The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  "Looking for something?"

  A doorman in a green coat and peaked green cap tapped a white-gloved finger against Coffey's chest.

  "Number twenty-four?" Coffey said. "A Mrs. Clapper?"

  Anger came like a sickness on the commissionaire's wintry features. "You blind or something Tiny? Service entrance at the side. What's the matter with you?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't notice."

  "C'mon, c'mon, you're blockin' up the hall. Take your fuggin' dipers up the back stairs."

  Outside once more, Coffey tried Veronica's trick of counting ten. All that pushing and shoving: no need for that, was there? After all, people only saw things when they were on the lookout for them. He remembered when Veronica was pregnant, he used to see dozens of pregnant women on the streets. But not since. Well, service entrances were like that. Unless you were on the lookout . . .

  Calming himself with these reflections, he found the service entrance, climbed four flights of stairs and rang the bell at the back door of Apartment 25. A uniformed maid opened to him. "TINY ONES," he said. "Good morn-ing."

  The maid took the package.

  "That'll be two twenty, please," he said.

  "Just a moment," she said. "The mistress wants to see you."

  He stepped into the kitchen.

  "Take your overshoes off," the maid said. "My floors!"

  "That's all right, Anna," a woman's voice said. A well-dressed woman, she was, too old to need TINY ONES by the look of her. "Does your firm rent cribs?" she asked. And flute! She was from Dublin.

  "No, Madam/'

  "Do they rent any other baby things, could you tell me?"

  He felt his face grow hot. Not only was she Dublin, but Stillorgan Road, Dublin, as stuck-up as all get out. "Well no, Madam. They don't."

  "Are you Irish?" she said.

  "Yes."

  "I thought I caught a Dublin accent," said she. "Have you been over here long?"

  "Ah — about six months."

  At that moment a younger woman (the nappy user's Mum, he guessed) came into the room. A blonde she was, in a tweed suit, all the latest style. Who took one look at Coffey, her eyes getting bigger. "Oh!" she said. "Oh, I could have sworn — Excuse me staring like that. But you're the spitting image of someone I know."

  "But this man is from Dublin, Eileen," the mother said. "Isn't that a coincidence?"

  "Oh? And what's your name?" the daughter asked Coffey, who wouldn't have had to ask hers. If floors could rise up and swallow a person — by the Holy, that wasn't just a figure of speech, for she was Colonel Kerrigan's daughter, the same girl he had danced with last winter at the Plun-kett Old Boys' Dance in the Shelbourne Hotel. And had served under her old man in the Army.

  "My name is — Cu-Crosby," he said.

  "If I had a camera I'd take your picture and send a copy to this friend of mine," she said. "You're his double, right down to the mustache."

  "Whose double?" her mother asked.

  "Veronica Shannon's husband, Mother. Ginger Coffey. Do you remember him?"

  "Oh, of course/' the mother said. "Didn't he soldier with your Daddy once upon a time? And afterwards was in a distillery or something?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "But they went to Canada," the mother said. "I remember Mrs. Vesey said something to me about looking Veronica up —"

  As the mother talked, Eileen Kerrigan's eyes met Cof-fey's. Now, she knew. "Anyway, we mustn't keep this gentleman here all day," she said, cutting her mother short. "Anna, would you get the bag?"

  "Here you are," the maid said and — Suffering J, let me out! — Coffey took it and backed out of the kitchen.

  "Wait. Your money."

  He had to make change for a five-dollar bill, aware that Eileen Clapper, nee Kerrigan, had informed her mother with a look. The maid shut the door on him. Now, the telling would begin — Oh yes, Mother, it could be and it is. I'm positive — Now the Air Mail letters would fly. Now it could be told in Gath and embroidered in the Wicklow Lounge, chuckled over in the offices at Kylemore, dissected in Veronica's mother's flat. And how glorious a comeuppance it would seem to all the voices he had fled; how joyously they would savor each detail, the changing of his name, the absurd uniform with TINY ONES on the cap, the menial nature of his employment, the net result of all his hopes. They didn't even need to embellish it: though they would; like all Dublin stories it would lose nothing in the telling. Yes, the whole country could laugh at him now. He stood on the stairs and saw the whole country laugh.

