“Like it’s perfectly simple,” says Mike urgently. “We just refuse. They can’t ram this down our throats. We’ll paralyze the place. Boycott lectures. Sit in. All of us — we’re all in this, right?” He looks eagerly at Harry, who lifts one shoulder in a shrug. It is disturbing to see the shadow of doubt fall across Mike’s eyes.
“Look, man, you’re with us, right?” he demands, his voice cracking into an adolescent treble. “You can’t for one second be thinking of giving in? After all you’ve done to get student parity this far? We’re right behind you — you can’t be going to quit now, for God’s sake.”
“Mike — not now. We can talk strategy later. There’s no point, really, saying any more now.”
“I quite agree,” says Archie. “Novel as that may seem to some of you. Motion to adjourn, anyone? Right. The quondam Hiring and Tenure Committee may want to meet informally soon — shall we say Wednesday at five, in my office?”
The meeting then disintegrates noisily. Molly is silent; she looks depressed and tired; but everyone else is loud with talk as they scrape back the heavy chairs and get into their coats. Mike and the two students who are left, all talking excitedly, are close at Harry’s heels as he leaves.
“Poor bugger,” Bill says quietly to me as we go downstairs. “He’s got his confrontation now, for sure. I wonder what he’ll do.”
“Well, as he said himself, there may be nothing he can do.”
“He could maybe save himself here, if he drops the student cause now. Question is whether he actually can drop it.”
“You think he really could? Save himself, I mean?”
“I said maybe. God, I wouldn’t want to be him.”
For the rest of the week, a portentous air of underground political activity pervades the building. People huddle together having low-voiced conferences in a secretive sort of way, as if they are afraid a spy might read their lips. Even a visit to the Ladies can become fraught with significance: I find Emma and Molly in there one morning having a hissing quarrel.
Most of these negotiations tend to be suspended as soon as I appear. Perhaps my colleagues share Mother’s view that I have no discretion. Or perhaps I’m thought to be already committed to either the radicals or the reactionaries, though the truth is I’m uneasily on the fence. Bill is perched on it with me, though far more comfortably. “I simply refuse to be involved,” he says firmly. “I haven’t got the energy.”
But one way or another, all my biorhythms seem to be in a state of agitation. I actually lose a large batch of test-papers. (They turn up later at the bottom of my Out tray; but not till after I’ve spent a frantic day searching for them.) I stumble on an icy curbstone and twist my ankle. It swells. Lou gives my nerves a further twist by phoning on Sunday night to demand without preamble, “Are you all right?”
“Sure I am. Why? Aren’t you?”
“Willy, for God’s sake the papers here are full of Quebec — it sounds as if the damn place is about to blow up in some kind of crazy revolution. It’s only a matter of time, according to the Globe. And we were at a cocktail party this afternoon where we met this chap from Montreal, he’s a Q.C., and when I asked him about the situation there, he took a huge gulp of vodka and said, ‘I think the police will stay loyal.’ Well, I mean it’s not exactly reassuring, is it? What a place to be living! Of course I told you at the time, only you never listen. And that poor night-watchman that got blown up by terrorists; that Army place is right near your apartment, isn’t it?”
“No, no; it’s at least a mile away.”
“But aren’t you terrified?”
“No,” I say in some surprise, because if anyone has a talent for being terrified it’s me. “Nobody here is. Nobody I know, anyway. The other day, it’s true, I came into the lobby downstairs and there was a cop talking to our janitor. But they were having a big laugh. Afterward I asked Louis-Philippe what was going on, and he said, ‘They’re try to fin’ these guys that plant the bomb at the recruiting centre. Looking for a frien’ of mine, in fact, he belong to the same … club. They’ll never find him, mees.’ He seemed to think it was all a joke.”
“But the watchman died for real, Willy. And they keep on phoning in bomb threats, don’t they, to schools and things? And you’re at a school. It’s awful. I’d be worried sick, in your shoes.”
