Chance Developments

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Fortunes for girls tended to cater for more feminine interests. “You’re going to marry a guy called Percy who has a big house in Toronto, with two maids. You’ll marry this guy after you’ve received proposals from many other men. You’ll reject them all because you only want to marry the one you love, who has this big house in Toronto.”

  The authorities discouraged him. “Edward Beaulieu,” scolded his teacher, “if I catch you telling fortunes one more time you’re going to get such a tanning that you won’t sit down for a week. That’s your future, young man. So heed what I say.”

  Even if this led to greater discretion, the interest in fortune-telling persisted, although as he progressed into the later teen years he also became adept in card tricks, conjuring, and Pelmanism. He discussed each new interest with his parents, demonstrating his tricks, lapping up their praise when one of the tricks worked. They were generally tolerant of their son, but, as the years passed and he showed no signs of leaving home, they began to find his company rather tiring.

  “If only Eddie would think of…,” began his mother.

  “Moving on?”

  She looked at her husband. “It’s not that I find him…”

  “Tedious?”

  She gave her husband another look. “Eddie could do so much for the world,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You sure, honey?”

  “It’s just a question of his finding what he really wants.”

  Eddie’s father shrugged. “He seems to have quite a good idea already.”

  “But none of this stuff will earn him a living, Aristide. He’s got to get a proper job. He can’t get by helping in that store four mornings a week. He can’t live on that.”

  “Well, he seems to think he can,” said his father.

  She shook her head. “Because we don’t charge him rent. If he had to pay rent, he wouldn’t have enough to keep body and soul together. You’re going to have to talk to him again, you know.”

  When it occurred, that conversation ended just as had the last one on the subject—in stalemate.

  “Eddie,” said his father, “I’m talking to you man-to-man. You’re twenty now, which means you’re not a boy any more. You’re a man, and men have to get out there and work.”

  “I’m already working, Dad: Henderson’s store. And Mr. Henderson said the other day that he couldn’t imagine how he could run his store without me.” He paused, watching the effect of his words. “That’s what he said.”

  “That’s as may be,” said his father. “I know that you’re not a slacker. It’s just that that job is never going to be more than part-time. Old Henderson can’t pay more than you get already.”

  “Something will turn up, Dad. I’m keeping an eye open. And I’m studying, remember?”

  “This Pelmanism of yours?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I’m sticking with it, Dad, because it has the answer we’re all looking for.”

  His father fixed him with a stare. “What is the answer then?”

  Eddie sighed. It was hard to explain things to his parents. It was not that they were slow; it was more a question of getting through to them. They were on one wavelength and he was on another. That could happen, he knew, even when people lived in the same house, read the same newspaper, did much the same things in their everyday lives.

  “I don’t know the answer, Dad,” he said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. That takes time.”

  “Well, what’s the question? You don’t know the answer, but then what’s the question you’re trying to answer? Maybe you can explain it that way. Who knows?”

  There was another patient sigh. “The question is…Well, I’m trying to find out what the question is. That takes time too—and a lot of study.”

  “So you don’t know the question and you don’t know the answer. That means you don’t know nothing, doesn’t it?”

  “You don’t say you don’t know nothing, Dad. I know it’s difficult for you—being French and all—but you don’t say don’t know nothing. Not in English. That means you know something, because nothing is the opposite of something, and if you don’t know nothing you must know something.”

  Now it was his father’s turn to sigh—a deep, heartfelt sigh, followed by a gazing up at the ceiling, as if to find there the elusive answer to the equally elusive question.

  2

  Hope persuaded him to apply for a job with the postal service. He was interviewed in Kingston, and she accompanied him to his appointment, sitting in the waiting room while he went inside. She had only ten minutes to wait before he came out, picked up his hat, and walked out on to the street without giving her a glance.

  The chairman of the interview panel emerged and looked at her anxiously. She knew him from the church they both attended. He held out his hands in a gesture of resignation and, she thought, apology.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Beaulieu.”

  She bit her lip. “It didn’t go well?”

  “I did my best, but he didn’t really answer the questions the board asked him.”

  “He refused? He refused to speak?”

  The chairman shook his head. “No, it was the opposite problem, really. He spoke rather too much, but about the wrong things. He went on about this…this…”

  “Pelmanism?”

  There was flicker of a smile on the chairman’s lips. “Yes, that’s it. He seemed to think it relevant to our questions, but frankly it wasn’t. So we more or less dried up, I’m afraid.”

  She shook her head. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Andrews. You know how young people are these days—they get ideas. He’s a good boy, Eddie, and he’s a hard worker, you know. He’s never been afraid of hard work.”

  “I’m sure. Bobby Henderson speaks highly of him—always has.”

  “It’s just that he has these odd interests. He loves telling fortunes; card tricks too. And this Pelmanism…it’s a sort of hocus-pocus memory course as far as I can make out.”

  The chairman looked at his hands. “He’ll find something. I always say to my boys that whatever shape of peg you are, there’s a hole for you somewhere.” He paused. He knew that was only partly true, and an aphorism that was only partly true was hardly an aphorism at all.

