Revenge on the Fly

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I knew he’d never love me, but I’d hoped he would at least respect me.” She sniffed again and wiped beneath her eyes. “Instead, he cheated me.”

  “He’s a fool. And he doesn’t love her either,” I answered Ginny. “He only loves himself.”

  Another wipe of her hand against her nose, and another sniff, “But you like her better too.”

  “Well, you didn’t give me much reason to like you! Till now all you’ve done is steal from me!”

  She turned her nose up, proud again.

  “I like you different is all,” I continued, but found it too difficult to explain further. Rebecca, with her proper manners and pretty clothes, was easier. Wild-tempered, freckled Ginny was harder but perhaps more interesting. “Why don’t you take the can of flies you gave me and enter yourself?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said firmly, her eyes drilling me.

  “Next catch then. Respect yourself first, Ginny Malone, before you expect others to.” Uncle Charlie used to tell me that back in England when I had moped over being teased about my Irish accent. Other times he’d advised me to know my own worth. He’d touched my chest where my heart was. Remember what’s inside you. I finished the rest of my sandwich and we sat together in peaceful silence till the bell rang.

  That afternoon, the line snaked from the City Hall door down the stairs and around the corner. Could it be that even more children had found out about the contest and wanted to enter?

  “Where did all these children come from?” Rebecca joined me in line. “They must have queued up early. Did they all skip school?”

  “Still ten minutes till opening, too,” I told her. I didn’t have nearly as many flies as on opening day. But I’d had three days to catch before the Saturday count. Today I’d only had a day and a half of swatting. Still, no one had stolen from me either, and I had Ginny’s rusty can full.

  The line moved forward suddenly. The ten minutes were up. As on Saturday, Dr. Roberts had three assistants helping count the flies. “Four hundred!” one of the assistants called.

  “Two hundred,” another shouted.

  “Five hundred,” Dr. Roberts countered.

  “Three hundred,” another assistant yelled out.

  “It certainly looks as though you’ll have many more flies than they do,” Rebecca said.

  I smiled when I heard others had smaller catches as well. As we waited, I heard similar totals again and again.

  Suddenly, someone shoved into me so hard I was spun around. My cans dropped and I dove for them as Fred Leckie bolted past. “Wait your turn!” I called after him but to no avail. Someone allowed Fred to sneak in ahead of him. I scooped the flies back into the can.

  “Seven hundred,” Dr. Roberts’ voice called. The line moved again.

  A few minutes later another voice called, “Eight hundred.”

  I stared at my cans, calculating. I had to have close to a thousand there. The line moved again.

  “One thousand, one hundred!” Mr. Roberts shouted. “Mr. Leckie here may end up having the best catch today again.”

  Of course! I frowned, waiting for Fred to pass and gloat, but he didn’t. An hour later when I finally shuffled forward, placing my cans on the counter, I saw Fred hovering to the side.

  He’s waiting to see if he beats me, I thought with some satisfaction. I watched Dr. Roberts group his flies in tens and mark them on paper. Ten, twenty, thirty…all the way to a thousand. It was as I thought. I had over a thousand. But did I have a hundred or more over?

  One thousand ninety, one thousand one hundred—and Dr. Roberts continued. “Our new high scorer today is William Alton, with 1,300 flies.”

  I grinned as the lineup of children applauded. Only one person did not clap or smile.

  Fred Leckie stepped toward me.

  I tried to walk through him. “I promised I wouldn’t hit you again. But get out of my way.”

  “You’re cocky now, rooming-house boy. But you’ll drop out soon enough.”

  “Never. I’m going to beat you Fred Leckie.”

  Fred walked alongside me, shoving me as we went. “I saw you with Mr. Moodie’s vacuum cleaner. You were taking it to the stable to catch flies, weren’t you? Moodie’s a friend of my father. I wonder what he’ll say when he hears how you used his equipment.”

  Rebecca spoke up. “You wouldn’t tell on Will. That is too low even for you.”

