A Mixture of Frailties tst-3

by Robertson Davies

  “As if we could forget it,” said Kevin. “Biggest heart in Salterton, and mine—all mine!” He feigned romantic ecstasy.

  The young Thirteeners giggled nervously, anxious to show appreciation yet fearful of attracting attention lest they should be involved in the joshing, for which they knew they had no talent. Alex and Kevin greeted them all, still in their characters as foreign noblemen, but when they came to Monica they fell on their knees like Moslems, and bumped their heads on the floor.

  “Proper deference toward a great talent,” they whispered. Then Mrs Gall led them off to be plied with sugar, in solid and liquid form.

  Chuck Proby was alone in his failure to respond to this joke. He wore, without disguise, the look of a young man with a future who feels superior to his company.

  The ascendency of Alex and Kevin was not to last long. Very soon after their arrival Pastor Beamis came in, accompanied by Mrs Beamis, who looked as though she had been carved out of teak (though not by pagans) and their son Wesley, who was small, thin, pimply and had a bad breath, but strove to offset these handicaps by great high spirits, within Thirteener limits. But the crown was put on the party by the great man whom they brought with them. It was none other than Gus Hoole, the radio announcer and director of the Heart and Hope programme.

  The international world of entertainment had not heard of Gus Hoole, and might possibly never do so. But for a few thousand people in Salterton and its environs, he was emperor of a world of mirth, and at the centre of all the stirring, bustling things that came into their lives. He was head announcer at the local radio and television station, and there was no appeal for a good cause, no interview with a visiting celebrity, no civic function on a large scale, in which he did not have a part. He was a fountain of the newest repartee; he had a never-failing flow of heart-warming rhetoric; he had a sure instinct for making things go. He was, indeed, a truly kind and generous man who really liked to make people happy, and to assist crippled children, the aged, the blind, the tubercular, the cancerous, the amputees, the mentally retarded and all the other afflicted persons whom the streamlined benevolence of our day has taken to its great, departmentalized heart. But he had so exposed his good instincts to the air that they had become gross, ropy and inflamed. To have Gus Hoole do good to you was not unlike a very rough rape. He entered the crowded small house, and gave it precisely the same treatment as if it were a vast drill-hall, filled with people who must be persuaded to part with money in the name of charity or patriotism. Not that he roared; television does not need roarers; he merely boomed, in the heavy, pseudo-masculine, soggily sincere tones of a popular announcer.

  “Wanted to come. Wouldn’t be kept away,” he said, in response to Mrs Gall’s flustered, overwhelmed greeting. “Least I could do for our Monny, whom we are so soon to lose to the BBC. Can’t stay long, I’m afraid. But wanted to come for as long as I could.”

  Whereupon he took charge of the party. He was a man of professional tact, and he knew that the Thirteeners belonged in that category of religion which they themselves called “the moderate-stricts”. Therefore dancing was out, and there must be no jokes mentioning drink or sex. Jokes about the excretory functions would be acceptable, however, and he made two, which were greeted with loud laughter topped by Mrs Gall. He led singing, for he was an adept in tongue-twister songs such as “One warm worm wiggled up the walk, while another warm worm wiggled down”. He guided them through a song in which the boys had to match themselves vocally against the girls, singing in falsetto. He was rich in riddles and puns. He mustered enough hats for a game which involved the very rapid putting on and taking off of unsuitable hats, and in this Pastor Beamis showed himself to immense advantage. The party began to go swimmingly—so well, in fact that Gus Hoole felt it was safe to make a joke about drink, and did so. No one laughed so loudly as Pastor Beamis.

  “That’s a hot one,” said he, at last, wiping his eyes. “Though it’s not really a joking matter, of course. You can see right here, Gus, that when a bunch of fine kids get together for a good time, they don’t need that stuff at all. They’re just naturally drunk on their own high spirits.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you, Ma,” said Kevin, nudging Mrs Gall. “Don’t think I don’t know about that jug you’ve got hidden under your bed.” She shrieked, and roared in her throat until it seemed almost that she might have a seizure. Kevin slapped her on the back and plied her with the sweet punch. “You’re drunk on sugar, Ma, that’s what’s the matter with you,” he said. She guffawed again, wildly, exaggeratedly, on a higher note, until Alice wondered if she might not actually throw up, right in the middle of the carpet.

