by John Bemrose
He went through the office, up the carpeted stairs and on through a murmur of voices, the machine-gunning of typewriters, conscious of the stains on his factory greens. The last door on his right bore a small brass sign: BOARDROOM. He paused, imagining a dozen men waiting for him on the other side, their heads turning as he knocked. But the room was empty. He went in, leaving the door ajar. Chairs of yellow oak surrounded a long table of the same wood. On a corner of the table, someone had left a napkin and a half-eaten Digestive biscuit.
He sat, but after a few seconds got up again. On the wall by the door, the grave features of former Bannerman’s executives, in photographs and paintings, gazed past him with a serenity that seemed fixed on some distant, finer future. On the opposite wall hung several historical photos. He roamed past them with his hands in his pockets, glancing at women in long-sleeved, high-necked blouses with elaborately piled hair, looking up from their sewing machines. Men posed stoically by trollies and drive-belts. He recognized several of his parents’ friends. They looked younger than he was now: Mary Plumstead, Vickie Short, Johnny Bickersteth, Al Partridge, so many of them English. Yes, when he was growing up, Midlands accents had been as common in town as Canadian ones. His mother had come out in 1910 on the Empress of Ireland, a girl of twenty-three with a ten-pound note pinned inside her blouse and her mother’s best silver teapot riding in her trunk, knowing no one. He searched for her in a large photo of the 1927 Bannerman’s staff picnic. He might have been there himself that year: he would have been what, eight? A great mass of people in summer whites stared from a bleacher. Their unsmiling faces seemed to squint into the glare of an immense imposition.
He moved on to the next photograph: The Bannerman Stingers, Ontario Senior “B” Champions, 1938. He had a smaller version of the picture at home. All the same, he had to look for Joe, had to make sure his brother was in it, as if Joe, the wild one, the one who always did the unexpected, might have slipped from the frame when no one was looking.
And there he was, in his place in the first row, kneeling with the other players in his striped Stinger uniform, his curved stick slanting towards the enormous silver cup that flowered in front of them. He wore his blond hair slicked straight back, suggesting even in repose, speed, his genius for attack.
“Found someone you know?”
The rich, genial voice startled him. Masked by the drone of the air conditioner, Bob Prince had materialized across the table. He held a manila file folder against the breast of his light-beige suit. His bald, deeply tanned head gave him an oddly foreign look — Italian or even Arab.
“My brother,” Alf said, glad to see the executive. No matter what this meeting was about, he felt he had an ally.
“Oh yes? Let’s see —”
As Prince rounded the table and leaned to examine the photo, the air was suddenly brisk with his aftershave. In profile, his heavy jaw jutted out a little, with an exaggerated aggressiveness. “A hockey player!”
“He was pretty good. Best player on that team, anyway.”
“Ontario Champions,” Prince noted approvingly.
“After that series, the Leafs scouted him.”
“And did he go to the pros?”
“No, ah —”
“He had better things to do,” Prince said, with friendly condescension.
“I guess you could say that. When the war came he signed up right away. My mother didn’t want him to go, but we couldn’t keep him out of it.”
The pale-blue eyes were watching him guardedly now. A note of respect entered Prince’s voice. “And after that, did he —”
“He was killed,” Alf said, turning away. He felt ashamed, but of what? Of the dead place, the silence, he felt, when he said the words “He was killed”? Or of the emotion he knew lay trapped behind them, like an animal in a too-small cage?
At the same time, he knew he had struck a blow at Prince. And that he had used his brother’s death to do it, like a stick he had found in the street.
“I’m sorry,” Prince said in that beautiful voice. The air conditioner rattled. Behind smeared glass, sumacs drooped in the heat. “We left behind some of the best, didn’t we?” The executive shook his head, letting a beat go by.
“I was air force myself,” he said. “Not that I saw much flying. I wanted to be a pilot, but I kept getting airsick, so they shunted me over to Intelligence. We went ahead of the Spitfires, in France, looking for new airfields as the front moved forward.” Prince rounded the table, gesturing at a chair for Alf. “Bert Hatch tells me you were army.”
