The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One

by Morley Callaghan

  The small deception of Father McDowell reflects a common theme running through many of these stories. There are small white lies and there are bigger ones. There is petty thievery — “All the Years of Her Life” and perhaps something more serious in “The Fugitive.” Definitely so in “An Autumn Penitent.” Sometimes the deceptions are imagined as in the case of “Watching and Waiting,” and sometimes they are frivolous as in “The Escapade” —wherein a woman tells her husband she is going to one church but goes instead to another service. Throughout all of these, the people are intensely human.

  And throughout these Morley Callaghan reflects the country and, more specifically, the city of his time. Toronto, as he has stated, was a British city. It will never be so again. Accordingly most of his characters have Anglo-Saxon or Irish names. There is Mr. and Mrs. Fairbanks, and Luella Stevens and Catherine Hogan. Also Mary Johnson and Anna Grant. There is Alfred Higgins and Bert Beddoes. Also Jerry O’Neil and Vincent Sullivan. There is even a Jack Spratt.

  It is true that Mrs. Cosentino runs the boarding house in “The Fugitive” and Joe Cosentino the fruit stand in “The Shining Red Apple,” but they are exceptions. It is interesting that they both have the same name.

  Most of the characters speak in standard English and are grammatically correct. There is a small bit of dialect in “The Chiseler” and occasionally some of the rougher characters use “ain’t.”

  Callaghan has no qualms about crossing sex lines or the boundaries of age. He explores the inner lives of both men and women, the young and the old, and he does so in convincing fashion.

  Contemporary readers may be struck by changes that have taken place since these stories were written. The idea that two dollars may be expensive for a cap or that six dollars is exorbitant for a pair of shoes may cause contemporary shoppers to shake their heads in wonderment. But we must remember that these stories were written over half a century ago, and if the city of Toronto is not ethnically the same, neither are its prices. The same may be true regarding certain styles and manners and modes of expression. Nearly all of the women in these stories wear hats. Most of the men smoke cigarettes, and some use cigars. Words like “windbreaker,” “kimono” and “divan” are no longer in common usage, and phrases such as “bawling out,” “sore at you,” “poke you in the nose,” are no longer as common as they once were. The reader may be struck by Callaghan’s use of his own personal adjectives. He uses “sullen” a great deal and the word “plump” occurs in almost every story.

  It may be said, however, that although cities change and prices change and expressions change, the human heart in all its wonder remains very much the same. This is the magic of great literature. Who knows what shoes were selling for in the time of Sophocles or of Shakespeare? Certainly not I. But I and millions of readers can enter into the worlds created by these authors. And if we are not “hip” to the current expressions of their time there are footnotes to guide us. The “truth” however lies beyond the minutiae of footnotes. It lies in the big picture that reveals our human nature to ourselves.

  The American short story writer Raymond Carver once said it is the responsibility of the writer “to bring the news” and that is what Morley Callaghan has done in these stories. He has brought the news of his time and of his place. He has brought it “cleanly” as he once hoped he would. There is little adornment or decoration in these stories. Little imagistic or symbolic adventuring with the possible exception of “No Man’s Meat.” Callaghan tries never to draw attention to himself and that is, perhaps, why he sticks so resolutely to the omniscient point of view as a form of narration. He was one of those writers who believed that the aim of good writing was not to trick the reader but to simply reveal the truth.

  I believe that many of us, who today write in Canada, owe Morley Callaghan a debt. We owe a debt not only to the author of these stories but to that stubborn young man who, at age twenty, felt being a writer was even possible. Who read and read and formed his thoughts even if he felt he was living in a British city and had no one to talk to. We do not have to share his views nor his values. We can talk all we want and there are lots of us to talk to.

  I personally feel privileged to have known Morley Callaghan. At one period we met frequently, exchanged opinions and worked together on committees of mutual interest. One afternoon in the autumn of 1971 he came to my house and we sat together at the kitchen table. I remember the way the sun shone through the window and seemed to lighten the brown surface of the tabletop. There was just the two of us and we sat there until the shadows of the evening caused the tabletop to darken and then we turned on the lights. Perhaps we drank beer, perhaps we drank wine, perhaps we drank tea. That I don’t remember. There are a lot of subjects men can talk about when they are alone but that afternoon we talked about writing. There was an age difference between us of some thirty-two years, but it did not seem to matter. We were so consumed by the subject. We were not in Paris but in Windsor, Ontario.

  I, myself, have not spent a great deal of my time in Paris and given the relative years of a man’s life, neither did he. Our years were spent in Canada, a country which we left for a while and to which we later then returned. I guess it is where we wanted most to be.

  Morley Callaghan took his stand early and throughout his life, although his work varied, his essential position did not change. He was determined to bring the news, and that, as Ezra Pound would have it, is news that STAYS news.

  All the Years of Her Life

  They were closing the drugstore, and Alfred Higgins, who had just taken off his white jacket, was putting on his coat getting ready to go home. The little gray-haired man, Sam Carr, who owned the drugstore, was bending down behind the cash register, and when Alfred Higgins passed him, he looked up and said softly, “Just a moment, Alfred. One moment before you go.”

