Going Down Slow

by John Metcalf

  He sat up in bed and punched the pillow up behind him. He lighted a cigarette and flicked the match out of the window. His next apartment was going to have screens on the windows; and normal heating; and garbage disposal of some conventional kind. And it wasn’t going to have Monsieur André Gagnon yelling Tête carré! behind you as you went up the stairs.

  He leaned out of bed staring at the clock; ten minutes past one. It was something at least that he wasn’t on till the afternoon. Morning was Technical Drawing; he was Biology. He’d been looking forward to Matrics but had forgotten that the boredom of invigilating was more tiring than teaching. After he’d read the exam-paper, the Fire Regulations on the wall, studied the notice board and any charts there might be in the room, after counting the cars in the Staff Parking Area if he was lucky enough to be on that side, after tallying them by colour and size because he didn’t know any makes except Volkswagen, he was left with the students and their ritual gestures; the ceiling-scanners, the pen-suckers, the blotters, the pickers of thoughtful noses, the hand-hoverers, the cuff shooters, the brastrappers, the hair-twisters and/or pullers. By the last hour he was reduced to trying to see up girls’ skirts.

  Thirteen more days to go – or was it fourteen – till the end of term. All he had left to do, apart from invigilation, was the one set of grade ten report cards and his register.

  The register; that was going to be a problem. And the apartment. And England. He must remember to ask the boys in the grocery for cardboard boxes.

  He still hadn’t decided about the holiday; it was a choice between England and New Orleans. His mother and father were expecting him but he hadn’t said anything definite. He could ride Greyhounds down to Knoxville, Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, hear some blues singers, see the country.

  He turned the pillow to its cool side and tried the words again quite casually, as if in conversation.

  “The summer? Oh, I rode Greyhounds down to Nashville, Memphis, on to New Orleans . . .”

  Or possibly “rode on Greyhounds”?

  The very word “Greyhound” excited him; it linked him to the fabulous, mythic world of the blues, the shining trumpets. It worked the same poetry on him as levee, County Farm, grits, bullfiddle.

  He felt himself smiling.

  Remembering a line from an old blues;

  I’ve been to the Nation and roun’ the Territo’

  He’d never wanted to know what it meant.

  Yes.

  And then there was all the passport business. His was expired and he’d need photographs and forms. But he could get into the States with the piece of landed-immigrant paper they’d given him on the ship. And then there was finding a new apartment and moving; whether to get a place and pay for it over the summer or find a place when he came back. And if he found a place when he came back, there was the problem of storing things over the summer. Where?

  With Garry?

  He resolved to make a list of things to be done. The lease was up at the end of the month. Tomorrow he’d definitely make a list. During Biology. The knowledge of the mosquito was making him feel itchy all over. Sleep was impossible.

  He put on his dressing gown and went into the kitchen. The light inside the fridge was off again. There was just enough milk for breakfast. They were out of Chinese tea. No lemons. He ran the cold water tap. The fridge motor sounded loud in the silence. The tapping at the door made him start. He tightened the cord of his dressing gown and went down the passage.

  “Susan!”

  “Can’t stop. I’ve brought you a present.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Chinatown. With Fran.”

  “But you’ve got Biology tomorrow . . .”

  She plucked off her sun glasses and kissed him. A short, sleeveless black dress, the Chinese jade disc clinking against its chain. Her mouth was hot.

  “I’ve got a cab out front.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  “Here. For you.”

  “And inebriated,” he said.

  She pushed the crumpled shopping bag into his arms. Leaning in, crushing the bag between them, she kissed him again.

  “It’s for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s because I love you,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  He listened to her heels clattering down the stairs.

  “After you, my dear Alphonse!” she called.

  In the kitchen, he opened the bag and put the four parcels on the counter. The first was flat and about a foot square. He unwrapped the sheets of newspaper and saw a sign which saidKeep Off the Grass By Order

  Fresh earth clung to its stake.

  The second parcel turned out to be a packet of joss-sticks, a paintbrush, and a gold lacquer box which contained a block of Chinese ink.

  The third parcel, wrapped in tissue, contained a small dried fish.

  The fourth was a pineapple.

  Chapter Nine

  As he neared McPhee’s office, David considered.

  He’d faked his register but most people did that. Year Book money? His additions to the Detention Book? But he’d printed in block letters. The poem! Attributing the poem on the grade ten exam to Sir Charles Pharco-Hollister.

  He went into the General Office and through the swing-gate at the end of the counter. Twatface looked up from her typewriter and smiled.

  Black Magic. $4.40. And on school time anyway.

  He smiled back at her.

  Past Miss Burgeon’s office.

  Perhaps it was for showing Some Like It Hot without prior clearance. But that had been three weeks ago. There had, apparently, been phone calls.

  The safe.

  McPhee’s office, the door half-open. He knocked.

  “Ah, Mr. Appleby. Come in. I think that one’s more comfortable.”

  He closed the folder and got up to put it in the green filing cabinet.

  The drawer rumbled shut.

