What I couldn’t understand was why I hadn’t thought of it before now. It was so available; what a waste to leave it stuck in a buff folder on a dusty shelf in an obscure flat in Birmingham, England. A good idea should never be orphaned. Luxuriously, I allowed the details to circulate through my veins, marveling that the solution to my dilemma had been so obvious, so right, so free for the taking; it had an aura of inevitability about it which made me wonder if it hadn’t been incubating in my blood all these months – germination, growth, now the burst of blossom.
I thought of the Renaissance painters, and happily, gleefully, drew parallels; the master painter often doing nothing but tracing in the lines, while his worthy but less gifted artisans filled in the colors. It had been a less arrogant age in which creativity had been shared; surely that was an ennobling precedent. For I didn’t intend anything as crude as stealing John Spalding’s plot outright. I already had my line-up of characters. My setting had been composed. All I needed to borrow was the underlying plot structure.
I woke the next day feeling spare, nimble, energetic, sinewy with health and muscle, confident, even omnipotent. I felt as though the blood had been drained out of me and replaced with cool-flowing Freon gas. My fingers were lively little machines exciting the keys; my eyes rotated mechanically, left to right, left to right; the carriage rocked with purpose. My brain ticked along, cleanly, accurately, uncluttered. The first day I wrote fifty pages.
I telephoned Furlong, shrilling, “I’ve finally got started.”
“All you needed was an idea,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you.”
The second day I wrote thirty pages. Somewhere I had lost my miraculous clarity; my idea had softened, lost shape; everything was blurring.
The third day I wrote ten pages and, for the first time, sat down to read what I had written.
Appalling, unbelievable, dull, dull. The bones of my stolen plot stuck out everywhere like great evil-gleaming knobs, accusing me, charging me. The action, such as it was, jerked along on dotted lines; there was no tissue to it. It was thin; worse than thin, it was skinny, a starved child.
Always when I had heard of writers destroying their manuscripts or painters shredding their canvases, I had considered it inexcusably theatrical, but now I could understand the desire to obliterate something that was shameful, infantile, degrading.
But I didn’t tear it up. Not me, not Judith Gill, not my mother’s daughter. I wrote a quick concluding chapter and retyped the whole thing before another Wednesday afternoon passed. I even made a special trip to Coles to buy a sky-blue binder with a special, newly patented steely jaw. And I carried it on the bus with me and delivered it to Furlong’s office.
“But I don’t want to read it to the class,” I told him firmly. “Just do me a favor and read it yourself. And let me know what you think.”
He nodded gravely. He consoled me with his tender smile. He understood. He would take it home with him. I got on the bus and came home and started cooking pork chops for our dinner. And it was then, with hot fat spattering from the pan and the pale meat turning brown that I lurched into truth.
Six-thirty; the hour held me like a hand. Doors slamming, water running, steam rising, the floor tiles under my feet squared off with reality. The clatter of cutlery, a knife pulling down on a wooden board, an onion halved showing rings of pearl; their distinct and separate clarity thrilled me. This was real.
I flew to the phone. My fingers caught in the dial so that twice I made a mistake. Please be home, please be home! He was.
“Furlong. Listen, this is Judith.”
`What on earth’s the matter?”
“My novel. The Magic Rocking Horse."
“But Judith, I just got home. I’ve hardly had more than a few minutes to glance at it. But tonight –"
“The point is, Furlong, I’ve decided not to go ahead with the novel.”
“What do you mean – not go ahead? Judith, my girl, you’ve already done it.”
“I mean I want you to dispose of it. Burn it. Tear it up. Now. Immediately.
“You can’t be serious. Not after all your work.”
“I can. I am.” Christ, he’s going to be difficult.
“Judith, won’t you sleep on it. Give it some thought.”
“I really mean this, Furlong. Listen to me. I mean it. I’m a grown-up woman and I know what I’m doing.”
“Judith.”
“Please, Furlong.” I was close to tears. “Please.”
He agreed.
“But on one condition. That you at least let me finish reading it. You may not have any faith in it, but I think, from the little of it I’ve seen, that it’s not entirely hopeless.”
