“I’d rather have a cherry,” he said, and his friends giggled.
Irene hesitated, but then she took Harry by the elbow and nudged him toward the door. “I can handle these boys,” she said, although she wasn’t exactly sure this was true.
“You should not permit them to speak to you like that.” Harry looked severe, and she felt as though she’d done something wrong, that she had failed somehow. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be here alone. You should hire someone. A man.”
“They don’t mean any harm. Do you want a soda?” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“What time are you closing?”
She looked at him to see what he meant, why he wanted to know, but she couldn’t tell. “I don’t know. About six, I guess.”
“Why don’t I come back then? We can go for a coffee somewhere.”
“I’d love to, but …” He would lecture her on how to behave. She’d hate that. Another person to explain her shortcomings to her. Or could he be asking her out?
“But what? Have another date?” He drew back in mock jealously.
“No, no. Of course not.” She did not date, and they both knew it.
“Irene!” wailed the boys. George grabbed his throat and made a noise as though he were dying of thirst, just a boy again, a harmless boy. “Heeeellp us!”
Irene laughed. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’ve got to go. I wish I could go for that coffee, but I can’t. You understand.”
“You are a successful businesswoman, my dear. You have obligations.” He hesitated and then said, “Sunday, Irene. I’ll call for you at eleven o’clock.”
“Sunday?”
“Yes. The day after Saturday. The shop is closed and the proprietress will have earned some diversion. I’ll get the car and we’ll go out. Kew Beach. Hanlan’s Point. We’ll go out to the country. Have a picnic.”
“I’m not sure, Harry. I wanted to tackle those rooms upstairs.”
“Work in the morning, then, and come with me in the afternoon.”
“I don’t know, Harry. I’d like to but …”
“Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I have an engagement myself for part of the day.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I just come by the store about one? You can make lunch. I’ll walk you home and we can have a picnic at the Allen Gardens. Would you like that?” He shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced over at the boys, who seemed to have turned their interest to the girls at the other end of the counter. George was expertly rolling a cigarette.
“I’d like that very much, Harry.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you then.”
“ ‘Bye,” she called as he shut the door.
“Irene’s got a boyfriend.” George grinned as he licked the cigarette paper with a sharp little tongue.
“I do not!” She turned to them, hands on her hips, blushing furiously, and then, realizing that she sounded just like a schoolgirl denying a crush, she hurried behind the counter and began rattling spoons and ice-cream dishes. “Come on, now, let’s have it,” she said to the boys. “What’ll it be?”
Irene walked in the front door and was confronted with the conflicting smells of fish and baking. Margaret poked her head around the kitchen door and waved.
“I’ve made poached haddock for dinner, and potatoes and green beans,” she said. “And a cobbler for afters.”
“That’s great, Mum.”
Margaret’s resurrection had begun twelve days after the funeral, when she’d arisen early one day—which wasn’t that unusual for she often complained of not sleeping—but didn’t go back to bed. The next day had been the same. And then she had begun making the coffee in the morning. A week later she took a bath, washed her hair and was waiting for Irene when she came home, proud as a little girl who’d just brought home an A on her report card. Now she was up with Irene every day at six, brewing coffee and making toast. She sent her off to the store with a thick sandwich wrapped in wax paper, carrot sticks and sometimes even a slice of homemade pie. She cleaned the house. She still wasn’t going out, but her hair was combed back into a soft bun and her nails were clean. She chattered on like a five-year-old. “Look, Irene, look at this dress in the catalogue, isn’t it nice? Do you want more pie? Have more pie. Where are you going? When are you coming back? Would you like an aspic for lunch on Sunday?” She talked so much that there were times when Irene almost longed for the old days of sulking and silent scorn.
Irene knew her mother’s improved condition could evaporate just as quickly as it had appeared. And there was something not wholly healthy, Irene felt, in the sudden enthusiasm Margaret displayed for becoming a model mother. Or was it mother? Sometimes Irene felt as though Margaret was behaving more like a wife. Having dinner on the table when she got home, asking her about her day, commenting on her clothes and hair, asking too-intimate questions about her monthly cycle, her feelings about men.
“Irene, are you coming, dear?”
“On my way,” she called. She heard the radio’s crackle and squeak as her mother tuned in her favourite music show, The Black and Gold Room Orchestra.
Her mother had doubtless been shocked out of her entropy, was all. Maybe the death of a husband was like an emotional slap in the face, the sort you give someone who’s hysterical. It was to be expected that she’d continue to behave a little oddly.
Irene thought maybe one day Margaret would be able to take care of herself and she could finally have a life of her own. It wasn’t so much to ask. Perhaps she could begin with something small. She would like very much to go out on Sunday with Harry. It was a normal thing to do, for a girl her age to go out with a boy. So why did she feel so uncomfortable about broaching the subject with her mother? It was more than simply feeling guilty about leaving her alone; it felt like she was cheating on her.
Where do you end and I begin?
