The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  "Well, that's too bad," he said. "Because — what did you say your first name was again?"

  "Ginger. Had it since I was a boy. Red hair, you see."

  "Well, Gin-ger, I'm afraid this job's not for you. We want a junior."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, some kid who's maybe worked a couple of years on a suburban weekly, someone we can train, bring along, promote him if he works out."

  "I see," Coffey said. He sat for a moment, eying his hat. Fool! Stupid blundering fool! Why didn't you wait to see if he remembered you? He doesn't know you from a

  hole in the wall, coming in with your hand outl Oh God! Get up, say thank you and go away.

  But he could not. In his mind, a ship's siren blew, all visitors ashore. He and Veronica and Paulie, tears in their eyes, stood on the steerage deck waving good-by to this promised land. This was no time for pride. Try? Ask?

  "Well," Coffey said, "as a matter of fact, my experience has all been on the other side of the water. I imagine it's quite different here. Maybe — maybe I'd need to start lower on the scale? Learn the ropes as I go along?"

  Beauchemin looked at the man's ruddy face, the embarrassed eyes. Worked for a distillery, did he? Maybe they let him go because he was too sold on the product? "Frankly, Gin-ger," he said, "you wouldn't fit into the pension plan. You know it's a union-management deal. The older a man comes in, the more expensive for the others in the plan. You know how these things work."

  "But I wouldn't mind if you left me out of the pension plan?"

  «o »

  Sorry.

  "But — but we New Canadians," Coffey began. "I mean, we can't all be boys of twenty, can we? We have to start somewhere? I mean" — he said, dropping his eyes to his hat once more — "I'll put it to you straight. I'd appreciate it if you'd make an exception."

  "Sorry," Beauchemin said. He stood up. "I tell you what, Gin-ger. You leave your name and address with Mona, outside. If we think of anything we'll get in touch with yon, okay? But don't pass up any other offers, meantime. All right? Glad to have met you again. Give my regards to Gerry, will you? And good luck."

  Beauchemin shook hands and watched Coffey put on his silly little hat. Saw him walk to the door, then turn, and raise his right hand in a quick jerky movement of farewell, a kind of joke salute. A vet, Beauchemin

  thought. I was right. They do okay, free hospitals, pensions, mortgages, educations; the hell with those guys. "Be seeing you/' he said. "And shut the door, will you?"

  In Room 200 of the Doxley Building, Sherbrooke Street, an aggressive publicity man for professional fund-raising group, province-wide cancer research campaign, put his little green hat between his feet and stared at H. E. Kahn, to whom application must be made.

  H. E. Kahn wore a blue suit with narrow lapels which curved up to the points of his tight, white, tab-collared shirt. His black tie knot was the size of a grape and the tie itself was narrow as a ruler. The mouth above it was also narrow; narrow the needle nose, the eyes which now inspected the form on which, for the third time that day, the applicant had set down the misleading facts of a life. H. E. Kahn was a swift reader. He turned the form over, read the other side, his young, convict-shaven head bent, showing a small monkish tonsure at the crown. Yet for all that hint of baldness, Coffey estimated that H. E. Kahn could not be more than thirty years old. Which was older than the three other young men he had noticed at work in the outer office, older than the two pretty stenographers who sat facing each other, transcribing from dictating belts behind Coffey's back, and older certainly than the other applicant who had filled up a form as Coffey did and now waited his turn outside.

  H. E. Kahn finished his reading and leaned back in his swivel chair until the tonsure on his head touched the wall. "You speak French?"

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  "French might have helped."

  "I suppose so."

  "Not essential, mind you, but I see you're not a local man. Not a Canadian, are you?"

  "No, I'm Irish/'

  "Irish, eh? That so? I ve been in Ireland. Shannon Airport. Got a wonderful camera deal there coming back from Paris last summer/*

  H. E. Kahn's chair jacknifed to desk level, his hand crumpling the application form. Balled, the form accurately described a parabola over Coffey's left shoulder, holed into a secretary's wastepaper basket. "Sorry, Mr. Gee. You wouldn't suit us/'

  Coffey stood up. "Well, thanks for seeing me, anyway."

  "My pleasure. Hey, Marge, hey, send that other guy in, will you? And Jack? JACK? Shoot me over that special names list. Nice meeting you, Mr. Coffey. See you."