“I don’t care, Furlong, just as long as you keep your promise to get rid of it. And please don’t ever discuss it with me. I couldn’t bear that.”
“Oh, all right. I promise, of course. But what are you going to do, Judith? Try another novel? Take another tack?”
“I’m going to write a biography.”
“Who this time?”
“I was thinking of Susanna Moodie.”
I had said it almost without thinking, only wanting to reassure Furlong that I wasn’t mad. But the moment I uttered the name Susanna Moodie, I knew I was on my way back to sanity, to balance. I was on the way back to being happy.
The very next morning I began.
Sunday afternoon.
We are late, but since it is icy and since Martin is reluctant to go at all, we drive very slowly down the city streets to Furlong’s party. I feel under my heavy coat for my wrist watch. We should have been there at one-thirty, and it’s almost two now.
I am sitting in the front seat beside Martin, and through my long apricot crepe skirt the vinyl seat covers feel shockingly cold. Because of the snow I have had to wear heavy boots, but my silver sandals are in a zippered bag on the seat.
Meredith is in the back seat and she is leaning forward anxiously, concerned about being late and concerned even more about how she looks. She has been invited at the last minute. Mrs. Eberhardt phoned only this morning to suggest that she come along with us. I had hung about near the telephone listening, knowing for certain that she was being invited to replace some guest who was not able to come, knowing she would be filling in as a fourth at one of the inevitable little tables set up in Furlong’s dining room. I had been to Furlong’s parties before and knew how carefully the glasses of Beaujolais were counted out, how the seating would have been arranged weeks before and how the petit fours, the exact number, would be waiting in their boxes in the pantry. I would have cheered if Meredith had refused, if she had said she had other plans for this afternoon, but of course she didn’t, nor would I have done so in her place.
Under the navy school coat she is wearing a dress of brilliant patchwork, made for her by Martin’s mother last Christmas and worn only half a dozen times. She has done something marvelous and unexpected with her hair, lifted it up in the back with a tiny piece of chain, her old charm bracelet perhaps, and her neck rises slenderly, almost elegantly, out of the folds of her coat collar. But her nervousness is extreme.
Martin brakes for a red light and comes slowly, creepingly to a halt. I see his jaw firm, a rib of muscle, he wants only for this afternoon to be ended, to be put behind him.
Now is the moment, I think. Right now in the middle of the city, with apartment buildings all around us. I should ask him now about the eight bundles of wool that had been in his drawer. The fact that Meredith is here with us will only make it seem more normal, just a matter-of-fact question between husband and wife.
“Godamn,” he mutters. “We should have bought those snow tires when they were on sale.”
I sit tight and don’t say a word.
Furlong and his mother live in a handsome 1930s building built of beef-red brick encircling a formal, evergreened courtyard. There is a speaking tube in the walnut foyer, rows of brass mail boxes; and today the inner door is slightly ajar, propped open wi
th a spray of Christmas greenery in a pretty Chinese jardinière. We make our way up a flight of carpeted stairs to the paneled door with the brass parrot headed knocker. Beyond it we can hear a soft rolling ocean of voices. Meredith and I bend together as though at a signal and exchange our boots for shoes, balancing awkwardly on each foot in turn. Only when we are standing in our fragile sandals does Martin lift the knocker.
It seems miraculous in all that noise that we can be heard, but in a moment Furlong throws open the door and stands before us. He is flushed and excited, and only scolds us briefly for being late. “Of course the roads are deplorable. Meredith, we are delighted, both of us, that you were able to come. You must excuse our phoning you so late, but it just occurred to us that you were a grown-up now and why on earth hadn’t we asked you earlier. But give me your coats. I want you to taste my Christmas punch. Martin, you are a man of discernment. Come and see if you can guess what I’ve concocted this year.
He leads us into a softly lit living room where small circles of women in fluid Christmas dresses, and men, darkly suited and civilized, stand on the dusty-rose carpet. It is a large pale room, faintly period with its satin-covered sofa, its brocaded matching chairs, a cherry secretary, a Chinese table laid out with a punch bowl and a circle of cut-glass cups.