Irene hurried downstairs and took her place at the table. Her mother brought her a plate heaped with fish in a thin white sauce and potatoes and green beans. Although Irene didn’t really like poached fish, it was one of her mother’s favourite dishes and one she rarely made when Douglas was alive because he refused to eat it. Irene smiled and said it looked delicious.
She said, “Guess who came into the store today?”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Hatton, the barber’s wife, you know the shop a few doors up from us? Her daughter’s getting married this summer to some man from Baltimore. They’re going to set up house here, though, and she bought all sorts of housecleaning things and pots and such to get her started. She said my prices are better than the hardware store and that I’ve got a better eye for what a woman wants. Isn’t that great?”
“She gave you cash?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t give out credit. Your father gave out credit, you know. We’ll never see that money again.”
“The ice cream’s doing well. I must have had a dozen kids in there today.”
“Not much money in that. It cost too much to put in.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mum. It brings people in, the hot weather’s coming, people will want a local place. There’s nothing else like it on the street. I actually think Dad had a pretty good idea there.”
“We’ll see.”
“Someone else came in today, too.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember me telling you about Harry Madison, Ebbie’s cousin? Or second cousin, I guess—the rich one who lives up in Rosedale?”
Her mother put down her fork and regarded Irene with a focused gaze.
“His father owns Madison Carpets and Fine Furnishings, down on King Street.”
“King Street’s a long way from Parliament and Gerrard. What did he want?”
“He just stopped in to say hello, I guess. He does that now and again, on his way up to see his cousins.”
“Just pops in, does he?”
“Yes.” Irene squirmed.
“Is he the one you said looks like Leslie Howard?”
“Yes, I guess so. Well, his hair is like Leslie Howard’s. And he’s tall.”
“So, you think he’s good looking?”
“Well … yes. I do think he’s sort of handsome.”
“Sex. You watch out, my girl. He’s only sniffing around for one thing.” Margaret shovelled dripping fish into her mouth and pointed her fork at Irene’s breasts. “Those things and what’s between your legs are what he wants. They’re all the same.”
Irene kept her eyes on her plate. “For goodness’ sake, he’s just a nice boy. You should see how refined he is. Such wonderful manners, and he knows all about poetry. He’s been in England, you see, in Oxford, studying literature. But then his father called him back to learn the business.”
“Did he buy something?”
“No, he didn’t buy anything.”
“Irene, listen to me, you’re a smart girl, I’ve always said that. But let’s face it, dear, you’re not exactly the sort of girl a man from Rosedale is likely to take seriously. He’s not about to take a shop girl home to Mater and Pater. You’re pleasant enough to look at, I’m not saying you’re not, but Rosedale’s a different world. Lots of glamour and shine up there. And we’re just scrabble-by people. Maybe we could have been more. I thought when I married your father he might have amounted to something, but you can see how wrong I was. Don’t get your hopes up and make a fool of yourself. Keep your mind on the shop and forget about men. Time enough for that later. And for God’s sake, don’t let him take advantage of you. If you got yourself in trouble it would be the end of us, do you hear me?”
“Mother, for crying out loud! A nice boy just came by the store, is all. And I think you’re wrong. I think he likes me, and why shouldn’t he? He’s asked me if he can come and walk me through the Allen Gardens on Sunday, and you know what? I said yes. I’m going to work on the rooms upstairs at the store, see if I can get them in shape for a renter, then I’m going for a stroll with Harry Madison. I’m going to make some sandwiches and we’re going to sit on a bench in the Gardens and have a nice visit.”
“You keep your legs closed. It’ll end in tears, my girl, you mark my words.”
“It doesn’t have to end in anything, Mum. I’m not even going steady with him, I’m just having a walk with him on a Sunday afternoon. What could possibly be more innocent than that?”
“You’re going to bring him home, introduce him to your mother?”
Irene had not considered this possibility, given that her mother had for so long refused to see anyone. “If you’d like to meet him, I’m sure he’d be delighted. He’s asked about you, but I didn’t think you’d be feeling up to it yet.”
“Oh, I think I’m up to it. Why don’t I make the sandwiches? You can bring him here to pick them up before you go to the Gardens. I’ll make you some iced tea.”
Irene pushed the white fish around on her plate. “You’ll like him, Mum,” she said. “Really you will.”
Ebbie came into the shop on Thursday. She was just days away from high school graduation. Next year she’d be entering the University of Toronto in the chemistry department. She was going to be a researcher, she said, mixing up potions and studying reactions in beakers and tumblers.
She came through the door nearly staggering under the weight of a black satchel filled with library books. She wanted, she said, to get a head start on next year’s studies.
“Irene, quick, something wet and sweet, for heaven’s sake, or I won’t make it home!”
“One float coming up!”
Several of the tables were already occupied by groups of girls and boys sipping drinks through straws and spooning up ice cream. The shop was filled with the sound of voices and the occasional giggle as one table took stock of another.
“Haven’t seen you all week. How did exams go?” said Irene.
“I think I did okay.” Irene knew this was a modest understatement. If Ebbie never opened a book to study she’d get straight A’s anyway.