  "See you," Coffey repeated mechanically. In hell, he hoped.

  But afterwards, out in the street, he wondered if that had been fair. After all, Kahn had been polite enough. Was it because Kahn seemed to be a Jew? No, he hoped that wasn't it. Coffey did not agree with many of his countrymen in their attitude to Jews. None of his best friends were Jews, but that was no reason to dislike Jews, was it? Besides, he had not particularly liked Beauche-min either and that wasn't because Beauchemin was French-Canadian. Of course not. So, what was it, apart from the fact that neither man had wanted to employ him? They were younger than he. That was the first thing he had thought about both of them. And Donnelly too, the man in the Unemployment Commission. Younger. All day he had been going hat in hand to younger men. And yet — Suffering J, I'm not old, Coffey thought. Thirty-nine isn't old!

  Walking, he turned the corner of Ste. Catherine Street and saw again this morning's tabloid headline: WIFE, LOVER SLAY CRIPPLE MATE. He remembered the

  unbought steamship tickets. Flutel Better stay downtown awhile.

  At a quarter to five he arrived in the street where he lived. Dawdling still, walking a little off the track of other pedestrians, watching his abominable snowfeet mark the white, new-fallen snow, waiting until five when Gerry Grosvenor would come because, with Gerry on hand, the dreaded scene about the tickets would be staved off for another hour or so. But, as he reached the lane running alongside his place, he saw, with relief, that Gerry's sporty little car was here and had been here for some time because there were no tracks on the snow where it had driven in. Which was peculiar.

  Gerry Grosvenor, a political cartoonist on a big magazine called Canada's Own, was, Coffey supposed, their only real pal in Canada. Someone in Dublin who had known Gerry during the war had given Ginger a letter of introduction to Gerry and from the first go-off Gerry had taken to them like first cousins and favorites. Which was all well and good, but awkward because, when Coffey moved from his other flat and the cash started running out, he had to duck Gerry Grosvenor. For dammit, Gerry was a social sort and popular, and the last thing in the world Coffey wanted was for Gerry to start looking down on him. So, as he unlocked the door of the duplex, he was shocked to hear Gerry's voice say: "There now, there now. Cheer up. It won't be so bad as you think."

  What was that? Veronica was sniffling, that was what. What was she sniffling about? Had she found out about the tickets? How? Lord blessus and saveus. Bloody females! Sobbing out her private affairs to some outsider, had she no dignity, the woman? He hesitated, dreading his entrance, wanting to hide.

  There was one safe place. Paulie was not at home, and Veronica would never expect to find him there. He slipped into Paulie's tiny nest, cluttered as all her other rooms had been, and sat on the bed for a breather.

  Three-quarter-profiled in their tin-finish frames, Paulie's favorite singers, film heroes and guitar players smiled on Daddy in autographed contempt. He avoided their glossy stares and picked up Bunkie, his daughter's oldest plaything, a wooden-headed pajama-case doll. Other talismen, less favored, lined her dressing table: a copy of Little Women, a worn beaded purse which had once been used by Coffey's mother at a Viceregal Ball, a glass snowflake paperweight, a pencil case Coffey had made for her in a woodworking shop. The pencil case, now chipped and broken, was filled with bobby pins and head combs. Paulie was growing up.

  He look
ed again at the doll's wooden head, its painted features half-obliterated by childish kisses, childish tears. Ah, Paulie . . . what happened to us? Once, I wasn't able to stir without you running after me, oops-a-daisy, come to Daddy, whirling you up in the air, my Goldilocks and me the Big Bear. The games we played, the childish shrieks of fun . . . But now you never look at me. What happened? If only you were a boy?

  But they had never had a boy. And whose fault was that? Not his, although she sometimes tried to make it seem so. You see, she got pregnant the month he married her. At the time, he had just been commissioned and everyone expected Ireland to go into the war. So they waited and waited. About the time Paulie was born, the thicks in the government announced that Ireland would stay neutral. And Veronica blew up when Coffey wanted to desert and move to the British side. He wanted to see some action but she said his duty was with his family. Family! He wanted adventure, not diapers. So he sulked

  for a month or so and she got the priest after him for practicing birtK control. He said he was damned if any priest would dictate whether or not he'd have another child. The priest then threatened to refuse Veronica the sacraments and if there was one thing Coffey would not stand for, it was being threatened. They would not have another child, he said. Not yet. Not until he was good and ready. When would that be, she asked. Soon? Yes, soon. He promised her. Soon.

