The Latchkey Kid

by Helen Forrester

“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely car!”

  She walked all round his precious beauty and admired its finer points. Finally, she came to a stop beside him and looked up at him with a serious, troubled air.

  “You know, Hank, the car is very nice indeed, but is it wise to buy it just at present?”

  He was immediately defiant, his black eyes narrowed and his mouth hard.

  “Why not? It’s my money, isn’t it? I can do what I like.”

  She answered him gently, pushing a loose lock back into her bun as she did so.

  “Yes, my dear, it is your money, and you really earned it. The car is lovely – but do you think you should flash money around yet – I mean, before the town knows how you came by it?” She stopped, then said: “Look, come and have some tea with me before you start work. Have you seen any American papers?”

  The endearment caught him by surprise, and his face softened. He did not know of the English habit of using such affectionate epithets rather haphazardly, and he was impressed that she should consider him her dear.

  “O.K.,” he said, considerably mollified, and followed her obediently up the garden path and into her kitchen.

  The two women students who rented rooms from her had gone to church, and the remains of their breakfast lay on the table in the breakfast nook. Isobel looked at the muddle with distaste, then quickly washed her hands, put a kettle of water on the gas stove and assembled cups and saucers on a tray, while Hank ambled curiously around the old-fashioned kitchen. It had none of the clinical efficiency of his mother’s, but it did remind him of his grandmother’s kitchen out on the farm, with its prosiac line of battered saucepans which shared a shelf with a large bowl for making bread and a hopeful looking collection of cake tins.

  There was cake, satisfying and fruity, and he sat on the edge of the chesterfield in Isobel’s sitting-room and ate it appreciatively between gulps of strong, sweet tea from one of her best bone china teacups.

  He liked this room, he decided. A man could put his feet up here without fear of being rebuked, and maybe he could even leave things about. Her desk looked untidy, and a basket by the fireplace was filled with old magazines and newspapers. On a little table by the piano was a pile of much thumbed music.

  He got up and went to the piano, sat on the stool and found that it revolved. He did a slow twist on it, laughing at her as he did so, then played a chord. She did not object, so he broke into a piece by Debussy and she listened attentively. After a few minutes, he became aware of Peter Dawson’s portrait staring down at him from the top of the piano, and he stopped.

  “I didn’t know you could play,” she said. “You are quite good.”

  “Always got an A in music,” he replied, still contemplating the portrait. “Paid for lessons out of my newspaper money.” He nodded towards the photograph. “Sorry about Peter.”

  She was suddenly tense and her voice came stiffly: “Thank you.”

  Seeing her quivering lips, he wished he had not mentioned Peter. What a clumsy lout he was! Desperately he wanted to comfort her, but how does a man comfort a girl crying for someone else, he wondered anxiously. “You’ll feel better later on,” he floundered. “Lousy job – the army.”

  She controlled herself with an effort. “Yes, but I think he felt the peacekeeping mission was very worthwhile.”

  He tried to change the subject. “Funny to think you’re a Canadian.”

  She realized he was trying to lead the conversation away from her husband, to be kind and make up for his blunder. “I suppose I am,” she said. She picked up a New York paper from the pile on the coffee table. “I wanted to show you this.”

  He felt a little snubbed and was angry with himself. He took the paper from her, however, and after a quick glance at her set face, read the column she indicated, which was headed “Book Reviews”. He whistled under his breath.

  “‘The Cheaper Sex … a disgusting book … vulgar pornography … shocking,’” he read in a mutter, and looked at her sheepishly.

  She had recovered herself, and tiny humorous lines were gathering round her eyes.

  “Now read this one,” she commanded.

  He read aloud: “‘Delicate delineation of a boy’s sensations on discovering physical love … powerful and evocative description of adolescent suffering in an unsympathetic society … the best to come out of Canada for years …’ Aw, hell!” He slammed the paper down, his face going pink in spite of his efforts to appear blasé. “Do you think it was a sick book?”

