The Latchkey Kid

by Helen Forrester

  Behind her, Boyd turned away to hide a smile. The fact that she was so fat made her look much more like the dancing girl she was trying to portray than perhaps Olga would have wished; gold miners had liked their women fat.

  Olga felt more content than she had during the whole previous twenty-four hours. With a costume like this, the first prize at the ball would certainly be hers.

  “You supposed to be Klondike Kate?” asked Boyd.

  Mrs. Stych smiled slyly at him out of the corners of her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, regardless of the reputation of that hardy lady of the Klondike gold rush. “’Cept I couldn’t face wearing high laced-up boots – I’m wearing my black pumps instead.”

  Boyd allowed that the black pumps looked real nice.

  He picked up one of his wife’s old gilt necklaces from her open jewel box and draped it across his waistcoat to represent a watch chain. Then he struggled into a high-buttoned black jacket. “Did you get me a buttonhole?” he asked.

  Mrs. Boyd looked at him in shocked reproach. “Why, Boyd, I thought you’d surely get flowers for both of us, seeing as you are home all the time now and aren’t just coming in at the very last minute.”

  Boyd realized the justice of her remark and also that an explosion was imminent. Living at home, he reflected angrily, had its hazards.

  “O.K., O.K.,” he said quickly, “I just asked. I wasn’t sure if you would want a corsage with that outfit. If you do want one, we can stop at Bell’s Flowers and get one. I can get a button-hole, too.”

  The threatening glow of rage in Olga’s eyes died; she gave him a sour look, but said only: “We’ll do that.”

  Her husband muttered that he would go and start the car, and for the moment she was alone. Her thoughts reverted to Hank and his diabolical book, and she felt sick with fright at the thought of all the slights she might have to face at the ball. Yet she could do nothing about it; Boyd was right that if she stayed at home it would look as if she was ashamed.

  She sniffed. She’d show them if she was ashamed or afraid. She opened the fine louver-board doors to the closet, took out her Persian lamb coat and draped it round her shoulders. Absently she stood stroking its silky lapels; few women in the town had a better coat than this, and it would be paid for by April, thank goodness. She lifted her nose in the air, so that her double chin did not show so much, and, with the same bravery with which her parents had faced their first fierce Alberta winter, she went out to smite the enemy; in this case, to outdo the girls with the glory of her coat and costume.

  In keeping with the period they were trying to reconstruct, many citizens of Tollemarche travelled to the ball at the Donegal Hotel in vintage cars, and many of these were now parked along the side of the street on which the hotel stood. Whether they would ever start again after prolonged exposure to the winter storm which was obviously blowing up, was problematical, but many of the owners felt it was worth paying a fee to Tommy’s Towing Company afterwards, just to enjoy the envy of those who did not own such treasures.

  The Mayor, who had triumphed over the city council with regard to mayoral robes, had solved the starting problem by sweeping up to the hotel in a well-preserved closed carriage, which had been salvaged from the back of the old Hudson’s Bay factor’s house and then refinished. The two horses which drew it did not quite match, despite a quick application of boot blacking over the lighter spots of one of them, but the general effect drew cheers from passing carloads of merrymakers.

  Mayor Murphy beamed as he handed down his plump wife, who wobbled unhappily in a gown of bright purple velvet, and then helped down two saturnine gentlemen from the Montreal Mortgage and Trust Company, who were visiting the city to buy land on speculation. His coachman, a Cree Indian brought in for the evening from a nearby reserve, was disguised in a black top hat and neat black uniform. As soon as the Mayor was safely inside the lobby, he turned the carriage round and headed for the fire station, where the horses and he would keep warm with the firemen on duty until such time as the Mayor should telephone for him. As the first snowflakes of the storm hit him, he hoped that the firemen had some beer tucked away at the back of the hall.

  Olga Stych did her best to control her palpitating heart as she made her way to the cloakroom of the Donegal Hotel, while Boyd went to park the car. She put her hand on the knob of the door marked WOMEN, but was unable to make herself turn it. What would they say? What would they say? But it was no good – a new arrival behind her forced her to open the door and walk in.

