by Anne Emery
Her eyes didn’t open. She responded: “It’s Matthew, not David.”
“Right. It’s not David because . . .”
“It’s Matthew Halton, not David Halton.”
Oh! That’s all it was. David Halton was a senior correspondent with CBC News. I had just heard his report from Washington. She had obviously heard it too, as she drifted towards sleep. But wait a minute. Matthew was David Halton’s father. How did Normie know about him? He had died years ago, long before my daughter was born.
“Can you tell me about Matthew, Normie?”
“This is Matthew Halton of the CBC.”
I leaned close to her. “When did you hear Matthew on the CBC, Normie?”
But she was out, fast asleep. I stood there for a minute or so, then tiptoed away and went up to the kitchen to use the phone. I dialled Maura’s number.
“Hello?”
“She just mentioned Matthew again.”
“Oh!”
“Listen. This is going to sound weird, but bear with me. Do you know if there have been any retrospectives on CBC radio or television about Matthew Halton?”
“David Halton’s father? The war correspondent?”
“Exactly.” I repeated what Normie had said.
“Well, she must have heard it someplace. On the CBC or maybe at school. Something about World War Two. Tell you what: I’ll call my friend Kris at the CBC and you call Brennan.”
“Brennan won’t know what they’ve been talking about in class, unless it’s music or religion.”
“Does he strike you as someone too shy to track down the grade four homeroom teacher and find out?”
“Um, no, he does not. I’ll make the call and phone you back in a few minutes.”
I called Brennan and he said he’d ask Mrs. Kavanagh. I heard back five minutes later. No, there was some discussion from time to time of the two world wars, but nothing about Matthew Halton or any other journalist. I gave Maura half an hour, in case Kris had to do some checking, then I dialled my wife’s number again.
“Nothing,” she told me. “Kris said there’s been nothing broadcast in recent times about Matthew Halton, but she thanked me for the suggestion!”
“Jesus! Where would Normie have heard it? I’m going to see if I can get her talking again.”
“Keep me posted. Never mind what time it is.”
“Will do.”
I went downstairs and checked on Normie. Still fast asleep. I decided on a bit of subterfuge. Changing my voice to what I hoped was that of a broadcast journalist, I said: “David Halton, CBC News, Washington.” No reaction. I waited a few seconds and said it again. I saw her squirm around in her blanket. She licked her lips and started to speak. I couldn’t make it out, so I put my ear up against her mouth.
“Matthew Halton. CBC.”
“Tell me about Matthew, Normie.”
“We’ve got Jerry on the run now! Jerry on the run!”
Great. Just when we got Matthew identified, we were faced with a Jerry.
“We kicked their ass! What are you blubberin’ about? What are you blubberin’ . . . Put him in the army, make a man out of him! We’re gonna kick a little ass right here if he doesn’t stop . . . Shut up! Take that! You little . . . NO! NO! NO!”
I looked at her in horror. Her face was contorted with fear. Tears streamed from her eyes. I couldn’t let this go on.
“Normie, sweetheart, wake up. It’s Daddy. You’re having a nightmare. Everything’s all right. Wake up.”
“No!” Her eyelids flickered open. She stared at me without recognition. Then her expression softened and she reached up for me with both arms. I held her and told her she was safe.
Once I got her settled in her bed, I called her mother and reported what had happened.
“Jerry? I’ve never heard of a Jerry. Back to the clippings file.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “If she’s somehow in tune with Matthew Halton’s wartime broadcasts for the CBC, she may be hearing talk about the Germans, commonly called Jerry by our boys during the war.”
“Oh, that Jerry. But would that have been Halton’s style?”
“Probably not, any more than he would have been saying ‘kicked their ass’ or ‘make a man out of him.’ That must be another voice altogether.”
“My God. What’s going on? It’s not surprising that she’d have a nightmare tonight about someone being hurt, but what’s she doing channelling the war?”
I couldn’t answer that question, but we had a bit of comic relief the next day, which served to distract Normie from her troubles. She called me at work to tell me about a social engagement we had that evening. This was one of those events the details of which were contained in a note sent from the school and crumpled up and stuffed in the school bag, only to be retrieved the day of the event. Too late to bake the goods, buy the raffle tickets, or register for the bonspiel. But this time we were going to make it.
The choir school was having a party for the students and their parents, to give everyone a bit of relaxation before final exams began the following week. It was originally supposed to be in the gymnasium but one of the families had offered to have it at their house instead, if people didn’t mind squeezing in to small quarters. This prompted another set of parents to offer their house in the suburbs. More space, apparently. Normie was on the phone now, taking care of the logistics.
“Mummy is staying home with the baby, which is okay. Dominic’s too young to have fun at the party anyway. So it’s you and me, Daddy.”
“Sounds good. Do you have directions?”
“Yeah, Richard Robertson gave us a map.”
“Richard and I are old buddies.”
“That’s right, you know him, Daddy! He sings in the men and boys’ choir.”
