A SECRET FOR TWO
Quentin Reynolds
Montreal is a very large city, but, like all large cities, it has some very small streets. Streets, for instance, like Prince Edward Street, which is only four blocks long, ending in a cul de sac. No one knew Prince Edward Street as well as did Pierre Dupin, for Pierre had delivered milk to the families on the street for thirty years now.
During the past fifteen years the horse which drew the milk wagon used by Pierre was a large white horse named Joseph. In Montreal, especially in that part of Montreal which is very French, the animals, like children, are often given the names of saints. When the big white horse first came to the Provincale Milk Company he didn't have a name. They told Pierre that he could use the white horse henceforth. Pierre stroked the softness of the horse's neck; he stroked the sheen of its splendid belly and he looked into the eyes of the horse.
“This is a kind horse, a gentle and a faithful horse, Pierre said, “and I can see a beautiful spirit shining out of the eyes of the horse. I will name him after good St. Joseph, who was also kind and gentle anf faithful and a beautiful spirit.”
Within a year Joseph knew the milk route as well as Pierre. Pierre used to boast that he didn't need reins – he never touched them. Each morning Pierre arrived at the stables of the Provincale Milk Company at five o'clock. The wagon would be loaded and Joseph hitched to it. Pierre would call “Bon jour, vieille ami,” as he climbed into his seat and Joseph would turn his head and the other drivers would smile and say that the horse would smile at Pierre. Then Jacques, the foreman, would say, “All right, Pierre, go on,” and Pierre would call softly to Joseph, “Avance, mon ami,” and this splendid combination would stalk proudly down the street.
The wagon, without any direction from Pierre, would roll three blocks down St. Catherine Street, then turn right two blocks along Roslyn Avenue; then left, for that was Prince Edward Street. The horse would stop at the first house, allow Pierre perhaps thirty seconds to get down from his seat and put a bottle of milk at the front door and would then go on, skipping two houses and stopping at the third. So down the length of the street. Then Joseph, still without any direction from Pierre, would turn around and come back along the other side. Yes, Joseph was a smart horse.
Pierre would boast at the stable of Joseph's skill. “I never touch the reins. “He knows just where to stop. Why, a blind man could handle my route with Joseph pulling the wagon.”
So it went for years – always the same. Pierre and Joseph both grew old together, but gradually, not suddenly. Pierre’s huge walrus mustache was pure white now and Joseph didn’t lift his knees so high or raise his head as much. Jacques, the foreman of the stables, never noticed that they were both getting old until Pierre appeared one morning carrying a heavy walking stick.
“Hey, Pierre”, Jacques laughed. “Maybe you got the gout, hey?”
“Mais oui, Jacques,” Pierre said a bit uncertainly. “One grows old. One’s legs get tired.”
“You should teach that horse to carry the milk to the front door for you,” Jacques told him, “He does everything else.”
He knew every one of the forty families he served on Prince Edward Street. The cooks knew that Pierre could neither read nor write, so instead of following the usual custom of leaving a note in an empty bottle if an additional quart of milk was needed they would sing out when they heard the rumble of his wagon wheels over the cobbled street, “Bring an extra quart this morning, Pierre.”
“So you have company for dinner tonight,” he would call back gaily.
Pierre had a remarkable memory. When he arrived at the stable he’d always remember to tell Jacques, “The Paquins took an extra quart this morning; the Lemoines bought a pint of cream.”
