A Population of One

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  We laugh. He has a second éclair. After the dishes are done, I help him put odds and ends into cupboards and stock his desk with its dictionary, paper, and typewriter. The room looks orderly and comfortable now; even home-like.

  “Willy,” he says as I am pulling on my long boots for the trek home, “you have been the most marvellous help, and you will be rewarded in heaven. Also on earth, because I will take you out to dinner soon. On payday, to be exact.”

  “Thanks. I accept. Now take care of yourself. Go to bed with a hot-water bottle and get a good, long sleep.”

  “I will. Good night, Willy, and bless you.” As I am buttoning my coat he drops a comedy kiss on the end of my nose. It is the sort of kiss that, if anything, sets The Project back considerably, and I know it. Just the same, I walk home under the stars happy in the snowy, alien streets of Villette. I will not have to bury my postcard after all.

  THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH MEETING

  SCHEDULED FOR JANUARY 19TH IS POSTPONED

  FOR TWO WEEKS, OWING TO THE CHAIRMAN’S

  FILTHY ATTACK OF SCIATICA. A.B.-C.

  “There’s this Special Delivery for Dr. Clarke,” says Sherri, appearing at my office door as I bundle on coat and scarf for the trip home. “You live sort of near him, don’t you? Maybe you could like drop it off at his place on your way?” She gives the letter into my reluctant hand. Her long fingernails are lacquered green. “Thanks,” she adds firmly.

  “Well, all right.” The late afternoon is white with hoarfrost when I come out of the building, and the Porsche coughs and growls before it will start. But while the engine warms I look with satisfaction at the big pink box on the back seat. At lunchtime I have surrendered to overwhelming temptation and bought a long dress out of the window of a sinfully expensive boutique in Place Ville Marie. It is the delicate blue of early morning. A long chiffon scarf hangs from the shoulder; the back is bare and the skirt full and filmy. A romantic dress. Not even the lurking suspicion that my freckles may dim the romantic effect can prevent me from spending my entire supply of ready cash on this lovely gown. After all, payday will soon come around. I can do without lunch for a few days. And Bill is sure to take me somewhere nice — maybe where there’s dancing, like the top of that huge new hotel on Peel Street.… I can economize by dyeing those old white shoes of mine to match the blue.…

  Clarke’s house looks stubborn and forlorn, a lonely island in its half-acre of snow. The wind whips at me and groans theatrically in the bare trees. Beside the steps stands a large garbage tin surrounded by an extensive litter of bottles, some of them broken. Impatiently I stamp my feet to keep warm, and knock again. Yes, or that smart Czech restaurant on Beaver Hall Hill everybody talks about … Where is the man? Can’t he hear? I hammer the knocker again. My gloved hands are cold. Why don’t I just push this damned letter through the letter-slot and go?

  But at long last a faint glow appears in the fanlight and the door slowly opens.

  “This letter came for you this afternoon, Dr. Clarke. Sherri asked me to drop it off.”

  He is bent almost double, grey shock of hair low, one hand pressed to the small of his back. His face is seamed, when he lifts it to me, with what looks like pure rage.

  “What’s that ye say? Can’t hear a word. Come inside, do; no point in freezing us both to death.”

  I step inside and he slams the door. Without a backward glance he limps down the hall, still holding his back, and disappears into the sitting-room. By the time I have scraped my boots dry and followed him, he is lowering himself cautiously into an armchair, his lips moving in silent blasphemy.

  “Here’s the letter Sherri asked me to bring you, Dr. Clarke. I hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”

  He is busy trying to juxtapose a hot-water bottle and the sore place on his back. I stand there holding out the letter with such patience as I can muster. There is a big coal fire glowing on the hearth. One of the Siamese cats is crouched on the faded rug close to the red heat. The room is dark; only one lamp is lit behind his chair.

  “Where the hell are my glasses?” he asks irritably.

  “I don’t know where the hell they are,” I say, as reasonably as I can. Then I spot them, precariously poised on top of a pile of books near his feet.

  I hand the glasses over with the letter. “Good night, then. I’ll just let myself out —”

  “Ah,” he interrupts me. “From my son. Bad news, without a shadow of a doubt. Wait — is that six?”

