The Day the King Came to Town - Strawberry Ice Cream

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In the spring of 1939, a young mother and her two-year-old son sat on their living room floor listening to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s live coverage of the arrival of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. “Throngs of well-wishers here in Québec City cheered as the King and Queen disembarked from the RMS Empress of Australia, following a two-week voyage across the Atlantic Ocean,” the broadcaster reported, his own enthusiasm palpable through the radio speakers. “The King and his Queen are to begin a month-long journey crisscrossing Canada in a whistle-stop tour of cities and towns, hamlets and villages, to bolster support for Britain in the coming war with Germany,” the announcer continued. “Unprecedented crowds are expected to gather at each stop along the way in the hope of capturing even a glimpse of their King, the first ever reigning British Monarch to visit Canada.”
A map of Canada and a calendar were spread out on the floor in front of the young woman. With a red china marker in her hand, she drew a bold circle around Québec City and wrote on the calendar for May 17th, ‘King & Queen arrive.’
“Imagine, in less than a month, they’ll be here,” she said wistfully, and then drew a red circle around Alvahston, her hometown, a small picturesque city on the Thames River in Southwestern Ontario…
 

☙☙☙

The Day the King Came to Town

It was a Wednesday afternoon in early June; Olive Coombes and her two-year-old son Freddy walked hand-in-hand toward the Alvahston train station, where thousands of others eagerly awaited the King and Queen's arrival. Olive had meticulously followed the Royal Couple’s tour from the moment they landed in Canada, and now the day she had been waiting for was finally here; in less than an hour, the King and Queen would be in Alvahston. “Oh, Freddy! There are a lot of people here, aren’t there?” Olive said, tightening her grip on his hand. “Your father may have been right about our not coming down here today,” she sighed and scooped Freddy up in her arms. “Oh well, we’re here now, and it’s very exciting,” she cheerfully added.
Olive tried to squeeze her way through the crowd to get a better vantage point but finally had to stand precariously on tiptoe to see the reviewing stand, where various town dignitaries milled about anxiously awaiting the train’s arrival. The new mayor’s wife, Lydia Parrott, stood out in a mauve-colored wool crepe dress with a matching coat and hat, exactly as the Alvahston Record reported she would. When asked why she chose to wear that color, Lydia confidently replied, “Women’s Own says it’s the Queen’s favorite color.”
Although Freddy’s weight felt heavier by the minute, Olive was afraid to put him down. As she was shifting him from one hip to the other, a distant train whistle set off a roar from the crowd and caused the mass of people to surge forward, pulling Olive and Freddy along with them. Olive stumbled and nearly fell. “Mummy,” Freddy cried, tightening his hold on her neck. Then, as the disaster was about to befall them, a man saw the impending catastrophe and pushed through the crowd just in time to grab Olive by the arm, thus preventing Freddy and her from being trampled.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she said breathlessly, clutching Freddy to her chest while regaining her footing and her breath.
“Mrs. Coombes! What are you doing out here alone in this mob?” the man exclaimed.
Olive looked up and gasped when she realized who had rescued her. “Mr. Sutherland!” It was Arthur Sutherland, her husband’s former business associate at the local printing company. Mr. Sutherland scanned the crowd. “Where’s Al? Where’s your husband?” he demanded to know. “I’m astonished he left you alone with all of these people.” He looked at Freddy, whose face was buried in his mother’s neck, and, nodding toward the child, said, “You should not be out here with your...boy there.”
Olive stiffened and looked up at the man still holding her arm. “Al had an urgent call to make out in the county, or he would be with us,” she explained. Mr. Sutherland arched a skeptical eyebrow and said, “Well, it isn’t safe. I’m surprised he would allow you and his son to come out here alone.” Tightening his grip on Olive’s elbow, he said, “Let’s get the two of you out of here.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Sutherland. We’ll stay until the King and Queen arrive,” she said, pulling her arm free from his grasp and wrapping Freddy’s legs around her waist. “I appreciate your concern, but we’ll be fine, and it is such a historic event, don’t you think?”
“Well, I was only trying to help. Good day Mrs. Coombes,” he tipped his hat and strode off through the crowd.