  The soft, confident, quiet way in which Sam Carr spoke made Alfred start to button his coat nervously. He felt sure his face was white. Sam Carr usually said, “Good night,” brusquely, without looking up. In the six months he had been working in the drugstore Alfred had never heard his employer speak softly like that. His heart began to beat so loud it was hard for him to get his breath. “What is it, Mr. Carr?” he asked.

  “Maybe you’d be good enough to take a few things out of your pocket and leave them here before you go,” Sam Carr said.

  “What things? What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve got a compact and a lipstick and at least two tubes of toothpaste in your pockets, Alfred.”

  “What do you mean? Do you think I’m crazy?” Alfred blustered. His face got red and he knew he looked fierce with indignation. But Sam Carr, standing by the door with his blue eyes shining brightly behind his glasses and his lips moving underneath his gray moustache, only nodded his head a few times, and then Alfred grew very frightened and he didn’t know what to say. Slowly he raised his hand and dipped it into his pocket, and with his eyes never meeting Sam Carr’s eyes, he took out a blue compact and two tubes of toothpaste and a lipstick, and he laid them one by one on the counter.

  “Petty thieving, eh, Alfred?” Sam Carr said. “And maybe you’d be good enough to tell me how long this has been going on.”

  “This is the first time I ever took anything.”

  “So now you think you’ll tell me a lie, eh? I don’t know what goes on in my own store? You’ve been doing this pretty steady,” Sam Carr said as he went over and stood behind the cash register.

  Ever since Alfred had left school he had been getting into trouble wherever he worked. He lived at home with his mother and his father, who was a printer. His two older brothers were married and his sister had got married last year, and it would have been all right for his parents if Alfred had only been able to keep a job.

  While Sam Carr smiled and stroked the side of his face very delicately with the tips of his fingers, Alfred began to feel a fright growing in him that had been in him every time he had got into such trouble.

&
nbsp; “I liked you,” Sam Carr was saying. “I liked you and would have trusted you.” While Alfred watched, his pale eyes alert, Sam Carr drummed with his fingers on the counter. “I don’t like to call a cop in point-blank,” he was saying, very worried. “You’re a fool, and maybe I should call your father and tell him you’re a fool. Maybe I should let them know I’m going to have you locked up.”

  “My father’s not at home. He’s a printer. He works nights,” Alfred said.

  “Who’s at home?”

  “My mother, I guess.”

  “Then we’ll see what she says.” Sam Carr went to the phone and dialed the number.

  Alfred was not ashamed, but there was that deep fright growing in him, and he blurted out arrogantly, like a strong, full-grown man, “Just a minute. You don’t need to draw anybody else in. You don’t need to tell her.” Yet the old, childish hope was in him, too, the longing that someone at home would come and help him.

  “Yeah, that’s right, he’s in trouble,” Mr. Carr was saying. “Yeah, your boy works for me. You’d better come down in a hurry.” And when he was finished Mr. Carr went over to the door and looked out at the street and watched the people passing in the late summer night. “I’ll keep my eye out for a cop,” was all he said.

  Alfred knew how his mother would come rushing in with her eyes blazing, or maybe she would be crying, and she would push him away when he tried to talk to her, and make him feel her dreadful contempt; yet he longed that she might come before Mr. Carr saw the cop on the beat passing the door.

  While they waited — and it seemed a long time — they did not speak, and when at last they heard someone tapping on the closed door, Mr. Carr, turning the latch, said crisply, “Come in, Mrs. Higgins.” He looked hard-faced and stern.

  Mrs. Higgins must have been going to bed when he telephoned, for her hair was tucked in loosely under her hat, and her hand at her throat held her light coat tight across her chest so her dress would not show. She came in, large and plump, with a little smile on her friendly face. Most of the store lights had been turned out and at first she did not see Alfred, who was standing in the shadow at the end of the counter. Yet as soon as she saw him she did not look as Alfred thought she would look: she smiled, her gray eyes never wavered, and with a calmness and dignity that made them forget that her clothes seemed to have been thrown on her, she put out her hand to Mr. Carr and said politely, “I’m Mrs. Higgins. I’m Alfred’s mother.”

  Mr. Carr was a bit embarrassed by her lack of fear and her simplicity, and he hardly knew what to say to her, so she asked, “Is Alfred in trouble?”

  “He is. He’s been taking things from the store. I caught him red-handed. Little things like compacts and toothpaste and lipsticks. Stuff he can sell easily,” the proprietor said.

  As she listened Mrs. Higgins looked at Alfred and nodded her head sadly, and when Sam Carr had finished she said gravely, “Is it so, Alfred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why have you been doing it?”

  “I’ve been spending money, I guess.”

  “On what?’”

  “Going around with the guys, I guess,” Alfred said.

  Mrs. Higgins put out her hand and touched Sam Carr’s arm with an understanding gentleness, and speaking as though afraid of disturbing him, she said, “If you would only listen to me before doing anything.” Her simple earnestness made her shy; her humility made her falter and look away, but in a moment she was smiling gravely again, and she said with a patient dignity, “What did you intend to do, Mr. Carr?”

