The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  Miss Pigeon wasn’t sure about the proper etiquette. To play it safe, she dropped to her knees and kissed Miss Bentwhistle’s school ring. “Does this mean we’re going to England?” She didn’t like to complain, but damp weather got to her bones, and she had a fear of fog. What a relief to discover that they’d be taking an extended vacation to Los Angeles instead.

  The headmistress tapped her nose. “Naturally, this must remain confidential until we leave town.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Perhaps weeks, perhaps days. In the interim, you are to scurry here before and after school. To refine your social graces, you shall be quizzed on the finer points of Emily Post. To acquire a proper accent, you shall mimic the recordings of Beatrice Lillie. Further, you shall memorize lists of aristocratic titles and shall invent personal anecdotes relating to each. These tales will be dropped at L.A. cocktail parties.”

  “You want me to lie?”

  “In America, it’s not lying. It’s expected. In any event, better a liar than a bore. Putting one’s hosts to sleep is an unforgivable sin.”

  Miss Pigeon had another concern. Would she be expected to drink alcohol at these parties?

  “Not at all. You can stand at the front door and hang coats.”

  Finally, Miss Pigeon was troubled by her new title: Mistress Dolly, Keeper of the Wardrobe.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “‘Mistress.’ It’s unclean.”

  The headmistress sighed: Baptists could be so literal.

  Miss Bentwhistle still needed baronial gear and seed money. To acquire both, she placed two suitcases, her lacquered jewellery chest, and the decorative packing box from the Heralds’ College in the truck of her Packard and drove to Toronto.

  Her first port of call was Ends and Means, a discount store in the garment district that sold end-of-line quality fabrics to the formerly well-to-do. Shy of being seen in a thrift shop, its customers entered through a side door, collars up. Inside, they made their way down a set of stairs and along a dim corridor to a dingy showroom where they could buy the finest of satins, velvets, linens, and wools, providing they weren’t fussy about colour or style.

  Miss Bentwhistle grabbed the last quarter bolt of an alarming green brocade, a dozen yards of mauve taffeta, enough lace to curtain a house, ten pounds of Edwardian upholstery material, some ribbons and bows, and a box of assorted ivory buttons carved in the shapes of flowers, birds, and nuts. These textiles would be transformed into frocks and ballgowns overnight, courtesy of Mistress Dolly, a Rumpelstiltskin at the Singer sewing machine. Fortunately, English aristocrats weren’t expected to be fashionable.

  Next the headmistress headed to an appointment at Sleeman’s and Sons, a firm at Bay and Bloor that dealt in antique jewellery. Mr. Sleeman was waiting for her at the well-lit table in his oak-panelled cocoon at the back of the store. The decision to sell her family heirlooms had been difficult, as the role of baroness required decoration. Miss Bentwhistle needed cash, however, and had scads of quality costume jewelry donated over the years for use in school plays.

  She dickered with Mr. Sleeman for an hour, finally agreeing to trade her past for her future and a thousand dollars and change. It might have been more, but her granny’s rubies turned out to be glass, and her opals were paste. “If they had been real, you would have lost them,” Mr. Sleeman consoled. “Now you keep something more precious than money: a memory of your grandma.”

  “Spare me your folk wisdom,” Miss Bentwhistle sniffed. She stuffed her jewellery box with lower-denomination bills, locked it in the trunk of her car, and headed off to the Rosedale address of Mr. Cornelius Blunt, a well-connected art dealer who’d done business with her father.

  Suspiciously tidy for a bachelor, Mr. Blunt lived alone in an airy mansion full of well-dusted antiques. He escorted Miss Bentwhistle to the drawing room, where he drew the curtains and invited her to display her wares. She opened the lid of the decorative box from the Heralds’ College, withdrawing the spoils that were hidden under her family tree: the stolen silver and artwork from St. James. (It was a relief to have the booty out from under her floorboards. Since the robbery, she’d been terrified the police would scour the rectory. Thank God they’d set their sights on her girls. She’d resolved never again to take laudanum before going to vespers.)