☙☙☙

That morning at breakfast, Al asked, “What are your plans for the day? Downtown will be a madhouse, what with the King’s visit and all. You should wait to do your shopping until they’ve gone.”
“It is a lovely day for their visit, though,” Olive said, staring out the window at the magnolia tree in the backyard, which was showing signs of new buds. Soon it would be heavy with pink and white blossoms. “If they’d come last year, we would be on the reviewing stand, and we’d be presented to Their Highnesses,” she said longingly.
Al ignored his wife’s remark. He knew how disappointed she was to be missing out on meeting the King and Queen as the mayor’s wife. But, a year earlier, when the Directors of the Child Welfare Association of Blythe County asked him to head up the organization, he knew he would have to make a choice and felt he could do more good for the county through the Child Welfare than in the Mayor’s office.
Al finished his coffee and said, “Well, I think you should stay home until later. You can listen to their arrival on the radio and avoid all the hubbub downtown. I have a call to make out in the county,” he said as he pulled on his jacket, “so I’ll be late home, don’t hold dinner for me.” He collected his briefcase and left without kissing her goodbye. He was not demonstrative that way. Olive knew his work was important, and she was proud of what he did for the community, even though it was very demanding and took him away from home at all hours of the day and night, often even on Sunday. Sometimes she felt as if she was raising their son alone.

II

At twenty-four, Olive was considered old for the times when she and Al married. She knew people talked. “He can’t be serious over that Copeland girl,” the old biddies from Laight Street gossiped behind her back. “She’s not the girl for Alfred Coombes,” they would conclude over tea.
One day, when Olive was at the drugstore buying a headache powder for her mother, she overheard Mrs. Howard Love says to Lydia Parrott, “That Olive Copeland is a spinster and will remain a spinster. Al Coombes is making a name for himself in this community. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if he were mayor one day,” she predicted. “In the end, he’ll choose someone more suited to public life. Like your daughter, Anne, for example," Mrs. Love continued, hardly stopping to draw breath while she tested various fragrances at the perfume counter. “You know, he brought his family all the way from England when he was but sixteen and only a boy himself. You mark my words—he’s going places.”
Lydia Parrott silently nodded in agreement, all the while knowing that Margaret Love was famous for her dictums on how people should and should not live their lives, and Lydia would like nothing more than to see her daughter married to Al Coombes. However, she decided to leave the matchmaking to Margaret; more than one wedding had taken place in Alvahston because of Margaret Love’s intervention. All Lydia said was, “Yes, he is a very responsible young man and handsome too.”
“When Pastor Franklin was ill last Sunday,” Mrs. Love continued her thought, “and Al Coombes filled in and gave the sermon, it was inspired. Positively inspired,” she crooned. “Yes, I think Anne would do nicely for our young Mr. Coombes.”
On the outside, Olive pretended to ignore the gossip but alone in her room; she wondered, “I’m twenty years old and not getting any younger.” Sometimes she would mention the gossip and confide her fears to Al, and he would always reassure her, “We just have to wait a while longer until I’m more established...I’m only a junior partner at the printing company. I promise it will be worth the wait.” So Olive waited patiently: working at the bank, saving for her wedding, sketching her pictures, and playing tennis. For four more years, she waited.

☙☙☙

Al and Olive met formally on a Sunday afternoon in May at Bickford Park, where the Alvahston cricket team was playing Norridge.
Church was finally over, and Olive and her mother were slowly making their way along the line of parishioners waiting to shake hands with Pastor Franklin.
“Good morning, Pastor,” Mrs. Copeland said.
“Good morning Mrs. Copeland,” he replied. Then turning his gaze on Olive, he said, “And good morning to you, Olive. You’ve graduated high school now,” he smiled. “Next thing you know, Mrs. Copeland, our Olive here will be getting married.”
“There now, none of that,” Edith said sharply. “She’s needed at home.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he replied solicitously. “But one day…” Edith interrupted, cutting him off, “Good day Pastor. We’ll be seeing you at Wednesday night prayer meeting.”
Having fulfilled the required pleasantries, Edith turned to her daughter, “Come along, Olive, we have dinner to prepare.”
Just then, Shirley Walker, Olive’s friend from the bank, came running up to them, “Olive, did you ever hear such an endless sermon? I thought we were going to be here ‘til sunset and miss the cricket match.” Olive started to laugh but quickly clamped a hand over her mouth when she saw her mother’s expression of cold disapproval. “Don’t be disrespectful, miss,” Edith snapped at Shirley. Edith didn’t like Shirley. She thought the girl was boy busy and that Olive was unduly influenced by this new friend from her work, who seemed to be allowed to run all over town.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Copeland,” Shirley apologized. “I didn’t mean any disrespect to Pastor Franklin. I just didn’t want to miss the cricket match,” Shirley said. “Olive, you still want to come to the cricket match, don’t you?” she added.
Edith broke in. “Olive has chores to do before she can go gallivanting after boys.”
“Al Coombes is playing. He’s a church council member, Mrs. Copeland,” Shirley boasted on his behalf.
“Humph!” Edith scoffed. “Pride! That’s all that is. Come along, Olive.” Mrs. Copeland turned to leave. “Olive!” her mother called when her daughter lagged back to talk with her friend. “Coming, Mother,” Olive answered, glancing over her shoulder and rolling her eyes, careful that her mother didn’t see. “I’ll see you there, Shirley.”

