Читать книгу The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish - Allan Stratton - Страница 11

In the Lion’s Den

The instant Timmy Beeford resuscitated, the assembled Pentecostals erupted with whoops of joy, cartwheels, and grand huzzahs for Jesus.

“We’d best be off,” Mary Mabel whispered to Brewster. She grabbed him by the arm, and made for the door.

“Wait!” Mrs. Wertz called after. “We have to celebrate!”

“I’d love to,” Mary Mabel sang over her shoulder, “but I have to be up at four.”

In bed, Mary Mabel couldn’t sleep for the silly grin on her face. Her mama’d had a reason to send her to the bridge: it was to get her to the hospital to save that boy. She gave thanks and promised to follow her mama’s guidance forever.

Soon it was time to rise and shine. By five the stove was stoked, the tables set. By six, milk, porridge, and scrambled eggs were on the serving trays. By seven, she’d ladled breakfast to the Academy’s young delinquents. And by eight, she was up to her elbows in dirty dishes, when the porter arrived. “You’re to report to Miss B. immediately.”

“She’ll have to wait or there’ll be no clean plates for lunch.”

“Don’t worry about that. Miss Budgie’s been assigned the wash-up before her morning class.”

Mary Mabel couldn’t figure what could be so important. It hadn’t occurred to her that her miracle might have altered her relations with the world. Not that there hadn’t been warnings. On the way home, her papa had gaped like a goldfish, and Miss B.’s young ladies had lined up for breakfast as slack-jawed as a row of pithed frogs. Still, it wasn’t until she hit the office that she realized the enormity of things.

Two police officers were hauling off a scruffy man in a trench coat. The secretary, Miss Dolly Pigeon, a wizened rat terrier with small breasts and big hips, was beside herself. “You’re the cause of this!” she yipped at the girl. “I hope you’re satisfied!”

“Are you her?” the man demanded as he was dragged out. “Are you Mary Mabel McTavish?”

“Who’s he? How did he know my name?”

“He’s from the Free Press. There’s more at the gates.”

Before Mary Mabel could think, her papa barrelled through the door. “Look at the trouble you’ve got us into!”

“Shut your traps,” Miss Pigeon ordered. “To the Bench!”

The Bench was a church pew retrieved from St. James. Hard and unforgiving, it was the Academy’s version of the stocks. The pair waited an eternity before the headmistress sailed in, a copy of the morning’s paper tucked beneath her arm. “How are we this morning, Miss Pigeon?”

“As might be expected.”

“Quite so.” Miss Bentwhistle swept into her private study and closed the door. A pause, and then she pulled the servants’ cord, tinkling the little brass bell that announced she was ready to receive appointments.

Miss Bentwhistle’s inner sanctum was hushed and dark, the heavy velvet curtains secured to ward off light. Oh-oh, Mary Mabel thought, she’s having a migraine.

“Shut the door,” came a low purr from the far end of the room.

Her papa obeyed.

“Come closer,” the headmistress growled. “I’m not about to bite.”

Her papa gave a nervous chuckle and pushed her forward.

“The both of you.”

Brewster gulped and stepped onto the dusty Persian carpet, almost tripping on the head of the Bengal tiger rug splayed across it. Miss Bentwhistle claimed her great-grandfather, Horatio III, had bagged the beast on safari. In truth, he’d stalked it down in a dusty Toronto curiosity shop. Either way, it was a skinned warning to any who’d dare to cross a Bentwhistle.

Now in range, their eyes accustomed to the muslin light, Mary Mabel and her papa saw a vision gave them pause — Miss Bentwhistle in the highest of high dudgeon, a grand inquisitor to make the angels quake, as imperious a judge as the combined host of Bentwhistles past who glowered through the gloom from the baroque frames that lined her lair. Mary Mabel felt faint, the air heavy with powders, pomades, and lavender potpourris. She glanced at her papa. He looked set to vomit.

An awkward pause. The Iron Maiden cocked an eyebrow. “Well, Miss McTavish, you’ve been quite the busy bee.”

“The girl is sorry,” Brewster said. He stuck an elbow in his daughter’s ribs. “Apologize to your Auntie Horatia.”

“Don’t interrupt,” their captor snapped. She fixed Mary Mabel in her sights. “It is barely nine o’clock in the morning, and we find ourselves besieged by the Middlesex County press. Muckrakers from the Gleaner, Bugle, and Beacon, not to mention our London rag, have decamped at the Academy’s front gates. We’ve been obliged to call in constables, Miss McTavish. Constables. It’s a positive scandal.”

“But what’s it got to do with me?”

She flung the Free Press on her desk and tapped her right index finger three times on the banner headline: LONDON GIRL RESURRECTS DEAD BOY.

“Oh my.”

“Oh my?” Miss Bentwhistle’s breasts elevated to the heavens. “All you can say is ‘Oh my’? A young lady knows better than to draw attention to herself, but you, you flibbertigibbet, you made a scene! And on a Sunday! In so doing, you sullied the Academy’s hard-earned reputation for propriety!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not. You’re just a sweet, little Florence Nightingale. Although even she was never ascribed the powers of our Lord Jesus.”

“I didn’t say a word to the press.”

“Why bother when three hundred witnesses, Holy Rollers, God spare us, are happy to babble away on your behalf. Well, you just march outside and tell the press their story is absurd.”

