The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  In fact, he might never have got free if his father (R.I.P.) hadn't died, leaving two thousand quid to Ginger, enough to pay their debts and start them off again. Again, he did it over Veronica's protests; but this time, by J, he decided to get right out of the country. Far too late now to do the things he once had dreamed of: paddling down the Amazon with four Indian companions, climbing a peak in Tibet or sailing a raft from Galway to the West Indies. But not too late to head off for the New

  World in search of fame and fortune. So he went up to Dublin and took his old boss out to lunch. Filled the Managing Director of Kylemore Distilleries with Jam-met's best duck d Torange and asked him point-blank if Kylemore would be interested in opening up a North American market. They would not, said the Managing Director. "All right then/' Coffey said. "You'll be the sorry ones, not me/' And went straight across the street to Cootehill Distilleries, Kylemore's chief competitor. But flute! At Cootehill they told him they already had a man in New York. "Well" said Coffey. "Well . . . what about Canada, then?" No, they did not have anyone there. And yes, they were willing to let him have a crack at selling their whiskey in Canada. Seeing he was paying his own way out there, why not? A small retainer? Yes, they might manage that.

  Right, then! Before he sailed, he lined up two side lines. A North American agency for Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear, which the Dublin office gave him over the Cork office's objections. And a little side line as American representative for Dromore Tweeds of Carrick-on-Shannon, which was part-owned by an old school pal of his. And so, six months ago, after a round of good-bys forever, he, Veronica and Paulie sailed out to Montreal, taking the great gamble. His own boss at last.

  Except that now, six months later, he was his own boss no longer. And so, at a quarter to twelve, the Nickelodeon read from cover to cover, he smiled at the receptionist, still hoping. She came over. "I'm afraid Mr. Beauchemin will be tied up until after lunch. Do you think you could come back at two-thirty?"

  Coffey thought of Mr. Beauchemin trussed-up on his office carpet. He said yes, he thought he could.

  Down he went in the express elevator, across the lobby and out into the street. The noon crowd scurried

  along icy pavements from central heat to central heat. Six office girls, arms linked, high voices half* lost in the wind, edged past him in a tottering chorus line. Bundled against the wind, no telling what they looked like. He followed them for a while, playing an old game of his. That very instant a genie had told him they were all houris awaiting his pleasure, but only one must he choose and he must not look on any of their faces. He must choose from the rear view. All right, then, he decided on the tall one in the middle. His choice made, he followed them to the intersection of Peel and Ste. Catherine Streets, and as they paused for the traffic light he came level and inspected their faces. She had a long neb. He should have picked the little one on the outside right. Anyway, none of them was half as pretty as his own wife. He turned away.

  Businessmen clutching hat brims butted impatiently past his aimless, strolling figure. A taxi, its tire chains rattling in the brown-sugar slush, pulled up beside him to disgorge six Rotarians who ran up the steps of a hotel, their snow-filthy rubbers tracking the wine-colored carpet. A bundle of newspapers, hurled from the tailgate of a truck by a leather-jacketed leprechaun, fell by his feet. He paused, read the headline on top, as a news vendor rushed from a kiosk to retrieve.

  WIFE, LOVER SLAY CRIPPLE MATE

  Which reminded him. He had not phoned Veronica.

  Slow stroll across Dominion Square, everyone hurrying save he, every face fixed in a grimace by the painful wind, eyes narrowed, mouths pursed, driven by this cruel climate to an abnormal, head-bent helter-skelter. He passed a statue of Robert Burns, reflecting that this snow-drifted square was an odd place for that kiltie to wind up. And that reminded him of failures: Burns's

  brew was called for a lot more often on this continent than usquebaugh. "Usquebaugh is the name of it, Mr. Montrose; yes, we Irish invented it, quite different from rye or Scotch. I have a booklet here, Irish coffee recipe . . ." Promotion, they called it. You had to promote before you could sell. But, to those thicks back in Ireland, promotion was not work.

  Dear Coffey:

  Yours of the 6th to hand. Before we approve these expenses, which seem very high to us, our directors would like to know how many suppliers you can guarantee. So far, in our opinion, you have not . . .