III

“That was a fine meal as always, Mrs. Copeland.” Mr. Johnson, the only resident guest in the house at the time, declared as he folded his napkin, placing it neatly to the left of his plate, where it would be ready for the next meal.
Mr. Johnson was the first border Edith had taken in after her husband ran off, leaving her and their five children with little money and no means of support. The house was all she had, and that’s when she decided to offer room and board, which became the sole source of her meager income.
Olive was her youngest child and the only one still at home, the others having left for the States or gone west to Vancouver. Edith’s dream was to close the house to lodgers, and she was counting on Olive’s new job at the Thames River Bank to ease her financial burden. So, Edith was in no hurry for Olive to marry. In fact, she never thought Olive would marry. To her, Olive was plain and quiet. Edith liked that her daughter enjoyed drawing and playing tennis but was just as happy that she had few friends. Edith had taken for granted that at least one of her children would stay home and help with the house, and now Olive was her last hope. So, Edith was not happy when Olive started chumming around with Shirley Walker. Now, this sudden interest in the Coombes boy was completely out of character, and Edith thought it should be nipped in the bud.
It was already half past two when Olive finished washing up and put the last plate in the cupboard. She crept up the backstairs to her room, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror, pondering her reflection. You could almost be pretty, she thought. And, with that thought, she opened the top drawer of her bureau, rummaging around for the light blue ribbon she had saved from a present. She pulled it out, slipped the ribbon under her hair, and tied a fetching bow to the side. Then, studying her reflection, she said with satisfaction, “That’s good. It matches my sweater and pulls the hair off my face.” The ribbon also brought out the blue of Olive’s eyes, but she was too self-effacing to admit to it.
She reached for her handbag but hesitated as though it contained something forbidden. Looking in the mirror, she said aloud, “Look at you, eighteen years old and still afraid of your mother.” Opening her bag, she took out the lipstick she had purchased with her first paycheck from the bank. “Passion Pink! That’s the perfect shade for your coloring,” Mae Porter, the sales girl at the drugstore and Olive’s friend since public school, had proclaimed. Mae showed Olive how to apply the lipstick and then blot it with a tissue. “And, if you smudge a little on your cheekbones like this,” she demonstrated, “it gives your complexion a kind of rosy glow.”
Looking into the mirror and following Mae’s instructions, Olive applied Passion Pink to her lips, pressing them with one of the tissues Mae had given her. Then, as Mae had demonstrated, she rouged her cheeks and brushed them with the tissue. Olive stood back and studied the effect, smiled, grabbed her bag, and ran downstairs before she could change her mind.
She found her mother in the parlor crocheting. “Mother,” Olive began.
Without looking up, Edith said, “Yes? What is it?”
“May I go to the cricket match now,” she asked. “I told Shirley I would meet her at the park.”
“Did you sweep the floor?”
“Yes.”
“And set the table for supper?”
“Yes.”
“All right, you may go. But I want you home by four-thirty. There’ll be evening chores and supper to get ready,” she said flatly.
“But Mother, it’s already after two-thirty…” Olive responded, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.
“Four-thirty, Miss, or you don’t have to go at all.”
“Yes, Mother,” she said with resignation.
Edith put down her crocheting and looked up. Suddenly, she sprang from her chair, sending the rocker swinging wildly back and forth and her crocheting to the floor. She took a step toward Olive. Towering a good three inches over her daughter, Edith grabbed Olive by the chin, tilting the girl’s head side-to-side, and demanded, “What on earth have you done to yourself.” Edith trembled with rage as she stared incredulously at her daughter. “Go to your room this instant and clean your face and get rid of that ridiculous bow,” Edith commanded and reached forward to yank the ribbon from her daughter’s hair, but Olive stepped back out of reach.
“Mother, I’m eighteen years old, and I have a responsible job. I shouldn’t need permission to go out with my friends on a Sunday afternoon.” Shocked by her own words, her chin trembling, Olive took another step back.