  Mr. Blunt twiddled the left point of his waxed mustache. “An auction is out of the question,” he observed dryly. “Fortunately, I have a ready customer for your Annunciation. Another gentleman of my acquaintance will be amused by your Beheading of St. John. As for the St. Sebastian, well, my dear, that’s a little number few could resist.” He picked up the St. James chalice and sighed. “We can’t do much about the hardware, I’m afraid. It would be noticed hereabouts, and Europe’s awash. Best to melt it down. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Discussions were brief. There was no one else she could trust to fence the goods, and although Mr. Blunt feathered his nest, he was eminently fair, understanding that unhappy clients could exact revenge with a well-placed phone call. He opened the secret vault behind his dart board and withdrew thick wads of cash; cheques could be traced. As he did so, Miss Bentwhistle made a mental check of her travel budget.

  First, her assets: $4,000 from Mr. Blunt, $1,000 from Sleeman’s, and $3,000 from Academy endowments. That made a grand total of $8,000.

  Second, her expenditures. Bus trip to Chicago for herself and Miss Pigeon, $40. Three days at the Fairmont, $260. Private rail car to Los Angeles, $700. (This extravagance made her ill, but a baroness simply cannot ride in coach.) The Presidential Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, $175 a night x 7 nights = $1,225 a week. (Highway robbery, but a baroness needs the right address.) Obscene tips, a driver and a stretch limo to taxi them to the best restaurants, $1,000 a week, including food and beverage. In short, it would take a grand to get to L.A., and over two a week until she got connected.

  For a moment, Miss Bentwhistle considered banking her nest egg and staying put. With the average wage hovering at eighteen dollars a week, her current take was enough to allow her to tease out her days as a pitied boarder at the Twins Bed and Breakfast. The thought of it made her tremble. Yet she trembled even more at the hard truth that she stood to lose it all, for a successful launch required more than money. This fact had hit home the day before when Miss Pigeon had brought over a box of movie magazines, insisting that Galaxy and Starlight Confidential contained important information about their neighbours-to-be. “Things to talk about at cocktail parties.”

  The magazines were chock-a-block with publicity shots of the stars, articles about their impossibly happy lives, and invitations to join their fan clubs. Miss Bentwhistle had enjoyed a grim chuckle at the thought of thousands of plain Janes sitting at endless cafeteria tables in studio dungeons stuffing envelopes while waiting to be discovered. Then she’d realized the joke was on her. The stars had battalions of such envelope-stuffers, whereas she had a single secretary. One who had trouble with the word “mistress.”

  Miss Bentwhistle had been struck by a terrible corollary to Professor Slater’s riddle: “If a baroness comes to town and nobody notices, did she ever arrive?” Before her title could take her anywhere, she’d have to attract public attention. But how? At first she’d taken comfort in Mary Mabel’s success: “If the penniless seed of some drunken hobo can reap fame and fortune, so can I.” Still, Mary Mabel had raised the dead. She, on the other hand, ran a burned-out school for delinquents.

  Another prayer to God — “Save me and I really promise to sin no more” — had brought an inspiration. Its success, however, was contingent on Mr. Blunt.

  After putting the art dealer’s cash in her decorative box, Miss Bentwhistle pulled out a hankie and drew his attention to the tragic circumstances documented on her family tree. “I’m afraid there’s been a death in the family. In fact, there’ve been a lot of deaths in the family.”

  Mr. Blunt arched an eyebrow. “Someone’s been naughty.”

&
nbsp; Miss Bentwhistle ignored him, explaining that she was about to take a trip to California. “Might you have a client in Los Angeles who could introduce me around town? Particularly at the banks? I’ll be bringing the fabled Bentwhistle Jewels.”

  Mr. Blunt smiled. He knew exactly the person she needed. Dr. Howard “Howie” Silver, Dentist to the Stars. Dr. Silver had a thriving Bel Air practice, thanks to a winning combination of nitrous oxide and gossip which he dispensed with such indiscretion that his patients begged to book root canals. Keen to be seen, and to be seen to be seen, he was a fixture at all the right parties, the sort of man who’d be delighted to be known as the consort to a baroness. Especially a baroness trailing a treasure trove in fabled jewels.

