Going Ashore

by Mavis Gallant

  “Until you know this part of the world, you don’t know your own Church,” Nora told him, smiling, not aggressive.

  The English-Canadians in the room agreed, glancing nervously at the French. French Canada was represented by three journalists huddled on a couch. (Nora had promised the priest, as if offering hors d’oeuvres, representatives of what she called “our chief ethnic groups.”) The three journalists supported Nora, once it was made plain that clergy-baiting and French-baiting were not going to be combined. Had their wives been there, they might not have concurred so brightly; but Nora could seldom persuade her French-Canadian finds to bring their wives along. The drinking of Anglo-Saxon women rather alarmed them, and they felt that their wives, genteel, fluffy-haired, in good little dresses and strings of pearls, would disappoint and be disappointed. Nora never insisted. She believed in emancipation, but no one was more vocal in deploring the French-Canadian who spoke hard, flat English and had become Anglicized out of all recognition. Robbie, feverish and disloyal, almost expected her to sweep the room with her hand and, pointing to the trio of journalists, announce, “I found them in an old barn and bought them for five dollars each. I’ve sandpapered and waxed them, and there they are.”

  From the Church she went on to Bernadette. She followed the familiar pattern, explaining how environment had in a few months overcome generations of intellectual poverty.

  “Bernadette reads Gide and Lawrence,” she said, choosing writers the young priest was bound to disapprove of. “She adores Colette.”

  “Excellent,” he said, tepid.

  Bernadette came in, walking with care, as if on a tightrope. She had had difficulty with her party uniform and she wondered if it showed.

  “Bernadette,” Nora said, “how many children did your mother have?”

  “Thirteen, Madame,” said the girl. Accustomed to this interrogation, she continued to move around the room, remembering Nora’s instructions during the rehearsal.

  “In how many years?” Nora said.

  “Fifteen.”

  “And how many are living?”

  “Six, Madame.”

  The young priest stopped chewing his pipe and said quietly, in French, “Are you sorry that your seven brothers and sisters died, Bernadette?”

  Jolted out of her routine, Bernadette replied at once, as if she had often thought about it, “Oh, no. If they had lived, they would have had to grow up and work hard, and the boys would have to go to war, when there is war, to fight –” About to say, “fight for the English,” she halted. “Now they are little angels, praying for their mother,” she said.

  “Where?” said the priest.

  “In Heaven.”

  “What does an angel look like, Bernadette?” he said.

  She gave him her hypnotized gaze and said, “They are very small. They have small golden heads and little wings. Some are tall and wear pink and blue dresses. You don’t see them because of the clouds.”

  “I see. Thank you,” said Nora, cutting in, and the student of Gide and Colette moved off to the kitchen with her tray.

  IT RUINED THE EVENING. The party got out of hand. People stopped talking about the things Nora wanted them to talk about, and the ethnic groups got drunk and began to shout. Nora heard someone talking about the fluctuating dollar, and someone else said to her, of television, “Well, Nora, still holding out?” – when only a few months ago anyone buying a set had been sheepish and embarrassed and had said it was really for the maid.

  When it was all over and Nora was running the vacuum so that there would be less for Bernadette to do the next day, she frowned and looked tired and rather old. The party had gone wrong. The guest of honor had slipped away early. Robbie had gone to bed before midnight without a word to anybody. Nora had felt outside the party, bored and disappointed, wishing to God they would all clear out. She had stood alone by the fireplace, wondering at the access of generosity that had led her to invite these ill-matched and noisy people to her home. Her parties in the past had been so different: everyone had praised her hospitality, applauded her leadership, exclaimed at her good sense. Indignant with her over some new piece of political or religious chicanery, they had been grateful for her combativeness, and had said so – more and more as the evening wore on. Tonight, they seemed to have come just as they went everywhere else, for the liquor and good food. A rot, a feeling of complacency, had set in. She had looked around the room and thought, with an odd little shock: How old they all seem! Just then one of her ethnic treasures – a recently immigrated German doctor – had come up to her and said, “That little girl is pregnant.”