“But it happened. I can’t deny it.”

“Listen to me,” the headmistress said, “and listen hard. I am telling you: there was no miracle. That boy was never dead.”

“He was. Dr. Hammond signed the death certificate.”

“A piece of paper can easily be ripped up.”

“I don’t care. The boy was dead. A power surged down my arms, out of my fingers, and he came back to life.”

“You make it sound like jump-starting a car.” Miss Bentwhistle circled her prey. “Some might say the lad was simply unconscious. That the affair was a stunt. Adolescent theatrics.”

“They’d be wrong.”

“It’s those books of hers,” Brewster blurted. “They’ve turned her wits.”

Miss. Bentwhistle bristled. “When it comes to scandal, insanity is a complication not a defence.” She cast her eye on Mary Mabel. “Though you have shamed the Academy, my pet, I am willing to compromise. You may think what you like in private, provided you say what I want in public.”

“What sort of compromise is that?”

Smoke might have shot from the dowager’s ears. She stormed to the window — migraine be damned — and threw back the curtains. “Do you see those clouds? They take such pretty forms. I imagine I see the shapes of people. Little homeless people scudding across the sky. Why look — an odd-jobs man and his lumpen daughter. Do you see them, my pet? It’s a picture clear as day. Or perhaps not, for look, even as we speak the wind is blowing them apart. Take care, precious, my visions have a habit of coming true.”

Mary Mabel threw back her shoulders. “Do what you like. I won’t deny the reason I’m alive.”

“Indeed, little martyr?” Miss Bentwhistle laughed dryly. “And are you prepared to sacrifice your father for your arrogance?”

“How dare you threaten Papa!”

“Damn right.” Brewster leapt to attention. “If the girl insists on being wilful, do what you must. But why punish me?”

“Heavens, what do you take me for?” Miss Bentwhistle gasped. “I’d hardly put a young thing on the streets alone.”

Miss Pigeon flew into the room. “Toronto’s on the line! A man from the Globe!” The Globe was the paper of record for Academy parents.

Miss Bentwhistle spun on her heel. “No more delay. Recant. Now.”

“No.”

The headmistress whirled back to her secretary. “Inform the Globe that we no longer have McTavishes on staff. Furthermore, should they intend to feature us in their account, provide them with the name of our solicitor.”

Miss Pigeon scuttled off.

“You have one hour to pack and be gone,” Miss Bentwhistle said, with a glance at her watch.

“For God’s sake,” McTavish pleaded, “don’t cast your darling Brewster to the wind!”

“‘My darling’?” Miss Bentwhistle’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Imagination must run in your family! How dare you think I’d stoop to the likes of you?”

“Stooping’s the least of it,” Brewster rose to his feet, no longer the supplicant. “If I’m kicked out, I’ll leave with lips flapping. Your ‘special interests’ will turn this county on its ear.”

“Lunacy!”

“Don’t play the innocent. You’re no more virgin than I am. Why, you take to acrobatics that’d make the Devil blush.”

“Depraved ravings!”

“Not half so depraved as your delight in feather dusters!”

Miss Bentwhistle’s eyes twitched. “Mr. McTavish, your rant is nothing short of slander. Nor is slander the least of your sins. You’ve been denounced by the Misses Budgie, Lundy, and Brown. Their accusations are documented in my filing cabinet. Gross indecency. Attempted rape. Why, I myself had cause to fend you off.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Oh? And who do you suppose will be believed: a McTavish or a Bentwhistle? We know the local magistrate, my dear. Be careful how you tread. Any loose talk and you will find yourself locked in the Kingston Pen with a bounty on your bottom! Now — get out of my school, my town, my county!”

“Mercy for Papa,” Mary Mabel begged.

Miss Bentwhistle curled her lip. “That, my dear, would take a miracle. And you’re fresh out.”

Back in their quarters, Brewster went on a tear. “Trouble, that’s all you’ve ever been. Well, now you’ve ruined us. Happy? You only had to say it never happened.”

“I don’t have much, Papa. I couldn’t give her that.”

“But you could give away our home? I’m too old to start over. There’s younger men can do the things I do, and better.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find something else.”

“There’s no more ‘we.’ It’s time to be rid of you.” He snatched some coins from his money tin and threw them at her. “There. Don’t say I left you nothing.”

Mary Mabel wilted onto the cot.

“Ah, here come the tears. I’m to feel guilty, am I? Well, you can boo-hoo till doomsday. You brought this on yourself, you and your games of pretend.” He brushed a tear with his sleeve. “It’s for the best, us parting. You’ve hated me your whole life. I don’t mind. Just have the guts to say it. Say that you hate me, so I can leave in peace!”

She couldn’t. He went to smack the hurt off her face. Instead, he grabbed her mama’s teacup and smashed it against the wall.

“Now, curse me,” he wept. “Curse me to hell!” He grabbed his knapsack and ran out the door.

She listened as he blubbered down the corridor, and up the steps to outside. Heard the heavy door slam. She stayed very still for a time, as if, if she stayed still long enough, it would all go away. At last, she crawled across the floor, collected the shards of her mama’s cup, and shrank into a ball in the corner. It was time to pack and go. Go? Where?

“Mama,” she called out, “what am I to do? I need you. Help me. Please.”

But there was only silence.