  Miss Bentwhistle paid Mr. Blunt a hundred dollars for his contact, put her loot in the trunk, and tootled over to Diana Sweets to celebrate her good fortune over a Honeydew and a double Toasted Ritz. Her ducks were in a row. She couldn’t wait to confront the town fathers. What fun she’d have, telling them off and sailing out the door. If she succeeded, the rewards would beggar imagination. If she failed, she’d make a grand jeté from the Hollywoodland sign. It was as simple as that.

  Dr. Howard “Howie” Silver, Dentist to the Stars, was on cloud nine. Whether downing a highball or drilling a molar, he alerted everybody he knew that his good friend the Baroness of Bentwhistle was coming to town with the barony’s fabled jewels. Not only that, he let them know that he was to be her Lord High Secretary and Steward of the Calendar, pro tem, responsible for lining up her social engagements in the city.

  “The Baroness of Bentwhistle?”

  “Yes,” he gushed, “the Baroness of Bentwhistle.”

  After a little repetition the name invariably rang a bell. “The Baroness of Bentwhistle … , oh yes. Isn’t she the one who, uh…? Didn’t she, um, uh…? Don’t tell me. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  Word spread.

  A number of Dr. Silver’s well-heeled patients and associates claimed to have spotted the baroness on trips to England, at Wimbledon and/or Trafalgar Square. One recalled sitting next to her in a box at the West End. Others remembered her winning horse at Ascot, while still others understood that the king had praised her charity work with the families of unemployed chimney sweeps. There was confusion as to her height, weight, age, and complexion, but on one point they were unanimous: they’d love to see her again. Could Dr. Silver arrange a luncheon? The dentist’s social stock, always good, went through the roof. So did his rates.

  Expatriate Brits in the Hollywood film community were caught by surprise. At parties and on the set, people asked them questions about the baroness. Pleading ignorance was inconceivable for those who’d padded their pedigrees or played royalty in period costume dramas. Besides, it’s always useful to appear in the know. So they smiled, confirmed every rumour, and conveyed the impression that they had inside information to which they were sworn to secrecy. Things got dicey when studio honchos started to leave messages asking them to bring the baroness to upcoming galas. They agreed, and made a mental note to be hospitalized on the days appointed.

  Meanwhile, as requested by the baroness, Dr. Silver made a point to speak to his contacts in the financial community. The bankers were excited at the prospect of representing a baroness. Customers had been shy since the Crash. Securing the confidence of British nobility would be terrific publicity. They thanked Dr. Silver for his referral, and put their staffs on high alert; any communication from the baroness was to be given top priority.

  Miss Bentwhistle waited to telephone personally until she was safely holed up in Chicago’s Fairmont. A call from the Windy City had more clout and raised fewer questions than one from the Canadian boondocks. Her conversations with the bankers were brief. “The Baroness of Bentwhistle here. We are en route to L.A. with the family jewels. May we pencil in a tour of your facilities?” Booking bank presidents turned out to be easier than booking parent-teacher interviews.

  While Miss Bentwhistle lined up banks, Miss Pigeon scavenged old bricks and concrete chunks from derelict buildings. These were used to fill her ladyship’s strongbox, giving weight to the legend of the Bentwhistle Jewels. The errands took thirty-five trips and ruined the inside of Miss Pigeon’s purse.

  Then it was off to the train station. It was the first time they’d worn their Ends and Means finery in public, and Miss Pigeon was embarrassed. “We look like the Easter Parade.”

  “Chin up, Dolly. We aristocrats are famous for our eccentricity.”

  Heads turned, children pointed, and undercover cops kept an eye out as the pair waltzed to the head of the ticket line trailing a dozen porters toting bags, wardrobes, and a most imposing strongbox. The station manager was there in a jiffy. One peek at the money in her suitcases and she was whisked to the V.I.P. lounge. Over a gin fizz, she booked a private sleeper car and a masseur. She also insured the bricks in her strongbox for ten million dollars.

  As the train rattled across the country, L.A. was in a frenzy of anticipation. The banks openly warred to secure the Bentwhistle Jewels. Wells Fargo was the first to erect a sign welcoming the baroness. The others hopped on board. Overnight, billboards praising Her Ladyship sprouted like dandelions along Sunset Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. The Beverly Hills Hotel decorated its Polo Lounge for a special reception. The mayor insisted on making a speech. The press demanded front-row seats — especially Louella and Hedda, who breathlessly reported every rumour confirmed by the Hollywood Brits. At the station, vendors stocked up on Union Jacks. The L.A.P.D. prepared a motorcycle escort. And all over town, citizens made plans to attend the arrival of the city’s latest curiosity.

