“Oh, no.”
“I wish you’d admit that you were.”
All his senses were alert and he heard the faintest noises outside on the street. Quite clearly he heard voices no farther away than the nearest lamppost and the voices came a little closer. He heard Mr. and Mrs. Errington talking to each other.
“Please, please, Isabelle,” he said picking up her coat and trying to drape it around her shoulders. Hurrying, she took time to say she couldn’t run out with her coat draped around her shoulders. Rapidly she left the room and he followed her to the top of the stairs; from there he could look down and out of small glass windows in the door, beyond the veranda, down the walk to the street. Mr. and Mrs. Errington had not turned up the walk yet and he felt if Isabelle could get to the door it would be all right, if only they didn’t look through the glass and see her coming downstairs. Hearing her opening the door he turned quickly, walking back to his room, hardly moving, listening for sounds on the veranda, underneath his room. Isabelle said something quietly, then Mr. Errington spoke and he heard Mrs. Errington talking. The conversation was short, but trying so hard to hear the words, wishing she would go, it seemed to him to last a long time It was over and Isabelle’s high heels tapped on the sidewalk. From the window he saw her hurrying along the street. Her coat collar was turned up, she was under the lamppost, holding her hand at her throat. The sidewalks were dry again and the wet spots, hardening, were slippery. The light from the streetlamp shone on a slippery spot on the sidewalk.
He simply lay down on the bed, waiting. Downstairs in the hall the Erringtons talked quietly, then they went into the kitchen and a kettle rattled on a stove. They were going to have a cup of tea and talk about it before coming upstairs. For John, lying in the bed, everything had become calm and it was hard to believe he had been excited a few moments ago, for now the Erringtons were the only people in the world for him and every movement of theirs in the kitchen was important.
Finally they came upstairs, Mr. Errington following his wife. They went into their room and, undressing very quietly, got into bed. Usually they read the papers in bed, and when John came home in the evenings he heard the papers rustling on their bed and the light was always in the room. Sometimes they quarreled steadily, but it never seemed to prevent them reading the papers. Coming up the stairs in the evenings late at night and always hearing the sounds in their bedroom, John had got to like them, feeling he knew all about them and their lives. Listening now, waiting nervously, he was at ached to all sounds, wanting earnestly that nothing should disturb them and every night he should be able to hear them, since they were a part of his own life around the house.
Tonight, they did not read the papers, but undressed quietly and got into bed and began to talk steadily. When Mr. Errington raised his voice, he suddenly lowered it, as though she had nudged him. They talked quietly almost an hour and John, trying so hard to hear a phrase, a few words, tired himself out and fell asleep on the bed without undressing.
Chapter Ten
In the morning Mrs. Errington, getting him his breakfast hardly spoke till he was finished. Reluctantly, she sat down and said: “I wanted to talk to you about the young woman, Miss Thompson, who was here last night.”
“Yes, Mrs. Errington.”
“Well, Mr. Errington told me to tell you that you ought to leave at the end of the week.”
“I will.”
“I’m sorry.”
She was so sorry he would have to go she was ready to explain it was her husband who had urged her to give him notice without even asking for an explanation. It never even occurred to him to try and argue with her. She was a plump, friendly woman, who had been so respectable al her life such an escapade excited her and aroused her sympathy, although it could not be tolerated. So she sat at the end of the table, looking at him a little wistfully, determinedly expressing by her attitude approval of her husband’s opinion. All her good nature and the restraint of the years, so uneventful for her, trying to be interested in her husband’s reform politics, when younger, and sure she would someday encounter a strong lasting excitement, then missing it and thinking of it a little bashfully, without any hope, gave her now a kindly feeling, urging her to comfort him even though her common sense prompted her to hold aloof.