As young as he was, Richard was quite a character, with a mischievous sense of humour, and he could do a very passable impersonation of our choirmaster behind the master’s back. Of course Brennan knew all about it, having caught him at it several times. Didn’t faze him in the least; in fact, Richard was one of his favourite students. But — I tried to think — wasn’t there something about the mother? I couldn’t remember. Anyway, Normie and I hooked a ride with Brennan and headed for the party. I was the navigator, charged with locating 152 The Olde Carriageway, in a subdivision that hadn’t existed two weeks ago, west of the city.
It didn’t take long before I remembered what it was about the mother. Seeing her severe geometrical haircut and equally severe facial expression brought it all back. I had witnessed more than one encounter between her and Father Burke, during which she expressed her disapproval of whatever it was the choir school was doing or not doing at the moment. Mrs. Robertson met us in front of her monster house on The Olde Carriageway. The place was festooned with numerous ill-proportioned gables and fake-Palladian windows; but the most notable feature of the building was the enormous double garage that was stuck on to the front of the house and nearly blotted out the sight of the front entrance. One of the garage doors was open, displaying a huge collection of, well, stuff. A BMW, a snow blower, several kayaks and canoes, camping gear, electronics. Was it just coincidence that the brand names were all displayed facing forward?
Mrs. Robertson greeted everyone with a tight smile, told us to call her Lois, and urged us to make ourselves at home. We all trooped into the house and dutifully wiped our feet. A couple of dozen guests were already there, perched on fussy-looking chairs and loveseats with teacups in their hands. The furniture looked as if it had all been bought the same day, as if someone had said: “Fill my house with furniture,” and that’s what was done. There was flowered paper on the walls, a contrasting paper border around the room, and another contrasting pattern above that. Magazines were artfully displayed on gleaming coffee tables. There wasn’t a book, or a dirty glass, let alone a toy or an old pair of sneake
rs, in sight. Something that sounded like elevator music was playing in the room, elevatoresque in content and in the quality of the sound. I realized it was coming from a giant stereo system built into a pricey-looking set of oak cabinets and shelves.
Richard came skidding into the room from outside, in a pair of khaki shorts with grass stains across the butt. His hair was a mess and there were a couple of twigs in it. “Sorry I’m late, but there was this really big —”
“Hey, Richard, your hair’s all sproinked out all over your head!” one of the little boys exclaimed. “Where were you?”
“What do you say, Richard?” his mother demanded.
“I saw something crawling under a pipe . . .”
“Richard.”
“Uh, oh yeah. Good evening, everyone. Sorry to be late.”
“Very well. Now go clean yourself up, change your clothes, and present yourself back in here, fit for company, in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
I spent a few seconds thinking Richard must have inherited his sense of fun from his father. But I was disabused of that notion when the father arrived. If they had said to the furniture salesman “Fill ’er up,” they had said to the purveyor of pricey, trendy casual clothing “Dress me!” The earthy tones of Robertson’s ensemble were an uncanny match for those of his wife. The man’s face was red, and his eyes were bulging.
“Sorry I’m late! I don’t know if anybody has had to do business with the local BMW dealership recently. They’re so busy you have to stand in line.”
“It’s a tough cruel world,” Brennan said with just enough volume for me to hear.
“The stresses of a two-Beemer family,” I muttered back.
Mrs. Robertson spoke to the assembled group. “This is my husband, Murdoch. I don’t know everybody’s name, so maybe you could all introduce yourselves.” Introductions were made around the room.
One name struck a chord with Murdoch Robertson. “Reverend Burke, you’re the director of the school, am I right?”
Burke nodded.
“Great school.”
“Thank you.”
“At least for music and literature, history, math, science, all that.” The man paused. “But it could be more forward-looking. Know what I mean?”
“No.”
“You don’t teach economics, right?”
Burke looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“Economics,” Robertson tried again.
“The dismal science,” Burke replied. “No.”
“I’m an economist by training,” Robertson said.
“Ah.”
“I’d be happy to come in and teach a few lessons in the subject. In fact, we could start a ‘young entrepreneurs’ group at the school. Give the kids early exposure to a business world view.”
Burke stared at him blankly.
“So,” Robertson said then, “how is my son doing in school?”
It dawned on me then that this was the first time Richard’s father had met Burke, despite the fact that Richard had been in the school for at least two years.
“Richard is doing brilliantly. He has the voice of an angel, and his written work is excellent. A sly wit, has Richard, and we all enjoy his sense of humour.”
Mrs. Robertson leaned forward in her chair. “Class clown is not the goal we have in mind for our son. Richard has to become more focused. We have a tutor for him in French. A virtual necessity, given the job market in this country. He’s not doing very well in that, do you think?”
“He sounds better than I do in French, I can tell you that much!” Burke replied. “I wouldn’t be too concerned about Richard getting a job. He’s a long way from that, and he’ll do fine wherever he winds up.”
“I think not. Richard doesn’t take things seriously. He has a personal coach, but even there he doesn’t seem to meet expectations. We’ll have to step up our efforts, obviously.”