“Yes, did the walking tour.”
As he took his seat, Alf glanced at the file folder lying before Prince. He couldn’t read the tab.
“Well, I got to ride in a jeep,” Prince said. “It’s funny, I always felt I’d missed something, like I hadn’t really done my part. I mean, no one ever shot at me.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Alf said.
Prince released his brilliant grin. “I don’t suppose,” he said, and in an instant the smile was gone. “So,” he announced, frowning at the file folder: a change of mood, direction. The war, Spitfires, Joe’s death, were swept aside. “I called you over to talk about a problem I have. I think the thing to do is give you a bit of background first.” Prince leaned back in his chair, a big man trying to make himself comfortable, his jacket open, his rich-looking brown tie with its gold clip buckling over his white shirt. Alf glanced at the shut door behind him — apparently no one else was expected.
“We’re determined to get Bannerman’s back on its feet,” Prince said. “New lines, new machines, new accounting — we’re planning to put a computerized order system in. All this costs a lot of money, of course, more, really than Bannerman’s is earning. And we’re willing to invest it, providing we don’t think we’re going to get any nasty surprises.”
His gaze fixed Alf for a moment, as if he might have something to do with nasty surprises.
The executive frowned and tapped his fingertips together. There was a weight about the man, a sense of grave and important responsibilities. Alf was flattered at being taken into his confidence. He was also mystified. Surely it wasn’t Prince’s job to tell him he’d been made foreman? But what else could this be about?
“You’ve probably heard, Alf, that there’s been a union sniffing around.”
“I’ve gathered,” Alf said, shifting in his chair.
“Well, I’ve nothing against unions in the abstract. But the thing is, with all the investments we’re making here, we really can’t afford one.”
“No,” Alf said. And Prince said, shooting him a meaningful glance, “I mean, we really can’t afford one.”
“No,” Alf repeated.
“If I can share a confidence with you, Alf. If Head Office — I’m talking about my bosses now — thinks there’s going to be labour troubles here, they could pull out just like that. I mean, they feel it’s a gamble coming in here anyway. They’re nervous.”
The executive winced as he put his hand into the breast of his suit coat. He might have been feeling for a pen, or touching a sore.
“Have you seen any sign of the union yourself?” he asked. The blue eyes flicked back to Alf. Alf understood why he had been summoned. Prince felt he could trust him; he needed information.
Alf sat forward in his chair. There was danger here. He felt it would only increase if he wasn’t candid with the man.
“Actually, an organizer came around to my place. I set him packing.”
Prince did not return his smile.
“Ugly bugger with a red face?”
“That’s right.”
“Doyle,” Prince said.
“That was the name,” Alf said, nodding. “I’m afraid he didn’t —”
“We’ve had a lot of trouble with his outfit, in our plants down east,” Prince said, cutting him off. “He doesn’t look like much, but he’s dangerous. What did he say?”
Alf shrugged, eager to dismiss Doyle as inconsequential. “T
he usual. Sign on the dotted line and your worries will be over.” He glanced at Prince, who was clearly waiting for something more substantial. “He said Intertex had such deep pockets it was a crime they didn’t pay people at Bannerman’s more.”
“These socialists,” Prince said, shaking his head. “They’re all alike. They think we’re just walking treasure chests. They have no idea what it takes to run a company, to keep it running. No idea where wealth comes from —”
“No,” Alf said.
“And that’s all he said to you? Did you get any sense he was making progress?”
“He wasn’t with me.”
“You said that,” Prince said, with a touch of impatience. “I mean with others. How many has he signed up?”
“He didn’t say,” Alf said. “But I wouldn’t think he’s got more than a few, if that.”
“And why is that?” Prince said, leaning back in his chair. There was something remorseless and searching in his look.
“Well, we tried the union route before. 1949. People got burned, badly. I don’t think there’s many who’d like to try it again. Truth is, they don’t even like talking about it.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Prince said. Behind his tanned, handsome face Alf sensed a pressure, as if some emotion had been so long contained there it had solidified. “Let’s hope you’re right. I gather you went out yourself.”