  Ha, ha! cried all the countrified young thicks he had gone to school with, who now, ordained and Roman-col-

  lared, regularly lectured the laity on politics and love. Ha, ha! cried the politicians, North and South, united as always in fostering that ignorance which alone made possible their separate powers. Hah! cried the archbishops, raising their purple skull-capped heads from the endless composition of pastoral letters on the dangers of foreign dances and summer frocks. Hah! cried the smug old businessmen, proud of being far behind the times. Ha, ha, ha! Emigrate, would you? We told you so.

  Their laughter died. What did it matter? What did they matter, so long as he was not going home? And in that moment he knew that, sink or swim, Canada was home now, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, until death.

  He went down the stairs, climbed into his truck and drove off, his tire chains rattling in the freezing slush. What did anything matter now except his word to Paulie?

  For lunch he had a ten-cent bag of peanuts and a glass of milk. After eating it, he felt like a starving man. Money he must have to last out until Friday. His proofreading pals? Ah, weren't they all boozers, counting their ha'pence from one payday binge to the next? To last until Friday he would need more than the dollar loan they might afford. He would need at least ten dollars. Ten dollars required nerve. So, at the end of the day, he went to see Mr. Mountain and nervously requested an advance on wages.

  "Advance?" Mr. Mountain's stomach heaved upwards in alarm. "That's got to be done through channels, Coffey. I don't handle payroll, that's G.H.Q. stuff. Top man deals with that. And I might as well warn you that Mr. Brott doesn't favor that procedure."

  "I'm afraid 111 have to chance that, Mr. Mountain. I have to have the money."

  "Well, it's your funeral," Mr. Mountain said. "It's

  strictly against standing orders. However —" lie reached for one of the many forms he designed personally in the depot. "Here's one of my unit identification check slips/' he said. "It shows your rank, length of service and record in my outfit. If you want to try this, you'd better hurry. Head Office closes at five."

  Hurry was right. The office was ten streets away and he had to shanks' mare it. So, chit in hand, with twenty minutes to get there, he set off through the darkening streets, wondering if he didn't win Mr. Brott's clemency would he be able to pawn the lamp in his locker or sell some of his clothing secondhand? How did you go about pawning something here? Or selling clothes? But do not worry about that yet, he told himself. Cross that bridge when you come to it.

  Shanks'-maring it at five to five, pelting down an old street in the dock area past faded stores and warehouses stenciled with the names of unknown and unimportant enterprises: Pimlico Novelties; H. Lavalee Productions; Weiss & Schnee Imports; Wasserman Furs Ltd. And now, at one minute to five, he shanks'-mared it into a building, rode up in an ancient latticed elevator, came out on the third floor and hurried down a corridor which smelled overpoweringly of Jeyes Fluid, towards a frosted glass doorway stenciled:

  TINY ONES INC. Ring & Enter.

  He rang and entered. Behind the counter which protected the office staff from the public, the desks were empty, the typewriters hooded, the file cabinets locked. He was late.

  Still, someone must be here, he reasoned. The place was

  not shut. He rapped his knuckles on the counter, noticing a cubicle at the far end of the room in which a light still burned. He knocked again.

  A small man appeared
at the cubicle's doorway. "Closed," he said. "Sorry."

  "But . . ." Coffey began. But what? What the hell could he say?

  The small man gave him a warning look, then shut the cubicle door. There was a name stenciled on the shut door, and, reading it, Coffey felt his heart pull and jump. For wasn't this the very man he was supposed to see? A. K. BROTT, PRES. Again, he knocked his knuckles on the counter. The door reopened. The small man came out, angry now.

  "Mr. Brott?"

  "I said we're closed."

  "I — ah — I work at the depot, sir," Coffey said. "Could I see you a moment?"

  "What about?"

  "About —ah—"

  "Come in, come in. I can't hear you," the small man said, going back into his cubicle.

  Coffey lifted the counterleaf and advanced among the empty desks. Inside the cubicle were several photographs in black frames, ex-voto scenes from the life of A. K. BROTT. Brott with wife; Brott with children; Brott with first TINY ONES van; Brott with first automatic washer; Brott with office staff; Brott with Chamber of Commerce outing. Coffey had plenty of time to study them as A. K. Brott, his shoulders hunched, whipped through the pages of a ledger. Brott with books.