  The place was a madhouse of waving plumes, raucous voices and cigarette smoke.

  “‘Lo, Olga,” and “Hiya, Olga,” greeted her on all sides.

  Mrs. Stein of Dawne’s Dresse Shoppe, wearing her grandmother’s wedding dress and veil, was squeezed out of the crowd round the mirrors and up against Olga’s hefty bulk.

  “Say, you look fine,” she said, appraising the scarlet dress with a professional eye through heavy horn-rimmed glasses. “A real scarlet woman,” she joked. “Did Mary Leplante make it?”

  Mrs. Stych felt as if twenty years had been taken off her age. Her enormous bosom swelled to dangerous proportions in such a low-cut gown, as she answered proudly: “Yeah, Mary made it.”

  So the girls were not going to let the book make any difference. They were wonderful! They sure were. She linked her arm into that of Mrs. Stein. “Come on,” she said with gay condescension, “let’s go find the boys!”

  Before leaving home, Olga had glanced quickly at the front page of the Tollemarche Advent, which the paper boy had just flung on to the step as she came out. She had seen on the lower half of the front page, under the heading “Local Boy Makes Good”, an almost unrecognizable picture of Hank. She was too rushed to read the columns underneath and had left the newspaper lying on the boot tray just inside her front door. Now, she did not pause to consider that, throughout Tollemarche, few of those attending the ball would have stopped to read the newspaper on such a night; it would have been left to languish until Sunday gave time for its perusal. True, the eight o’clock news on the local radio station had also mentioned Hank, between a war and a dock strike, but nobody really listened to the news, anyway. Unconscious of this, however, Olga felt like a reprieved felon, and her relief was so great that she quite dazzled Boyd’s fellow directors by her vivacity.

  The ballroom was filled with the sharp smell of chrysanthemums, specially flown in from British Columbia for the occasion. Potted palms were grouped round the stage, on which sat a large dance orchestra in full evening dress. Around the sides of the ballroom and in the balcony above were set tables covered with stiff white cloths, for six or eight persons; each table had a vase of roses, also from British Columbia, and a pair of small, shaded electric lamps to light it. Like many of the hotels in Alberta at the time, the Donegal’s dining and ballrooms were not licensed, but this did not deter their patrons. Into the iced ginger ales went large measures of rye from bottles kept discreetly under the table and, similarly, gin was being dumped generously into the lime juices of tittering ladies. Some of the parties were already very merry, and it was apparent that some people would have to be carried to their cars before the night was out.

  At the door of the ballroom stood one of the members of the Chamber of Commerce, dressed in a white wig, knee breeches and a yellow satin coat. He had volunteered to be the major-domo of the evening; as people arrived, he took their names and announced them in a loud bass. From him, the guests proceeded to an interminably long receiving line, made up of the Mayor and Mrs. Murphy, the president of the Chamber of Commerce and his wife, the president of the Edwardian Days’ Committee and his daughter, he being a widower, and several very ancient inhabitants, both male and female, whom the committee had agreed it would be easier to include than exclude, most of the ancient inhabitants being both rich and sharp of tongue.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Maxmilian Frizzell, Mr. and Mrs. John MacLeod, the Right Honourable Frederick Shaeffer and Mrs. Shaeffer, Professor Mah Poy and Mrs. Mah
, Dr. and Mrs. Stanilas Paderewski,” roared the major-domo, warming to his job and being careful to keep his voice clear by taking an occasional quick nip from a friend’s bottle.

  The bustles and fancy waistcoats, the trains and evening suits, flowed slowly past the reception line and down three thickly carpeted steps to the ballroom floor or, if they felt they were past the age of dancing, climbed complainingly to their tables in the balcony.