  “What?”

  “The little servant girl. One has only to look.”

  Afterward, she wondered how she could have failed to notice. Everything gave Bernadette away: her eyes, her skin, the characteristic thickening of her waist. There were the intangible signs, too, the signs that were not quite physical. In spite of her own motherhood, Nora detested, with a sort of fastidious horror, any of the common references to pregnancy. But even to herself, now, she could think of Bernadette only in terms of the most vulgar expressions, the terminology her own family (long discarded, never invited here) had employed. Owing to a “mistake,” Bernadette was probably “caught.” She was beginning to “show.” She was at least four months “gone.” It seemed to Nora that she had better go straight to the point with Bernadette. The girl was under twenty-one. It was quite possible that the Knights would be considered responsible. If the doctor had been mistaken, then Bernadette could correct her. If Bernadette were to tell Nora to mind her own business, so much the better, because it would mean that Bernadette had more character than she seemed to have. Nora had no objection to apologizing in either instance.

  BECAUSE OF THE PARTY and the extra work involved, Bernadette had been given the next afternoon off. She spent the morning cleaning. Nora kept out of the way. Robbie stayed in bed, mulishly maintaining that he wasn’t feeling well. It was after lunch, and Bernadette was dressed and ready to go downtown to a movie, when Nora decided not to wait any longer. She cornered Bernadette in the kitchen and, facing her, suddenly remembered how, as a child, she had cornered field mice with a flashlight and then drowned them. Bernadette seemed to know what was coming; she exuded fear. She faced her tormentor with a beating, animal heart.

  Nora sat down at the kitchen table and began, as she frequently had done with Robbie, with the words “I think we ought to talk about a certain situation.” Bernadette stared. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Nora said.

  “No,” said Bernadette, shaking her head.

  “But you’re worried about something. Something is wrong. Isn’t that true?”

  “No.”

  “Bernadette, I want to help you. Sit down. Tell me, are you pregnant?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. Un enfant. Un bébé. Am I right?”

  “Sais pas,” said Bernadette. She looked at the clock over Nora’s head.

  “Bernadette.”

  It was getting late. Bernadette said, “Yes. I think so. Yes.”

  “You poor little mutt,” said Nora. “Don’t keep standing there like that. Sit down here, by the table. Take off your coat. We must talk about it. This is much more important than a movie.” Bernadette remained standing, in hat and coat. “Who is it?” said Nora. “I didn’t know you had … I mean, I didn’t know you knew anyone here. Tell me. It’s most important. I’m not angry.” Bernadette continued to look up at the clock, as if there were no other point in the room on which she dared fix her eyes. “Bernadette!” Nora said. “I’ve just asked you a question. Who is the boy?”

  “Un monsieur,” said Bernadette.

  Did she mean by that an older man, or was Bernadette, in using the word “monsieur,” implying a social category? “Quel monsieur?” said Nora.

  Bernadette shrugged. She stole a glance at Nora, and something about the oblique look suggested more than fear or evasiveness. A w
ord came into Nora’s mind: sly.

  “Can you … I mean, is it someone you’re going to marry?” But no. In that case, he would have been a nice young boy, someone of Bernadette’s own background. Nora would have met him. He would have been caught in the kitchen drinking Robbie’s beer. He would have come every Sunday and every Thursday afternoon to call for Bernadette. “Is it someone you can marry?” Nora said. Silence. “Don’t be afraid,” said Nora, deliberately making her voice kind. She longed to shake the girl, even slap her face. It was idiotic; here was Bernadette in a terrible predicament, and all she could do was stand, shuffling from one foot to the other, as if a movie were the most important thing in the world. “If he isn’t already married,” Nora said, “which I’m beginning to suspect is the case, he’ll marry you. You needn’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it, or Mr. Knight will.”

  “Pas possible,” said Bernadette, low.