“You paint your face like a tart from Grant Street, tie ribbons in your hair like some show pony flaunting yourself around town,” she mocked. Then she went silent, collected her crocheting, and sat back down.
“I do not look like a tart,” Olive shouted, choking back her tears. “It’s only lipstick and a little rouge.”
“You will not waste money on things I cannot afford for myself. If you’re going to live under my roof, you will follow my rules and do your share of the work and contribute to the household.”
“Why don’t you want me to have any friends or fun!” Olive blurted out, her knees shaking and tears filling her eyes. “No wonder the others ran off. They left to get away from you and this house.” Olive spun around and ran out of the house.
The last thing she heard was her mother yelling from the parlor, “Young lady, get back here.”
Olive stopped running when she reached the corner. She removed a handkerchief from her bag, blotting the tears, careful not to ruin her makeup. “How could you yell at her like that?” Olive thought aloud. “It’s not been easy for her since father ran off.” Olive understood her mother’s harsh and bitter attitude. But how am I ever to have my own family if I can’t get out and meet people like Al Coombes? He could have any girl in town. But still...
When Olive arrived at the park, the cricket match was half over, and the teams were taking their mid-match tea break. She spotted Shirley standing on the sidelines in animated conversation with two of the cricketers. As Olive approached the group, she noticed one of the boys, the tallest one wearing whites and holding a cricket bat, was Al Coombes. That caused a flutter in her stomach, and she felt a little queasy. The sun glinted off his wavy black hair, and Olive thought he was the most handsome boy she had ever seen.
“Olive,” Shirley called, waving her arms in the air. “Olive, over here,” she beckoned. Both boys turned to see who Shirley was waving at.
“Hi Shirley,” Olive said as she joined the threesome, “sorry I’m late.”
Shirley grabbed Olive’s hand and turned her toward the boys. “Olive, look who I found. Only the two best players on the Alvahston team,” she bragged. “Olive, this is Al Coombes. You’ve seen him at church...and this is his brother, Charles,” then, turning toward the boys, she said, “This is my friend Olive Copeland.”
“Hello, Olive,” Al said, offering to shake her hand.
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” Olive replied, accepting his hand self-consciously while shielding her eyes from the sun to look up at him.
The umpire blew his whistle, announcing the resumption of play. “We’re up,” the brothers said in unison, “Gotta go,” and started toward the field. Al turned around, waving his cap in Olive’s direction, calling out, “How about a soda after the match?” Olive didn’t hear what he said, but she waved back anyway.
“Way to go, Olive!” Shirley crowed.
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear what he said?”
“No. He was too far away.”
“He asked you to go for a soda after the match, you goose,” Shirley laughed.
Shirley gasped. Grabbing her friend by both shoulders, she exclaimed, “Olive Copeland! I do not believe it! You’re wearing Passion Pink lipstick, and, if I’m not mistaken, you rouged your cheeks.” She fluffed Olive’s hair and adjusted the bow that had slipped a little. “You look beautiful, and it did the trick!”
It was after five-thirty when Olive returned home from the soda shop. She knew her mother would be furious, but she had had such a splendid time. Al had even asked her out to the movies the following Friday. Olive had never been so happy.
To Olive’s surprise, her mother didn’t say anything. In fact, Edith didn’t speak to her daughter for three days, and then only when necessary.
That night Olive wrote in her diary, “Dear Diary, I have met the man I’m going to marry.”

IV

Al and Olive married on a Saturday afternoon in June, six years after they met. By September, Olive was expecting their first child, and in November, Al was elected mayor of Alvahston. All their dreams were coming true, and on the sixteenth of June the following year, Olive gave birth to a baby boy. She was two weeks beyond her due date, and it had been a long and difficult labor.
“He’s so tiny for a full-term baby,” one of the delivery room nurses commented.
“Silence,” Dr. Wells commanded. But Olive had already heard.