  There was no doubt about it, Gus Hoole made Monica’s farewell party. Monica admitted it; she strove to enjoy it. Yet, somehow, real enjoyment would not come, coax it as she would with laughter. Aunt Ellen enjoyed it. She was not of the same world as Gus, but she was a simple woman, impressed by success, and she was quite prepared to admit that he was much her superior in matters of this kind. And there was no question but that Gus was giving his all.

  He even had what he thought of, professionally, as a “running gag”, for the occasion. He had to be at Salterton’s largest hotel at half-past ten, to supervise the drawing of the winning tickets in a charity raffle. That was why he was wearing his dinner jacket. (He had comically begged to be excused for appearing “just in my working clothes”.) And so, from time to time, he looked at his wrist-watch, murmuring audibly, “Mustn’t be late; they pay me ten dollars a minute for this kind of thing downtown.” This show of comic avarice on the part of Gus, the widely-known, the professional Big Heart, was uproariously funny to the party. Even the young Thirteeners loosened up, and sniggered and neighed their delight. Then, with one of his famous lightning changes of mood, Gus became serious.

  “Gotta go, folks,” said he, “and when you gotta go, you gotta go.” (A whoop from Ma Gall, who found a lavatorial significance in this.) “But seriously, I wish I could stay here with you lovely folks and emcee this affair right through till dawn. But the Mater Dee will be looking for me at the Paraplegics’ Ball in just fifteen minutes, and it’s time to say Good-bye. Before I go, Syd”—here he turned with an affecting boyishness to Pastor Beamis—”would it be too much to ask to hear the Heart and Hope just once again?”

  Pastor Beamis patted Gus on the shoulder like a man whose heart is too full for speech. Quickly he gathered Mrs Beamis and Wesley to him, and then beckoned to Monica, who found herself reddening as she joined them in the familiar formation.

  “Doh,” whispered Beamis, and his wife emitted a low moo, upon which the others formed a chord. “Granny” murmured the leader, and slowly, with immense expression, the quartet sang Eden Must Have Been Like Granny’s Garden, much the most popular thing in the semi-sacred department of their repertoire.

  It would be cynical to suggest that during this rendition there was any competition for the limelight, but if such a thing had been possible, Gus Hoole was certainly the winner. He stood motionless, during the four verses, and as the motionless actor on the stage always draws the eyes of the audience, so did Gus. When the Quartet had finished, a few callow Thirteeners thought to applaud, but Gus stilled this unseemliness with a quick gesture. Stepping forward, he kissed Monica lightly on the cheek, exercising the licence which is allowed in the entertainment world, and then, in a carrying emotional whisper, he said, “So long, kid; come back some day,” and went out, with head bent. It was a splendid exit.

  Not everyone was sorry to see him go, strange as this may appear. Alex and Kevin resented his professional intrusion on their preserve as funnymen of the party. Mrs Gall, though honoured by his presence, was debarred by it from playing her role as the Earth-Goddess, the Many-Breasted Mother, dispensing food and drink. And so, as soon as Gus had left the house, she called everyone to supper by shouting “Eats! Eats!” and bustling them into the back parlour, or dining room, where the table was laid. Mr Gall was set to work carving the turkey; Past
or Beamis hacked somewhat inexpertly at the ham. The young Thirteeners, considering their general lack of vitality, ate astonishingly. Indeed, two of the young men had a merry contest as to which could eat most, and made a great thing of it, egged on by the Thirteener girls. Ham, turkey, salad, pickles—the party chewed its way through these in short order, and then set to work on the sweet things. Because Christmas was not far away, there were crackers, and funny paper hats; the only person who did not wear a paper hat was Chuck Proby who, when urged to do so by Mrs Gall, said: “Well, in the banking business we got to be careful,” and escaped with his dignity uncompromised.