  We pause to count the subdued chimes of an old tall clock in the shadows, uttered with diffidence, like an old man’s tales no one wants to hear.

  “Yes, it’s six o’clock. I must be getting —”

  “Wait, miss. Have I said thank you, at all?”

  “No, sir.” (Well, if he insists on being so Victorian. Actually, it suits him.)

  “Well, I do thank you. And if it’s six, my bread is ready to go into the oven. Take off your coat. If you’d have the great kindness, that is, to give me a hand. For some reason the kneading goes for this sciatic nerve. Come on out to the kitchen. Know how to knead bread? Well, I’ll show you what to do.”

  There seems no way I can well refuse, so I drop my coat over a chair and follow his stooped and creaking progress out to the kitchen. In addition to its usual eclectic collection of junk, the room contains a warm, yeasty smell that is rather pleasant.

  “Now the dough has to be turned out onto this board — just hold it steady — dust your hands with flour and fold the dough over on itself. Now push with the heel of your hand — no no, girl; like this. Lightly. That’s it. Now fetch me those pans. Did I grease them? — yes. In a few minutes they can go in. The oven on? Good. Cover them up, then — they hate draughts as much as I do.”

  I set the covered breadpans gingerly on top of the stove, nearly coming to disaster as I fail to notice a dish of cat-food on the floor near my foot.

  “That’s Percy’s. He won’t eat. Poor old Douglas died, you know, last Sunday. Must have been some kind of heart attack — he just gave a sort of cough after his meal, and dropped. Ten years old, they were; brothers, never been separated. Used to fight a lot. Now Percy won’t eat. Had him along to the vet, tried everything — but he won’t make the effort. So I’ll be quite alone soon. Do you mind if I read my letter?”

  He lowers himself by careful degrees into the old Windsor rocker. His head with its mane of grey hair is sunk over the broad chest, crookedly buttoned into a shabby old sweater. The glasses are low on his beaky nose as he fumbles open his letter. I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor old curmudgeon.

  “Have you got any shrimps? Tinned shrimps?”

  “Probably. Why, are you hungry? Look in that cupboard; lots of shrimp there.”

  I push aside a pile of yellowing Times Lit. Supps., open the tall cupboard door, and survey the cluttered shelves. Yes, here is a tin of shrimp. Under his abstracted direction I find an opener in a drawer bursting with old paper bags, string, candles, and small garden tools. I empty and wash the cat-saucer by the stove and arrange on it a small helping of shrimp in their juice. I take this into the sitting-room, leaving Clarke hunched sombrely over his letter.

  “Now Percy, old boy. Look at what I’ve got. How about a bite to eat?”

  I sit down quietly on the rug near him. He settles deeper into his crouch, barely opening his blue eyes in one wary glance before closing them again. His coat looks rough and his nose is dry. “Come on, old man. Nice shrimp. Just smell. Yummy.” I stroke him. “Who was a nice old cat, then? There’s a good boy. Come on, then, Percy, let’s try. Such a handsome old man, then.” Percy seems to find these remarks less fatuous than they sound. He gives a self-pitying sigh and does not avoid my caressing hand. Cautiously I dip a finger into the shrimp-juice and touch the end of his nose with it. He frowns, but his pink tongue comes out and he licks the juice away. I offer a tiny scrap of the coral meat in my fingers. After long hesitation he takes it
from me fastidiously, drops it on the rug, paws it up, looks at it with disfavour, then drops it again. But he takes the next bit directly from my fingers and eats it. When I offer the plate, he looks away, pained, until I hold him out another scrap.

  “Time to put this bread in, miss,” Archie calls. The warm, yeasty smell floats down the dark hall to meet me as I return to the kitchen. Suddenly I feel ravenously hungry.

  “He’s eaten nearly half the shrimp.”

  “Who has?” He looks up at me from the folded letter lying on his knee as if he has difficulty remembering who I am.

  “Percy. He ate some dinner. The bread’s in. And now I’m off.”

  “Et some shrimp, did he? Good for him.” He looks at his broken old slippers and makes a heavy effort to stand up.

  “No, please don’t bother — I can just let myself out.”