“It really would be better for you to go without talking about it at all, don’t you think?” she said, her voice lifting a little as she leaned forward, half expecting he would be unable to resist telling her something. If he had suddenly started to cry, expressing in some way a fresh and violent emotion, it would have been awkward for both of them, for she would have put her arms around him. Mrs. Errington was about forty-five, her hair still dark, and hardly any lines were in her plump fresh face. They weren’t saying a word to each other, thought they were both sharing the same feeling and perhaps some of the same thoughts.
“You’re quite right, Mrs. Errington,” he said abruptly, standing up.
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Errington is quite right.” Turning before going into the front room to the piano, he said: “Would you mind telling me how you knew the young lady’s name was Thompson?”
“She told us. That’s what makes it worse. It wouldn’t do at all for us, if people got to know about it. We knew you had been a friend of the family.”
In the front room, as though nothing had happened at all, he stood at the piano, sounding notes with one hand, going over the scales three or four times, while Mrs. Errington, moving behind in the other room, cleared the dishes off the table. She had never objected to giving him a late breakfast. Sometimes she had offered to have a cup of tea with him. John was not even thinking of asking her husband for an explanation. Mr. Errington was merely her husband, a social democrat, a prohibitionist and an advanced liberal, though really a hard puritan living on a vicarious excitement he got out of such ideas. John had always liked him, not wanting him to be any other way.
Outside in the early afternoon, he was uncertain whether to see Lillian or to phone Isabelle, and went downtown to waste the afternoon hours in the arena, seeing the hockey teams practice on the artificial ice. The players, in bright sweaters, were always formed in shifting patterns on the ice surface and it was easy following them, wondering how to explain to Lillian that he was leaving the Erringtons. Once he thought of Isabelle. The palms of his hands started to sweat. He began to talk out loud, resentfully, then he was puzzled, hardly thinking of her at all. In the arena, leaning over the rail he watched a college team practice on the ice. Most of the players wore old sweaters with holes torn in them. The forwards worked smoothly together, almost ready now to start the league season. The ice was in bad condition, cut up, heavily ridged, because teams had been practicing on it all day.
In the evening he went to St. Mark’s Church to practice with the choir. Usually all the singers talked together in two rooms in the vestibule at the back of the church before Stanton went to the organ. John was not popular with the choirmen or other soloists, who thought he only sang in the church for the sake of money.
Mr. Stanton, well dressed, his face red and shining, came over and stood beside John, clearing his throat brusquely, and rubbing his hand uneasily down the side of his face, holding his head at an angle. He raised his eyebrows, indicating he was about to speak delicately. John smiled at him. Stanton was confused before he started.
“I’d like to talk to you privately, John.”
“Of course, Mr. Stanton.”
They moved over to the far corner of the room, and other soloists and choirmen looked at them suspiciously, sure some favor, forever eluding them, was being granted to John.
“The truth is I have something delicate to say, John.”
“Of course, Mr. Stanton.”
“You understand, I wouldn’t say it, only the minister, Doctor Ellwood, has instructed me to say it.”
“Please tell me. What is it?”
“He wants you to quit here.”
“Why?”
“He’s heard things about you, shall I say, detrimental to your good reputation, that he – should I go on?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Well, it’s about the Thompson girl, the one whose brother was executed a few months ago. Doctor Ellwood has heard you’ve been carrying on with her in the house where you’ve been staying and that people have complained.”
“Tell me one thing first,” John said. “Who told him this? Was it Isabelle Thompson? It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t have been, could it? Was it Mrs. Errington?”
“No. Maybe I oughtn’t to tell you, but a Mr. Errington phoned and said he believed Doctor Ellwood ought to know.”
“Oh, well, then, I see.”
“Tell me, John. Is it true?”
“Why, Miss Thompson happened to call on me last night when the Erringtons were out and was just leaving when they came in.”
“Is there anything between you and Miss Thompson?”
“Eh?”
