Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  “They are going to start at any minute.”

  “Good thing I came when I did then.” Murdoch leaned forward and touched his hat to Mrs. Barrett, who responded without much enthusiasm. He knew he would never be in her good graces. Rightfully so, she suspected his intentions with her lodger.

  Alwyn glanced at Murdoch. “Your moustache is wet,” he said critically.

  Suddenly, the electric lights in the hall all blinked off. The chatter stopped abruptly at the unexpected darkness but resumed immediately in relief when the overhead chandeliers lit up again. A man in a formal black frock coat and dark trousers walked onto the stage and held up his hand for silence. He could have been a man from any profession, dignified and rather arrogant in his bearing. When he spoke, however, his manner and booming voice were that of a circus barker.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. Aloysius Carver at your service and I am here to welcome all of you to the first World Typewriting Competition ever to be held in our noble city of Toronto. We are most pleased to be the host of this exciting event, which has attracted competitors from all over the world, especially our neighbour to the south, where the current world champion, Miss Mae Orr, resides. She is with us tonight, prepared to defend her title.”

  A burst of applause from the right side of the audience, where some people were holding small American flags. The maestro bowed at them, then continued, “We have in addition two highly qualified entrants from over the pond: one lady from England and a gentleman from Germany. But best of all, our own fair country is represented by no less than five competitors, two of whom are local residents.”

  More applause, this time from the left side. “Yes, five, and all of them capable of wresting away the cup from Miss Orr, even if I say so myself.”

  He turned and signalled to a man standing at the rear of the stage who immediately pulled away a black cloth draped over a table. Three large, gleaming silver trophies were revealed.

  “These are for the competitors who finish in the top three places. In addition each will receive fifty, thirty, and twenty-five dollars respectively. Five runners up will receive a cheque for ten dollars, courtesy of the Remington typewriting company…”

  “Mamma truly needs that money,” Alwyn whispered in a worried voice.

  “Let me explain the rules to you who are uninitiated. The competition is divided into two parts. The first is a fifteen-minute dictation from a text that has been kept secret from the competitors. We can’t give anybody a chance to practise. After that the papers will be collected and our honourable judges, who are at the moment also backstage, and who are all members of our Board of Commerce, will carefully mark and grade the papers. Marks will be deducted for strikeovers, uneven typing, too many words on the line. While they are doing that, the competitors will be given a text to copy, the same for all and also unknown. After fifteen minutes, our timer will ring his bell…Mr. Briggs, if you please.”

  His assistant dinged the button on the large brass bell in front of him.

  “When they hear that, the competitors must stop at once. Anybody observed making even one more stroke after the bell has sounded will be disqualified. I’m sure all you people with keen eyes and wits will make sure there is no cheating.”

  There was a chorus of right on, yes, we will, not all good-natured, Murdoch thought. This competition was taken seriously. Patriotic fervour was hovering in the air.

  “Those papers will also be marked and while that’s going on, you’ll have a chance to stretch your legs. Gentlemen, may I remind you of the presence of our esteemed ladies, please go outside to smoke a pipe. When the judges have finished we will announce our winners.”

  Alwyn crossed his fingers, both hands.

  The maestro signalled to his assistant, who in turn beckoned to somebody in the wings. A gangly youth shuffled in, looking self-conscious at being in front of an audience. He was carrying a large clock that he hung on a post standing on the uppermost dais, where the audience could see it. Another nod from the master of ceremonies and out came a florid-faced portly man whose hair was too long for polite society and whose garish necktie proclaimed him a man of the theatre. He had a book in his hand and Murdoch assumed he was to be the reader of dictation. He climbed to the upper dais as well, perched on a high stool, and bowed his head in intense concentration as if he were about to deliver one of the Bard’s tragic monologues.

  The stage had been fitted with three risers and on each level were five desks, spaced so that each competitor was visible to the spectators. Beside each desk was a stack of paper.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present, Miss Mae Orr from the great city of New York, the United States of America, the reigning world champion typewriter.”