  “That bread will have to come out in half an hour. Take off those ridiculous boots, woman, you look like a Cossack, and have a bite of supper with me. Unless that would bore you intolerably. Can’t even offer you a drink, I’m afraid. Threw out all my whiskey. Real danger of becoming a squalid old drunk, specially with this bloody back playing me up. Self-pity, it occurred to me the other day, is the alcoholic’s disease. And I have it. So I threw all the Scotch away. But you could make us a nice little omelette, and I think I can find a bottle of Liebfraumilch to help it down.”

  “Well, thanks; but I’m afraid, sir, I’m no cook.”

  He looks at me with genuine indignation. “What — call yourself a woman and can’t cook? Outrageous.”

  “I suppose it is, really.” And I actually do feel almost apologetic. After all, men like to eat. Where did I read that food is more important than sex to ninety per cent of all men? The Project could actually suffer … Bill loves his food, I’ve noticed. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind knowing how to make that bread. It smells marvellous.” I give him a demure look.

  “Preposterous, not able to knock together so much as an omelette. Well, I propose to educate you, miss. Beginning now. Take four eggs out of the fridge; get a bowl and the whisk, and you shall make an omelette. We’ll have some of the new bread with it, too, though it really shouldn’t be cut so soon. Good of you to bring that letter. And Sherri’s a good girl, too. Did you know she and her boyfriend made a bird feeder for Lily to watch? She spent her last month with her face to the window, watching the birds. A good, kind girl. Even if I’d rather not have had the damn letter. My poor son is always being ill or bankrupt or divorced, don’t know how it is; he’s intelligent, he has charm; and there’s no harm in him, no harm at all, and yet … Take that bread out now and set it on those racks. Don’t know what it is, but in my more depressive moods I see the poor man as another failure of my own, in the genes maybe. Or mistakes I made … in the war, I insisted on sending him to friends of ours in America. That was in 1941. And Lily wouldn’t leave me. He was just six. It was two years before we saw him again. Maybe he felt we were … well, I’ve regretted it since. Very much. Have you broken those eggs? Now add a splash or two of water, some salt, a grind or two of pepper; don’t hang about, girl. Ah well. Never have understood Tony, really. ‘Do diddle di do / Poor Jim Jay / Got stuck fast / In Yesterday.’ Eh? Must be all that Aspirin that makes me so confessional. Whisk those eggs, don’t beat them to death. You’ll find a cast-iron pan around somewhere — over there, under those towels, I think. Well, perhaps my generation puts too high a value on achievement. Neurotic of us, d’ye think? But who would be a parent if he knew ahead of time all the pains and failures of it?”

  “I would.”

  He stares at me briefly over his spectacles. “Don’t get that pan too hot — you’re burning the butter. No, no — here, give it here, I’ll do it. You shake the pan like this, d’ye see — slide the mixture till the whole thing folds over. Oh Christ, my back. Fancy not knowing how to make an omelette, a woman of your age. Are the plates hot? Well, why aren’t they? If those loaves are cool enough now, you can cut a slice or two. Pay attention, now. The knife must not be too cold. Crust not too dark? No, just right. You know, in sixty years I’ve achieved absolutely nothing, except a dim perception of Shakespeare’s genius. A third-rate émigré scholar who’s achieved the total obscurity he so richly deserves. But I can, by God, make magnificent bread. And do you know what I am going to do for you, miss? You have been good about Percy. And there may even be other qualities in you worth cultivating. I am going to teach you how to make good bread. You will present yourself here at nine o’clock in the morning this Saturday, in a clean apron, for the first lesson.”

  I look at him. He stares back (can it be hopefully?) and pulls himself straighter, one hand still pressed to his back. Excuses, evasions, form on my lips; but I say meekly, “Yes, thanks. I’ll come. Sir.”

  Department-meeting day is cheerful with flashes of sun and snow dry as powder sparkling in the bright air. Sherri’s heels tap smartly up and down the hall; phones buzz; people pop in and out of each other’s offices with an air of energy and purpose. A supercharge, perhaps just of static electricity in the air, stings my fingers whenever I touch a metal doorknob or wastebasket. I keep looking at my watch, but the meeting is not due to begin for fifteen minutes yet.