☙☙☙

Edith was standing by Olive’s bed when she first saw her new grandson. She took one look at the baby and bluntly stated, “He’s not quite right, is he? What has the doctor said?”
“Nothing,” Olive responded, looking down at the tightly swaddled baby cradled in her arms and kissing his forehead. “When I ask about him, the nurses say he just needs time. But I think we’ll be going home soon,” Olive said hopefully. “He’ll do better at home, around people who love him.”
The door to Olive’s room swung open, and Head Nurse Carter strode in, “I’m here to take the boy back to the nursery,” she said, glancing at Edith as she removed the child from Olive’s arms. “Did he suckle at all?” the nurse demanded.
“No,” Olive said timidly.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” the nurse snapped, thrusting the child back into his mother’s arms. Just as she pulled away, she pinched the little boy making him cry. “There,” she said, standing back from the bed, her arms crossed under her ample bosom, looking down her long narrow nose at the mother and baby. “His mouth is open now, put him on your tit, and he’ll get the idea.” She looked across at Edith, who nodded in approval. “Yes, Olive, you need to be firm with him, or he’ll never grow. He’s too small as it is,” Edith said, smiling at Nurse Carter.
“Visiting hours are past,” the nurse said.
“Yes, Nurse, of course.”
The baby’s crying had calmed to a whimper, and Olive tried inserting her swollen nipple into his tiny mouth. “Olive, you need to be more forceful,” her mother said, imitating Nurse Carter. “Pry his mouth open and force it in,” she added, quickly reaching over, mimicking Nurse Carter. She pinched her grandson, setting off more howls of crying from the baby.
“Mother!” Olive cried.
Nurse Carter nodded, “If you coddle babies, they will run your life. You must show them who’s boss.”
Edith and the nurse turned toward the door.
“Come on baby, please eat just a little for mummy,” Olive pleaded, softly stroking the little down-covered head.
As the two older women reached the door, Olive heard her mother say, “She’s just a baby herself.”
“I am not!” Olive shouted. The two women stopped and stared at the young mother. “I’m twenty-five years old, and I can take care of my own son,” Olive cried and collapsed back onto the pillows propped up behind her.
“I’ll have to send someone else in to collect the child later,” Nurse Carter complained. Then, in a huff of starched white cotton and the swing of Edith’s drab brownish-green coat, the two women left the room, and Olive was finally alone with her son.
Olive tried to stop her tears, but they fell just the same, wetting the baby’s forehead as if baptizing him. As Olive calmed herself, the baby relaxed, settling into the warmth of her breast. Olive gently tickled his little lips and lightly rubbed his gums. Finally, he opened his mouth a little and began to suck on her finger. She slowly eased her nipple into his mouth, and he began to suckle and coo with contentment as he took in his mother’s milk.

☙☙☙

Three days after the baby was born, Al and Olive signed the Provincial Registry forms naming their son Frederic Victor Coombes after his father and uncle. As soon as the papers were signed, Al left for the Registry Office.
That afternoon Dr. Wells came in accompanied by Nurse Carter, who, Olive noticed, walked a respectful two paces behind him just like the Queen walks behind the King. “Good afternoon Mrs. Coombes,” the doctor said. “You’re looking well, but we’d like to keep you and the baby here a while longer to give you both a chance to build up your strength.”
“Dr. Wells,” Olive said. “I’d like to ask about my baby. We’ve just named him Frederic, Freddy for short. But I was wondering…”
Nurse Carter interrupted through thin, pursed lips, “The doctor doesn’t have time for questions. Whatever you want to know, you ask me, and I’ll ask the doctor.” Turning toward Dr. Wells, she said, “My apologies Doctor. Shall we move on to the next patient?”
“Yes, thank you, Nurse. Let’s move on,” he agreed. Then, in a tone that Olive could only describe as relief, he said, “Good day Mrs. Coombes.”