  There was a loud cheer from the American contingent, polite applause from the rest of the audience, and the world champion walked on stage. She was young, bespectacled, and emanated complete confidence and efficiency. Her navy gown was sensibly loose fitting in the sleeves to give her ease of movement. She sat down at the front desk, acknowledged the spectators with a cool nod, placed her hands in her lap, and waited. She was followed by an assistant, who carried her typewriting machine and placed it with great reverence on the desk.

  “Our next competitor, also a former world champion from New York, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Frank McGurrin.”

  To more rousing applause, Mr. McGurrin strode onto the stage. Where Miss Orr was quiet containment, he was noisy exuberance. He grinned at the spectators, called out, “Hi there” to one of his friends, and took his seat at the desk next to his rival. He had no assistant and placed his own machine on the desk, then leaned over and offered his hand to Miss Orr. She shook it with a primness that made it clear she did not approve of such showy behaviour.

  “Mamma says she’ll win,” whispered Alwyn. “She can type up to ninety words a minute.”

  Murdoch nodded, although the number meant nothing to him. Miss Orr and Mr. McGurrin were the star performers, and as the rest of the competitors were called and made their entrance, they both began their own setups, not waiting until everybody was settled. Miss Orr removed her typewriter from its case, adjusted her chair, and raised her hands above the typewriter keys to make sure she was in the exactly correct position. She looked like a pianist about to launch into a concerto. She checked the stack of paper beside her and moved it an inch closer. McGurrin was doing the same kind of fidgeting. More competitors were introduced and took their places.

  “Mamma said she is seated in the second row, third seat in. Oh, here she is.”

  “Mrs. Enid Jones from Wales, currently residing in Toronto,” the master of ceremonies announced. Enid was wearing the grey silk dress that Murdoch liked best. She appeared shy, but there was no denying her attractiveness. Some rude masher at the back of the hall let out a whistle. Alwyn was clapping with all his might and Murdoch joined in. Even Mrs. Barrett softened and applauded vigorously. Enid took her place in the second row. Alwyn looked up at Murdoch and, in the tone of somebody who cannot contain the news, said, “My grandda is quite poorly.”

  Murdoch was rather puzzled by what seemed to be a glint of pleasure in Alwyn’s eyes, but before he could respond, the maestro shouted the name of the next competitor.

  “And now a young man who is intent on keeping us all law-abiding, Mr. Liam Callahan, a constable from Number Four Station.”

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed Murdoch.

  Alwyn glanced up at him. “I don’t think it’s fair to have a constable in the competition.”

  Murdoch didn’t know what he meant, but wasn’t about to get into a wrangle about it. Why had Callahan, who had described himself as a beginner at typewriting, entered a competition where the level of skill was bound to be very high?

  The rest of the competitors, mostly men, were announced and came out quickly. Enid had positioned her chair and typewriter to her liking and was now waiting nervously for the contest to begin. Murdoch saw
her quickly scan the audience, but he didn’t know if she saw him or not.

  Finally all the nervous scraping and shifting was done with. The impresario looked them over.

  “All ready?”

  Nods and murmurs. He held up his hand to the actor sitting on the stool. “Mr. Coleman, are you ready?”

  “Ready indeed, sir.”

  He opened his book, the timekeeper checked his watch, and ping, the bell sounded.

  “Toronto Called Back, by Mr. Conyngham Crawford Taylor.”

  The typewriter keys started to clack. Coleman read beautifully in a rich, deep voice that resonated about the hall. Murdoch assumed the book was chosen because it gave the spectators something to listen to that was mildly entertaining.

  Buckingham Palace, London, Nov. 24th, 1891

  Sir–In reply to your letter to the Duke of Connaught requesting a photograph of His Royal Highness, for another edition of your work, Toronto “Called Back,” I am desired by His Royal Highness to forward you the enclosed photograph. ALFRED EGERTON Colonel, Comptroller of the Household of H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught.