  “Enrolment projections,” he said.

  David half-smiled, nodded.

  “You’ve been invigilating since nine,” said McPhee.

  “Yes,” said David.

  “Well, I expect you could use a cup of coffee?” McPhee smiled.

  “Thank you, yes,” said David. “I certainly could.”

  “They call it ‘elevenses’ in England, don’t they?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” smiled David.

  “We’re just on time then. I’ll go and have a word with Mrs. Simmons . . .”

  David took out his cigarettes; he hesitated and then lighted one, dropping the match into the clean ashtray on McPhee’s desk. On the wall above the green filing cabinet, a print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.

  On the wall just above his head there was a School Board calendar. He counted the number of black squares left before the red of the holiday.

  The Greater Montreal Protestant School Board.

  GMPSB

  Gumpsbub

  Gumpsba.

  “Well,” said McPhee, coming back into the room and seating himself at the desk, “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you for the last two days but the Matrics seem to . . .”

  He brought out a folder from his desk drawer; he opened the folder and studied the top piece of paper. David watched him. He was wearing a dapper brown suit today and a yellow tie which was decorated with brown fox heads and black horse shoes. David remembered a tie something like that when he’d been about ten; definitely fox heads. But had it been green with red fox heads? He tried to reconstruct the top of his dressing table, the one he’d had then. McPhee sniffed. Elephant ebony bookends. One with a broken tusk replaced with a matchstick. A tortoise-shell comb with a silver back.

  “I understand,” said McPhee suddenly, “that you were successful this time in your Permanent Certificate exam?”

  “Yes,” said David. “I heard the following week.”

  “Yes,” said McPhee. “The Board’s Regional Officer – you’ve met Mr. Sharp, have
n’t you?”

  “No,” said David, “I don’t believe I have.”

  “So now there’s only a final Principal’s Report.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said David.

  “And you’ve been with us now for two years, Mr. Appleby.”

  “Yes,” said David. “That’s right.”

  “And you’ve been teaching for three?”

  “One year in England,” said David.

  “Born in Southbourne. England, in 1944,” McPhee said, putting the sheet of paper back in the folder.

  “Which makes you twenty – ”

  “Three,” said David.

  “And how are you liking Canada?” said McPhee.

  “Oh, very much,” said David. “Very much indeed.”

  Twatface came in with a tray.

  “Ginger biscuits today, Mr. McPhee,” she said.

  “You spoil me, Mrs. Simmons,” he said.

  She smiled at him; the dress yellow and Doris Day.

  “Thank you, Mr. McPhee,” she said as she closed the door.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons,” said McPhee.

  He indicated the tray.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  David spooned sugar into his cup and stirred.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” said McPhee, proffering the plate of biscuits, “about your relationship with the Haddad girl.”

  David forced his hand to keep moving forward, his fingers to close around a Ginger Snap.

  “The Haddad girl?” he said.

  “Susan Haddad,” said McPhee.

  “Relationship?” said David.

  “Some months ago,” said McPhee, “we received a phone call from the girl’s mother claiming that Susan was involved in an undesirable relationship with one of her teachers.”

  “But I’m not one of her teachers,” said David.

  “I’m aware of that,” said McPhee.

  “And this woman said I . . .”

  “No,” said McPhee. “She didn’t know the name of the teacher involved.”

  “It sounds rather odd to me,” said David. “What did she mean, exactly?”

  “At the time,” said McPhee, “it sounded odd to us. Recently, however, the matter has come to our attention again. A concerned staff member has placed evidence before Mr. Grierson that your relationship with this girl is more than the relationship between teacher and student.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Quite correctly, in my view, the staff member concerned felt that the nature of your relationship was not in the best interests of the school, the girl, or the profession.”

  “Well I don’t know what to say to that, Mr. McPhee. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What is this ‘evidence’ supposed to be?”

  “Do you deny a relationship with the girl?”

  “Our relationship is a very warm and friendly one. She’s the most intelligent student I’ve ever talked to. What possible . . .”

  “You see her outside the school situation.”

  “I have done,” said David, “on occasion.”

  “You admit that?”

  “A cup of coffee sometimes,” said David.

  “A cup of coffee,” said McPhee.

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded David. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Mr. McPhee?”

  “Accusing, Mr. Appleby?”

  “Are you suggesting that my friendship with the girl is improper? Because that’s certainly what I’m understanding you to mean. Is that what you’re implying, Mr. McPhee? That the relationship is a sexual one?”

  “Mr. Appleby! I’m quite sure I have made no such statement.”

  “You’ve certainly made such implication.”

  They sat staring at each other.

  “I would like to know,” said David, clattering his cup and saucer back onto the tray, “who has accused me of this and on what evidence.”

  Moving aside the jug of cream, McPhee set down his cup.

  “Mr. Appleby,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “Mr. Appleby. We’re not in a court of law here and I’m not accusing you of immoral conduct. Nor was the staff member concerned.”

  “And just who is ‘the staff member concerned’?”

  McPhee spread his hands.