  “I was going to get a cop. That’s what I ought to do.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. It’s not for me to say, because he’s my son. Yet I sometimes think a little good advice is the best thing for a boy when he’s at a certain period in his life,” she said.

  Alfred couldn’t understand his mother’s quiet composure, for if they had been at home and someone had suggested that he was going to be arrested, he knew she would be in a rage and would cry out against him. Yet now she was standing there with that gentle, pleading smile on her face, saying, “I wonder if you don’t think it would be better just to let him come home with me. He looks a big fellow, doesn’t he? It takes some of them a long time to get any sense,” and they both stared at Alfred, who shifted away, a cosmetic showcase light shining for a moment on his thin face and the tiny pimples over his cheekbone.

  But even while turning away uneasily Alfred realized that Mr. Carr had become aware that his mother was really a fine woman; he knew that Sam Carr was puzzled by his mother, as if he had expected her to come in and plead with him tearfully, and instead he was being made to feel a bit ashamed by her vast tolerance. While there was only the sound of the mother’s soft, assured voice in the store, Mr. Carr began to nod his head encouragingly at her. Without being alarmed, while being just large and still and simple and hopeful, she was becoming dominant there in the dimly lit store. “Of course, I don’t want to be harsh,” Mr. Carr was saying, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll just fire him and let it go at that. How’s that?” and he got up and shook hands with Mrs. Higgins, bowing low to her in deep respect.

  There was such warmth and gratitude in the way she said, “I’ll never forget your kindness,” that Mr. Carr began to feel warm and genial himself.

  “Sorry we had to meet this way,” he said. “But I’m glad I got in touch with you. Just wanted to do the right thing, that’s all,” he said.

  “It’s better to meet like this than never, isn’t it?” she said. Suddenly they clasped hands as if they liked each other, as if they had known each other a long time. “Good night, sir,” she said.

  “Good night, Mrs. Higgins. I’m truly sorry,” he said.

  The mother and son walked along the street together, and the mother was taking a long, firm stride as she looked ahead with her stern face full of worry. Alfred was afraid to speak to her. He was afraid of the silence that was between them, so he only looked ahead too, for the excitement and relief was still strong in him; but in a little while, going along like that in silence made him terribly aware of the strength and the sternness in her; he began to wonder what she was thinking of as she stared ahead so grimly; she seemed to have forgotten that he walked beside her; so when they were passing under the Sixth Avenue elevated and the rumble of the train seemed to break the silence, he said in his old, blustering way, “Thank God it turned out like that. I certainly won’t get in a jam like that again.”

  “Be quiet. Don’t speak to me. You’ve disgraced me again and again,” she said bitterly.

  “That’s the last time. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Have the decency to be quiet,” she snapped.

  They kept on their way, looking straight ahead.

  When they were at home and his mother took off her coat, Alfred saw that she was really only half-dressed, and she made him feel afraid again when she said, without even looking at him, “You’re a bad lot. God forgive you. It’s one thing after another and always has been. Why do you stand there stupidly? Go to bed, why don’t you?” When he was going, she said, “I’ll make myself a cup of tea. Mind, now, not a word about tonight to your father.”

  While Alfred was undressing in his bedroom, he heard his mother moving around the kitchen. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. She moved a chair. And as he listened there was no shame in him, just wonder and a kind of admiration of her strength and repose. He could still see Sam Carr nodding his head encouragingly to her; he could hear her talking simply and earnestly, and as he sat on his bed he felt a pride in her strength. “She certainly was smooth,” he thought.

  At last he got up and went along to the kitchen, and when he was at the door he saw his mother pouring herself a cup of tea. He watched and he didn’t move. Her face, as she sat there, was a frightened, broken face utterly unlike the face of the woman who had been so assured a little while ago in the drugstore. When she reached out and lifted the kettle to pour hot water in her cup, her ha
nd trembled and the water splashed on the stove. Leaning back in the chair, she sighed and lifted the cup to her lips, and her lips were groping loosely as if they would never reach the cup. She swallowed the hot tea and then she straightened up in relief, though her hand holding the cup still trembled. She looked very old.

  It seemed to Alfred that this was the way it had been every time he had been in trouble before, that this trembling had really been in her as she hurried out half-dressed to the drugstore. He understood why she had sat alone in the kitchen the night his young sister had kept repeating doggedly that she was getting married. Now he felt all that his mother had been thinking of as they walked along the street together a little while ago. He watched his mother, and he never spoke, but at that moment his youth seemed to be over; he knew all the years of her life by the way her hand trembled as she raised the cup to her lips.

  An Enemy of the People

  It is true that Luella Stevens at sixty-eight was a little too old to be singing in the choir of our church, but no one in the parish remembered when she had not sung her solo at the eleven o’clock mass. Anyone who glanced up at the delicate face and the detached expression of this plainly dressed, frail little woman realized that if the parish had ever had large attendances at mass, then she, with the possible exception of old Catherine Hogan who played the organ, was the only one who could remember them. For a long time everybody was glad to have Luella Stevens up in the choir.