  Suddenly, to my surprise, Harry Innis appears at my door. He is carrying that plastic mug of coffee without which no one at Cartier ever seems to move.

  “Come on in, Harry. Can I do anything for you?”

  “Yes, Willy, as a matter of fact you can.”

  “Really? What can it be — Molly’s all right, is she? I mean, she’s been off work this last week.…”

  “No, she’s fine,” he says, as if surprised at the question. After pushing the door shut, he drags up a chair and sits back in it, cocking one bent, jean-clad leg over his knee. “It’s a small deal, just. Ruthie is going to nominate Mike Armstrong to the Hiring and Tenure Committee, and will you second it? He’s a student of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. But — is that what today’s meeting is all about? Hiring and Tenure?”

  “Not on the agenda, no. But now we’ve got parity, the H & T has got to double in size, and now’s the time to set it up, before the spring when it gets to work. Used to be just Molly, Bill, and Archie. Now we need three students. Mike, Leo Bernstein, and Mary MacGregor … it had better be people we know.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. But Mike is —”

  “Mike is what?”

  But I can hardly say, “Mike is in your pocket. Is he really right to serve on a committee that may soon have to decide on your future? — Even if we concede he’s the right person to decide on any departmental business …” So I wriggle uncomfortably and mutter “so young.”

  “Not a federal offence, is it? He’s a smart kid, Mike.”

  “Yes. Oh yes. He’s smart.”

  Harry’s eyes pin mine, though his red lips are still smiling. “It’s important to get the right people on this committee, Willy. You’ve got to see that. Hell, your own job will be on the line next year.”

  “Yes, I realize that. But can you be sure who are the right people? I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not? Bright people. Socially mature. Reliable. The kind that don’t skip meetings or get fooled by a lot of bullshit from Administration. Right?”

  “Sure, as far as it —”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “No — well — it’s only that —” Irritated by my own silly diffidence, I add in a rush — “It just seems pretty contrived, somehow. Arranging who’ll nominate and who’ll second and all that.”

  “Contrived? Of course it is. That kind of thing is plain common sense, Willy. Or self-defence, if you like.” His good humour seems unruffled, but under his blandness I sense the flick of something like anger. He takes a swig of coffee and the sun pulls a gold flash out of his signet ring. He has surprisingly small hands, with clever, narrow fingers. “No,” he goes on, “I know what’s bothering you, the idea of rigging the co
mmittee. Christ, as if this whole place wasn’t — but here. Have a look at this and you may lose a few of those delicate scruples.”

  He plucks a folded letter out of an inner pocket of his jean-jacket. It is dated this week, from the Principal’s office. The message is only four lines long. “The Principal and Board of Governors regard as irreconcilable your professional commitments and your leadership of the League for Student Action, and inform you that resignation from that post is a necessary condition of your renewed academic appointment at Cartier College. Faithfully yours, Fergus M. Fraser.”

  “What price manipulation now?” he asks.

  “Ugh. It’s a horrid letter, all right.”

  “Well, I intend to get legal advice and all that, and it’s not that I’m personally worried. Shit, if it comes to that, there are other jobs. But you can see — well. The thing needs no comment. Incidentally, Molly’s turning in her resignation today from the H & T Committee. Is that contrived, do you think? She has her scruples, too. Well, forget I ever proposed Mike — no hard feelings, kid. Come on, it’s time to get upstairs.”

  I shift unhappily in my chair. He will not forgive me now, but I say, “Harry, wait. I’ll second Mike for the committee.”

  He shies his empty cup with one fast, accurate slam into the metal wastebasket, and it raps out a loud, sharp, peremptory clang — applause for one hand.

  “Good girl,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  Dougie has to go into hospital and have his tonsils out. This news so darkens the whole day of my date with Bill that I can hardly think of anything else. Yet Lou on the phone is so crisp and sensible about the whole thing that she makes me feel both silly and guilty about being silly.

  “Nothing to it,” she says firmly. “They just keep them in overnight — not half long enough, if you ask me. Of course the day he’s booked, Greg’s off to Goderich, so guess who will have to carry the whole can.”

  “Oh, the poor baby. Is he scared?”

  “Scared! What of? He can’t wait for the ice cream.”