“Well, I’m not. I tell you, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s only a little band of nuts. Everybody tells me the French Canadians are ninety-nine per cent middle-class conservatives. Don’t believe all these alarmists. The trouble with us Wasps is that we’re too nervous.”
I don’t bother to tell Lou that Louis-Philippe, after the cop left, rode up with me in the elevator and made me nervous, though not politically. He leaned a hairy wrist on the Stop button at my floor to keep the doors shut while his eyes slid over me in that lazy, arrogant way he has.
“Your — fridge okay now?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks. Perfectly okay.”
“Maybe I better check.”
“Don’t bother, thanks. And open the door, please.”
He grinned. “You got your fridge built in, mees. Like all les Anglaises. Or you pretend. Eh? I think you pretend.”
“Would you like me to press the Alarm button?”
He laughed. “Okay, mees. Au revoir.” And the doors slid open, allowing me to bolt like a rabbit into my own hole.
But none of this has a soothing effect. Far from it. Later that evening, when the weekly fight erupts next door, I face the wall and yell at the top of my lungs. “Cut that out!” There is a balm-like quiet for the rest of the night. I’m impressed by my own daring, but I still can’t sleep till daybreak.
I go to my office at eight-thirty to correct papers. But even at that hour, the corridors are full of sibilant whispers and furtively closing doors. When I go to class, the students are restless, and their muttered groundswell of private chat runs through my whole lecture on George Eliot.
Wearily I plod back to the office after lunch, my ankle throbbing. There is still a pile of work on my desk to get through. It is a brilliant day, with a sky smooth and blue as fresh enamel. Here and there a little snow has actually melted, leaving a wet patch of earth to look hopefully up at the sun. Yet the pavements are still sealed under inches of black ice, and spring seems like only an unfounded rumour.
At the desk I pin myself to work. Gradually the building hushes and empties. The sun drops low. I switch on my gooseneck lamp. After the papers are done, I get some coffee and begin to make notes on Felix Holt, Radical, thinking with satisfaction, “How’s this for Relevance, kids, to use one of your favourite words?” The office is quiet and cosy in the lamplight as I scrawl away.
But suddenly I become aware of a confused and growing uproar outside — banging, shouts, many voices — and I jump up in alarm to peer through my window. My office faces a side-street, and all the narrow angle of vision reveals is what seems to be a ragged sort of procession passing the front of the building with banners. A motorcycle cop putters along at the rear, but the sight of him is not really reassuring. The noise swells until it seems to be actually inside the building. “You’re in a school,” says Lou’s voice. My heart begins to thump unpleasantly. The house is invaded; feet are thundering up the stairs and pounding along the halls. A nearby blast of sound like the brass voice of a trumpet makes me jump. Voices shout to each other in French. I stand near my closed door, wondering what to do — lock it? Pull on my coat and run outside? What on earth can they be doing — what is it all about? “Aren’t you terrified?” Yes, Lou, I am.
A random kick lands against my door, but the running feet, after discovering that this corridor is blind, now recede in the distance, thumping their way to the top floor. Apparently they are not looking for me personally, which is some comfort, though not much. A moment later I hear the whole cavalcade pouring downstairs again and outside.
Back at the window I glimpse the dishevelled procession on the move again. By now I have re
covered enough of my scattered wits to notice that many of the marchers wear the blue tuque of the Université de Montréal. A moment later there slides into my angle of vision a group flourishing in triumph the orange flag of Cartier College that normally flies from the absurd little cupola on top of this house.
Taking a deep breath, I sit down. A student prank. This is Carnival Week. But oh, those biorhythms.
Next morning I wake up with a headache for which I hold the Quebec separatist movement entirely responsible. All day long the pain nags with mounting insistence. By three in the afternoon, when my last class of the day ends, my skull feels too tight, my eyes itch, and from time to time all my skin roughens with goose-bumps. I make the best of my way home, thanking God, for once with genuine fervour, that it is Friday. Archie has earlier cancelled our weekly cooking lesson in order to straighten out a tax problem downtown — “with someone in Infernal Revenue, as my sister would call it.”
