Joshua could not hold back his laughter.
“I knew you’d find that funny,” and now she was laughing and weeping at the same time. “Tell him not to leave me again. Speak to him.”
“But I thought you said –”
“You thought. I said. He did. I didn’t. Fuck you,” she shouted, knocking his glass to the floor.
Joshua took his shaking mother in his arms. He stroked her thick black hair. My God, she’s small. I never realized.
“Let me go,” she said, breaking free.
“Do you want me to speak to him?”
“Certainly not.”
“What do you want?”
“Who knows?”
He stooped to pick up the broken glass.
“Do you at least earn enough to support your family, Mr. Writer, or are you living off her stocks and bonds?”
“I haven’t taken a penny from her.”
“You will. Wait. Then her background will come out. Westmount will be heard from. Watch out for your balls, kiddo.”
3
MONEY, MONEY.
Once, no thought for tomorrow, he could con Barclay’s into an overdraft and, his pockets stuffed with crinkly, white, handkerchief-sized fivers, splurge on Front Closure Bras, draw-stringers from Renata, and softie, slim lingerie from Dior. His finca in San Antonio, with a cook thrown in, had set him back no more than $50 a month. A £150 publisher’s advance had been sufficient to put him merrily to work on a book. His first book. But now the $25,000 in advances he had squeezed out of Toronto and New York publishers to write the definitive book on hockey seemed a pittance, an insulting reward, for the work he knew would be involved in researching and writing the book. Now he had a wife born to champagne as well as Kool-Aid in her fridge and three kids who expected the right ski boots. Now he was earning more money than he had ever dreamed of, and yet there never seemed to be enough.
Where it sprang from, as well as how it went, continued to confound him.
There was the fat check for the sports column he still cranked out monthly; a thin trickle of royalties on paperback reissues of books he’d otherwise rather not be reminded of; magazine assignments out of New York; and, above all, the money he earned doing television work for CBC Interviews. And documentaries that he narrated himself.
Each year he solemnly entered these projected earnings into a ledger with reassuringly lined pages, estimated his outgoings, conscientiously adding ten percent, and tottered out of his office to tell Pauline this was the year, the biggie, when he was bound to come out a big five thousand ahead minimum. How about that? Hug hug. Kiss kiss. But when the year was out, he unfailingly emerged $7,500 short and found himself, a Grub Street Mr. Micawber, counting on something turning up.
Once it had been the sale of his manuscripts to that twit Colin Fraser in Calgary. Fraser, who had come out of the closet, as it were, and was living with a young actor. Another time it was a whacking royalty check out of East Germany for the people’s edition of The Volunteers. But what now, Joshua?
“So, yes,” Pauline had said, “I helped to buy him the boat. He’s cost me thousands over the years. I finance his dreams.”
Never mind his dreams, darling, what about my nightmares?
But the truth was, Pauline couldn’t help. What with inflation, the money that still dribbled in from her trust fund was negligible. So Joshua had, he calculated, two options. He could negotiate a larger mortgage on their house, creaming off the cash, or he could finally fall back on his inheritance, the long thin key that still hung from a silvery chain round his neck. But he was superstitious about that key, he really didn’t want to know how many stocks and bonds or whatever were fattening in Reuben’s safety deposit box. It was only to be used, he felt, in the event of a real catastrophe. If, for instance, anything happened to him, and Pauline was left to cope with the children. And neither did he want Pauline to know he was troubled about money. She was far too edgy these days, even short-fused, the continuing presence in the city of that late bloomer, Kevin Hornby, seemingly casting a pall on her days.
Jolly Jack Trimble was also becoming a nuisance.
Only a week after Joshua had confronted him in The Troika, he had phoned to invite him to meet there yet again.
“I want to apologize for being such a nit. Of course,” he implored, “you were only trying to take the mickey out of me when you went on about my not being born British.”
“Yeah. Right,” Joshua said uneasily.