  The punctuation in this passage was challenging and one or two of the competitors winced, not sure of themselves. No one watched the keys, all looking straight ahead, their fingers moving rapidly and smoothly. Then virtually as one they reached the end of the page. With her right hand, Miss Orr took hold of the roller knob at the same time as her index finger unhooked the paper holder. She pushed the carriage from left to right while simultaneously rotating the roller. The typed sheet popped out and landed on the desk behind the typewriting machine. Before it even settled, she had reached down and picked up a clean sheet of paper and inserted it in the carriage. She continued to type with hardly a break in her rhythm. There was a spontaneous gasp from the spectators. This is what they had come to see, the champion in action. Only Mr. McGurrin could make the same manoeuvre. Everybody else, including Enid, turned the carriage, rolled out the paper, put it down, and then inserted the new sheet. Coleman kept reading but already it was obvious most of the typewriters were behind.

  “Mamma isn’t going to win,” groaned Alwyn. “I think that’s cheating, don’t you?”

  Murdoch could understand his intense loyalty, but he couldn’t see anything wrong with what Miss Orr had done. In fact, it was truly remarkable. On surged the race as Coleman read on. Constable Callahan, obviously not a neophyte, seemed to have hit a rhythm. Enid’s typing was fast and smooth but her page change was too slow and he was afraid she had fallen back. Frank McGurrin was sweating but wouldn’t waste time by mopping his own forehead.

  The clock’s minute hand jerked on to the quarter-hour, the bell rang, and Coleman stopped in mid-sentence. As one, the typewriters lifted their hands from the keys. No one was going to risk disqualification.

  “Assistants, collect the papers. Make sure each one is numbered.” Maestro Carver addressed the audience. “To guarantee there is not the slightest whiff of favouritism, each competitor has a number. The judges do not know whose paper they are marking.”

  Mr. Coleman got down from his perch, bowed to enthusiastic applause, and disappeared backstage. The assistants collected the papers and the typewriters were stretching their tight necks and flexing their fingers. Miss Orr stayed cool and contained, Mr. McGurrin could now wipe his face. The assistants returned and handed folders to each person.

  “At the bell, and not a second before, you may turn over your copy and begin.”

  Because the clock was behind them, the contestants couldn’t see the hand approaching the hour but the audience could. Every one seemed to be holding their breath. Then the bell rang, there was a flurry of turning paper, and the typewriting began. This half of the contest was the real test. Miss Orr seemed to be able to open her folder before anybody else and off she went. Murdoch thought Enid had started quickly and he nudged Alwyn.

  The boy shook his head. “She won’t win. She doesn’t have her own machine.”

  “Maybe she’ll be a runner-up.”

  “I pray for it.”

  The only sound now was the clack of the typewriter keys and the whirr of carriages sliding. Miss Orr executed another brilliant page change and her supporters clapped. McGurrin was a split second behind her. Nobody else seemed close. Enid appeared tense but she was holding her own and didn’t seem to be doing any overstriking, which would lose her marks. Murdoch watched Callahan, who was focused on the task and appeared to be doing well. As far as he could tell the other competitors were much on a level, although the poor man from Germany inadvertently knocked over his pile of fresh paper, which was disastrous, and he stopped trying completely.

  The hand of the clock moved to the next minute. Two to go. Sensing the end, Miss Orr seemed to increase her speed. She could have been a mechanical piece, she was so precise. The spectators could see the clock and as the second hand moved, they began to chant.

  “…five, four, three, two…”

  “Stop,” shouted the maestro. The bell pinged. Mr. Carver glanced around to make sure no one had slipped in an extra stroke. All clear.

  “Collect the papers. Ladies and gentlemen, we will now take a break for at least one half an hour, after which time we announce the winner.”

  The competitors stood up, some leaving the stage at once, some waving at friends who ran up to talk to them. Miss Orr was immediately surrounded. Enid went to the wings.

