Click. Clack. The telegraph jumped to life, catching Richard Simpson snoozing in his chair. He reached for the pencil tucked behind his ear and began transcribing. “On my way…need hot rum.” Agent Simpson chuckled as he rolled a fresh sheet of Canadian National Telegram paper into the typewriter. “Frank’s coming home.” The station house shuddered as another blast of wind swept in from the north. A skim of snow was creeping under the freight room door. Agent Simpson shivered at the thought of delivering a message on such a night.
Frank Forster chased work wherever it was to be found. Earlier that fall he had journeyed to the Thompson Valley for a logging job deep in the bush, but a big part of him was still at home, 350 miles away as the crow flies. Each day he marked an X on on the calendar pinned beside his bunk, and penned a letter to Rose every Sunday. Now the short break for Christmas was finally here.
It was a painfully slow drive down the icy logging roads to the nearest Canadian National station at Valemount. After buying a ticket he quickly composed the telegram. He imagined those words racing ahead of him, leaping from pole to pole, singing down the wire, eventually to land at Agent Simpson’s desk.
The train steamed into the twilight. Flickering lights hinted at farms and ranches tucked into the folds of the valley. So vast. After Kamloops, clouds of snow whipped the windows as the iron horse raced southward. He could just make out the walls and tunnels of the Fraser Canyon, and caught glimpses of the river where it narrowed and boiled through Hells Gate. Down, down, below the fish ladders, to Alexandra Bridge, Sailor’s Bar and Hope, where the river calmed before its final sweeping run to the sea. It wouldn’t be long now.
Richard Simpson turned the key in the old Ford truck. The engine groaned against the cold; after three tries it ignited with a roar. He pointed it down the old Trunk Road, now renamed after the municipal engineer, Lieutenant F.W. Glover. He coaxed the truck through drifting snow. Bare branches of young chestnut trees were in silhouette beside the cemetery. Planted by Dr Marr and Archie Payne for those boys who didn’t make it home. Richard Simpson nodded as he gripped the wheel.
He crossed over the Salmon River, half-frozen and creeping into the flood plain. He gunned the motor for the climb up to Telegraph Trail, made the turn, and found the Forster’s driveway. A dog barked as he crunched up the steps and knocked on the door. “Hello Rose. A little message for you.” As she slowly scanned the telegram, first came relief, then a broad smile with a dance of light in her eyes. Agent Simpson tugged at his flat cap, “Merry Christmas, Rose. ”
The truck was still running. Gusts of wind tossed snow across the headlights. As he turned from the door, he heard the faint sound of a newborn’s cry, and a mother’s delight.
– Mark Forsythe, 2022