“And certainly,” Trimble said, those hard little eyes glittering, “the joke stopped right there.”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“I asked you to meet me here,” he said, “because I’m on to something hot. I can’t even whisper the name of the stock, it’s that confidential, but if you can let me have ten thousand, I can double it for you in three weeks.”
“Jack, I don’t play the market.”
“This isn’t playing, it’s a dead cert. Do you understand me?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Joshua said, stiffening, “and I don’t care for it. And anyway, I wouldn’t know where to lay my hands on ten thousand.”
“Borrow it from your bank.”
“I’m already into my bank for all they will tolerate.”
“I’ll sign for the loan. Or I can even lend you the money.”
“Jack, this really isn’t necessary. You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Of course I don’t owe you a thing,” he said, his cheeks flaring red. “What an absurd thing to say. I’m just trying to be a friend. I thought you would appreciate that.”
As autumn yielded to winter, the trees bare, fur coats being redeemed from storage, Christmas decorations going up everywhere, the investment trust that was Kevin’s special domain in Trimble’s office began to attract attention. In this country, a sour Joshua noted, where prophets were without honor, but profit-makers venerated, he was becoming a figure. He was acclaimed in the Financial Post; there was a short, snappy profile in the business pages of Maclean’s. “Westmount’s Whizz Kid.” In all his interviews, Kevin paid fulsome tribute to Trimble, the acknowledged financial wizard who had given him his chance, and his slippery benefactor unfailingly responded in kind. “Kevin Hornby,” he told one reporter after another, “is the Guy Lafleur of this office. He’s a natural. If Coral is this year’s success story, well, he deserves all the credit. I consider myself lucky to be able to share in the profits.”
The profits, on the evidence, were prodigious, not only shareholders but also Kevin quivering with delight as Coral fattened on points day after day.
WESTMOUNT WHIZZ KID FLIES OWN PLANE ran a headline in the Gazette. Kevin was no longer dependent on the vagaries of commercial airline schedules, but could now pilot his own Beechcraft to New York or Toronto or Calgary or wherever it was crucial for him to strike next. He was, the reporter noted, the only son of Senator Stephen Andrew Hornby, and a portrait of that grand old man held pride of place in his office. “I’m just crazy about having the old s.o.b. hanging up there,” he was quoted as saying. “Keeping me honest. Watching over me and my work.”
Joshua ran into Kevin, inevitably, on Sherbrooke Street, immediately in front of the Cartier, where he had taken an apartment. Kevin insisted he come right upstairs with him for a drink.
“You have no idea how inadequate I feel in the presence of people with real talent. People like you. All I make is money,” he said, dimpling.
“On the evidence, a good deal of it, too,” Joshua ventured, scanning the apartment.
Trophies trooped across the mantelpiece. Golf, bridge, fishing. And there were photographs of Kevin everywhere. Standing alongside an enormous marlin hanging from a dockside scale. Goldenhaired, younger, assuming a linebacker’s stance, a McGill Redman. Cuddling with two starlets from Thunderball. There was also a framed photograph of Kevin and Pauline, embracing on a tennis court. The Mixed Doubles Champions. But that had been in 1952, and the man who sat before him now carefully combed his hair
to conceal a burgeoning bald spot. His eyes were pouchy, rimmed with red. He was putting on a paunch. His hands were far from steady.
“Coral’s been my salvation,” he said.
“I read somewhere that Jack thinks you’re the Guy Lafleur of brokers.”
“Well, that was typically generous of him. But I wouldn’t go that far. I prefer to think I’ve been lucky. How’s Trout?”
“Pauline’s just fine, but she’s worried about you.”
“Worried? I’m doing fabulously well. She ought to be pleased.”
“Oh, but of course she’s pleased. So am I.”
“Don’t get pompous with me, please.”
“As long,” Joshua continued, “as you don’t do anything to hurt her or the senator.”
“Do you speak for my dear father as well now?”
“No,” Joshua said, retreating, “not really.”