Alf’s face was fairly burning up. He could not stop glancing at the manila folder. He knew what was in it now. His whole life was in it.
“I was young and foolish,” he managed.
“Tell me about it.”
“Oh.” His mouth had gone dry; he had never explained these things to anyone, and doubted he could do it. He was half-afraid of condemning himself. “I’d seen things, in the war. I guess you’d say I had a chip on my shoulder. If it hadn’t been the strike, it’d have been something else. I guess life seemed simpler then.”
“What did you see, in the war?”
Alf shook his head: it was indescribable, really. “Lives thrown away. My brother. I guess I had it in for authority. Some of that left-wing stuff sounded pretty good to me. Get rid of the bosses and do it ourselves, if that’s what they were saying. I was never very good on the theory.”
“I had some of the same feelings myself,” Prince said.
Alf looked at him in surprise.
“The fuck-ups you saw come out of headquarters: they were enough to make you sick. But anyway, we won,” Prince said grimly. “I guess that’s the bottom line.”
There was a pause. Prince frowned and looked at the palm of his own hand. The air conditioner clattered.
“Alf, look, I want you to help me. This is something you can do now, before you’re made foreman. Oh, I should’ve mentioned that,” Prince said, showing his smile for a moment. “We’re so behind on some of the housekeeping stuff. We won’t have the new promotions figured out till November, but I think I can reassure you that you’re in.”
Alf nodded, and a small airplane did a loop in his stomach.
“Oh yes, you’re definitely in,” Prince murmured. “But before then, I want you to have a look at this union. Go to some of their meetings, if they’re having any. See if this Doyle fellow’s making any progress. I don’t need to tell you, Alf, that a lot depends on this. Will you do that for me?”
Prince was looking at him keenly, with just a hint of a brotherly smile, a neediness. Alf said, “You mean, just take the lay of the land.”
“Go to a few meetings. Make some notes. You can report directly to me.” Prince took a card from his jacket and scrawled something on it before handing it to Alf. “That’s my phone number at the Executive Motel, over in Johnsonville. Call me as soon as you’ve got anything.” Prince nodded at the card. “ ’Fraid I’m living out of a suitcase these days. My wife’s not too happy about it.” They shook hands. “I know I can count on you, Alf.” The pale-blue eyes held Alf’s in a glow of sincerity. Alf was the first to look away.
12
“YOU MENTIONED A BUNCH of you guys were meeting with an organizer?”
Silence came back to him, down the line. To Alf it sounded conspiratorial, as if the others were with Pete even now, listening in. Out the kitchen window he could see Margaret’s dark head, the hissing spray of silver as she watered her garden.
“I’m not saying I’m on board. But I’d like to — see how the land lies.” He was trying, scrupulously, not to tell a lie.
Someone was coming down the stairs. He seized gladly on the interruption. “Look, it’s kind of difficult to talk here.”
“This is good news, Alf.”
Alf peered around the corner into the hall. Penny, in her shorts and halter top, was trailing one hand along the wall, singing softly, tunelessly to herself.
“So when can I —”
“I’ve gotta check with Malachi first,” Pete said. “If it was just me, Alf, but we’re worried G.O.’s found out. We have to be careful.”
Alf thought, Anybody could have seen me go over to G.O. Maybe Pete knows I was there.
Already he regretted calling. This mutual suspicion was giving him a terrible sense of déjà vu. It was the atmosphere they had breathed in ’49. Then, though, he had been excited by their cloak-and-dagger games. Now this manoeuvring seemed juvenile, poisonous.
Penny entered the kitchen, glancing at him as she crossed to the sink. In the weak light the whites of her eyes shone, her sandals scuffed the linoleum.
“Tell me at work, will you? It’s a bit difficult just now.”
“I’m really glad to hear this, Alf. Malachi was saying just the other day how much he’d like to have you aboard.”
“I’m not saying I’m —”
“I was telling him what you and Skinny Jones did during the strike. Putting that flag up. We had a good laugh.”