  That was in the beginning of October. He should have seen the writing on the wall. But instead, he started to use his own savings to keep the ship afloat. He had to. Those thicks refused to pay the half of his expenses. And then, a month later, three letters with Irish postmarks arrived in the same week, as though, behind his back, the whole of Ireland had ganged up on him:

  Dear Coffey:

  I regret to inform you that at the last meeting of our board of directors it was decided tJiat in view of current dollar restrictions and the heavy "promotion' expenses you have incurred, we feel unable at this time to continue our arrangement with ijou. Therefore, we are no longer prepared to pay your office rent or to continue your retainer after this month. . . .

  Dear Coffey:

  Four orders from department stores and single orders from six other shops which have not been repeated do not justify the money you are charging us. And advertising at the rates you quote is quite out of the question. Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear has always enjoyed a modest sale on your side of the water without any special promotion, and

  so we feel at this time that it is wiser all around for us to cancel our arrangement with you. . . .

  Dear Ginger:

  Hartigan says we would be better off sending an out-and-out traveler to cities like Boston, New York and Toronto to show samples and take orders as the British tailoring firms do. High-power American methods do not go over in Carrick-on-Shannon, so if you will kindly let us have back the swatches. . . .

  He burned those letters. He economized by giving up their flat and moving to this cheap dump of a duplex. But he did not tell Veronica. For two weeks he sat in his rented office, searching the want ads in the newspapers, dodging out from time to time for half-hearted inquiries about jobs. But the trouble was what his trouble always was. He had not finished his B.A., the Army years were wasted years, the jobs at Kylemore and Coomb-Na-Baun had not qualified him for any others. In six months he would be forty. He thought of Father Cogley's warning.

  The pulpit was on the right of the school chapel. Ginger Coffey, aged fifteen, sat under it while Father Cogley, a Redemptorist Missioner, preached the retreat. There's always one boy — Father Cogley said — always one boy who doesn't want to settle down like the rest of us. He's different, he thinks. He wants to go out into the great wide world and find adventures. He's different, you see. Aye, well, Lucifer thought he was different. He did. Now, this boy who thinks he's different, he's the lad who never wants to finish his studies. Ireland isn't good enough for him, it's got to be England or America or Rio-dee-Janeero or some place like that. So, what does he do? He burns his books and off he runs. And what happens?

  Well, I'll tell you. Nine times out of ten that fellow winds up as a pidt-and-shovel laborer or at best a twopenny pen-pusher in some hell on earth, some place of sun and rot or snow and ice that no sensible man would be seen dead in. And why? Because that class of boy is unable to accept his God-given limitations, because that class of boy has no love of God in him, because that class of boy is an ordinary, lazy lump and his talk of finding adventures is only wanting an excuse to get away and commit mortal sins — Father Cogley looked down: he looked into the eyes of Ginger Coffey, who had been to confess to him only half an hour ago. And let me tell that boy one thing — Father Cogley said — If you burn your books, you burn your boats. And if you burn your boats, you'll sink. You'll sink in this world and you'll sink in the next . . .

  And woe betide you then . . .

  It was all missionary malarkey, of course. But although he had forgotten all else that wa
s ever preached to him, Coffey had not forgotten that sermon. He had thought of it often; had thought of it that third week of December when Veronica found out. She wept. She said she had seen this coming for a long time. (It was the sort of thing she would say.) She said if he did not land a job by Christmas, they must go home the first ship in the New Year. She said they had six hundred dollars put aside for their passages home, and he had promised her they would go back if it did not work. It had not worked. And so, look at us — she said — we know no one here. No one would lift a finger if we froze to solid ice in the streets. You promised me. Let's get out before we have to sing for our passage. At home, there's people know you. You can always find something. Now, there's a ship leaving Halifax on the tenth of January. I'm reserving our tickets —

  But it's not even Christmas yet, he said. What's the hurry? Ill find something. Chin up!

  Christmas came and went, but the snow was their only present. They saw the New Year in, with Veronica starting to pack as soon as the radio played "Auld Lang Syne," while he, alone in the dun-colored duplex living room, decided that on January second, as soon as the offices were open again, he would humble himself and go down to the Unemployment Commission. Because he would have to find some job. Because, you see, there was one thing he still hadn't told her. He no longer had the money for the tickets. In fact, all that was left was — never mind — it was a frightener to think how little.