I spend Saturday in bed, full of Aspirin, the headache still throbbing like jungle drums. By Sunday morning it has vanished; but when I reach out a bare arm for my slippers, the morning sun reveals a dense rash of red pinpoints from wrist to shoulder. A year ago I saw the same tattoo on Dougie’s silky cheeks. Measles. It’s been going around among the students. How ridiculous. And uncomfortable, as I continue to discover.
“Hullo, Bill. Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I’ve got the measles.”
“Christ, Willy.”
“Temperature’s a hundred and two,” I add, not without pride. Bill is always impressed by medical details.
“How long does it take to incubate?”
I know what’s worrying him. A few days ago we spent the evening together, parting after a modest kiss and cuddle. This agreeable (and I trust, hopeful) habit is gradually becoming more or less regular with us. And who could possibly regard it as the least risky, in the normal course of things? But for us, it would seem, nothing is really easy.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Surely you had measles as a child. Nearly everybody does.”
“I can’t remember. When I call Mum tonight, I’ll ask her if I ever had it. God, I hope the answer is yes. Measles I don’t need.”
Shortly after this he hangs up, as if afraid the virus might somehow get to him through the telephone wires. No use mentioning to him that there’s little to eat in my fridge except a frozen pizza and a tag-end of bacon, neither of them even remotely tempting. He will not come near the apartment until it and I are purified, and well I know it. “What can’t be cured must be endured,” Mother used to say, and that goes for our friends as much as our diseases. Just the same, I feel better after talking to him.
When Lou hears my news, she giggles unfeelingly. “How silly, at your age,” she says.
“Well, it’s not all that damn funny. I’m covered with this hideous rash. It’s even between my toes. Itching like hell.”
“Oh, it will be gone in a few days. Cheer up.”
I would if I could; but it isn’t easy. Monday, Tuesday, crawl away. On Wednesday I disguise myself in dark glasses and a large headscarf to shop for groceries and calamine lotion. My legs feel hollow and the light hurts my eyes; I’m glad to get home. On the way in, I help myself to the top copy of a pile of Stars that has accumulated on my neighbours’ doormat. The old couple must be in Florida, or perhaps in a pair of His and Her straitjackets.
For something to do I stretch out for a skim of the news. And there on Page Two is a headline that brings me bolt upright in a hurry. “Power Struggle at Cartier. Instructor Fights Dismissal Threat.” There is a pop-eyed picture of Harry Innis, looking either terrified or militant, it’s hard to be sure which. According to the article, he has hired a lawyer and intends to take the college to court for attempting to restrict his civil liberties. He is quoted as saying that the principles of academic freedom are also at stake, threatened by “bigoted, arrogant, and fundamentally ignorant men like Principal Fraser, a puppet of St. James Street.” The last paragraph of the article describes student support for Harry and his cause as “an almost crusading enthusiasm.” Mention is also made of widespread faculty sympathy, and the support of “his devoted wife, Molly.”
“Well!” I say seconds later to Bill. “Have you seen tonight’s paper?”
“Heady stuff, eh? That reporter is just a part-timer — a kid himself — but I wonder how on earth the thing ever got by, it’s so terrifically pro-Harry. The Principal has issued a statement, you know — we all got a copy in our mail this morning. It will be in tomorrow’s Star for sure. Announcing that Harry is fired, by unanimous vote of the new Hiring and Tenure boys. So there’ll be lots of fireworks. By the way, Mum says I had measles when I was six; but you can get it twice. She’s got a touch of phlebitis; I may just fly down there this weekend to see how she’s getting on. You feeling better? Good. Be in touch later.”
I am restless after this, and long to get back to work, but the rash lingers and I have to accept my leper’s isolation over the weekend. On Sunday evening I’m surprised to receive a phone call from Archie — my first. He regards Mr. Bell’s device with truculent suspicion and dislike.
“I hear you have contracted a children’s disease.” His resonant voice crackles out of the receiver with such energy I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“Yes, but I’m over it now.”
“Back to work tomorrow?”
“Oh yes.”