  The Baroness Horatia Alice Bentwhistle of Bentwhistle left the ceremony in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel for a relaxing bubble bath in the marble tub of the powder room off the Spanish Colonial boudoir of the Presidential Suite. Everywhere she looked, she saw sprays of orchids, statuary, gold faucets, porcelain mosaics, and towels as thick as Devon cream.

  “Heavens,” she enthused, “I should have killed off my family years ago.”

  VIII

  The RADIO CITY REVIVAL

  Her Sweetie

  “How come you can put three tablespoons of sugar in your coffee and still stay skinny?” Mary Mabel asked.

  Doyle batted his eyes. “It’s my destiny.”

  She gave him a swat with her serviette. The two of them were having a pre-show snack in the backstage dressing room at the civic light opera house in Peoria, Illinois. Floyd and the stage manager were setting light levels, while a couple of ushers sat in the foyer folding programs. Aside from that, the theatre was empty.

  She and Doyle had been seeing a lot of each other since Kalamazoo. It was hard not to. They were staying in the same hotels and her partners were no company whatsoever. Aside from work, Floyd’s whereabouts were a mystery. Brother Percy, for his part, had gotten odder by the day. After being laughed offstage in Flint, he’d vowed to rest his jaw till he could “scorch those hyenas with a lick of hellfire.” Now he was a hermit with no interest in hygiene, much less conversation.

  That left Doyle.

  Their socializing had begun quite innocently; Floyd had invited him on their visits with local sponsors. There were advantages all around. Doyle got material for his column, a heartwarming series on how Mary Mabel fulfilled heartland dreams, while their hosts got national exposure for their pet projects. This exposure, in turn, led to endorsements from county and state bigwigs. All of which enabled Floyd to double their guarantees.

  Doyle was Mary Mabel’s godsend at these events. Whenever she was about to die of boredom, she’d look his way and he’d toss her a grin that tickled her inside out. In fact, he was so much fun that she suggested he ride in the Olds. “Brother Percy can sit up front with you,” she begged Floyd, “while K.O. keeps me company in the back.”

  Initially, Floyd welcomed her newfound warmth for the press, but he soon grew suspicious of her happiness. When Doyle raced her to the ca
r, Floyd grumped, “Here comes Little Mary Mabel Sunshine.” When Doyle gave her the giggles, he griped, “When was the last time Jesus bust a gut?” And when Doyle stretched his arm across the back seat behind her shoulders, he growled, “Don’t touch the merchandise.”

  “I’m not merchandise,” Mary Mabel shot back, “and K.O. is a perfect gentleman.”

  “Think of your image.”

  “My coverage does more for her image than any two-bit lecture from you,” Doyle said.

  It was true. His articles spared no detail of the tour or of Mary Mabel’s growing list of miracles. Each night, folks swore that a touch of her hands had improved their lumbago, sinus, toothache, or palsy. Sometimes Doyle’s descriptions went overboard. In Gary, Indiana, an old woman rose from her wheelchair; he reported that she danced the Charleston. In Muncie, a man born deaf and dumb made sounds; he had him reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

  Mary Mabel asked Doyle to stick to the facts. He said that’s exactly what he’d done. When she protested, he said he guessed they had an honest difference of opinion about what happened. Then he accused her of wanting to censor the news and lectured her about the virtues of a free press.

  As tales of the miracles multiplied, so did the crowds and the size of the tour’s venues. Hearst gave Doyle more column inches, and had him snap photos for the rotogravure. Doyle was overjoyed. According to him, people were much more likely to read news that came with pictures, and to believe it, too.

  If Doyle was hard-headed, he was also softhearted. That’s what Mary Mabel loved most about him. Once a day, he snuck off to talk on the telephone. She’d thought he was placing bets at the track. It turned out he was phoning his mother. “Ma’s an invalid,” he said. “I feel guilty being away like this. She devoted her life to me, and now I’m gallivanting about the country when she needs me most.”