  In a quiet moment, the major-domo took out a pocket handkerchief to wipe his perspiring face, while he remarked to the Mayor that he deserved a city contract as a reward for enduring a wig in this hothouse. The Mayor smiled noncommittally. It would take more than a hint like that to land the office furniture contract for the new city hall; a contract as big as that should be worth something. He fingered his new chain of office, and then, looking past the would-be contractor, he laughed.

  Standing waiting to be announced was a dignified woman in a lavender dress embroidered with pearls and sequins. She was made taller by her hair, which had been tightly waved, powdered, and piled on the top of her head. Her big tiara sparkled in the soft light, and a five-tier pearl necklace shimmered delicately over a high neckline of boned lace. She wore across her breast a wide blue ribbon tied in a knot at her hip; a large brooch on the ribbon suggested an order of some kind. In her white-gloved hands she carried a nosegay of roses and a silver fan. She was accompanied by a distinguished-looking man in full evening dress, whose hair was cut English style and whose beard was neatly trimmed in naval fashion. He, too, sported a sash across his chest decorated by a row of medals and two star-like brooches, and below his white tie hung an elaborate enamelled cross; all the medals had been won for skiing or swimming, but nobody noticed the fact. What was noticed was the authoritative air of the pair of them as they advanced unsmilingly towards the major-domo.

  The major-domo grinned at them; this was going to be fun. No couple whom he had announced up to now had managed more appropriate costumes. Very quietly, he went over to them and edged them behind a potted palm, whispering hastily into their respective ears. They nodded agreement, and he caught a page-boy and gave him a message for the orchestra. After a moment or two, the conductor raised his head and nodded towards them. The major-domo took up his position again and cleared his throat, while Isobel and Hank advanced slowly towards him, doing their best to maintain their grave dignity, though Hank’s moustache was quivering dangerously.

  The orchestra brought its current piece of music to an end, and sounded a great chord. Conversation ceased immediately and everyone, including the receiving line, looked round expectantly.

  “Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales,” roared the major-domo.

  The ballgoers looked up in silent astonishment, and then a ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and they began to clap, while Hank and Isobel acknowledged with the faintest of condescending nods the ironic bow of the quick-witted Mayor and the bows and curtsies of the rest of the receiving line, all of whom rose to the occasion admirably, except for a deaf, old lady at the end, who announced crabbily that she did not know what the major-domo was about, talking of “fences and bales”.

  Hank and Isobel moved to the top of the steps and bowed to the applauding crowd. To some of those present they brought back happy memories, and there was not one person there who did not recall the opening exercises in the little red schoolhouses across the province, when they had stood to attention in front of a picture such as Hank and Isobel now presented, and vowed to be faithful to the flag and to George V and his consort, Queen Mary. Some were nonplussed at the couple being announced as the Prince and Princess of Wales, but their brighter neighbours hastened to remind them that in Edwardian days, the old king, Edward VII, would be reigning.

  “Who are they?” was the whisper that ran round the room between the claps. Even the major-domo could not remember having seen them before, and came to the conclusion that they must be some young married couple who had recently come into the town.

  Mrs. Stych looked cursorily at the Princess, did not know her and turned back to her rye and ginger ale; she barely glanced at the Prince. Boyd thought he knew the turn of shoulder on the man, but could not place him. He, too, went back to his drink.

  The Mayor was not going to betray the fact that he did not know someone in the town who was rich enough to spend forty dollars on tickets for the ball, so, as he and Mrs. Murphy moved towards the dance floor to open the ball, he slapped Hank heartily on the back, and bellowed: “Have a good time.”

  The orchestra struck up a waltz, and Hank and Isobel made for her brother-in-law’s table, which they had been invited to join; on the way, they passed the table of Isobel’s employer, a heavy dark-jowled man, who rose and caught her hand as she went by. “Happy to see you here, Isobel,” he said.

  She smiled and, with a lighter heart, went on to her table. Some people in Tollemarche were evidently going to be pleased that she was in circulation again.

  Joanne Dawson, in a tight, low-necked dress of salmon pink, had already consumed two gins, and greeted them effusively, while Dave Dawson, a quiet, tired-looking man of about thirty-five, pulled out a chair for Isobel.