“That’s why I called. You’ve been following this affair of Harry’s, have you? The fact is, I hear we can expect trouble here tomorrow. The students are planning to boycott classes. Or so the rumour goes. I’m phoning to ask everybody in the department to meet classes just as usual. If so much as one student turns up for the lecture, he should see you there. But of course if any attempt is made to interfere with you — heckling, let’s say, or some attempt to lock or bar you from the room — of course in such a case you will just withdraw with dignity. The point is I’d like everybody to report for work as usual, to make it quite clear we won’t accept intimidation. As for me, I very much hope somebody will try to restrain me from giving my lecture on Macbeth. It would give me the liveliest pleasure personally to dislocate anyone so misguided as to try. I boxed for my college, you know.”
“For pity’s sake, Archie. What happened to withdrawing with dignity?”
“That,” he says, “is my advice to you, not me, miss. You are aware, I presume, of the difference in our age, if not our sex.”
“Vividly,” I assure him through a wide grin.
“I’ll probably see you tomorrow. In any case, the lesson in Eggs Benedict can take place Friday evening, if you like.”
“I like. In fact, nothing could keep me away.”
It must be my father’s genes that make the idea of a real scrap so stimulating. I am dressed at seven and ready for any amount or kind of confrontation at Cartier. Dad was as combative as a terrier, though not much bigger than one, and his best stories had to do with various colourful hand-to-hand combats. One was with a coal carter beating his horse on a steep hill. Another, less altruistic, was a punch-up with an Irishman in a tavern who said something uncomplimentary about Winston Churchill. But my favourite was an encounter with a pompous little department manager (in the days when Dad sold paint). On that occasion he lifted up the manager by the coat collar and seat of the pants and dropped him into a large waste bin. That’s the way he told it, anyhow. And I’m quite willing this morning to believe him. How difficult it must have been for Gerald Wellesley Doyle, when you think of it, to be married to a quietist like Mother. It almost makes you wonder whether things would have been better between them if she could have brought herself, just once, to have a low brawl with him. Maybe refinement, dignity, and restraint are not as wholly desirable as they might be — not in life, anyway, as distinct from in fiction. Perhaps Mother and I both read too much Trollope and Thackeray. It’s a rather disquieting thought.
The snow crunches underfoot as I walk briskly up the street to the classroom building. I am ready for anything — revolutionaries at the door — security guards — riot police — but rather to my regret, I find everything absolutely normal. The halls are quiet. The students circulate as usual. The doors of my classroom stand open wide. A quick survey from behind the lectern shows that most of my students are present, though Mike and his big-bottomed girl are not there. The class sits more quietly than usual, clipboards laid out, pens at the ready. They eye me demurely. My rather dull lecture on George Eliot and the concept of Duty proceeds in respectful silence, without incident of any kind.
Much deflated, and inclined to be rather cross with Archie (and even Dad), I gather up my books and set out for the office. On the steps I fall in with Ruth Pinsky and we walk uphill together in the blaze of a cold sun. But as we come nearer to the house, she touches my arm with her gloved hand and says, “Look!”
Then I see that the doorway is blocked by a solid knot of students hoisting placards. These have been professionally printed, in big red letters on white, with slogans like “Sit-In for Civil Liberty,” “Students for Democracy,” and “Back Innis and the L.S.A.”
“For God’s sake,” says Ruth. “They’re occupying the building. All that stuff about a lecture boycott was a blind.”
“Come on,” I say, pushing with energy through a loose group of spectators. “Let’s find out the score.”
“Not me,” she says, and drops behind. But I march vigorously up the path and face the group barring the doorway.
“What’s going on here, lads?” I demand with academic severity.
One or two of them, whom I know, smile at me cheerfully. Several are chewing gum. They are all eager to provide information.
“We’re sitting in. The L.S.A. occupied the building at six this morning.”
“Yeah — we stay till Innis is reinstated. Nobody goes in till Fraser gets his head together. They got food, sleeping bags — we got shifts set up — like we can stay here for months if we have to.”
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