by Jack Hodgins
BOOKS BY
JACK HODGINS
Spit Delaney’s Island (1976)
The Invention of the World (1977)
The Resurrection of Joseph Bourne (1979)
The Barclay Family Theatre (1981)
The Honorary Patron (1987)
Left Behind in Squabble Bay (1988)
Innocent Cities (1990)
Over Forty in Broken Hill (1992)
A Passion for Narrative: A Guide to Writing Fiction
(1993, expanded 2001)
The Macken Charm (1995)
Broken Ground (1998)
Distance (2003)
Damage Done by the Storm (2004)
The Master of Happy Endings (2010)
THE BARCLAY FAMILY THEATRE
Copyright © 1981 & 2012 by Jack Hodgins
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, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).
RONSDALE PRESS
3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B. C.
Canada V6S 1G7
www.ronsdalepress.com
Cover Design: Cyanotype
Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hodgins, Jack, 1938–
The Barclay family theatre [electronic resource] : stories / Jack Hodgins. — 2nd ed.
Electronic monograph in HTML format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55380-155-9
I. Title.
PS8565.O3B37 2012 C813'.54 C2011-906815-X
At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy (formerly Markets Initiative) and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.
for
Katie Murphy Blakely
I guess a man who’s sent seven daughters
out into the world has launched just about
every kind of invasion you can imagine.
Now let’s close down this show and go
home. There’s cattle and cut hay and real
life to be faced tomorrow.
. . . J. G. Barclay, towards the end
of the seventh wedding reception.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Some portions of this book appeared in slightly altered versions in Saturday Night, The Story So Far, Weekend Magazine, The Journal of Canadian Fiction, and Toronto Life.
As implied by the style and content of the story itself, “The Sumo Revisions” is an exploration of some questions raised by a reading of Wright Morris’s novel A Field of Vision and by a performance of Tsuruya Nanboku’s Kabuki play Tokaido Yotsuya Kaidan. I wish, as well, to express gratitude to several generous and imaginative hosts in Tokyo: John Sloan, Bruce Barnett, Makiko Dochi, Mutsuo Ueyama, and Akira Assai.
The Concert Stages
of Europe
NOW, I KNOW Cornelia Horncastle would say I’m blaming the wrong person. I know too that she would say thirty years is a long time to hold a grudge, and that if I needed someone to blame for the fact that I made a fool of myself in front of the whole district and ruined my life in the process, then I ought to look around for the person who gave me my high-flown ideas in the first place. But she would be wrong; because there is no doubt I’d have led a different sort of life if it weren’t for her and that piano keyboard her parents presented her with on her eleventh birthday. And everything — everything would have been different if that piano keyboard hadn’t been the kind made out of stiff paper that you unfolded and laid out across the kitchen table in order to do your practising.
I don’t suppose there would have been all that much harm in her having the silly thing, if only my mother hadn’t got wind of it. What a fantastic idea, she said. You could learn to play without even making a sound! You could practise your scales without having to hear that awful racket when you hit a wrong note! A genius must have thought of it, she said. Certainly someone who’d read his Keats: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. “And don’t laugh,” she said, “because Cornelia Horncastle is learning to play the piano and her mother doesn’t even have to miss an episode of Ma Perkins while she does it.”
That girl, people had told her, would be giving concerts in Europe some day, command performances before royalty, and her parents hadn’t even had to fork out the price of a piano. It was obvious proof, if you needed it, that a person didn’t have to be rich to get somewhere in this world.
In fact, Cornelia’s parents hadn’t needed to put out even the small amount that paper keyboard would have cost. A piano teacher named Mrs. Humphries had moved onto the old Dendoff place and, discovering that almost no one in the district owned a piano, gave the keyboard to the Horncastles along with a year’s free lessons. It was her idea, apparently, that when everyone heard how quickly Cornelia was learning they’d be lining up to send her their children for lessons. She wanted to make the point that having no piano needn’t stop anyone from becoming a pianist. No doubt she had a vision of paper keyboards in every house in Waterville, of children everywhere thumping their scales out on the kitchen table without offending anyone’s ears, of a whole generation turning silently into Paderewskis without ever having played a note.
They would, I suppose, have to play a real piano when they went to her house for lessons once a week, but I was never able to find out for myself, because all that talk of Cornelia’s marvellous career on the concert stages of Europe did not prompt my parents to buy one of those fake keyboards or sign me up for lessons with Mrs. Humphries. My mother was born a Barclay, which meant she had a few ideas of her own, and Cornelia’s glorious future prompted her to go one better. We would buy a real piano, she announced. And I would be sent to a teacher we could trust, not to that newcomer. If those concert stages of Europe were ever going to hear the talent of someone from the stump ranches of Waterville, it wouldn’t be Cornelia Horncastle, it would be Barclay Desmond. Me.
My father nearly choked on his coffee. “But Clay’s a boy!”