  Isobel introduced Hank to them, and he said politely: “How d’yer do.” He sat down slowly, eyeing Joanne’s rather daring costume with an unblinking stare. She was dressed as a chorus girl, her full skirt hitched up to show tight-clad legs and hips, the low neckline leaving little to the imagination.

  “Too much cleavage,” decided Hank. “No class.”

  Dave wore dinner clothes of the period, and Hank knew instinctively that he and Isobel would get on very well together. Hank felt an ill-bred lout beside him, and he wondered how Isobel endured him; he decided he did not like himself very much, and this detracted for a little while from his enjoyment of the masquerade.

  “You looked just fine up there on the steps,” Dave said to Hank. “In the half light, you looked just like old Georgie.”

  “Thanks,” said Hank, warming to him. He checked that his moustache was still in place. “Hope I don’t lose this,” he added, while Joanne giggled shrilly.

  “Say, what are these?” he asked, pointing to some tiny, pink cards with pencils attached to them which were lying on the table.

  “Ladies’ programs, stoopid,” said Joanne amiably, leaning on her elbow unsteadily towards him. “Here, give one to Isobel,” and she pushed one over to Hank.

  Hank looked it over, mystified. “Wottya do with them?” he demanded.

  Isobel took it from him. “See,” she said, “it contains a list of all the dances. In the old days each girl had one, and the gentlemen came up to her and booked dances with her by writing in their names. It was the job of the M.C. or the host and hostess to see that, as far as possible, all the cards were filled.”

  “That’s easy,” said Hank, taking the card back from her firmly. He wrote his name across the whole column of dances.

  “Say,” protested Dave, “give us a chance.”

  Hank looked at him with mock lordliness. “I’m the Prince of Wales, remember.” Then, good-humouredly, he passed the card to Dave, who wrote his name against a foxtrot before supper and a waltz later in the evening.

  “What about poor little me?” demanded Joanne, with a pout. She regarded Isobel as a drip, and had no intention of spending the evening tied to their table. She was, however, placated when Dave wrote his name all over her card, and Hank wrote his name in the spaces of the dances which Isobel would dance with Dave. She greeted with squeaks of joy the approach of two gentlemen dressed in Edwardian suits and white stetson hats, and made each of them sign his name on her card. Isobel, suddenly nervous of possible censure of their recent hero’s widow being at a ball, kicked Dave under the table, and whispered “Prince and Princess”. He was a quick man and, with exaggerated deference, introduced the visitors to Hank and Isobel, murmuring: “Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales.”

  “Let’s dance,
” said Hank, and dragged her unceremoniously to the edge of the ballroom floor. He stood tapping his foot impatiently in time to the music, while she carefully anchored the train of her dress by a loop hooked over her little finger.

  He whirled her out on to the floor at the fast pace demanded by a Viennese Waltz, and was surprised to find her following him effortlessly.

  “Say, where did you learn to dance?”

  “In England – most English women dance.”

  “Ballroom dancing, like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought they were all swingers.”

  Isobel laughed. “Most of us can dance modern dances as well.”

  “Can you?”

  “Well, I haven’t danced more than a couple of times since I was married, so I’m probably a bit out of date, but I think I could make a fair showing even so.”

  He grinned down at her wickedly. “Mebbe we’ll go to a night club sometime and get back into practice. What say?”

  “Maybe,” she said cautiously. “I think more people in England dance than people here.”

  He considered this while he negotiated a corner, in which the city editor of the Advent appeared to have got stuck with his partner. The partner was saying: “Now, Joe, one-and-two, one-and-two, one-and-two. Now, turn!”

  “Don’t you have any fundamentalists?” he asked.

  “I don’t think there are many. We’re mostly heathens.” She added, a little breathlessly: “When your book is published in England, it won’t cause half the stir it is going to cause here.” Then, after being twirled neatly out of the way of the Mayor, she remembered the reporter’s visit to Hank the previous evening. “What does the Advent have to say about you today?”