  Isobel smiled and said: “No. I told you it was a good book, and I was right. A lot of things which are thought rather wicked in North America are regarded as normal in Europe. The thing is that, in a day or two, the Tollemarche Advent will wake up to the fact that you wrote it. There will be headlines – and I don’t think your parents are going to like them much.”

  Hank’s voice was sulky as he replied: “What do I care? I started to write it so as to shake them. They never cared about me, did they?”

  “They are going to care now.”

  “They’re about twenty years too late. Anyway, I did finally send it under a pen name – Ben MacLean – mostly to please you,” he said defensively. Then he added, with a sudden burst of frankness, “I reckoned the news would seep out anyway in time and cause them to lose plenty of sleep.”

  “I think in a place as small as Tollemarche it will come out,” she agreed.

  “Waal,” he drawled defiantly, “let it come out. That’s what I originally intended. Now, I don’t care either way, Isobel.”

  The use of her first name did not imply familiarity, as it would have done in England, though she had never really got used to being on a first-name basis with everyone; she was invariably disconcerted by this custom.

  She leaned forward to pick up a cigarette box. When she opened the lid, it commenced to play a tinkling version of “The Bluebells of Scotland”. She offered him a cigarette from it.

  He was charmed by the tune and took the whole box from her while he listened; his face reflected an almost childlike absorption. This was the first time that he had been past the big covered back porch of her house, and everything was new and interesting.

  “Say, where did you get that?”

  “It belonged to my Welsh grandmother – she bought it in Edinburgh while she was on her honeymoon.” She enjoyed his obvious fascination with it, and it reminded her of another suggestion she wanted to make to him.

  “You know, Hank, if you really want to write for a living you should go to London and Edinburgh, go to Europe, too – perhaps try working for a newspaper or magazine. See something of life.”

  “I’ve seen plenty already,” he snapped, his face suddenly hardening, though basically he appreciated the personal interest which prompted her suggestion.

  She ignored his tone of voice and agreed with him.

  “You have in a way – but you know, there are other places than the Prairies and Jasper and Banff – and, by and large, the world isn’t very interested in books about Canada. You will need to branch out and – ”

  She stopped, anxious not to offend him. His presence kept at bay the pictures that danced through her mind, of Peter lying in the dust, her Peter who had, she realized suddenly, always had the same slightly defensive outlook that Hank had, of trying to forestall criticism.

  “The Bluebells of Scotland” had also stopped, and he put the box down slowly, his eyes turned thoughtfully towards her.

  “Branch out and…?” he asked.

  “Acquire a veneer of civilization,” she said unexpectedly, with a brutal honesty possible only with someone she regarded as an old friend.

  Impulsively she put her hand over his and said with passion: “You are going to have to deal with a smart, slick world, quick to ridicule those who do not understand its manners – a world where you want friends, not enemies. You can’t defy the world as you can your parents; you have to work with it a little – and be polite to it.”

&nbs
p; The hand under hers clenched on the settee cushion, his face went red, and his eyes flashed such vindictive rage for a moment that she thought he would hit her, then he controlled himself, sitting silently by her on the settee, until she felt his hand gradually relax.

  “Hank,” she said rather hopelessly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He slowly lifted the hand which had been clutching his, opened it and very gently implanted a kiss on its palm, and laughed when she gasped at the caress. She was too innocent, he thought.

  “I kiss the hand which beats me,” he said melodramatically, and put it down firmly in her lap before he had any further ideas.

  “Yeah, I know I’m a savage compared to your itsy-bitsy English world.”

  She was still shaken that anyone should calmly kiss her when she had not been long widowed, but his remark stung her into retort.

  “It’s a very tough world,” she said defensively. “English people are generally very well qualified, and if you are not good at your work you’ll soon go under, there.”

  He had quite recovered his good humour, and said: “O.K., O.K., what do I do now, ma’am?”

  “It depends on whether you have any money left.”