  At last, he raised his small gray head. Wary eyes studied Coffey. "Well now. What's your trouble?"

  "I've just started work for you as a driver, sir. I was wondering if I might have an advance on wages?''

  Driver? Unbelievingly, A. K. Brott's small eyes traveled from the big fellow's florid mustache to his woolly-lined coat, his tweedy legs and suede boots. What sort of people was Mountain hiring these days? Looks like a burleycue comedian. And that red face: a rummy? "No," said A. K. Brott.

  "But it's only ten dollars, sir."

  A. K. Brott's finger found a column, ran it down to a total. "Only ten dollars?" he said. "Look at this. Off 30 per cent from last year. And that's not because the birth rate is down. It's not down. It's up."

  He turned the pages, found another total, contorted his small gray features as though he had been seized with a sudden attack of indigestion. "Look at this one," he said. "Worse. And you want ten dollars. You know what's going to happen here in TINY ONES?"

  «XT • »

  No, sir.

  "You're all going to be out of a job, that's what. Fifteen years I took to build up this business, and look what's happened. Everywhere the same. Down 20, 30, even 50 per cent on some routes. All right; you're driving a route. Now, what is it? What's wrong?"

  "What — ah — what do you mean?" Coffey asked.

  "Disposable diapers, that's what I mean. Paper, that's what. I mean it's a goddamn crime. There should be a law. There is a law, forest conservation, why don't they enforce it? And it gives the kids a rash, let me tell you, no matter what they say, paper skins a baby's ass raw. Ask any doctor, if you don't believe me. But it's new, and that's what people want, something new. Something easy. Now, you meet the customers on your route. Admit it. They're asking you for paper diapers, aren't they?"

  "No, sir."

  "You're a liar."

  Coffey felt as though his face had been slapped. "I'm not a liar/' he said.

  "No? Well, come on then, wise guy. What do they want?"

  What indeed? Coffey wondered. But if he was to get his advance, he must talk to this loony. Say something. What was it Eileen Kerrigan's mother had asked him for this morning?

  "Well, as a matter of fact," Coffey said. "What most mothers want is to rent other things besides diapers."

  "What things?"

  "Cribs and — and bassinets and — and prams and so on."

  "Sit down/' Mr. Brott said. "What's your name?"

  "Coffey, sir."

  "Well, go on. Let's hear it. If it's good, you won't be sorry, I promise you that."

  Coffey stared at Mr. Brott, then exhaled in astonishment, his breath feathering up the ends of his large mustache. Someone had asked his opinion. Memories of former years, of the District Manager of Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear's unpleasant smile, of Old Cleery in Kylemore Distilleries shaking his Neanderthal skull — ah, so many head men all unwilling to hear his ideas. Yet now, when he'd least expected it, here was a head man waiting. What could he say? He began to speak, making it up as he went. "Well, sir," he said. "A lot of families are small nowadays. I mean, they have one or two children, and buying prams and bassinets and cribs is an expensive proposition for them. I remember in my own case, we only have one girl, and so we had to give all that stuff away when she was finished with it. Even the pram, which was in tiptop condition. I just think if we could have rented those things, we'd have saved money/'

  "Mnn . . . hmm . . ." Mr. Brott said. "Go on."

  "So — ah — If you rented those things, sir? Rent a crib, for instance —"

  "Rent-a-Cribl" Mr. Brott said. "You think of that name yourself?"

  "Ah — yes, sir." What name was he talking about?

  "Rent-a-Crib. . . ." Mr. Brott closed his eyes and sat for a long moment, as though trying to solve some problem in mental arithmetic. "I don't say it's without merit," he said. "What's your name again?"

  "Coffey, sir."

  "And you're a driver? You don't look like a driver."

  "I'm a New Canadian, sir. This is just a temporary job. I have a night job as well. But the trouble is, sir, I've just started in both jobs, and haven't received any salary as yet. So that's why I came to see you about the advance, sir."

  "Advance?"

  "Ten dollars, sir. If possible."

  Mr. Brott shook his head.

  "I mean, I could sign a receipt. I've earned more than ten dollars already. Couldn't you manage . . . ?"

  Still headshaking, Brott took out his wallet and handed CoflFey a ten-dollar bill. "Advance nothing," he said. "You take it as a bonus. So you work at two jobs, eh? You know that reminds me of me when I was a young fellow. Ambitious, I was. How do you like Canada, Coffey?"