I sat there wondering what the hell she was on about. A personal coach? What on earth . . .
Richard came bounding in at that point, with his hair slicked down and the arse of his pants wet where he had tried to scrub off the grass stains.
“Richard!” his mother began, but the boy interrupted.
“Psst!” He crooked his finger at my daughter, who was playing a board game with the other kids. “Normie! Where’s Kim at?”
“She’s supposed to be here! Maybe she couldn’t find your house!”
“Okay. Come on downstairs. I got something to show you. Ian, you too. Monty, you come too, and Father Burke.”
“Richard! You’re not taking people down there! You have guests, and we are hoping for a little recital from you.”
“Yeah, okay, after. Please, Mum? Come on, you guys.”
Normie and Ian followed him from the room. Burke gave me the eye, and we got up.
“Oh, Reverend! You won’t want to go down there . . .”
“Sure it will be fine.”
We both made our escape. Whatever Richard wanted to show us downstairs, whether it was a busted pipe or a web full of spiders, would be better than spending one more minute in that stifling living room. Burke and I went through the kitchen, where I noticed an array of appliances and gadgets I could not even begin to identify. We found the basement stairs and saw the kids ahead of us. Richard said to his companions: “I hope Brrrennan O’Burrrke comes to see this. It will freak him right out of his collar!” I recalled Richard’s humorously rolled Rs, which had started when Burke took him to task for his failure, despite his Scottish name, to roll them sufficiently when required in singing.
“Brrrennan O’Burrrke is right behind you, laddie,” Brennan replied, and Richard turned around and blushed from his neck to his eyebrows.
“Sorry, Father. I was just, you know . . .”
“Te absolvo, my son. Go and sin no more.”
When we got to the basement, we heard the voice of Neil Young coming from behind a closed door. “That’s my uncle’s room,” Richard explained.
He led us to a wooden crate in the corner of the basement. He pried the lid off carefully.
“Ooh!” Normie squealed. “Can it get out of there?”
“Cool!” Ian exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”
It was a snake of some sort, brown with a pattern on it, about two feet long, writhing around in a makeshift pen.
Burke shuddered at the sight of it, and Richard grinned. “They don’t have snakes in Ireland ’cause of St. Patrick, right, Father?”
“Patrick must have done an exemplary job because this is the first time in my long and eventful life I’ve ever had the misfortune to see a serpent of any kind.”
“Hey, man!”
We heard the voice and turned towards it. At the same time, I thought I detected a faint odour of cannabis. The closed door had opened, and standing there was a youngish man with John Lennon glasses and long shaggy curly hair; he wore a pair of cut-off shorts and a T-shirt that showed a heart bleeding all over the white fabric. He looked vaguely familiar.
“How ya doin’?” he said to us all.
“Hey! You guys, this is my uncle, Dad’s brother, but I just call him Gordo. And this is Father Burke from school, and Ian and Normie and her dad, Mr. Collins.”
“Monty,” I said, and we shook hands.
“Gordo’s living with us for a while. Until he gets his own place.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “How long have you been living here, Gordo?”
“What is it now, Dickie? Five, six years, something like that?”
“I think so. I was just little when you moved in.”
“Yeah. Good times, eh?”
“Yeah!”
Gordo looked at me and Burke. “I can’t move till I get some legal matters settled. I buy a house, the sheriff moves in, takes it
all. You know what I mean.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Come on in, have a seat.”
We entered Gordo’s room. My imagination presented me with delightful images of Mrs. Robertson coming in for a gab with her guest. The room could have been a film set, labelled “The Freeloading Brother-in-Law.”
He turned down Neil Young, who would no doubt appreciate the fact that he was being played in vinyl on an ancient turntable, and invited us to sit on a saggy chesterfield covered with a worn grey army blanket with a red stripe.
“You promised Ellie you were going to get a new blanket, Gordo. Ellie’s his girlfriend,” Richard explained.
“Yeah, I asked at the Salvation Army counter the other day; they still don’t have anything in. Maybe I’ll try Frenchy’s,” he said to Richard. Then, to us: “I don’t buy anything retail.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed.
His room was decorated with rock band posters and protest signs bearing slogans such as “Resist!” and “Make Brownies Not War.” One wall was dedicated to the campaign posters of the Cannabis Garden Party.
That’s why he was familiar. “You’re the U.S. invasion guy!”
“That’s me,” he agreed. “Defence critic for the Cannabis Garden Party.”
Any time the defence minister or a military spokesman made a public appearance in Halifax, Gordo showed up to needle him on the country’s inadequate defence spending. But where other defence critics, on the right, took the government to task for failing to anticipate an attack from rogue leftist states or terrorists, Gordo railed about the dangers of an invasion from the south. Which he considered imminent.
“And never has it been more urgent that I get my message out.” He lay back on a pile of Indian-print pillows, and retrieved a home-rolled cigarette that was burning in an ashtray. He took a leisurely drag. His posture bespoke anything but urgency. But then he roused himself to give a stump speech.