  But they never had one. The years had passed: he no longer knew if she even wanted one. Ah, children . . . children . . . His large hand caressed Bunkie's head. He put the doll on the coverlet and awkwardly tidied the bed. He was acting like a child himself, come to think of it. Hiding like this. He went out, listened in the corridor, but heard no further weeps. So he risked it into the living room.

  "Hello there, Ginger," Gerry Grosvenor said, getting up. He was tall, and so neat he reminded Coffey of a dummy in a men's furnishings window. Yet for all his height and neatness, for all his thirty years, his Gillette-blue chin and black-haired hands, adolescence, like an incurable disease, had never quite left him.

  "Hello, Gerry lad," Coffey said jovially. "Hello there, Kitten."

  Yes, she had been sniffling.

  "So you never picked up the tickets?" she said.

  "What was that, Kitten?"

  "I phoned at quarter to five," she said. "You hadn't picked them up then, and they were closing in a few minutes. Does that mean you got a job?"

  Coffey did not answer her at once. Instead, he winked at Gerry. Sure, women are always starting a barney over nothing, eh, Gerry lad? But Grosvenor did not return the

  wink; left Coffey in the field, alone. "No," Coffey said, turning back to her. "I did not get a job."

  "Then why didn't you buy those tickets ?"

  "Look, we'll talk about that later, Kitten? Now, what about a beer? Are there any beers in this place, by any chance?"

  "In the kitchen," she said.

  "Gerry, will you have another?" Coffey asked.

  But Grosvenor shook his head. His round brown stare, which reminded Coffey of a heifer watching you cross a field, was now fixed and glassy. He was ploothered, Coffey decided.

  "No, I have to run," Grosvenor said. "I have another appointment. Now, don't worry, Vera and Ginger. I'm going to see what I can do, okay?"

  "Listen. Have a short one for the road, won't you?" Coffey said, knowing that, the minute Gerry left, the roof would fall in.

  "No, I'm late now," Gerry said. "'By, Ginger. 'By, Veronica."

  Veronica did not move out of her seat, did not even say good-by. Which mortified Coffey, for, no matter, she might at least be polite to visitors. Angry, Coffey followed Gerry out into the hall. "I'm sorry I was late home, old man," he said. "I hope Veronica hasn't been bothering you with our troubles."

  Grosvenor bent his head to drape a long woolen scarf about his neck, then looked at Coffey with round, brown cow-eyes. "But I'm your friend," he said. "I mean to say, I didn't know you were having trouble. I mean, your troubles are my troubles, right? That's the essence of any relationship, isn't it?"

  "I suppose it is," Coffey agreed. Canadians were terribly slabbery, he'd noticed. Even the men were always telling you how much they liked you. Shocking way to

  carry on, especially when you'd be daft to heed one word of it. Still, there was an excuse for old Gerry. He was drunk. "There we are," Coffey said, helping Gerry on with his overcoat. "Steady as she goes."

  "I mean, I thought you wanted to go home," Gros-venor said. "But now that you don't — well, I'll see what I can dig up. Right?"

  "Right," Coffey said, guiding him to the front door. "And thanks very much, Gerry."

  "Listen," Grosvenor said, stopping, fixing Coffey once more in his drunken stare. "Going to look into a possibility right now. Call you tonight, okay?"

  "Fair enough. I'll be at home."

  " 'Kay," Grosvenor said. He stumbled on the step, went down the path to the street in a shambling, head-heavy walk. It occurred to Coffey that Gerry was not fit to drive.

  "Gerry?" he called — because if he drove Gerry home it would put off Judgment Day a while longer . . .

  " 'By," Grosvenor shouted back. "See you, Ginger."

  Ah well. Slowly, Coffey shut the front door. Slowly he made his way back into the living room. She had not moved from her chair. She sat, her dark hair framing her pallor, her long fingers laced over one knee, the leg drawn up, her large, dark eyes looking up at him, implacable and waiting.