  "I like it, sir. Very go-ahead country."

  "And you'll do well here, CoflFey, you know that? You're a go-ahead fellow yourself. New Canadian, are you? Bet you never went to college, eh?"

  "Yes, sir, I did, sir."

  "You did? Yet you're working as a delivery man. That's the spirit. Kids nowadays, they go to college, they think

  the world owes them a living. But it doesn't. I tell my Sammy that. I say to him, Sammy, you can have all the degrees in the world, they're no substitute for one good idea. What do you think, Coffey? Am I right?"

  Coffey thought that A. K. Brott was not such a bad old geezer, after all.

  "Yes, you're the kind we need over here," Mr. Brott said. "Of course, this particular idea might not work. Might fail. Probably would fail. Lots of overhead on maintenance, that's one problem. Disinfecting the equipment; repainting; repairs; eh?"

  "Yes, sir," Coffey said. "I suppose there would."

  "And then the pads, baby blankets, sheets, all that stuff? You figure on renting that too?"

  "Well, why not, sir? You have a laundry. It would be just like diapers, wouldn't it?"

  "That's right," Mr. Brott said. "Cleaning tie-in. Yes, you're all right, Coffey, you know that? If you've got any more ideas, why you just come right up here and we'll talk it over. Okay? Nice meeting you."

  Pleased, confused, hungry for some supper, late because it was five-thirty now and he must rush, Coffey stood up, smiled at Mr. Brott and wagged him the old salute. "Good-by, sir," he said. "And thank you, sir."

  "Don't mention it," Mr. Brott said. "And you just keep that ten bucks, that's a bonus. Now, turn off the lights in the main office and shut the door when you go out."

  He switched off the lights, he shut the door. He hurried downstairs, hungry but content. Nice old geezer. It renewed your faith in Canada, meeting a man like that, a man who thought you were a go-ahead fellow. And he was a go-ahead fellow, dammit; he was no glorified secretary, no joeboy. He had been right to emigrate, no matter what. Tomorrow, he would find some place for Paulie and

  him to live, and at
the end of the week he would ask Mac-Gregor for a raise. In a week or two he would be promoted. There was always a bright side: you just had to look for it, that was all. It was still uphill, but, with a little victory now and then, you could keep on running. As long as you had hopes. And he still had hopes.

  Eight "Miss Pauline Coffey?" said the girl at the desk. "Yes, if you'll just take a seat over there, sir. Won't be a moment."

  "Thank you,'* Coffey said. He sat in the strange lobby and watched the girl — a nice little piece in a pony-tail hairdo and a pink angora sweater — go upstairs in search of his daughter. He read a sign over the staircase: RESIDENTS ONLY: No GENTLEMEN ALLOWED. Which meant that Grosvenor was barred too. He was glad of that.

  Still, it was strange to think that his wife and daughter were living upstairs in this place and that he, their legal husband and father, could not go up. Not that Veronica would be up there at the moment. Oh no. Because, you see, Veronica never came back from work until half past five. No, it was not unfair, or sneaky. Hadn't Veronica taken Paulie away from him in just that way? It was only tit for tat.

  He had promised Paulie. He had kept his promise. Friday it was; here he was, a taxi at the door, a little flat rented, everything as planned. And now, as he watched the staircase, he saw the girl in the fuzzy pink sweater start down again, carrying two untidy bundles of possessions. Behind the pretty girl, his own Paulie, wearing

  sloppy white socks and saddle shoes, her winter overcoat a bit shrunken at the wrists and hems. He made a note to buy her a new coat. He went to her and kissed her pale cheek. "Hello, Apple."

  "Be careful, Daddy, you'll make me spill this stuff."

  "Til take it," he said. "I have a taxi outside."

  "Wait, Daddy." She put her things down in the hall. "We can't go yet."

  "Oh?"

  "Mummy came home. She found out, I don't know how. She's upstairs pressing my good dress. She'll be down with it in a minute."

  "Oh?" he said.

  "I'll put this stuff in the taxi, Daddy. You stay here. I think she wants to talk to you."

  "All right, Apple." She was not going to take his Apple from him now: not after he had worked like a dog all week to get things ready. Just let her try.