“But I understand that the two of you get on famously.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“How is the old boy these days?”
“Thriving, considering his age.”
“Interesting, don’t you think, that I should have to ask a stranger about my father?”
“Why don’t you drive out to Ottawa and surprise him with a visit? He might respond to that.”
“Or show me the door again.”
“Give him the option.”
“No way.”
A week later, Kevin was adjudged one of Montreal’s Most Desirable Bachelors in a feature that appeared in Chatelaine. The magazine came out on the day of Trimble’s annual Guy Fawkes party and a twinkly-eyed Kevin, arriving late, a fashion model on each arm, took the inevitable ribbing good-naturedly. It was, by common consent, the most opulent of Trimble’s parties and, sometime later, cursed with hindsight, Joshua would come to wonder whether he already knew there would never be another.
The theme, naturally, was resoundingly British. Union Jack lampshades and wastepaper baskets and ashtrays everywhere. Smoked salmon had been flown in from Harrod’s, and the kippers that would be offered to those who stayed on for breakfast, from Fortnum’s. Waitresses offered a Queen Elizabeth rose to each lady as she drifted into the living room. Waiters, dressed like buskers, held forth over a counter offering cockles and winkles; they brought round trays laden with sizzling brown bangers or Scotch ale, as well as champagne. There was a pearly king and queen and disco music from a group called The Lambeth Walk. An actor with a cockney accent had been hired to fry the fish and chips. Dover sole. The real stuff. “And only the bona fide Québécois here,” a bouncy, rosy-cheeked Trimble announced to cheers, “will be allowed to sprinkle vinegar on their pommes frites.”
Wet snow had begun to fall before the fireworks display in the garden, but it did not detract from its splendor. Everybody oohed, everybody aahed. Catherine wheels. Exploding stars. Whooshing rockets. Sprinklers. Cracklers. Chasers. Raining comets. And, finally, the pièce de résistance: A rubber-booted Charlie moved out to light a long fuse attached to an elaborate frame, retreated, and a moment later everybody applauded; there were even some defiant cheers, as the unmistakable images of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip leaped and spluttered before they illuminated the troubled skies of loyal Westmount, a colony besieged.
In the opinion of some, this last display was needlessly provocative, considering the times. Izzy Singer sought out the Star’s society columnist and drove her into a corner.
“I’ve already got your name,” she said impatiently, “and Mrs. Singer’s dress. A sheath of cerulean blue printed silk.”
No, no, Izzy pointed out, this time he emphatically didn’t want his name listed among the guests.
A bad business, somebody else suggested. After all, Trimble’s neighbors did include a Parti Québécois cabinet minister.
“Oh, let him get stuffed,” Trimble said.
And then Trimble, who had seemed to be everywhere at once, was suddenly nowhere to be found. The lights dimmed and knowing guests began to giggle, explaining to newcomers that it was time for his number. One year, memorably, it had been “Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner That I Love London So.”
Wait. He’s really something else. Hilarious. Wicked. A card. And now, incredibly, he was sashaying out there, even as the Lambeth Walk played a fanfare. Garishly rouged, his cupid’s mouth smeared with lipstick. Wearing a wig. Trimble in drag. My, my. His gay nineties gown uplifted by enormous balloon breasts. Strutting in high button boots. The jowly, hard-eyed Trimble, leering at his squealing guests and singing in a cockney accent:
“My word, I’ve had a party,
My word, I’ve had a spree!
Believe me or believe me not,
It’s all the same to me!
I’m wild with exaltation,
I’m dizzy with success,
For I’ve danced with a man who –
Well, you’ll never guess!
I’ve danced with a man who’s danced with a girl
Who’s danced with the Prince of Wales!
I’m crazy with excitement,
Completely off the rails!
And when he said to me what she said to him
The Prince remark’d to her,
It was simply grand!
He said, ‘Topping band!’
And she said, ‘Delightful, sir!’