☙☙☙

Al visited in the evenings after the baby was back in the nursery. “Can’t you stop by the hospital on your way home from work before they take him away for the night?” she asked him.
Al didn’t know what to say. He had seen their baby through the nursery window. A nurse had held their child up for Al to see, and the baby had opened his eyes and looked at his father. At that instant, Al was transported back to Nottinghamshire, England, when he was a boy of eight. He recalled that back then, a baby had been born to a family down the way and that he had wanted to see it. “Mum, may I go with you to see the baby?” he asked. “Yes, Alfie, but you must be quiet,” his mother said. The baby was lying in a basket near the kitchen stove when they arrived. Alfred knelt down and leaned over to look at the baby, whose eyes were wide open. “Mum,” he said. “His face looks…” His mother grabbed him by the hand and said, “We must go home now. They need their rest.” Two weeks later, that baby died, and Alfred heard his mother say to one of the neighbors, “It’s a blessing. A blessing, that’s what it is.” And now his son had the same look as that baby had all those years ago.
“You know there are many demands on the Mayor, and I can’t always be home on time,” Al responded sharply. “Besides, you’re well looked after, you have a private room, and look at all of the flowers people have sent.”
“I know. And I am grateful,” Olive quietly replied.
“And you must be kept busy with all of the visitors who come by.”
Olive had to admit that she did have a lot of visitors. The nurses told her she had more visitors than anyone else on the ward: wives of her husband’s business acquaintances, Shirley, Pastor Franklin, and, of course, the ladies from the Church Visiting Committee were there most days. Still, she wished he would spend more time with her and the baby. But he couldn’t bring himself to see or hold his son, and he couldn't tell her why. Al would tell himself there will be time enough to face those facts when they come home from the hospital.
Ten days after Freddy was born, her husband showed up unexpectedly during afternoon visiting hours. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day?” Olive asked, both surprised and happy to see him.
“Dr. Wells telephoned. He wanted to see us before you left the hospital,” Al explained. He pulled a chair up close to Olive’s bed, “Mother’s at the house getting things ready for when you come home.”
“I imagine the doctor called you here because he’s going to discharge us today,” Olive said hopefully. Then, changing the subject, she commented, “Look at all the flowers people have sent. There are so many I asked the volunteers to take some to the charity ward before they ran us into the hallway.”
“Yes, people have been very generous. You must remember to send cards to everyone,” her husband remarked. “You’ll have time when you get home.”
Just then, the door to Olive’s room swung open, and Doctor Wells entered. Al stood, and Olive scooted up, smoothing out the bedclothes and adjusting the front of the blue bed jacket her mother-in-law had knit for her. It seemed never to have occurred to Martha Coombes that Olive would have anything but a healthy boy child. “You’ll need a blue bed jacket,” she told her daughter-in-law, “For while you’re in the hospital.”
“But what if I have a girl,” Olive teased.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother-in-law chided. “It will be a boy,” she said. And repeated, “It will be a boy,” as if confirming with God that her firstborn grandchild would be a healthy boy.
“Your Honour,” the doctor said, extending his hand.
“Doctor,” Al replied as the men shook hands.
“Mrs. Coombes,” the doctor said, acknowledging Olive’s presence. It struck her as odd that this was the first time Nurse Carter had not accompanied the doctor.
“We are going to discharge your wife today,” he said to Al.
“And our baby too?” Olive asked anxiously. “The two of us are being discharged today, right?”
“We would like young Freddy to stay with us a little longer,” the doctor replied.

V

Olive and her husband were silent during the short drive home. Silent and empty without their baby.
“We’ve run some tests,” the doctor had said. Olive barely heard the words. He was only saying what she already knew. Her baby was different from the others. She heard the doctor explaining things, but all she could think was, my baby has the sweetest face. Every time she gazed into his light grey eyes, she would say, “You have the face of an angel. You are my little angel.” Then she would make a promise to him, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” It was a vow made to her baby, herself, and to God.
“We’ve run tests,” the doctor continued. Neither Olive nor her husband spoke. They knew. She knew. “These things sometimes happen with older mothers,” the doctor said with a glance at Olive. “I’m only twenty-five,” she said defensively.
“Yes,” he replied, taken aback by her response. “But older than your typical first-time mother,” he said, jamming his hands into his pockets and looking past Olive to her husband.
“Olive, let the doctor speak,” Al said as though talking to a child. “What exactly are you saying, doctor?”
“Al, through your experience, you may be familiar with cases like this,” the doctor said. “It’s called Mongoloidism. Your son will never grow to adulthood and most likely will never see his teens. The Ontario Hospital has facilities for such cases.” The doctor checked his gold pocket watch and continued, “It is my recommendation…”
“No,” Olive said quietly. “My baby will live at home with us where he belongs.”
“Well, you have my recommendation,” the doctor said curtly. “Your family physician…” he moved to the foot of the bed and read Olive’s chart. “...Doctor Brown...will be in to see you later. Good day to you.” He turned and left the room.