With a fresh pang of regret, Alf remembered the bedsheet, dyed red, they had raised over the post-office clock. He said thickly, “We didn’t know what we were doing.”
When he had hung up, Penny turned to him, her large eyes watching as she drank. She lowered the glass with a little explosion of breath. “What didn’t you know what you were doing?”
“Oh nothing. Something a long time ago.”
“When you were a boy?”
“A little older than that.”
“Tell me.” Anticipation lit her face at the promise of a story she hadn’t heard. He felt almost compelled to tell her. He could talk to her more easily than anyone, even Margaret, it was like talking to himself. Now her pale-blue eyes — Penny’s got Alf’s eyes, they said in the family — seemed to be drawing out his secrets. He had to be careful.
“Did you do something bad?”
“No, just kind of stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“Some other time.”
She continued to gaze at him. There was something blank in her, open and clear and blank, like a calm sea. It seemed capable of waiting forever — for what, he couldn’t be sure — waiting with a simple, troubling absence of judgment or expectation for whatever might fall into it. Deep in the house a pipe whined as Margaret turned off the outside tap.
“You said we could skip stones,” Penny said. The previous summer, the summer of his mother’s death, his daughter had been diagnosed with diabetes. Every morning she gave herself a needle. Alf found it hard to watch, less out of squeamishness than because it — the diabetes — was something he hadn’t been able to protect her from. Alf’s great-uncle, John, had died of diabetes as a boy, so the disease, the doctor had said, had likely come to Penny through him.
They went down the brick path through the dripping tomato plants, over the dyke to the river. The flat water in the bend gave off a dim light of its own. Mechanically, he began to hunt for a stone. He felt detached from all activity, detached from himself. In the thickening dusk, the substance of things was washing away.
Penny handed him a piece of slate. It seemed unreal in his hand, and he had to
toss it a bit, press his thumb on its sharp edge to make it come alive. It seemed — he knew this was pure superstition, and ridiculous — it seemed she was posing him a test, a test he felt he’d already disqualified himself for.
He sent the stone down the gleaming river: a path of little white nicks erupted in the dimness.
“Seven!” Penny cried.
She handed him another.
Two days later, Pete phoned back: “Tonight at eight. My house.”
At a quarter after eight, Alf crossed the footbridge to Lions Park and made his way past the deserted swings and empty bandstand, climbing the embankment towards Pete’s ranch-style bungalow, tucked into the wooded hillside. A bird chirped sleepily, silver in the night’s purse. A dozen cars were parked in the drive and on the shoulder of the road that descended darkly from the flank of Lookout Hill. With a start he recognized Doyle’s heavy Edsel, abandoned on a tilt, two wheels in the ditch.
Pete’s wife, May, met him at the front door: a tall woman in slacks and a sleeveless blouse with an anxious, searching quality in her slightly protuberant eyes. She and Alf had been lovers for a few weeks in the Thirties. Ever since, he’d felt a yearning coming from her, as if she was still waiting for him to do something, say something, that would assuage the churn of unfinished business. Slipping her gaze, he kissed her on the cheek, and for a moment their intimacy came back to him: her cries in the hotel room in Johnsonville, under horrible wallpaper with its purple roses as big as cabbages. From the back of the house came a tribal bray of laughter. “I better get in there,” he said. But she had caught his arm. “Alf, I’m worried about this union business. If G.O. finds out.”
“It’ll be all right,” he said, and felt he was assuming more responsibility than he’d meant.
He went down the hall to the kitchen. Beyond, the porch was a cave of shadows lit only by the pale light flooding through the screens and the light from the kitchen door. Around the perimeter, in the murk and glow of cigarettes, fifteen or twenty people lifted ghostly faces.
“Alfie!” he heard Pete say. Others, too, caught up the welcome. They seemed glad to see him, he heard his name tossed out by several voices, both male and female, heard, “Hey, buddy, good to see you!” and “Here’s blue eyes!” and “You can sit next to me, Alf.” He was taken aback. For a moment it was 1949 again, in the early days of the strike, when they had called each other brother and sister without self-consciousness.