  When at last they had eaten—not everything, for that would have been impossible without some apparatus for forcible feeding, but as much as it seemed that flesh could bear—Mrs Gall disappeared to the kitchen, and returned almost at once, with the crown of the feast. This was a huge tray of small mince pies. The recipe called for a teaspoonful of brandy to be poured over each of these before it was eaten, but as Mrs Gall had no use for brandy she substituted—such is the genius of the born cook—the juice from two bottles of maraschino cherries.

  “Come on, now,” she cried. “Every one you eat means a happy month next year. Ain’t that so, Pastor?”

  And so the company, protesting that it could eat no more, ate a great deal more, and stowed away mincemeat soaked in maraschino cherry juice until the young men groaned and rubbed their stomachs histrionically, and the girls protested that they could touch their last swallow, that their back teeth were submerged in food, and all the other jolly things which people say to please so bounteous a hostess as Mrs Gall. Pastor Beamis won the prize for eating most mince pies (nine) and when he unwrapped it, it was a toy set of bagpipes. When he danced about the room playing his pipes, even Mr Gall laughed a little, and said that the Pastor was a card. Then they all settled down to top off with shortbread and coffee.

  It was at this time that Alex and Kevin crept away, to return in a few minutes wearing Derby hats, spats, and carrying canes; in their eyes they painfully gripped watch crystals, to simulate monocles. For the enjoyment of the sated guests—some of whom were already showing signs of that grim malady, a cake hangover—they acted out a little dialogue of their own composition, in which they declared that they were from jolly old London, by Jove, and that they were waiting impatiently for the arrival of Miss Monica Gall, the Salterton nightingale, don’t y’know, who was coming over to Blighty to show them a thing or two about singing, eh what? Their English accents were not very well assumed, their English slang was derived from hearing people who had read Wodehouse talk about him, and their little masque did not seem to have a beginning or an end or much perceptible point, but it was received with enthusiasm, and Mrs Gall was in gales of mirth, just from looking at them being so funny.

  “Yeah, that’s the way she’ll be talkin’ when she gets back,” said she, jerking her head toward Monica. “Just you be careful, my girl, not to pick up a lotta snottery when you’re over there among all them dudes. You got to keep your feet on the ground, and not get so’s we can’t understand a word you say.”

  “Monny’ll be right up with the bigwigs when she’s having lessons from Sir Thingumyjig,” said Wes Beamis.

  “Well, for her sake I hope they’re more open-handed in England than they’ve been here,” said Mrs Gall. “The idea—invitin’ us over there to talk about Monny’s future, and never so much as offered us a cuppa coffee!”

  “But Monny’s getting the interest on a lotta money,” said Mr Gall. “You have to remember that.”

  “A cuppa coffee wouldn’t have hurt,” said his wife. “But no, they just sat around that room like so many Stoughton bottles and looked at us as if we was poison.”

  “Let the boys go on, Ma,” said Monica.

  The entertainment by Alex and Kevin did not so much come to an end, as it fell apart, and the evening took another sudden turn toward seriousness, as it had when Gus Hoole was taking his leave. Pastor Beamis spoke of the loss to the Thirteener Church which was caused by Monica’s great good fortune. He referred feelingly to the blow that had been sustained by the Heart and Hope quartet. He and his wife and Wes wanted Monica to remember them, when she was far away, and to remember their repertoire, too, so that sometimes she might sing the Lord’s songs in a strange land. And in order to keep them in her mind, he asked her to accept a gift.

  Wesley Beamis produced it, from the entrance hall, and Monica unwrapped it as they all looked on. It was a dressing case, fitted with a mirror, brushes, bottles and hangers upon which clothes could be folded. Monica, who had a headache, was moved, and cried a little, but she pulled herself together and made a speech.

  “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” said she; “not just for this, though it’s lovely, but for all the good times and all the kindness. Please don’t talk as if I could ever forget you. I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t if I could. I’ll always keep this with me, whatever happens, and no matter how long I’m away, or whatever happens to me—” She could say no more.

  Pastor Beamis struck up God Be With You Till We Meet Again, and they all sang it, fervently and with a warmth which was, to Monica, agonizingly sweet and embracing. As she stood among them weeping, part of her feeling was of deepest shame that she could ever, for a moment, have felt stifled and cramped in this atmosphere, or have wished to get away from it. Miss Ellen Gall, in the back parlour among the ruins of the feast, wept too.