John looking at him a little stupidly, began to laugh. People at the other side of the room glanced at them. “I wish you could tell me that,” he said, laughing again, only there was no flow at all, he seemed to be having such a hard time getting his breath. “I wish you’d tell me,” he said, staring at Stanton, who was getting redder in the face, coughing to express his irritation. Mr. Stanton went on talking, but John was hardly listening; the muscles in his jaws were moving and he was pale. Mr. Stanton, believing he was experiencing a strong emotion because of losing his position, felt sorry for him.
“It would be different,” he said, “if this wasn’t a church. Do you want me to make any representations to Doctor Ellwood?”
“Do you think it would do any good?”
“No. You know how intolerant all his moral sermons are every Sunday.”
“Then I’ll resign.”
“To make it easier, Doctor Ellwood thinks you could have a month’s pay now instead of waiting till the end of the month.”
“I won’t bother practicing here tonight. I’ll go at once.”
“That was pretty decent of him paying you for a month, don’t you think?”
“I must go at once, there’s something important . . .”
“I mean it’s decent of him, knowing what he’s like.”
Mr. Stanton followed John into the cloakroom, gravely insisting they had always been good friends, and that aside from personal matters, he had a high opinion of his voice. John was not listening, throwing his scarf around his neck and pulling on his coat, so Mr. Stanton became desperately determined to make it clear that his voice, if further developed, and trained, assured him of a fine career. Following John to the door, he stood outside on the stone step, shouting: “You ought to go to another city, do you hear, you ought to go to Europe.”
John was hurrying down the street to the corner, looking for a pay telephone. The sidewalks were slippery in spots and twice he tripped, recovering his balance abruptly, and he slowed down because it occurred to him, thinking of himself almost as another personality, that nothing would be more ridiculous than to fall on the sidewalk in such a temper. It would break the mood; there would be a loss of energy; so he walked carefully as far as the corner drugstore. Three young men, loafing in the lighted entrance, were giggling and whistling faintly at a tall girl who had crossed the street.
In the drugstore he waited till a fat woman came out of the phone booth. The proprietor of the store smiled at him politely, hoping he might buy something, and John stared, eager to insult him. The woman came out of the both. John went in and phoned Isabelle. She answered.
“It’s John,” he said at once. “Look here, there’s a limit, do you hear? I’ve got to move away from Errington’s and I’ve just lost my job in the church.” He was talking so rapidly and loudly the clerk in the store peered at him through the window. Becoming calm suddenly, he realized Isabelle could not understand anything he was saying and explained quietly that he had lost his job.
“Oh, what a pity,” she said.
Telling her about the Erringtons, he said abruptly: “How did you come to tell them your name?” and expected her to pause. At once she said: “I thought it would be best. I was polite to them. Introduced myself. I told them that I called to see you because I couldn’t get in touch with you. What could I say there on the veranda?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you have done?”
“I don’t know.”
“You wanted me to stay.”
“All right. Tell me, what’ll I tell Lillian?”
His hand, holding the earpiece, trembled a little, and she said finally: “Tell her I called for you at the church once or twice and they knew too much about me. Blame it on me. It was my fault anyway and Lillian won’t mind, and tell her you’re moving because you want a cheaper place now you’ve lost your job.”
“But what’ll I do?”
“Dear John. It’s a shame. Oh, if only I really could help you.” She was speaking sincerely and he knew at the moment she was anxious to help him. He said suddenly, “Damn you,” and hung up the phone.
In the cab, on the way to Lillian’s apartment, he tried to make up a story that would sound plausible. This was not easy, because he was thinking mainly of Isabelle.
Entering Lillian’s apartment he thought he was smiling normally, talking casually. Lillian had on a dressing gown and her hair was held back tightly behind her ears. She said quickly: “What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You look so pale and you’re grinning weirdly.”
“I’ll tell you then,” he said casually, taking off his coat and sitting down. “The truth is that I’ve lost my position at the church. What do you think of that? Of course, I don’t need to leave till the end of the month, but I thought I’d quit at once.”
“But why?”