  "Well," he said, sitting on the arm of the sofa. "Pal Gerry certainly has a skinful in him this afternoon, wouldn't you say?"

  She did not answer. He smiled at her, still trying to jolly her. "Do you know, I could have sworn for a moment he was going to kiss me, out there in the hall," he said.

  "Kiss who?"

  "Me," he said, trying to smile at her.

  "Why didn't you get those tickets, Ginger?"

  "Now . . ." he said. "Look, dear," he said. ''Listen, do you know where I went today?"

  No answer.

  "First thing this morning," he said. "I went down to the Unemployment Commission. You know, the labor exchange? And do you know, right off they gave me two jobs to look into. They were very decent. So, I spent the whole day at interviews and — and listen, Vera, I admit I didn't get anything. But it was just a start and tomorrow they're going to have another try at placing me—"

  "Tomorrow you're going to get those tickets," she said.

  "Ah now, look here, Kitten. Sure you don't want to go home to Ireland any more than I do. Now, why not wait awhile —"

  "No. We've waited too long already."

  "But just another week wouldn't kill us?"

  "Ginger," she said. "I'm doing this for your sake, if you only knew it. We're getting those tickets tomorrow, and that's all's about it."

  "For my sake?" he said. "Am I the one who wants to go home?"

  "We're buying those tickets," she said. "That's final!"

  "It is not final," he said, suddenly losing his temper. "We can't buy the tickets, so shut up about it, will you?"

  "Wliat?"

  "How the hell do you think I've carried on this last while?" he said. "It costs a fortune, this country."

  "You spent the money? You-spent-the-moneyP"

  "I couldn't help it, Kitten. There were expenses — at the office — things you never knew —"

  "One," she said, "two —"

  "All kinds of bills—"

  "Three-four—"

  "Ah, now, cut it out, Kitten. I'm sorry. I'm not a good manager, I never was. I'm sorry."

  "Five-six-seven —"

  "I said I was sorry, Kitten. God knows it's not just my fault. Those thicks at home, not paying my expenses. I skimped on lunches, even."

  "Eight-nine-ten!" She took a long breath. "I am not going to lose my temper," she recited. "I-am-not-going-to-lose-my-temper."

  "Good, that's the girl. Now, cheer up, sure, listen, I'll get a job soon and it'll be all for the best. You'll see."

  "Go away," she said. "Wh
at on earth good does saying you're sorry do?"

  "Vera?"

  "If you just knew what you've done," she said, beginning to cry. "If you had just the faintest idea. You've torn it, this time. You really have."

  "Ah, now, Kitten — "

  "Go away. Eat your supper."

  "Aren't you eating, dear?'*

  "Get out!"

  Ah, well. Women were peculiar cusses. They had nervous troubles men knew nothing about. Ah, she had been acting very peculiar this last while, cold and fed up and so on. That was nervous trouble, he was sure. If you read medical books, it was all explained in there. So, leave her be. She'd come around.

  He went into the kitchen and found sausages and potatoes warm in the oven. A little mental arithmetic indicated three for him, three for her, and two for Paulie. He took his portion and settled down at the kitchen table. The sink tap dripped onto stacked pots and pans. Upstairs, someone knocked on a radiator and a moment later the basement furnace whirred and coughed into life.

  Lordsaveus, what a dump this was, was it any wonder Vera hated it? Coffey was hungry. He ate his sausages and helped himself to more gravy and potatoes. Fork halfway to his mouth, he noticed her standing in the door, her face pale, her eyes bright. Still in a rage. He put the forkful in his mouth and winked at her.

  "How much do we have left?" she said.

  He smiled, gesturing that his mouth was full.

  "Answer me. The truth, mind!"

  Eighty and fourteen — well, make it an even — "About a hundred dollars," he said.

  "Oh my God!" She went away.

  He finished the spuds and wiped his plate with a bit of bread. What did Vera know about money anyway? An only child, brought up by a doting mother, pretty, with plenty of beaux, until she met and married him. And, even so, in all those years of marriage, the Army years, the years at Kylemore and in Cork, had she ever bloody starved? Had she? Give him credit for something. And remember, Vera, you married me for better or for worse. This is the worse. Ah, but supposing she won't put up with the worse?