“So what?” my mother said. “All those famous players used to be boys. What did he think Chopin was? Or Tchaikovsky?”
My father was so embarrassed that his throat began to turn a dark pink. Some things were too unnatural even to think about.
But eventually she won him over. “Think how terrible you’d feel,” she said, “if he ended up in the bush, like you. If Mozart’s father had worked for the Comox Logging Company and thought piano-playing was for sissies, where would the world be today?”
My father had no answer to that. He’d known since before his marriage that though my mother would put up with being married to a logger, expecting every day to be made a widow, she wouldn’t tolerate for one minute the notion that a child of hers would follow him up into those hills. The children of Lenora Barclay would enter the professions.
She was right, he had to agree; working in the woods was the last thing in the world he wanted for his sons. He’d rather they take up ditch-digging or begging than have to work for that miserable logging company, or take their orders from a son-of-a-bitch like Tiny Beechman, or get their skulls cracked open like Stanley Kirck. It was a rotten way to make a living, and if he
’d only had a decent education he could have made something of himself.
Of course, I knew he was saying all this just for my mother’s benefit. He didn’t really believe it for a minute. My father loved his work. I could tell by the way he was always talking about Ab Jennings and Shorty Cresswell, the men he worked with. I could tell by the excitement that mounted in him every year as the time grew near for the annual festival of loggers’ sports where he usually won the bucking contest. It was obvious, I thought, that the man really wanted nothing more in this world than that one of his sons should follow in his footsteps. And much as I disliked the idea, I was sure that I was the one he’d set his hopes on. Kenny was good in school. Laurel was a girl. I was the obvious choice. I even decided that what he’d pegged me for was high-rigger.
I was going to be one of those men who risked their necks climbing hundreds of feet up the bare lonely spar tree to hang the rigging from the top. Of course I would fall and kill myself the first time I tried it, I knew that, but there was no way I could convey my hesitation to my father since he would never openly admit that this was really his goal for me.
And playing the piano on the concert stages of Europe was every bit as unattractive. “Why not Kenny?” I said, when the piano had arrived, by barge, from Vancouver.
“He’s too busy already with his school work,” my mother said. Kenny was hoping for a scholarship, which meant he got out of just about everything unpleasant.
“What about Laurel?”
“With her short fat fingers?”
In the meantime, she said, though she was no piano-player herself (a great sigh here for what might have been), she had no trouble at all identifying which of those ivory keys was the all-important Middle C and would show it to me, to memorize, so that I wouldn’t look like a total know-nothing when I showed up tomorrow for my first lesson. She’d had one piano lesson herself as a girl, she told me, and had learned all about Mister Middle C, but she’d never had a second lesson because her time was needed by her father, outside, helping with the chores. Seven daughters altogether, no sons, and she was the one who was the most often expected to fill the role of a boy. The rest of them had found the time to learn chords and chromatic scales and all those magic things she’d heard them practising while she was scrubbing out the dairy and cutting the runners off strawberry plants. They’d all become regular show-offs in one way or another, learning other instruments as well, putting on their own concerts and playing in dance bands and earning a reputation all over the district as entertaining livewires — The Barclay Sisters. And no one ever guessed that all the while she was dreaming about herself at that keyboard, tinkling away, playing beautiful music before huge audiences in elegant theatres.
“Then it isn’t me that should be taking lessons,” I said. “It’s you.”
“Don’t be silly.” But she walked to the new piano and pressed down one key, a black one, and looked as if I’d tempted her there for a minute. “It’s too late now,” she said. And then she sealed my fate: “But I just know that you’re going to be a great pianist.”
When my mother “just knew” something, that was as good as guaranteeing it already completed. It was her way of controlling the future and, incidentally, the rest of us. By “just knowing” things, she went through life commanding the future to fit into certain patterns she desired while we scurried around making sure that it worked out that way so she’d never have to be disappointed. She’d had one great disappointment as a girl — we were never quite sure what it was, since it was only alluded to in whispers with far-off looks — and it was important that it never happen again. I was trapped.
People were always asking what you were going to be when you grew up. As if your wishes counted. In the first six years of my life the country had convinced me it wanted me to grow up and get killed fighting Germans and Japanese. I’d seen the coils of barbed wire along the beach and knew they were there just to slow down the enemy while I went looking for my gun. The teachers at school obviously wanted me to grow up and become a teacher just like them, because as far as I could see nothing they ever taught me could be of any use or interest to a single adult in the world except someone getting paid to teach it to someone else. My mother was counting on my becoming a pianist with a swallow-tail coat and standing ovations. And my father, despite all his noises to the contrary, badly wanted me to climb into the crummy every morning with him and ride out those gravelly roads into mountains and risk my life destroying forests.
I did not want to be a logger. I did not want to be a teacher. I did not want to be a soldier. And I certainly did not want to be a pianist. If anyone had ever asked me what I did want to be when I grew up, in a way that meant they expected the truth, I’d have said quite simply that what I wanted was to be a Finn.