“Of course you did. How was Mr. McGrath’s math test?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. Sue-Anne put down her pencil after half an hour and sat chewing the ends of her hair, and I do believe Fred Rollins uttered a rather foul word.”
“Bad, eh?”
“Not easy, that’s for sure. Mrs. Duff asks about you. Said to come by and see her anytime.”
Irene gave Ebbie her drink and wiped her hands on her apron. There wasn’t much else to say about school. It was still a tender little wound on the skin of her new life.
“Any more trouble with the McCauley gang?” said Ebbie. This was the name they had given to the crew of unruly boys headed up by George McCauley. They came into the shop at least once a week.
“That whole family’s tough as nails. The father and two older brothers are all in jail for robbery, from what I hear ‘round the streets. Usual story. No work, no food. I think George and his bunch are mostly talk, but I have to admit I’ll be more comfortable when I get the upstairs rented out. Being alone in here, especially at closing time with the day’s money in my pocket—that can be worrying.”
“Don’t suppose you could afford to hire a kid for the summer?”
“No, not likely. Maybe in a few months if things pick up and I get some rental income. We’ll see. I like having this great big space of time during the day when I can do as I please, with no one looking over my shoulder. It’s up to me, you know, whether things go well or not. I’m not dependent on anybody else. It’s not a bad feeling.”
“Good for you.”
Mr. Badali, the man who ran the fruit and vegetable market a few doors up, came in.
“Irene, I need a new mop. You got one for me?”
“Sure, Mr. Badali, right with you.”
When Irene finished with her neighbour she came back and stood next to Ebbie, her elbows resting on the counter.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” said Ebbie.
“Has Harry been up to see you lately?”
“No, not for a while. At least, I haven’t seen him. Maybe Mum has. Why?”
“Well, he came in on Monday.”
“Did he? What did he want?”
“He asked me out.” Irene grinned.
“Harry’s taking you out?”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s really ‘out’ like that. We’re just going to take a walk in the Gardens.” How she loved saying “we.”
“Oh.”
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing, ‘Reen. Really. It’s just that …” Ebbie stretched her neck from side to side as though to work out a knotted muscle. “Nothing. It’s nice.”
“You don’t look like you think it’s nice at all. It’s just that what?”
“I love my cousin, for heaven’s sake. Love him to death. It’s just that he’s, he’s such a boy.”
“What does that mean?”
“Pay no attention to me. He’s swell, really he is. He just isn’t very serious, that’s all.”
“Who needs serious these days? Isn’t there enough serious to go around?”
Ebbie took a sip of her float and banged her scuffed heel against the leg of her chair.
Irene said, “He didn’t tell you he was coming by on Sunday?”
“Like I said, I haven’t seen him. But with Harry you never know what he’s going to do next.”
“You make it sound like it’s a shocking thing, him asking me out.”
“Oh, don’t pout. I didn’t mean it like that.” Ebbie laughed, the sound from her throat so big, so round, it startled the girls at the table behind her. “For heaven’s sake, if anything, I’m just thrilled he’s finally showing such good taste.”
Irene knew that there was some message behind the words, for she’d grown up listening as much to what was not said as to what was. But she held her happiness like a fragile, prism-hued soap bubble, shielding it from
every lethal breeze.
1936
She smells of cinnamon and roses and soap. Her skin is the colour of the terra-cotta hills in the north of Italy where her people come from. Her name is Maria and she has invited David into the barn, into the hay, into her arms, and he has fallen there, as though from the top of a great cliff. He has fallen into grace.
Her young son sleeps in the house nearby, and the dog sleeps on the porch and the cows chew their cud and the pig sleeps in the sty and the chickens have tucked their heads beneath their wings.
For three days he has worked next to her, repairing the well where the wall collapsed and must be fixed, for without water, in this hot, searing decade of unforgiving dryness, the animals will die and the woman and her son will be forced to leave their home or perish. And he felt it was good fortune, to find a well fallen just as he rounded the bend and two seasons after the woman’s husband had driven the tractor into town to be repaired and not returned.
He has worked hard and has eaten well and slept well in the soft bed of her hospitality in the corner of this barn, and all the while he has watched the woman who has watched him from the corners of her almond eyes.
He has never touched a woman in this way before and he is unsure of himself and briefly, as she sees this, a sad shadow falls upon her face, and then she takes his face between her hands, which are strong hands and long-fingered, and with nails broken and torn and she turns his face to hers and she kisses his lips, her tongue parting his lips and moving inside his mouth. She puts his hands on her breasts, which are heavy and a miracle to him in all their softness and he buries his face between them and she moans and presses herself against him.
She takes off her dress and underthings and when he sees her naked he is shy again, for she is beautiful and it is clear her body is full of knowledge he does not have. Her skin is hot and her arms are brown but her breasts and stomach and thighs are fairer, the colour of toffee, and he wants to put his tongue on her thighs to taste her. There are small webs of blue veins on her breasts and white lines on her belly and he traces one with his finger and she misunderstands and begins to turn away.
The Stubborn Season Page 20