  The guests went home, each with a kind word, and Wesley Beamis, made bold by the example of Gus Hoole, pressed a maraschino-tainted kiss upon her cheek at parting. He had had hopes of Monica, but now they were gone.

  When the Galls were alone, Ma was seen to be slumped in a chair, beet-red in the face, and utterly exhausted. But she roused herself, thrust a piece of fruitcake into her mouth and rose.

  “Come on,” said she; “let’s get these dishes done before we go to bed. I don’t want any slopdolly housekeeping here.” She kicked off her shoes, removed her teeth, and went to the kitchen.

  There she found that Alex and Kevin were well advanced on the first lap of the dish-washing. Good boys, thoughtful boys: make wonderful husbands.

  Four

  1

  Christmas Eve. Unhappy and nauseated from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, Monica lay in her berth aboard the Duchess of Richmond. Although she had several blankets and the steam heating hissed and muttered in the pipes, she was clammily cold. The boat—no, the doctor had said she must always call it the ship—toiled laboriously upward, seemingly determined to reach the sky, and hung poised for a few dreadful moments at the crest of the wave; the screws, lifted from the water, caused the whole vessel to shudder awesomely; then it plunged, writhing, into the depths again. Everything in the cabin jingled and shifted; the vomit-can, hooked ingeniously over the side of her berth, chattered metallically. Down the hallway, but clearly audible through the ventilation louvres in the door, somebody dropped a loaded tray.

  The light in the middle of the cabin turned on with a snap, and Stewardess Rose Glebe was in the room, heavily rouged and bursting with well-being.

  “Well, and how’s the lonely girlie now?” she carolled. “Still a weeny bit sicky-pussy? Never mind, dear, you’re not the only one. Only six at First Class dinner tonight.”

  Holding Monica firmly with one arm, Stewardess Glebe dealt the pillow several punishing blows. Monica retched powerfully but without result.

  “Poor kiddie,” said the angel of light, laying her back again and straightening the blankets. “Nothing to come, eh? That’s no good; got to get something into your tummikins dear, or you’ll wrench it loose with that there straining. Now look; I’ve brought you a lovely apple, all cut in pieces, and some ginger ale. You just get that down. No matter if you can’t keep it. You’ve got to have something to raise, or you’ll harm yourself. Doctor’s orders. I’ll come back before I go off duty, and help you down the hall, to the W, then I’ll tidy your bed for the night. Now
, now, you mustn’t feel so sorry for yourself. Could be much worse, I tell you. Though it’s a pity about Christmas Eve.”

  “Can it be worse than this?” asked Monica, faintly.

  “Much worse on the voyage over,” said Stewardess Glebe. “That was a crossing, if you like. The old North Atlantic’s no millpond in winter.”

  With a smile of extreme cheer she vanished through the door.

  Monica lay with her eyes closed for a few minutes, gathering courage. Then, with extreme caution, she took a sip of ginger ale and felt better at once. She nibbled a bit of apple, and became conscious that she was very hungry. Soon she was able to get up, bathe her face, and turn out the centre light; she switched on the reading-lamp in her berth and lay as quietly as the ship would allow, eating the apple lingeringly.

  How noisy the ship was! All that creaking and groaning, night and day. And how empty! But then, as a fellow passenger had asked her, who would cross the North Atlantic in Christmas Week unless they had to? There were only twenty-two First Class passengers altogether, and of these seventeen were men—middle-aged, dull-looking men, obviously travelling on business. One of them, with whom she had had a brief conversation, was an apple man from British Columbia. Monica had anticipated the sea voyage as an exciting and perhaps even a romantic introduction to her new life. But when she found herself seated at a table in the dining saloon with a widow who was going to scatter her husband’s ashes in his native Scotland, and a female Major in the Salvation Army, she had revised her opinion. Not that she had been allowed much time to explore the possibilities of the ship, for it had left St John in heavy weather, and Monica had been in her berth since the second day; this was the fourth day and the storm—not that the doctor or Stewardess Glebe would admit that it was a storm—seemed to be growing worse.