  “Teaching,” he said, “is a delicate profession.”

  He started to twist the wedding band on his finger.

  “A school . . . I like to think of a school as an organism – or a fabric – a fabric of which we’re all a part. I think you’ll be able to understand why we feel we must protect the staff member’s confidence. But I do assure you that the staff member did not accuse you of – it was certainly not the spirit in which the information was offered.”

  “An accused person,” David said, “has the right . . .”

  “A delicate profession,” repeated McPhee, raising his voice. “It appears, Mr. Appleby, that your reports from the Department’s inspectors are very favourable indeed. Both Mr. Bunceford and Mr. Follet have spoken highly of your capabilities and your range of knowledge. It would seem, too, judging from what I’ve heard and from the Year Book that you are popular with the students.”

  “Thank you,” said David. “But I’m more interested in . . .”

  “Allow me to continue,” said McPhee.

  “Let’s get back to this ‘concerned staff member’ and this ‘evidence,’” said David.

  “It would seem,” said McPhee. “Thank you, Mr. Appleby. It would seem that you are standing on the threshold of a promising career. Yet we must balance against this your behaviour and your attitude. A very minor example,” said McPhee, indicating the corner of his desk.

  “Pardon?” said David.

  “Most staff members,” said McPhee, “men much older and more experienced than you, would not smoke uninvited in my office.”

  David stared at him.

  “Not, in itself,” said McPhee, with a dismissing wave of his hand, “but there are other matters.”

  He opened the file again.

  “Look here!” David said. “You’re accusing me . . .”

  “Absent seventeen teaching-days, late twenty-three sessions,” read McPhee. “Duties missed – fourteen. A heavy burden, Mr. Appleby, on the rest of the staff.”

  He turned the page.

  “There have been incidents. The photographs in your classroom; the matter of your essay assignments; that strange behaviour on the first floor with a water-pistol; unauthorized screening of movies; a lack of co-operation with the Visual Aids Department – Mr. Clements has reported to me on several occasions. Continual complaints from Mr. Dimakopoulos who claims that your classroom is the untidiest in the school and who also reports to me that he finds ash and cigarette ends in your garbage can. Smoking in the classroom at the close of school contravenes the Fire Regulations. There is a staffroom for your comfort and convenience.”

  McPhee looked up.

  “Do you find the staffroom uncongenial?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You find it difficult to get along with your fellow-teachers?”

  “Not at all,” said David.

  “Miss Leet has complained to me on two occasions of your rudeness to her. On the last occasion she was weeping.”

  “She’s hysterical,” said David. “It was a clash of opinion over literary matters.”

  McPhee raised his eyebrows.

  “About a writer called Ayn Rand.”

  “But the point at issue,” said McPhee, “you’re the only teacher against whom I have heard such complaints.”

  David shrugged.

  “Then,” continued McPhee, “we received further information and a listing from Mrs. Lewis . . .” He turned sheets of paper in the folder.

  “Yes.”

  He lifted a typewritten sheet and shook it straight.

  “Library books,” he said.

  He frowned as he scanned the page.

  He glanced up.

&nb
sp; “Well?”

  “But staff can keep books out until the last day of term, can’t they? Wasn’t there a notice . . . ?”

  “Can you recover them?” said McPhee. “Our information is that you’ve removed a substantial number.”

  “Substantial?” said David.

  “I chose to use the word ‘removed,’ Mr. Appleby. In spite of the fact that the books were being used by Merrymount students for educational purposes, I could have chosen an uglier word.”

  He slapped the folder.

  “Well, Mr. Appleby?”

  He tilted his chair backwards.

  “It was just a matter of speed, really. You see I wanted those particular students . . .”

  “A sorry record!” said McPhee.

  “And I most certainly had no intention . . .”

  “A sum,” interrupted McPhee, “apparently in excess of $230.”

  “If I may just explain . . .”

  “I expect,” interrupted McPhee again, seeming to stare at the GMPSB Calendar above David’s head, “that you’re aware of the mechanics of contract renewal within our system?”

  “Yes,” said David.

  “That, if by April 30th, no indication to the contrary has been received by either party, then the previous year’s contract is automatically renewed?”

  “Yes, I know,” said David.

  “You are, then, presently under contract for the coming year.”

  David nodded.

  “Contracts can be terminated by the Board, however, for behaviour which falls under any one of three defined areas.”

  There was a silence. David concentrated on the brown fox heads, the black horse shoes.

  “Of three,” repeated McPhee, “defined areas.”

  David studied the cups and saucers, the facets of the cut-glass cream jug, the chrome apostle spoon.

  “Doubtless,” said McPhee, “you are aware of the nature of those areas.”

  He pursed his lips.

  He edged the file square on the desk with his fingertip.

  “We are understanding each other aren’t we, Mr. Appleby?”

  “I think so,” said David.

  “Today,” said McPhee, “is . . . ?”

  “Wednesday,” said David.

  “Wednesday,” repeated McPhee. “Let us say, then, Friday – at the close of afternoon school.”