  “‘Bout five hundred bucks – from working in the store and from the articles you helped me to place.” He paused, and then said, “I used the advance payment for the book to get the car.”

  His eyes twinkled when she told him he was rich.

  “When does High School finish?” she asked.

  “In June next – but I’m quitting right now – I’ve had enough.”

  She was still telling herself she should not be put out by a kiss from a youngster who did not realize what he was doing, and she tried to nod her golden head with an appropriate display of adult wisdom, as she said: “Yes, you’re wasting your time. Has your publisher asked you to go to New York?”

  “Yeah, he has. Next week. Mostly about the film – and they want to talk about another book.” He pulled a crumpled letter out of his shirt pocket, opened it and handed it to her to read.

  “Sent me a cheque for expenses, too.”

  She was immediately businesslike and succeeded in putting some suggestions to him in her crisp English way, which banished from her mind again any other thoughts.

  “What about asking Albert’s to set you up with a really quiet-looking business outfit for New York? Take the clothes you have on with you, so that if he wants you dressed up as a teenager you have the proper clothes for that, too.” She paused, looking at him reflectively, and then asked: “Don’t you think you had better speak to your father about all this?”

  Hank chuckled. “I’d have a job. He’s away up the Mackenzie in a canoe – with a prospecting party.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, what about your mother?” She looked imploring, and he realized that her eyelashes were golden, too. She was a true blonde. “Hank, you really ought to tell her.”

  He withdrew his mind from contemplation of her eyelashes, and asked heavily: “You kidding?”

  “No.”

  “I just hope the shock rocks her to her Playtex foundations.” He sounded malicious, and then, as Isobel made mild noises of protest, he went on in more conciliatory tones: “Aw, I’ll just tell her I’m going on a trip right now – an’ don’t you tell her.”

  “I don’t really know her. I’ve met her twice on formal occasions, but I am at work all day, so I don’t often see my neighbours. And I don’t intend to meddle in your family life – if you can’t talk to each other, it’s none of my business.” She smiled at him. “You have always been a careful tenant in the garage. If you have a table and a typewriter in there, I don’t mind – I’ve known you for years. I know you write under the pseudonym of Ben MacLean and wish to keep your literary activities secret, so I have never seen anything wrong in taking in your mail.” She leaned back against the settee, her eyes regarding him quizzically, and said: “There. I’ve done my best to square my conscience for your sake. How’s that?”

  “And what about all the times I’ve asked your advice while you were doing your yard work?” he teased.

  “Well – um – the students who live with me sometimes ask advice, too.”

  “Oh, brother!” he exclaimed, looking suddenly troubled. “They’ll be coming back from church soon – and Dorothy, too – and I don’t want you embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed?” She was surprised.

  “Yeah. You know. Neighbours talkin’ and that kinda thing.”

  “Good heavens! One can be friends with men without that sort of gossip. What do they think I am – a baby snatcher?”

  He was hurt to the quick.

  “Not here you can’t,” he almost snarled. “And I’m no baby.”

  She looked up at the six solid feet of him, at the huge, deep chest under his black shirt and at his bulging arm muscles. Then she raised her eyes to his cross, slightly plump face, its high Ukrainian cheekbones and sallow skin, now flushed with anger, and finally at the intelligent, black eyes, almost pleading to be told that he was a man.

  She pitied him, and said, smiling gently: “No, you have grown up in the years you’ve had my old garage, and you are very much a young man.” She hesitated, and then said very sweetly to comfort him: “And it was nice of you to think of my reputation.”

  He did not tell her that hers was the only female reputation he had ever given any thought to, and that he did not know why he bothered. He just stood looking down at her for a moment, his eyes still pleading, and then abruptly he turned and picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen for her.

  “I guess I’ll go and do some work,” he said heavily. “I got the rough outline of another novel in my head.”

  She forced herself to be cheerful. “That’s the spirit. You’ll go from strength to strength, I know it.”