  Fred paused for a moment, looking at her. If anybody could change his mind it would be her. But instead, he smiled. “Oh, no?” Then he turned to me and sneered. “If you don’t quit, rooming-house boy, I’m going to report your antics to Mr. Moodie. I will win this contest. What is your answer, William Alton?”

  Chapter 16

  My hands curled into fists, but I knew I couldn’t use them. Seeing Fred’s creamy smile and narrow-eyed look, I had no doubt he would tell Mr. Moodie about me vacuuming up flies from his stable. And then what? Would we lose our room? Would Father lose his job, too? Did I have the right to risk any of that? I lifted my chin high as I thought about it. “Drop out? Why ever would I?” I asked Fred. “Mr. Moodie knows about the vacuum cleaner. He suggested the idea.” It was a bluff, but I added a smile as bright as Father’s as I stared Fred Leckie down.

  First person to blink would be the one to give in, I thought, so I willed myself to keep my eyes open and to betray no emotion.

  Fred’s smiled dissolved into a sneer. He looked away. “I guess we’ll see about that,” he mumbled as he walked off.

  “Will, Will?” Rebecca shook my shoulder.

  I stood still, in shock.

  “Good for you! You certainly got the upper hand.”

  “Whatever have I done?” I finally gasped. “I’m not sure Mr. Moodie even knows I live with Father in his house. If he finds out what I’ve done with his vacuum cleaner…”

  “Mr. Moodie doesn’t know?” Rebecca’s eyes widened.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s all right, Will, really,” she hastened to calm herself. “As long as Fred believes you, he’s never going to bother informing him.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right,” I said as we stepped out of City Hall into the bright sunshine.

  “Do you want to go to Gore Park?” Rebecca asked.

  Sitting by a water fountain with a pretty girl whose eyes were the color of the sky—there was nothing I would rather do. But I shook myself. “No, no, I can’t.” I needed to go straight home, to be by myself and mull everything over. “Right now, Fred seems to have backed down,” I explained. “But he’ll get angry again when he remembers my win today. At that point, he may tell his father about the Hoover, and his father may tell Mr. Moodie. I need to do something and do it right now. Before Mr. Moodie finds out.”

  “All right then, William.” She looked disappointed, which made me feel better oddly. It was nice to know she’d really wanted to spend time with me, and wasn’t just trying to make me feel better. We walked more quickly down the street toward the neighborhood where both of us lived. At least I lived there for now. Once Mr. Moodie learned the truth, who knew where Father and I would find a home next.

  I said goodbye to Rebecca and headed for the back entrance, down the stairs into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Swanson stood at the counter, placing a teapot and cup on a large silver tray.

  “Mrs. Swanson, how do I get to see the master?” I asked. If I made my case to him before he heard about the vacuum cleaner from someone else, if I begged forgiveness, if I offered myself up as free labor for something…well, I didn’t know what exactly would work, but I would try anything to get Mr. Moodie not to send us packing.

  “You don’t get to see him,” she replied. “He’s a busy man. You need to make an appointment and in order to do that, you must have important business—adult business,” she emphasized, “that you need to tell his secretary about in advance.” She filled a plate with peas, beets, mashed potatoes, and a pork cutlet. She placed the
plate next to the tea.

  I followed Mrs. Swanson to what looked like a closet. “Kindly open that door for me, would you?” she commanded.

  I did as she asked and she put the tray down on a shelf inside. She reached for a rope next to it and began to pull on it, raising the shelf and the tray.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Have you never seen a dumb waiter before? I’m sending Mr. Moodie’s dinner up to him.”

  I grinned. I had seen a dumbwaiter before, where Mum had worked in London. “Is Mr. Moodie dining alone this evening?” I asked.

  “In his den, as he often does. He likes to have peace and quiet when he eats.”

  “You’re a busy woman, Mrs. Swanson. Where is his study?”

  “No, Will, you cannot possibly disturb the man while he is eating.”