  She walked home and told her husband what had happened. He rose from his desk and walked to the window. His breathing was shallow—a sign of the anger that was welling up within him. Why couldn’t Eddie be like his sisters? Where did he come from? Why did he feel that he had to spend the evening—every evening—practising his conjuring tricks on them, making them listen to his endless lectures on Pelmanism? How many times had he himself fled the house on the pretext of having work to do in the office, leaving his wife to bear the brunt? “I’m going to give him an ultimatum. I’m going to tell him we have to start charging him rent.”

  “But he can’t pay much.”

  “Then we tell him he’s going to have to go.”

  She drew in her breath. She was as frustrated as her husband was, but she was a mother. “No, Aristide, we can’t tell Eddie to go. He’s our flesh and blood. You can’t tell your own flesh and blood to go. You just can’t.”

  He was silent for a few moments, but then his anger subsided; he had never been able to sustain it. “No, I don’t suppose we can,” he muttered. “But I’m going to start looking for a job for him—seriously. There must be something.”

  “Perhaps he could go into show business,” said his wife. “He’s a good conjurer—a very good one, some say. Remember what Mrs. Harper said when he pulled that mouse out of her purse. She was adamant there had been no mouse there before—adamant.”

  “Hmm. It’s the sort of thing somebody might deny, of course.”

  “What? Having a mouse in your purse?”

  He smiled. “Possibly.”

  She brought the conversation back to Eddie’s talents. “And there are those card tricks of his. He could get a job in the theatre.”

  He thought about this. He remembered t
hat one of his clients had a brother-in-law who was the proprietor of a small circus. He recalled his client saying to him a few days ago that his brother-in-law was staying with him because he had had an operation and needed somewhere quiet to spend a month while he recuperated. “He has a circus business,” the client said. “Odd business, in my view, but he does pretty well out of it. He has a set-up in Toronto that tours over the border—Niagara and so on—as well as one over in Vancouver. He’s making good money, you know.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes. People love the circus, although I wouldn’t fancy living away from home—all that travelling and so on. No, not for me.”

  Nor for me, thought Mr. Beaulieu, but possibly for Eddie. In fact, what better job was there for a young man who needed encouragement to leave the nest?

  “Have you ever thought of joining the circus, son?” he asked that evening.

  The question was casually put, but it elicited an immediate response.

  “Oh, that would be great—really great. I’d love a job in a circus.”

  “Would you now?” said Mr. Beaulieu, thoughtfully.

  3

  It proved simpler than Mr. Beaulieu had imagined. The owner of the Great All-Canada Circus was Mr. Gregory Paul Vink, a stout, rather dyspeptic-looking New Englander. Vink had married a Canadian nurse, the sister of Mr. Beaulieu’s client, and had moved to Ontario to help her ageing parents on their farm. He was no farmer, and he soon looked around for something else to do. He had bought the circus from its previous owner after he had lost interest in it. The purchase price had been tiny, but so had the audiences at the time, as the circus had very little to offer, most of the performers having long since abandoned it on the grounds of non-payment of wages. Vink changed all that. He used what little capital he had to buy a new big tent and to offer advance payment to a number of artists. These he chose well, as he had an eye for showmanship, and before long the circus had acquired a reputation not only in Toronto, but in a number of other cities to which it toured: Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Calgary. This led to the acquisition of another circus, this one based in New Westminster, at the western end of the railway line spanning the country. He ran the two as a single business, in spite of the vast sea of land that lay between them, exchanging performers to keep everybody’s act fresh.

  “Nothing like a different audience to keep you on your toes,” he observed.

  When Mr. Beaulieu went to see him at his client’s house, Vink was pleased to have a visitor.

  “Sitting here all day,” he said, “makes me itchy. The doc says I have to do it—they removed half my stomach, you know—but it drives me up the wall doing nothing here. It’s nice to have some intelligent company for a change—not that my brother-in-law isn’t intelligent, I hasten to point out.”

  “I’ve come about my boy,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “I have a son of twenty, you see, and he’s very keen to join a circus.”

  Mr. Beaulieu had not expected a laugh.

  “Twenty?” chuckled Vink. “Usually it’s ten-year-olds. I get letters every week. Kids have some row with their parents and so what happens? They write off to see if they can join the circus. It’s what they do.” He shook his head. “Little devils.”

  “He’s very good at card tricks,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “He’s also a conjuror. He’s been praised for that, I’m told. There was a theatrical group passed through town six months ago—big variety act. And one of them said he had a future on the stage.”

  “The circus ain’t the theatre,” said Vink. “If you want to go on the stage you go to New York. Or maybe Toronto.”

  “It’s not theatre he wants,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “It’s the circus.”

  Vink looked thoughtful. “I might be able to interview him—see what he’s like.”

  Mr. Beaulieu knew the dangers of that. If Eddie were to be interviewed, Vink would be treated to a discourse on Pelmanism or the uses of the Tarot pack. He would be rejected out of hand.