VI

“Olive!” someone called from the direction of the reviewing stand. Olive turned around to see who was calling her name and was quickly embraced by Anne Parrott, the current Mayor’s daughter and Olive’s former classmate.
“Anne!” Olive said, taking a step back.
“And this must be…” Anne continued as she reached to pat Freddy on the head but quickly withdrew her hand when the boy looked at her. The young woman was wearing a dress almost identical to her mother’s but in pink with a matching coat, hat, and gloves. She looks like candy candy on a stick; Olive laughed to herself. Standing next to Anne, Olive felt just as plain as she had in high school and shrunk down into her old squirrel grey coat.
“Isn’t it so exciting!” Anne bubbled. “Imagine, I’m going to meet the King and Queen of England…” she stopped short. “Oh, but if they had only come last year, it would be you, wouldn’t it...well, I guess that’s life.”
The whistle blast from an approaching train frightened Freddy, and he clamped his hands over his ears.
“Anne,” Lydia Parrot called. “Anne!” she called again, motioning frantically for her daughter to rejoin them on the reviewing stand.
“Gotta go,” Anne giggled and dashed off, waving a pink gloved hand at Olive.
Olive sighed and kissed Freddy on the cheek. “Never mind her,” she said, watching Anne push through the crowd that almost seemed to part for her. Others on the reviewing stand took their places behind Anne and her parents. Anne glanced over her shoulder at Olive and shrugged.
The train pulled into the station with the Union Jack and Canadian Ensign fluttering from each of its shiny brass headlamps. Hundreds of excited school children were waving little Union Jacks, and the crowd cheered as the King and Queen appeared on the rear platform of the last car.
Freddy clung to his mother. It was the crowd, the train whistle, and the shouting he didn’t like. Holding her son close to her chest Olive tried to push a little closer so they could see and hear better. Freddy held tighter to his mother, burying his face in her shoulder. Suddenly Olive felt a rush of hot liquid soaking the sleeve of her coat and running down her arm. In shocked humiliation, she realized Freddy had wet himself. It was the first time in months that he had had an accident. She then recalled that she had forgotten to put him on the toilet in her haste to leave the house. All this excitement has been too much for him. It was just too much.
The crowd kept pushing forward, jostling her and Freddy, but Olive stood still and let the people pass until just the two of them stood alone. Freddy sobbed while Olive fought back her own tears. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of yellow and saw a little girl curtsy and hand a nosegay of daffodils to the Queen, who bent down to thank the child. Everyone cheered and applauded. Olive couldn’t bring herself to watch the proceedings. She turned away and, cradling Freddy’s trembling head in her hand, whispered, “I’m sorry.” She kissed his damp forehead and tear-stained cheeks, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me.” She, too, was sobbing now. They sat down on a bench outside the station house. Olive held him close while rocking back and forth. As her tears subsided, she said to him, “What do you say we go home, get cleaned up, and go to the dairy for an ice cream...strawberry.” Freddy nodded his head excitedly and hugged his mother’s neck. Olive took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped his face when a hush fell over the crowd.
“The King must be getting ready to speak,” she said to Freddy. “But never mind that we’re going to have strawberry ice cream, aren’t we?” She looked down for just a second to button Freddy’s coat and saw the most elegant pair of gray suede pumps on the pavement in front of her.
“Crowds can be overwhelming,” came a soft voice from in front of her. Olive looked up and gazed into the kindest face she had ever seen. Olive jumped to her feet and gasped, “Your Majesty...er...Your Highness,” and, with Freddy in her arms, she attempted an unsteady curtsy. Freddy looked up to see who it was. There was a pause, and then the Queen said, “When my girls were young, they sometimes became frightened in crowds too.” She smiled and placed her hand on Freddy’s head, and he smiled back.
Now, somewhat recovered from the shock, Olive managed a steadier curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, curtsying again. “Thank you.”
The train whistle blared. “It seems I am being called,” the Queen said as she turned toward the waiting train. Then, calling back over her shoulder, “Now you must get that little man his ice cream,” and she was gone as in a dream.

☙☙☙

Epilogue

The baby was fed and bathed, and Olive was washing her and Freddy’s dinner dishes when Al arrived home.
“So, how was your day?” Al asked.
“Fine,” she said, “Freddie and I went to the dairy for an ice cream.”
“That sounds fun,” he responded and sat down at the table with the Oxford Evening Standard and waited for Olive to serve him his dinner. He snapped open the paper and stopped as he looked at a photograph of Olive, Freddy, and the Queen.
“Olive?...”