  And today was D-day. The wind was stronger now. The snow had stopped and his ears began to hurt as if someone had boxed them. He looked into a restaurant, saw people lined three-deep beside the hostess rope, the waitresses stacking dishes, placing paper place mats and fresh glasses of water before anyone who dared to dawdle: no, there was no shelter in Childs. But he must phone Veronica — start preparing her. So in he went.

  "That you, Kitten?"

  "Did you get the tickets, Ginger?"

  "Well, no, not yet, dear. That's what I'm phoning you about. You see, dear, right out of a clear blue sky I met a man on my way downtown who told me about a job. So I'm going for an interview."

  "What man?"

  "You wouldn't know him, dear. The point is, I have an interview arranged for half past two this afternoon."

  "Today's the last day to pick up those tickets," she said. "If you don't get them they'll sell them to someone else."

  "I know, dear. The point is, I'm going to wait until

  after IVe had this interview. I should be finished by three. That'leaves lashings of time to pick up the tickets, if nothing comes of it."

  "But what job is this?"

  Flute! He reached in his waistcoat and pulled out a slip of paper. It was the second slip which Donnelly had given him but he had started reading it out before he realized his mistake. "Wanted" he read. "Aggressive publicity man for professional fund-raising group, province-wide cancer research campaign. Apply H. E. Kahn, Room 200, Doxley Building, Sherbrooke Street."

  "But that doesn't sound permanent at all?" she said.

  "Well, never mind, dear. It would tide us over."

  "If we're going to stay," she said. "YouVe got to get something permanent, Ginger. At your age, you can't afford to be chopping and changing any more. You know that."

  "Yes, dear. We — we'll talk about it later. Good-b—"

  "Wait! Ginger, listen to me. If this job is only a few weeks' stopgap, don't you take it. Get those tickets."

  "Yes, dear. Bye-bye, now."

  He replaced the receiver and stepped out of the booth. There must be a law of averages in life as well as in cards. And surely if anyone's luck was due for a change, his was?

  A Childs hostess beckoned with her sheaf of menus but he thought of the fourteen lonely dollars left in his pocket. He went outside but it was too cold to hang about the square. Then where? He looked across the snowy park; three old dears were going up the steps of the Basilica. Warm it was in God's house. How long was it since he'd been in a church? Not since he'd left home, not that he'd missed it, either. Maybe . . . ? Well, it wouldn't hurt him, now would it?

  The interior darkness was familiar. He listened to the

  murmur of water pipes, located a bench near a radiator and moved in. Catholic churches were all the same. The pulpit on the right (shades of Father Cogley!) and on the left the Altar to Our Lady (Distaff Doings) with a bank of votive candles underneath. He remembered how, as a boy during the boredom of mass, he used to count the candles, sixpence a big one, threepence a little one and try to estimate the profit to the priests.

  Coffey's father, a solicitor, had been buried in the brown habit of a Dominican Tertiary. Enough said. His elder brother Tom was a missionary priest in Africa. And yet neither Coffey nor Veronica were what Dublin people called pi-odious. Far from it. In fact one of his secret reasons for wanting to get away to the New World was that, in Ireland, church attendance was not a matter of choice. Bloody well go, or else, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, you were made to suffer in a worldly sense. Here, he was free. . . .

  And yet . . . Staring now at the altar, he remembered the missioner's warning. Supposing it were not all nonsense? Suppose his brother Tom, worrying about the Moslems stealing his African converts, was right after all? Just suppose. Suppose all the prayers, the penances, the promises were true? Suppose the poor in spirit would inherit the kingdom of heaven? And not he.