  He had come prepared. “I have a proposition to make,” he said. “I want to get my boy started…”

  Vink interrupted him. “Oh, I understand that, Mr. Bowl…”

  “Beaulieu.”

  “Mr. Beaulieu…I understand that.”

  “Thank you. I fully appreciate how tight things are in any business. So why don’t we do this: I’ll pay you his wages for the first three months. I’ll wire you the money and you can pay him, so that he thinks it’s coming from you. Then, after three months, you decide whether you’re going to keep him.”

  “And if I like him, then I only start paying from the end of three months?”

  “Yes, but until then there’s no risk for you. You needn’t put up a dime until that point. The risk lies with me.”

  Vink looked at him suspiciously. “What’s wrong with this boy of yours?” he asked.

  Mr. Beaulieu grinned nervously. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of the terms you’re offering.”

  He made a quick decision. Vink was clearly astute, and he would spot concealment. “He can go on a bit. He’s a nice young man, but he goes on a bit.”

  Vink laughed. “Is that all? I thought maybe he was on the run or something like that. Wanted by the RCMP maybe.”

  “Oh no. He’s one hundred per cent honest.” He said this with a conviction that showed.

  “In that case,” said Vink, “I’ll take him. I need a couple of new hands. We’ll see how he shapes up.”

  “You won’t regret it,” said Mr. Beaulieu.

  “Time will tell,” said Vink. “It tells most things if you give it the chance.”

  “You’re right there, Mr. Vink. Time like an ever-rolling stream…”

  Vink took the reference. “Bears all its sons away…Oh, those old hymns have it, don’t they, Mr. Beaulieu?”

  “They sure do, Mr. Vink.”

  They shook hands, and Vink went back to his operation and to the length of the section of intestine that had been removed. “Two feet,” he said. “Surgeon showed it to me afterwards.”

  —

  “A circus, Dad? Toronto?”

  Mr. Beaulieu smiled at his son. “Actually, he said that he’d want you to start over in BC. They have a branch over there—place called New Westminster, just outside Vancouver. It’s where the railway line ends.”

  “Oh, I know all about New Westminster,” said Eddie, enthusiastically. “I’ve read about it. The Fraser River.”

  “He said you could start straight away. He’ll give you the money for your railway ticket. Three days from Toronto, isn’t it? All the way across.”

  “I’ll make food for the journey,” said Mrs. Beaulieu. “You won’t go hungry.”

  “They have food on the train,” said Eddie. “I’ve seen pictures of folks eating as they go across the prairies…eating at tables like they were at home but they’re actually on the prairies, you see…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Beaulieu.

  Eddie’s smile faded. “It’s a long way away, BC. Are you going to be all right back here? By yourselves?”

  His parents exchanged a glance. “Eddie, you don’t worry about us. You just seize this opportunity with both hands. Seize the day, as they say.”

  “You sure, Dad?”

  “I’m one hundred per cent sure, Eddie. This is your big chance.” He feigned a playful punch at his son’s shoulder. “Work hard and justify the faith Mr. Vink has in you. Work hard and you get to the top.”

  “The big top,” said Eddie. “That’s what they call a circus tent. The big top, eh, Dad?”

  They laughed. “Good for you, son,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “Your future is just beginning.”

  4

  In New Westminster he was given lodgings in a boarding house two blocks away from the circus warehouse. Two young port workers lived there too, and the three of them were looked after by an indulgent landlady who referred to “her boys” and who not only cooked for them but also took it upon herself to launder and repair their cl
othes.

  On his first day at work, he was taken round by the circus manager and introduced to all twenty-three people who ran the circus, from the men who erected the tent to the trapeze artists, a couple of Russian exiles, morose chain smokers who, when not practising or performing, sat in their trailer and wrote letters to their friends in Paris. They spoke virtually no English, but pretended to understand what was said to them, nodding in agreement until they could return to their lengthy correspondence.

  “Your job,” said the manager, “is going to be collecting tickets at the entrance, showing people to their seats, and cleaning up after each show. You’re also going to be assistant to Frank—my second-in-command. You do whatever Frank wants you to do.”

  Eddie hid his disappointment. He had seen himself performing, even if he had yet to work out exactly what he could do. It was difficult to do card tricks in front of a large audience, but he could do some conjuring. He could make things disappear—it was simple enough—and people loved watching that.

  The manager picked up this disappointment. “You got a problem with any of that?”

  Eddie decided to take a risk. “Mr. Vink promised I could put on an act.”

  The manager frowned. “He didn’t tell me nothing about that.”

  “Anything,” said Eddie. “He didn’t tell you anything about it. If he didn’t tell you nothing, then he told you something.”

  The manager stroked the side of his neck. “What can you do?”

  Eddie pointed to a small Jack Russell terrier sitting nearby. “That dog,” he said.

  “That’s the human cannonball’s dog. Jack—you’ll meet him. Jack’s mighty fond of that dog.”

  “I can make him disappear,” said Eddie. “You want to see?”