  “Please, Mrs. Swanson, you don’t understand. If I don’t speak with him this evening, it may cost me and my father our lives.” I tugged at her apron in desperation.

  She made a face as if discovering a bad smell in her kitchen. “What could possibly be so urgent…”

  I saw a weakening in her mouth. “I’ll run up the stairs, grab the tray, and take it to him. I’ll tell him I stole it from the dumbwaiter. That you had no part in it.”

  Her mouth twisted downward. I took my cue and began running toward the stairs. Mrs. Swanson didn’t follow. Good. I took the stairs three at a time and burst into the main hall, searching for the dumbwaiter. It should be at the other end, judging by its position on the bottom floor.

  Yes, yes—there on the far side was a rather smallish door. I ran to it, pulled it open, and saw the tray. I pulled it out.

  Now where was Mr. Moodie’s study? I heard talking from what I thought might be the dining room. I looked into another large, beautiful salon complete with a fireplace and a piano. The huge mirror above the fireplace reflected back my face, pale with frightened gray eyes.

  What was I thinking? What would I even say? The next door over was closed. I knocked.

  “Come in,” a deep voice answered.

  I took a breath and shifted the tray into one arm as I twisted the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulder.

  “What’s this?” A silver-haired man with a gray paintbrush moustache folded up the newspaper he was reading, placed it near the edge of the large dark desk, and peered up at me.

  “Your dinner, sir,” I answered quickly as I set the tray down in the center of that desk, on the only clear spot I saw. As I looked up, I saw we were surrounded on all sides by shelves of leather-bound books. Could anybody read all those in a lifetime? Mr. Moodie must be absolutely brilliant.

  The man continued to stare at me. “Where is Jessica tonight?”

  “Please, sir, if you mean your maid”—I looked quickly toward the door—“she may catch up to me any moment. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But I didn’t know how else to see you. And I have a most urgent matter to discuss with you.”

  Mr. Moodie took off his glasses. “Sit down, boy.” He gestured to the chair opposite him.

  It felt like I was facing Mr. Morton all over again, only there was no strap in that middle drawer. I stared down at Mr. Moodie’s wide hands and clean, squared-off fingernails. Instead, Mr. Moodie wielded something much worse: power over my destiny, mine and Father’s. Finally I sat. “Sir, I borrowed one of your machines without asking.”

  “One of my motorcars?” Mr. Moodie ducked his head back.

  “No, no!” I gasped.

  “My bicycle?”

  I shook my head. “Your Hoover O vacuum cleaner.”

  Mr. Moodie’s bottom lip dropped. It looked as if he was going to speak but the words didn’t form.

  “I didn’t break it. I didn’t even dirty it. I promise, sir.”

  Mr. Moodie tilted his head. “What…what did you do with it?”

  “I vacuumed your stable.”

  “I’m sure Beauty and Blue appreciate a clean stall but…” Mr. Moodie scratched his chin. He didn’t look particularly angry; if anything he looked amused.

  “I wanted to catch flies for the Hamilton Spectator contest.”

  “With my Hoover?” Mr. Moodie sputtered.

  “Mr. Souter does it all the time,” I quickly explained.

  The sputtering turned into something else. Was he choking, I wondered. His vest shook. He covered his eyes with his hand.

  No, not choking. Laughing. Mr. Moodie was laughing. “Ah, yes, that is something Mr. Souter would do,” he said as he pulled out a white handkerchief from the jacket hanging on the back of the chair. “Anything to sell those machines.” He carefully wiped at the corners of his eyes.

  I dared to smile for the first time. No one would fire anyone while laughing, would they?

  “And so, does it work? Are you winning? Tell me about it.”

  “Well, sir, I’m not particularly good at catching flies with my hands, so I have to keep trying different methods. But yesterday, I held the highest count, so I think it worked pretty well.”

  Mr. Moodie nodded. “Very good. What is your name lad?”

  “William Alton.”