Furlong pours us ruby-pink cups of punch and watches, delighted, as we sip. “Well?” he asks Martin.
“Cranberry juice,” Martin says.
“And vodka,” I add.
“And something spicy,” Martin continues. “Ginger?”
“Eureka!” Furlong says. “You two are the only ones who guessed. Meredith, I’m sure your parents will allow me to give you a little.”
“Of course,” she and I murmur together.
In a moment Mrs. Eberhardt is upon us, gracious and dramatic in deep purple velvet gathered between her breasts. “We were so afraid you had had an accident. This wretched snow. But I told Furlong not to worry. I knew you wouldn’t let us down. Judith, you look delightful.” She kisses my cheek. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you let us have Meredith this afternoon.”
Across the room Roger salutes us gaily. I am beginning to make out distinct faces in the early afternoon light. I recognize Valerie Hyde who writes a quirky bittersweet saga of motherhood for a syndicated column in which she describes the hilarity of babyshit on the walls and the riotous time the cat got into the bouillabaisse just before the guests arrived. Her estranged husband Alfred is on the other side of the room with a hard-faced blonde in a sea-green tube of silk. Ruthie in cherry-colored pants and a silk shirt is standing alone sipping cranberry-vodka punch and looking drunk and not very happy. I am about to speak to her when I see an immense fat man in a coarse, hand-woven suit. “Who’s that?” I ask Mrs. Eberhardt.
She whispers enormously, “That’s Hans Kroeger.”
“The movie producer?”
“Yes,” she says, hugging herself. “Wasn’t it lovely he could be here. Furlong is so pleased.”
Somewhere a tiny bell is ringing. I look up to see Furlong, silver bell in hand, calling the room to silence. “I know you must be ready for something to eat,” he announces with engaging simplicity. “Lunch is ready in the dining room as soon as you are.”
It is a large room painted a dull French grey. Half a dozen little tables are draped to the floor in shirred green taffeta in the center of each a basket of tiny white flowers.
Close behind me I hear Martin sighing heavily, “Jesus.”
“Shut up,” I say happily in his ear.
On the buffet table is Sunday lunch. There is a large fresh salmon trimmed with lemon slices and watercress, a pink and beautiful roast of beef being carved by a white-suited man from the caterers; cut-glass bowls of salad, tiny raw vegetables carved into intricate shapes, buttered rolls, crusty to the touch, fine and soft and patrician within; Mrs. Eberhardt’s homemade mayonnaise in a silver shell-shaped dish, cheeses, fruit, stacks of Spode luncheon plates.
We serve ourselves and look about for our name cards on the little tables. I am by the window. There is heavy silver cutlery from Mrs. Eberhardt’s side of the family, and a thick, luxurious linen napkin at each place. Furlong circulates between tables with red wine, filling each crystal glass a precise two-thirds full.
Everyone is talking. The room is filled with people eating and talking. Talk drifts from table to table, accumulating, rising, until it reaches the ceiling.
Roger is saying: “Of course Canadian culture has to be protected. For God’s sake, you’re dealing with a sensitive plant, almost a nursery plant. And don’t tell me I’m being chauvinistic. I had a year at Harvard, remember. I tell you that if we don’t give grants to our writers now and if we don’t favor our own publishers now, we’re lost, man, we’re just lost.”
Valerie Hyde is saying: “Of course women have come a long way, but don’t think for a minute that one or two women in Parliament are going to change a damn thing. Sex is built-in like bones and teeth, and, remember this, Barney, there’s more to sex than cold semen running down your leg.”
Alfred Hyde is saying: “Tuesday night we had tickets to The Messiah. The tenor was excellent, the baritone was passable, but the contralto was questionable. The staging was commendable, but I seriously question the lighting technique.”
Ruthie is saying: “There’s just no stability to anything. Did you stop to think of just where this salmon comes from? The fisherman who caught this fish is probably sitting down to pork and beans right now. And what happens when all the salmon is gone? And that just might be tomorrow. What do you say to that? There’s just no stability.”