  “Mamma says that my grandda might die,” said Alwyn abruptly.

  “Is that so? I’m sorry to hear it.” But Murdoch had a premonition of what was coming next.

  The boy nodded. “We have to go back to Wales. We’ll be going as soon as Mamma gets a passage.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alwyn’s news came as a shock, and Murdoch had a hard time concentrating on the rest of the proceedings. Miss Orr was the winner as expected, with Mr. McGurrin next and the English lady, Miss Wildin, third. To the delight of the partisan crowd, Enid was indeed a runner-up, tying for fourth place with Liam Callahan of all people. After the beautiful cups had been handed out, all the participants mingled with their supporters in the foyer of the hall. Murdoch was waiting until the group of well wishers dispersed, but he also had his eye on Liam Callahan and as soon as he could he went over to him.

  “Congratulations, Callahan. What a surprise.”

  The constable wasn’t just surprised, he was jolted and he flushed.

  “Mr. Murdoch, what are you doing here?”

  “My friend, Mrs. Enid Jones, was in the competition. You both did so remarkably well. I must have misunderstood you at the station yesterday. I was under the impression you were just beginning to typewrite.”

  A young woman standing close beside Callahan chuckled. “Dear me, no, Liam is quite seasoned, this is his third competition.”

  “Ma’am,” said Murdoch.

  “Er, allow me to present my fiancée, Florence Gripe,” said Callahan. “Flo, dearest, this is Detective Murdoch.”

  She clasped her hands together. “How simply splendid. Liam has spoken of you so often. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

  Miss Gripe was a small woman, with a ripe, full figure shown off to advantage in a tightly fitting dark green velvet dress. Her hair was an attractive reddish brown with fashionable front curls and she had fine blue eyes, which she used effectively. She and Murdoch shook hands and she smiled up into his face as if this were indeed a memorable moment for her. Callahan, however, was clearly of the opposite opinion.

  “We’d better get going Flo,” he said. He took her by the elbow, and although she looked as if she were about to protest, she allowed herself to be taken away.

  “Congratulations, again, Callahan,” Murdoch called out as they hurried away.

  He felt a touch on his arm and Enid was beside him with Alwyn.

  “I wondered if you would know him,” she said. “He did very well.”

  “I do indeed. He’s our desk clerk. And the young lady is his fiancée.”

&nb
sp; “She’s quite a coquette for someone who’s betrothed,” said Enid. She obviously had witnessed the warm greeting that Miss Gripe had bestowed on Murdoch.

  He was saved from answering by another well wisher who took Enid’s hand to congratulate her. He mouthed, “I’ll get your cloak,” and went to collect their outdoor clothes.

  Mrs. Barrett had insisted on hiring a cab for them and on the way home, they all went over every detail of the competition, talking about how the others had fared and how Enid had felt each step of the way. Alwyn was holding the small silver cup against his chest. Back at the lodgings, Mrs. Barrett, in an unusual display of hospitality, offered them a glass of sherry, which they took. That consumed another hour until finally they could take their leave and go upstairs. Here, Alwyn declared he was too excited to sleep so Enid took him on her lap and cuddled him. Murdoch watched them, as they whispered in Welsh, cheek against cheek, laughing together. He’d have to talk in front of the boy or go home without knowing what was going to happen.

  “Alwyn says your father is ill and that you will be returning to Wales.”

  He thought he’d succeeded in keeping his voice neutral, but she jumped and looked at him in dismay, the glow of happiness wiped from her face.

  “I was going to tell you, of course, Will. I received the letter only this morning and there was no opportunity. My brother says Da is in some danger and it would be best if I were to go at once.”

  They both knew what the next question was and Alwyn answered it for them.

  “We might not be coming back.”

  “Is that true, Enid?” Murdoch asked.

  She shifted her glance down. “There is nobody else to take care of him.”

  “Except you who have made your life in another country.”

  “I am the only daughter. My brothers have their own families. I am the only one who is free of such responsibilities.”