close contact with human nature, you find yourself noticing people and analysing them, wonder- ing about their complexes and their secrets. Then you begin consider- ing yourself quite a philosopher and amateur psychologist. Thus it was that I had to work out my own theories on human nature in my story of the woman with the frozen grin. The woman, I had decided, had grown up on a small farm. She

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The Branksome Slogan 21 Mission Completed I am known in Europe as Gaston Richer. My real name is of no importance. During the early years of the war I was an agent working for the governments of the allied countries. My story begins on May 31, 1940. Two of us were flown from England to Belgium. There we parachuted, with little equipment, into an open field remote from any village or habitation. We both had separate instructions to carry out after burying our parachutes. We were dressed in civilian clothes and carried no weapons. The authorities had supplied us with new names and citizenship papers. I knew nothing of my comrade ' s mission, nor he of mine. We parted without a word or glance, not expecting to see each other again for a long time, perhaps never. My first problem was to get away from the open field without being discovered by a German patrol. My instructions were to go to a small village, whose name I am unable to disclose, about five miles from the field. Once there, I was to saunter casually to the village inn and there await further instructions. These were to be given me by a contact who was, as yet, unknown to me. I arrived at the inn with- out incident, and sat in the comer of the dingy, smoke-filled room, watching the sombre faced peasants whisper together in isolated groups and draw quickly apart when they felt the penetrating eyes of the German soldiers, who were sprinkled around the room. The room was filled with tension. Only a few of the village girls showed any signs of friendliness toward the soldiers. My attention was drawn by loud laughter coming from a table close to mine. A beautiful, young Belgium girl was perched on the knee of a Nazi officer, gaily teasing him, much to the amusement of the other soldiers and the loathing of the peasants. At that moment the door was flung open by the German Commandant of the village. The girl was shoved roughly aside as the officers sprang to attention. The Commandant harshly ordered us all to go to the village square to witness the execution of an allied prisoner, found hiding outside the village. My heart seemed to stop functioning; for one terrible moment I was filled with cowardice and a desire to save only my own life. It passed. I watched the soldiers bring the prisoner to the centre of the square. It was my comrade. His clothes were torn to shreds and