Glory, glory hallelujah,
I’m the luckiest of females,
For I’ve danced with a man who’s danced with a girl
Who’s danced with the Prince of Wales!”
As the lights had dimmed, Joshua caught a glimpse of Jane burying her head in Kevin’s chest, in mock or possibly even real horror. But now, as the lights brightened again to appreciative laughter and applause, she was standing alone. Kevin had gone. And Pauline was not to be seen anywhere. Jane waved a hand at Joshua and drifted to a corner of the room, waiting for him to join her. “They’re in the library,” she said. “Having it out. About time too. You haven’t told me how lovely I look tonight.”
“I was saving it for a more intimate moment.”
“She can’t stand not being his games mistress any more. ‘Kevin take a giant step, Kevin don’t.’ If I were unkind –”
“If you were what?”
“– I might even venture that she’s somewhat chagrined to find him standing on his own two feet at last.”
“Don’t ever underestimate my wife.”
“Everybody’s getting into Coral. Abbott, Hickey, McTeer, the Friars … They were holding off, frankly dubious, but now they’re falling all over themselves to invest.”
“Possibly,” Joshua said, “nothing breeds forgiveness or makes Westmount’s heart palpitate quite so much as the smell of quick money.”
“Oh, but here comes Pauline,” she said, brightening, leaning over to kiss him tenderly on the cheek as she approached.
Pauline had been crying and wanted to leave immediately.
Once they were in the car, she said, “He’s buying a condominium downtown. A hundred thousand dollars. He’s looking at properties on the lake. Oh, and he and Jack are considering going into film production. Something to do with tax shelters. He wanted to know if you had any script ideas?”
“Gee,” Joshua said. “Golly.”
“And lookee here,” she said, handing him a folded envelope, as they pulled up in front of the house. “Repayment in part.”
There was a check for $5,000, and a certificate declaring her the owner of another $5,000 worth of Coral shares.
“He says the shares are already worth better than eight thousand and that I should hold onto them. I think I’ll do just that, but you can have the check if you make me forget that I’m a mother of three tonight.”
4
GOOD NEWS.
The next morning’s mail brought a letter from his American publisher, suggesting the time could be ripe for another edition of The Volunteers, if only Joshua was willing to return to Spain to gather material for a new introduct
ion.
The Volunteers, eight years in the making, had finally been published in 1966. The Canadian edition had sold some six hundred copies; the American, nearly five thousand; and the British, more than three. But there had been a gratifying number of translations. Reviews had been surprisingly widespread and, for the most part, flattering. And, best of all, two weeks before the book was to appear in England, Pauline and the kids had presented him with an airplane ticket to London, so that he could be there for publication.
London, demented London, already pronounced swinging in 1966, the party in full flow.
Jean Shrimpton yielded to Twiggy; the Beatles to the Rolling Stones. Germaine Greer, reviewing a cookery book in the Spectator-Consuming Fassions, A History of English Food and Appetite – rebuked the author, Philippa Pullar, for saying “not a word about the charming practice of marinading fish between the vulvae to make a delicacy for a lover.” Which was a long way from the schmaltz herring Morty Zipper’s grandmother used to make for them.
Strolling down to The World’s End, once his local pub, the very morning of his arrival, Joshua was struck by the transformation of this once flaking street into the most saucy of boulevards. Tarted-up junk shops were now offering “antiques” at insanely inflated prices. The surly King’s Road chemist of blessed memory, the greengrocer and sweets shop proprietor who had struggled for years, realizing a small annual profit, had finally struck an unexpected bonanza, letting their leaseholds go for a ransom to Le Drugstore, boutiques called Skin, Just Men, or Take 6, and to frightfully in restaurants and clubs such as Alvaro’s and Dell’Aretusa.
Joshua learned that Alvaro Maccioni, the former waiter who ran both places, had appointed a committee of fifteen social savants to pronounce on applications to join Dell’Aretusa. Only the rich, only the famous, need apply.
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