  “Then I was right. He is married.” Bernadette looked up at the clock, desperate. She wanted the conversation to stop. “A married man,” Nora repeated. “Un monsieur.” An unfounded and wholly outrageous idea rushed into her mind. Dismissing it, she said, “When did it happen?”

  “Sais pas.”

  “Don’t be silly. That really is a very silly reply. Of course you know. You’ve only had certain hours out of this house.”

  The truth of it was that Bernadette did not know. She didn’t know his name or whether he was married or even where she could find him again, even if she had desired such a thing. He seemed the least essential factor. Lacking words, she gave Nora the sidelong glance that made her seem coarse and deceitful. She is so uninnocent, Nora thought, surprised and a little repelled. It occurred to her that in spite of her long marriage and her two children, she knew less than Bernadette. While she was thinking about Bernadette and her lover, there came into her mind the language of the street. She remembered words that had shocked and fascinated her as a child. That was Bernadette’s fault. It was Bernadette’s atmosphere, Nora thought, excusing herself to an imaginary censor. She said, “We must know when your baby will be born. Don’t you think so?” Silence. She tried again: “How long has it been since you … I mean, since you missed …”

  “One hundred and twenty-seven days,” said Bernadette. She was so relieved to have, at last, a question that she could answer that she brought it out in a kind of shout.

  “My God. What are you going to do?”

  “Sais pas.”

  “Oh, Bernadette!” Nora cried. “But you must think.” The naming of a number of days made the whole situation so much more immediate. Nora felt that they ought to be doing something – telephoning, writing letters, putting some plan into motion. “We shall have to think for you,” she said. “I shall speak to Mr. Knight.”

  “No,” said Bernadette, trembling, suddenly coming to life. “Not Mr. Knight.”

  Nora leaned forward on the table. She clasped her hands together, hard. She looked at Bernadette. “Is there a special reason why I shouldn’t speak to Mr. Knight?” she said.

  “Oui.” Bernadette had lived for so many days now in her sea of nausea and fear that it had become a familiar element. There were greater fears and humiliations, among them that Mr. Knight, who was even more baffling and dangerous than his wife, should try to discuss this thing with Bernadette. She remembered what he had said the day before, and how he had held her arm. “He must know,” said Bernadette. “I think he must already know.”

  “You had better go on,” said Nora, after a moment. “You’ll miss your bus.” She sat quite still and watched Bernadette’s progress down the drive. She looked at the second-hand imitation-seal coat that had been Bernadette’s first purchase (and Nora’s despair) and the black velveteen snow boots trimmed with dyed fur and tied with tasselled cords. Bernadette’s purse hung over her arm. She had the walk of a fat girl – the short steps, the ungainly little trot.

  It was unreasonable, Nora knew it was unreasonable; but there was so much to reinforce the idea – “Un monsieur,” and the fact that he already knew (“He must know,” Bernadette had said) – and then there was Bernadette’s terror when she said she was going to discuss it with him. She thought of Robbie’s interest in Bernadette’s education. She thought of Robbie in the past, his unwillingness to remain faithful, his absence of courage and common sense. Recalling Bernadette’s expression, prepared now to call it corrupt rather than sly, she felt that the girl had considered herself deeply involved with Nora; that she knew Nora much better than she should.

  Robbie had decided to come downstairs, and was sitting by the living-room fire. He was reading a detective novel. Beside him was a drink.

  “Get you a drink?” he said, without lifting his eyes, when Nora came in.

  “Don’t bother.”

  He went on reading. He looked so innocent, so unaware that his life was shattered. Nora remembered how he had been when she had first known him, so pleasant and dependent and good-looking and stupid. She remembered how he had been going to write a play, and how she had wanted to change the world, or at least Quebec. Tears of fatigue and strain came into her eyes. She felt that the failure of last night’s party had been a symbol of the end. Robbie had done something cheap and dishonorable, but he reflected their world. The world was ugly, Montreal was ugly, the street outside the window contained houses of surpassing ugliness. There was nothing left to discuss but television and the fluctuating dollar; that was what the world had become. The children were in boarding school because Nora didn’t trust herself to bring them up. The living room was full of amusing peasant furniture because she didn’t trust her own taste. Robbie was afraid of her and liked humiliating her by demonstrating again and again that he preferred nearly any other woman in bed. That was the truth of things. Why had she never faced it until now?