  “Arthur’s boy.” He tapped his glasses with a finger. “He told me you were a bright lad. And I think he is right. Now, why did you take it upon yourself to confess at this particular moment?”

  I frowned. I didn’t want to bring up Fred Leckie and our quarrel. After all, Fred’s father was supposed to be Mr. Moodie’s friend. Fred was his kind of people. I was just the son of the hired help. I chose my words carefully and explained how someone was pressuring me to pull out of the competition by threatening to tell.

  “And you refused to knuckle.”

  “That’s right, sir.” I winced. “I told him you had given me permission.”

  “But you lied.” Mr. Moodie watched me.

  I took a deep breath but it didn’t help with the boulder sinking inside my guts. How could I have told Fred the truth? The lie had been my only shield against him. Looking at Mr. Moodie, I understood that shield would now be held against me. Mr. Moodie would classify me as a liar.

  Chapter 17

  “I am sorry. The lie just came out of me before I could think of anything else. Fred…er”—

  I mumbled over the name to cover up—“that boy was so insolent and I’ve promised not to fight with him…”

  “Ah, Fred Leckie.” Mr. Moodie smiled. “I’ve wanted to smack that lad sometimes myself. Well, you must promise me never to use my Hoover in the stables again. Can you keep a promise though, lad?”

  “I can, sir. Really,” I answered. “I never lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Mr. Moodie tilted his head to one side. “Well, then,” he said. He stood and reached out his hand. “You don’t think it’s necessary to lie to me, do you?”

  “No, sir.” At first I didn’t know what to make of the outstretched hand. Then I realized I was to shake it. I grabbed hold and Mr. Moodie pumped.

  “I’m sure, William Alton, you will go far in life. You’re going to be a wealthy man some day.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I thought it was meant as a compliment.

  “Now you will excuse me as I get to my dinner.”

  “Of course, sir.” I continued to stand there.

  “Is there something else?” Mr. Moodie asked.

  “Well, sir. If you are finished reading your newspaper, might I have it?”

  Mr. Moodie’s eyebrows shot up. But wordlessly, he picked up the paper and handed it to me.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your meal.” I took the Hamilton Spectator and backed out of the study.

  What had I been thinking? Sometimes I astounded even myself with my nerve. I narrowly escaped getting Father fired and then I ask for the man’s paper? Without a vacuum cleaner, however, I’d wondered how I would manage to kill flies in the stable. I had remembered how Father had rolled one and effectively swatted some.

  I headed back down the hall and stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Swanson
folded her arms across her chest when she saw me, frowning. “What did the master say?”

  “He said I would become a rich man someday.” I shrugged my shoulders and tried a smile on Mrs. Swanson.

  “That is if I let you live!” She unfolded her arms and shook a wooden spoon at me. “Go wash up for your supper.”

  I went outside to the stable, put down the paper, and pumped water over my hands. The coldness on my palms refreshed the red-hot sting left over from this morning’s session with the principal. I lathered them well and rinsed. Then I wiped them dry on my pant legs and returned to the kitchen. When I found a place at the large table beside Father, I realized how much things had changed since we left Liverpool. Food in front of me, same as Mr. Moodie’s, and a fine roof overhead. I already felt like a rich man.

  Father accompanied me to the stable afterwards. I rolled up one section of Mr. Moodie’s paper and began swatting, holding a large can beneath as I did so that I would not have to pick up the tiny dead bodies.

  “Watch your step there, Will,” Father called as he shoveled around me.

  I looked down and saw the mound of manure in front of me. It glistened with the blue backs of at least twelve flies. I couldn’t very well smack them with the newspaper. How could I capture those?

  Father shoveled up the manure before I could come up with an idea.

  “Father, what do you do with the manure?”

  “A little goes in the garden. The rest gets carted away by the farmer on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the end of his day at the market.

  “And the flies lay their eggs there, so their babies must go to the farm too?”

  “I suppose, Will.”

  I continued killing the insects around the windows and against the stalls, thinking.