Our new neighbours, the Korhonens, were Finns. And being a Finn, I’d been told, meant something very specific. A Finn would give you the shirt off his back, a Finn was as honest as the day is long, a Finn could drink anybody under the table and beat up half a dozen Germans and Irishmen without trying, a Finn was not afraid of work, a Finn kept a house so clean you could eat off the floors. I knew all these things before ever meeting our neighbours, but as soon as I had met them I was able to add a couple more generalizations of my own to the catalogue: Finnish girls were blonde and beautiful and flirtatious, and Finnish boys were strong, brave, and incredibly intelligent. These conclusions were reached immediately after meeting Lilja Korhonen, whose turned-up nose and blue eyes fascinated me from the beginning, and Larry Korhonen, who was already a teenager and told me for starters that he was actually Superman, having learned to fly after long hours of practice off their barn roof. Mr. and Mrs. Korhonen, of course, fitted exactly all the things my parents had told me about Finns in general. And so I decided my ambition in life was to be just like them.
I walked over to their house every Saturday afternoon and pretended to read their coloured funnies. I got in on the weekly steam-bath with Larry and his father in the sauna down by the barn. Mr. Korhonen, a patient man whose eyes sparkled at my eager attempts, taught me to count to ten — yksi, kaksi, kolme, nelja, viisi, kuusi, seitseman, kahdeksan, yhdeksan, kymmenen. I helped Mrs. Korhonen scrub her linoleum floors and put down newspapers so no one could walk on them, then I gorged myself on cinnamon cookies and kala loota and coffee sucked through a sugar cube. If there was something to be caught from just being around them, I wanted to catch it. And since being a Finn seemed to be a full-time occupation, I didn’t have much patience with my parents, who behaved as if there were other things you had to prepare yourself for.
The first piano teacher they sent me to was Aunt Jessie, who lived in a narrow, cramped house up a gravel road that led to the mountains. She’d learned to play as a girl in Toronto, but she had no pretensions about being a real teacher, she was only doing this as a favour to my parents so they wouldn’t have to send me to that Mrs. Humphries, an outsider. But one of the problems was that Aunt Jessie — who was no aunt of mine at all, simply one of those family friends who somehow get saddled with an honorary family title — was exceptionally beautiful. She was so attractive, in fact, that even at the age of ten I had difficulty keeping my eyes or my mind on the lessons. She exuded a dreamy sort of delicate femininity; her soft, intimate voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Besides that, her own playing was so much more pleasant to listen to than my own stumbling clangs and clunks that she would often begin to show me how to do something and become so carried away with the sound of her own music that she just kept right on playing through the rest of my half-hour. It was a simple matter to persuade her to dismiss me early every week so that I’d have a little time to play in the creek that ran past the back of her house, poling a homemade raft up and down the length of her property while her daughters paid me nickels and candies for a ride. At the end of a year my parents suspected I wasn’t progressing as fast as I should. They found out why on the day I fell in the creek and nearly dr
owned, had to be revived by a distraught Aunt Jessie, and was driven home soaked and shivering in the back seat of her old Hudson.
Mr. Korhonen and my father were huddled over the taken-apart cream separator on the verandah when Aunt Jessie brought me up to the door. My father, when he saw me, had that peculiar look on his face that was halfway between amusement and concern, but Mr. Korhonen laughed openly. “That boy lookit like a drowny rat.”
I felt like a drowned rat too, but I joined his laughter. I was sure this would be the end of my piano career, and could hardly wait to see my mother roll her eyes to the ceiling, throw out her arms, and say, “I give up.”
She did nothing of the sort. She tightened her lips and told Aunt Jessie how disappointed she was. “No wonder the boy still stumbles around on that keyboard like a blindfolded rabbit; he’s not going to learn the piano while he’s out risking his life on the river!”
When I came downstairs in dry clothes Aunt Jessie had gone, no doubt wishing she’d left me to drown in the creek, and my parents and the Korhonens were all in the kitchen drinking coffee. The Korhonens sat at either side of the table, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and squinting at me through the smoke. Mrs. Korhonen could blow beautiful white streams down her nostrils. They’d left their gumboots on the piece of newspaper just inside the door, of course, and wore the same kind of grey work-socks on their feet that my father always wore on his. My father was leaning against the wall with both arms folded across his chest inside his wide elastic braces, as he sometimes did, swishing his mug gently as if he were trying to bring something up from the bottom. My mother, however, was unable to alight anywhere. She slammed wood down into the firebox of the stove, she rattled dishes in the sink water, she slammed cupboard doors, she went around the room with the coffee pot, refilling mugs, and all the while she sang the song of her betrayal, cursing her own stupidity for sending me to a friend instead of to a professional teacher, and suddenly in a flash of inspiration dumping all the blame on my father: “If you hadn’t made me feel it was somehow pointless I wouldn’t have felt guilty about spending more money!”