Hans Kroeger is saying: “Twenty per cent return on the investment. And that ain’t hay. So don’t give me any shit about bonds.”
A woman across the room is saying: “Take Bath Abbey for instance. Have you been to Bath Abbey? No? Well, take any abbey.”
Furlong is saying: “In my day we talked about making a contribution. To the country. But that sounds facile, doing something for one’s country. Now don’t you agree that one’s first concern must be to know oneself? Isn’t that what counts?”
Meredith says: “I don’t know. I really don’t. Like in Graven Images, first things come first. I’ve started in on it for the third time. Empathy. That’s what it all comes down to. I mean, doesn’t it? Maybe you’re right, but making a contribution still counts. I mean, really, in the end, doesn’t it? Fulfillment, well, fulfillment is sort of selfish if you know what I mean. I don’t know.”
The blonde in green is saying, “Anyone from that socioeconomic background just never dreams of picking up a book. What I’m saying is this, intelligence is shaped in preadolescence. Not the scope of intelligence. Anyone can expand, but the direction. The direction is predetermined.”
A man is saying in a very low voice. “Okay, okay, you’ve had enough booze. Lay off.”
Barney Beck is saying: “Class. You’re damned right I believe in class. Not because it’s good, hell no, but because it’s there. Just, for instance, take the way kids cool off in the summer. You’ve got the little proletarians splashing in the street hydrant, right? And your middle-class brats running through the lawn sprinklers. Because lawns mean middle class, right? Then your nouveaus. The plastic-lined swimming pool. Cabanas, filter systems, et cetera. Then the aristocrats. You don’t see them, not actually, because they’re at the shore. Wherever the hell the shore is.”
Mrs. Eberhardt is saying: “The important thing is to use real lemon and to add the oil one drop at a time, one drop at a time.”
And I, Judith Gill, am spinning: I feel my animal spirit unwind, my party self, that progressive personality that goes from social queries about theatre series to compulsive anecdote swapping. I press for equal time. Stop, I tell myself. Let this topic pass without pulling out your hospital story, your vitamin B complex story, your tennis story, your Lester Pearson snippet. Adjust your eyes. Be tranquil. Stop. I admonish myself, but it’s useless. I feel my
next story gathering in my throat, the words pulling together, waiting their chance. Here it is. I’m ready to leap in. “Speaking of bananas,” I say, and I’m off.
Martin, at the next table, is not talking. What is he doing? He is lifting a forkful of roast beef, and slowly, slowly, he is chewing it. What is he doing now?
He is listening.
JANUARY
It was on the first day of the new year that I discovered the reason for Martin’s secret cache of wool; the explanation was delivered so offhandedly and with such an aura of innocence that I furiously cursed my suspicions. What on earth had I expected – that Martin had slipped over the edge into lunacy? That, saddened and trapped at forty-one, he might be having a breakdown? Did I think he nursed a secret vice: knitting instead of tippling? Or perhaps that he had acquired a mistress, a great luscious handicraft addict whose fetish it was to crochet while she was being made love to? Crazy, crazy. I was the one who was crazy.
On New Year’s Day Martin sat talking to his mother and father who had come from Montreal for the weekend. His father is a professor too, himself the son of a professor; he teaches history at McGill. Gill of McGill, he likes to introduce himself to strangers. He is a spare, speckled man, happiest wearing the loose oatmeal cardigans his wife knits for him and soft old jackets, frayed at the pockets and elbows. His habitual stance is kindly (a Franciscan kindness) and speculative; he is what is known in the world as a good man, possessing all the qualities of a Christian with the exception of faith.
The relationship between Martin and his father is such as might exist between exceedingly fond colleagues. Like brothers they flank Martin’s mother, Lala to us, a small woman who except for an unmanageable nest of sparrow-brown, Gibson-girlish hair is attractive and bright, known to her friends in Montreal as a Doer. Her private and particular species of femininity demands gruff male attendance, and she is sitting now in our family room between “her two men,” although that is a phrase which she herself would consider too cloying to use.
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