“I’m a bad character. At least they didn’t like the people of quality who called for me at the church. You and Isabelle had been there several times, and mainly because of Isabelle, who is getting known, I guess, they got the notion I was not the right kind of a character to sing every Sunday in the church.” It did not sound sincere. It sounded as if he had hardly said it at all, and Lillian simply looked at him, her mouth opening, while she slowly raised her right hand. John thought she was going to burst out laughing. Instead, she nodded her head and said suddenly: “Of course that’s silly, but don’t you see what’s happened? Someone told some church people about you and me and this apartment and just like such people, they feel that they can’t go on employing you in the church.” Then she started to cry, muttering that sooner or later some ill-luck had to come to them, and working herself up gradually, finally declared passionately that all her thoughts for days had been confused and she sometimes wondered why she loved him at all. Her feeling had changed and was all for herself. Then she said quietly: “Poor Isabelle. Do you wonder she is almost obsessed by the notion that we’ve left her, when even those church people mention her?”
“Now, don’t make a martyr out of her.”
“I believe you hate her.”
“Right now I’m tired of thinking of her. I’m going home.”
“But I want to talk about her.”
“Well, I’m going home.”
It was a long walk home from the apartment, south, then across the viaduct, and he was glad of the frosty air and the necessity of rapid walking to keep warm. Losing the position in the church was not the same as losing a job in an office or a store. In the city there were many offices and stores, and some jobs were much alike, only the employers were a little different. In the whole city there were only two or three church soloist positions with decent salaries. A man having one of these positions had the prestige and support of people who were influential. It was hardly any use trying to be a good singer in the city if you did not have the approval of the influential people, who all worked together as though belonging to the same lodg
e. If you had one of the positions and lost it because of some personal antipathy, then the other good churches were closed to you, and smaller ones paid about twenty dollars a month. It was like losing a membership in a socially important club.
But John, on the way home, starting to cross the bridge, was tired thinking of positions he could not have, and was anxious to get home to his room in Errington’s house. It had been a fine, sun-lit room in the north side of the house, and in the morning, after watching kids playing in the street, he could go down and have a late breakfast with Mrs. Errington, who sometimes had a cup of tea with him while gossiping pleasantly about all the neighbors, who had become so well known to him, he often spoke to one on the street without really knowing her at all. Every night he had walked across the bridge on the way home from work at the church. He was on the second span of the wider bridge over the big valley, and the line of lights was straighter. Directly ahead, on the other side of the valley, green and golden lines of light flashed and faded and flashed again in electric signs on building tops. Below, in the ravine, the Don River was frozen over with a thin coating of ice. He stopped walking, leaning against the stone, looking down the valley at the rows of lights in the part to the south, where all the flatland would be flooded in the spring when the Don overflowed its banks. The park lights were always in the same regular patterns. On the right side of the valley on the slope of the hill was a cemetery and a line of trees, a row of flat-roofed houses, lights in the windows, farther back from the cemetery, and light streaks in the sky behind the line of trees with bare branches. Far down at the south of the park in the corner, though he could not see it now, was the jail on the hill where the crowd had gathered, singing the songs and looking at the window.
Chapter Eleven
He moved at the end of the week to a three-dollar-a-week room on Bond Street, close to the downtown section of the city. The landlady, Mrs. Stanley, who had iron-gray hair piled high on her head, was a widow who owned three houses in a row on the street. She had lost most of her lower teeth. Three, yellow at the gums and high and narrow, flashed every time she drew back her lower lip, smiling at John, a sober-looking young man, stocky and sensible, who wanted the cheapest room she had. Standing at the window of the room, almost facing the old brick cathedral on the other side of the street, and the public garage a little way down the lane, she told him, whispering hoarsely, that the man in the next room, a Mr. Gibbons, was a communist, but quiet and decent in every other way. It was something he ought to know, she thought. The room was in poor condition when he first saw it, and smelled of gas. On Monday when he came again the walls had been freshly papered and clean curtains hung at the windows, but the room still smelled of gas.
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