  He felt happier. She could surely be real sweet when she tried, he ruminated. He saluted her, went through the screen door, vaulted the balustrade protecting the steps, and swaggered down the garden.

  The Triumph was soon garaged, with its nose almost touching the back of his chair. He sat down at the old table by the window and put a new sheet of paper into the typewriter.

  “Mother and Son,” he typed, “By Ben MacLean.”

  CHAPTER 5

  On Sundays Maxie Frizzell caught up with the various jobs his wife Donna required him to do. He sometimes thought it would be pleasant to lie in bed with his wife on Sunday mornings, now that there were no children to interrupt them, but Donna reckoned they should be through with all that kind of stupidity, so he was resigned to the sporadic consolation of his Métis up north.

  Donna’s latest demand was that he should extend the patio and then roof it over.

  “I helped you by clearing all the leaves in the yard,” she told him half a dozen times, “and I got a cold while I was doing it. Now just you get busy on that patio.”

  Maxie made himself some coffee and took it out to the patio, where he surveyed the work to be done. He had already prepared the ground for the extension of the concrete flooring, and, since this was likely to be the last Sunday of the year when it would not freeze, the next job was to prepare the concrete mixture, which lay against the wall in a large bag.

  He worked slowly but efficiently for nearly two hours, fearing that, if he did not finish the work quickly, frost would make it impossible for him to continue; then, tired and sweating, he went and sat on the front doorstep to rest.

  Next door but one, new neighbours had recently moved in, and a man was at work in the garden, slowly digging a flower bed, while a small boy pottered about trying to help him. They were both very fair complexioned, and they chatted sporadically to each other in a language foreign to Mr. Frizzell, who imagined that they must be Dutch or German. He remembered his wife mentioning to him that some immigrants had moved into the street, and, because he knew that neither Donna nor Mrs. Stych would bother to call on immigrants, he felt vaguely sorry for the newcomers’ is
olation. When the man looked up from his digging. Frizzell lifted a tired hand in salute, and the man gravely acknowledged it.

  Closer to hand, the white Triumph was standing outside the Styches’ house, and Mr. Frizzell gazed at it uneasily. Though he did not like Stych much – too stuck up by far with his university degree and his oilmen friends – he hoped that Hank had not stolen the money for the car.

  He saw Olga Stych go off to church an hour early, and deduced that she must be helping with some small church chore before the service. Then Hank came out and drove off, and he cursed him quietly. That young so-and-so might easily have got his Betty into trouble, if he had not caught them in time. Children, he muttered fervently, were just a curse sent by God.

  This reminded him that it was nearly time for church, so he heaved himself to his feet and went to make some more coffee, this time for Mrs. Frizzell as well.

  She was sitting up in bed, her glasses already adorning her gaunt face and her hair curled up tightly on rollers. She accepted the coffee with a grunt and told Maxie not to sit on the bed, because he had cement on his jeans.

  He lowered himself gingerly to a gilt chair and stirred his coffee, the spoon circulating slowly until it finally stopped and he sat staring at it.

  Mrs. Frizzell drank her coffee quickly, then scrambled out of bed and proceeded a little unsteadily to the kitchen, her cotton nightgown drooping despondently round her. She took a roast from the refrigerator, put it into a baking tin, wrapped two potatoes in tinfoil and put both meat and vegetables into the gas oven. Having adjusted the heat and thus satisfactorily disposed of the problem of lunch, she went to the bathroom for a shower and then returned to the bedroom.

  Maxie was still staring at half a cup of coffee.

  “You sick?” she asked, as she struggled into her best foundation garment. Her body was still damp and the garment was too tight, so she was pink with exertion by the time she had managed to zip it up.

  “No.”

  “You’d better shower or we’ll be late.”

  “Yeah.”

  He got up reluctantly, put the cup down on the dressing table, and walked slowly towards the bathroom. At the bedroom door he stopped. His wife was painting her eyelids green.