  For he was not poor in spirit. He was just poor. Well, what about him? If he did not believe all this stuff about an afterlife then what did he believe? What was his aim in life? Well . . . well, he supposed it was to be his own master, to provide for Vera and Paulie, to ... to what? Damned if he could put it into words. To make something of himself, he supposed. Well, was that enough? And would he? Maybe he was one of those people who get the best of neither world, one of those people the Lord had no time for, neither fish nor fowl, great sinner

  nor saint? And maybe because he had never been poor in spirit, had never been one for pleading and penances, maybe God had lain in wait for him all these years, doling him out a little bad luck here, a little hope there, dampening his dreams, letting him drift further from the time and tide that led on to fortune until now, at the halfway mark in his life, he was stranded in this land of ice and snow? If there was a God above, was that what God wanted? To make him poor in spirit? To make him call pax, to make him give up, to herd him back with the other sheep in the fold?

  He looked at the tabernacle. His large ruddy face set in a scowl as though someone had struck it. His lips shut tight under his ginger mustache. I never could abide a bully, he said to the tabernacle. Listen to me, now. I came in here to maybe say a prayer and 111 be the first to admit I had a hell of a nerve on me, seeing the way iVe ignored you these long years. But now I cannot pray, because to pray to you, if you're punishing me, would be downright cowardly. If it's cowards you want in heaven, then good luck to you. You're welcome.

  He picked up his little green hat and left the church.

  At two-thirty Mona Prentiss, receptionist, went into the office of Georges Paul-Emile Beauchemin, Public Relations Director of Canada Nickel, and handed him Coffey's application form. Yes, the man was outside and had been waiting since this morning. Would Mr. Beauchemin care to see him?

  Mr. Beauchemin had time to kill. He had just finished buying someone a very good lunch in exchange for two hockey tickets. In half an hour, at the midweek meeting, he planned to hand the tickets over to Mr. Mansard. Mr. Mansard was a vice-president and a hockey fan. So Mr,

  Beauchemin was in a good mood. He said to show the guy in.

  Miss Prentiss came back up the corridor. "Will you follow me please, sir?" And Coffey followed, suddenly wishing he'd worn his blue suit, although it was shiny in the seat, watching her seat — melon buttocks rubbing under gray flannel skirt, high heels' tic-tac, cashmere sweater, blond curls. A pleasant rear view, yes, but he did not enjoy it. Sick apprehension filled him because, well, what were his qualifications for this job? What indeed?

/>   "This is Mr. Coffey, sir," she said, shutting the door on them. And hooray! The face that fits. Because, by some miracle, Coffey had met Mr. Beauchemin, had met him last November at a party in the Press Club where the Coffeys had been Gerry Grosvenor's guests.

  "Hello there," Coffey said, jovially advancing with his large hand outstretched, the ends of his mustache lifting in a smile. And Beauchemin took the proffered hand, his mind running back, trying to place this guy. He could not recall him at all. A limey type and, like most limey types, sort of queer. Look at this one with his tiny green hat, short bulky car coat and suede boots. A man that age should know better than to dress like a college boy, Beauchemin thought. He looked at Coffey's red face and large military mustache. Georges Paul-Emile Beauchemin had not served. That mustache did not win him. Oh no.

  "I don't suppose you remember me?" Coffey said. "Ginger Coffey. Was with Cootehill Distilleries here. Met you at a Press Club do once with Gerry Grosvenor, the cartoonist."

  "Oh yes, eh?" Beauchemin said vaguely. "Old Gerry, eh? You're — ah — you're Irish, eh?"

  "Yes "Coffey said.

  "Good old Paddy's Day, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Lots of Irish out here, you know. Last year I took my little girl out to see the Paddy's Day parade on Sher-brooke Street. Lot of fun, eh?"

  "Yes, isn't it?" Coffey said.

  "So you're not with — ah—" Beauchemin glanced at the application form — "not with Distillery any more?"

  "Well, no. We had a change of top brass at home, and they wanted me to come back. But I like it here, we were more or less settled, kiddy in school and so on. Hard changing schools in mid-term, so I decided to chance my luck and stay on."

  "Sure," Beauchemin said. "Cigarette?" Perhaps this guy had been sent by someone from upstairs. It was wise to check. "How did you know we were looking for an editorial assistant, eh?"

  Coffey looked at his little green hat. "Well, it was the — ah — the Unemployment Commission people. They mentioned it."

  Reassured (for if it had been a brass recommendation he would have had to send a memo), Beauchemin leaned back, openly picked up the application form. A nobody. Seventeen from fifty-six is thirty-nine. Let him out on age.