  She said, “Robbie, can I talk to you?” Reluctant, he looked away from his book. She said, “I just wanted to tell you about a dream. Last night I dreamed you died. I dreamed that there was nothing I could do to bring you back, and that I had to adjust all my thoughts to the idea of going on without you. It was a terrible, shattering feeling.” She intended this to be devastating, a prelude to the end. Unfortunately, she had had this dream before, and Robbie was bored with it. They had already discussed what it might mean, and he had no desire to go into it now.

  “I wish to God you wouldn’t keep on dreaming I died,” he said.

  She waited. There was nothing more. She blinked back her tears and said, “Well, listen to this, then. I want to talk about Bernadette. What do you know, exactly, about Bernadette’s difficulties?”

  “Has Bernadette got difficulties?” The floor under his feet heaved and settled. He had never been so frightened in his life. Part of his mind told him that nothing had happened. He had been ill, a young girl had brought warmth and comfort into his room, and he wanted to touch her. What was wrong with that? Why should it frighten him so much that Nora knew? He closed his eyes. It was hopeless; Nora was not going to let him get on with the book. Nora looked without any sentiment at all at the twin points where his hairline was moving back. “Does she seem sort of unsettled?” he asked.

  “That’s a way of putting it. Sometimes you have a genuine talent for irony.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Robbie, suddenly fed up with Nora’s cat-and-mouse. “I don’t feel like talking about anything. Let’s skip it for now. It’s not important.”

  “Perhaps you’d better tell me what you consider important,” Nora said. “Then we’ll see what we can skip.” She wondered how he could sit there, concerned with his mild grippe, or his hangover, when the whole structure of their marriage was falling apart. Already, she saw the bare bones of the room they sat in, the rugs rolled, the cracks that would show in the walls when they took the pictures down.

  He sighed, giving in. He closed his book and put it beside his drink. “It was just that yesterday when I was feeling so lousy she brought me – she brought me a book. One of those books we kee
p lending her. She hadn’t even cut the pages. The whole thing’s a farce. She doesn’t even look at them.”

  “Probably not,” said Nora. “Or else she does and that’s the whole trouble. To get straight to the point, which I can see you don’t want to do, Bernadette has told me she’s having a baby. She takes it for granted that you already know. She’s about four months under way, which makes yesterday seem rather pointless.”

  Robbie said impatiently, “We’re not talking about the same thing.” He had not really absorbed what Nora was saying; she spoke so quickly, and got so many things in all at once. His first reaction was astonishment, and a curious feeling that Bernadette had deceived him. Then the whole import of Nora’s speech entered his mind and became clear. He said, “Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? Are you completely crazy?” Anger paralyzed him. He was unable to think of words or form them on his tongue. At last he said, “It’s too bad that when I’m angry I can’t do anything except feel sick. Or maybe it’s just as well. You’re crazy, Nora. You get these – I don’t know – You get these ideas.” He said, “If I’d hit you then, I might have killed you.”

  It had so seldom occurred in their life together that Robbie was in the right morally that Nora had no resources. She had always triumphed. Robbie’s position had always been indefensible. His last remark was so completely out of character that she scarcely heard it. He had spoken in an ordinary tone of voice. She was frightened, but only because she had made an insane mistake and it was too late to take it back. Bravely, because there was nothing else to do, she went on about Bernadette. “She doesn’t seem to know what to do. She’s a minor, so I’m afraid it rather falls on us. There is a place in Vermont, a private place, where they take these girls and treat them well, rather like a boarding school. I can get her in, I think. Having her admitted to the States could be your end of it.”