Читать книгу The Silence on the Shore - Hugh Garner - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

When Walter entered his office the next morning he was almost surprised to find that his old mahogany desk, piled lightly with unanswered mail and unsolicited brochures, retained its familiarity. His small office, crowded as it was with the paper debris of five years of editorship, seemed to reflect more of himself than either the rooming house or the house in suburbia had.

The tall old-fashioned French windows looked out over the part of the city in which he had spent his boyhood, its compact neighbourliness destroyed by its explosive post-war growth. Though it was only a quarter to ten the government liquor store across the street had thee or four customers lounging outside, waiting out the fifteen minutes before it would open. The insurance company’s weather beacon, a couple of blocks to the west on University Avenue, showed fair weather and a rising temperature.

Miss Everleigh, his secretary, entered the office with a musical “Good morning!” and placed a small pile of mail on his desk.

He turned from the window and smiled at her. “Good morning, Jane. You’re in a good humour today.”

“Who wouldn’t be except the grouches? Don’t you feel spring in the air, Mr. Fowler?”

“Yes, I do. You’re right, I moved into a downtown apartment yesterday and this morning I walked to work, through the university campus and down University Avenue to the office. It felt great to be able to walk to work again.”

A small sympathetic frown had crossed her face when he mentioned moving, but when he finished she had replaced it with a smile. Jane knew more about his breakup with his wife and family than he thought, but she had always refrained from mentioning it to him. She sensed that it was not the completely happy event he tried to make out, even to himself. And she had noticed his hesitation when he mentioned his new apartment. What street had he told her yesterday? Adford Road? She knew there were no apartment buildings on it yet.

“Perhaps you’d better give me your new phone number.”

“Yes. Sure.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I forgot to jot it down,” he said. He paused. “As a matter of fact, Jane, I’ve moved into a small place” — still unable to say “furnished room” — “and I share the phone with the other tenants of the house. I’ll jot the number down tonight and give it to you in the morning.”

“Fine, Mr. Fowler,” she answered smiling, rejoicing in his victory over his pride. “I’ll send your new address and phone number down to Personnel tomorrow.”

When she had left he suddenly thought of a couple of wonderful sentences for his novel. Jason, remembering that dignity was a defence, reassessed his relationship with the older man. He saw now that Major Pawley’s dignity was not innate, but was a cloak donned by his superior to hide his abject terror.

He should put that down somewhere. But even as he reached for a sheet of blank paper he changed his mind. To hell with it; it was crappy writing. Ph.D writing. What was he going to write — a novel or an esoteric criticism for the little magazines? He’d work on Lead Them Through the Deep as soon as he got back to his room tonight.

He picked up an interdepartmental bulletin Jane had left on his desk and glanced at the usual bumf about staff changes, retirement and illnesses among those employed by Matheson-Corbett’s ten or twelve trade magazines. He was about to throw it in his wastebasket when his eye was arrested by an item at the bottom of the page. It said that G. G. MacFarlane, associate editor of Living, was retiring at the end of the month for reasons of health, after thirty-one years with the company. His successor would be Robert Clauser, currently editor of the trade magazine Motel and Motor Court Monthly.

Clauser! How could they promote that ex-bookkeeper to a job on the company’s biggest magazine? That was the unfairness of all large corporations, the promotion of people whose names came up through the sleazy machinations of office politics, with no regard for the brushing aside of others more fitted for the job. Why, Clauser couldn’t write a decent English paragraph, and now he had been promoted to a job that was largely a writing one.

Moving on to Living, the company’s prestige consumer magazine, had been Walter’s ambition since he joined the company. His newspaper background and the articles he had sold to magazines during a brief fling at freelance writing had shown him that the writing end of the magazine business was his particular forte.

Apparently the top brass didn’t agree with him. For five years he had been forgotten in this little corporate cul-de-sac as editor of Real Estate News, a stodgy little sheet read only by builders, housing contractors, and mortgage houses. His only “public” consisted of these people and a handful of new house owners and prospective house buyers who had been inveigled into buying a subscription.

Walter pulled the small pile of mail towards him, took a letter opener from a drawer, and began opening the letters.

The first two were objections to a story the previous month that decried the substitution of frame for brick construction in a housing development outside a neighbouring city. The first one was virulent in its condemnation of himself as a judge of building problems. It ended with that favourite phrase of letters-to-the-editor writers, “Cancel my subscription immediately!” Walter laughed, wishing it was in his power to do just that.

The second letter carried the signature of a lumber company president whose firm was a regular advertiser in the magazine. Instead of virulence it relied on the veiled threat of the polite executive coward. Walter crumpled it in his hand and threw it in the basket.

The rest of the mail consisted of brochures advertising the virtues of pre-cast stone and aluminum siding. There were three letters from new home owners wanting information on waterproofing a cement block basement wall, on the best way to age cedar shingles, and what to do about a humped hardwood floor. Beneath these he found an unopened envelope addressed to him personally, and he knew it was from his lawyers.

He read it slowly, amused by its juridical tone. There had been a slight hitch in the mortgage provisions and the buyer and his lawyer were holding a meeting with his own lawyer on Monday next. Would he also like to attend? There were a couple of paragraphs at the end of the letter regarding his fire insurance policy and a typographical error about taxes in the sale documents, which would have to be cleared up.

He rang for Jane, and when she entered he indicated that he had some dictation.

“You haven’t forgotten the trade editors’ conference this afternoon, Mr. Fowler?” she asked.

“I had, but I’ll attend it. Two-thirty, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

When she had sat down he dictated a letter to his lawyers. Then his eye fell on the letter from the man who had told him to cancel his subscription. He picked it up and read the name of the angry subscriber.

“Take another letter, Jane,” he said. After reading her the name and address he continued: “Mr. Collins, colon, Go to hell, period.” Sign it, “Yours vengefully, comma, Walter Fowler, editor.” Crumpling Mr. Collins’s letter in his hand and flinging it into a corner he said, “That’ll be all, Jane. Type the letter to the lawyers on plain paper and the one to that last gentleman on a Real Estate News letterhead.”

He saw his secretary purse her lips around a smile as she left the office. He sat back and wondered why he had let his own anger and frustration make him dictate such a letter to the unknown Mr. Collins. And why hadn’t he written an equally nasty letter to the president of the lumber firm? Yes, why hadn’t he? He knew the answer to that. Because the lumber dealer was a big advertiser, and would have him fired from the company if he did. He swung his swivel chair forward and stamped his feet on the floor. “You’re all guts, Fowler,” he said to himself. “All little-cog-in-the-big-wheel guts!”

He picked up the three letters seeking building and maintenance information and walked across the outer office to Grant McKay’s desk, where he placed the letters before the grey-haired old man who occupied it.

“How’s things this morning, Mac?” he asked.

“Not bad, Walter. Great day, isn’t it? Almost the first real spring day we’ve had so far.”

Walter pulled a chair from against the wall and sat down opposite the old man. “Did you read the bulletin this morning, Mac?”

“I glanced through it. Couldn’t say I read it.”

“They’ve given MacFarlane’s job down at Living to Bob Clauser.”

“I know, Walt. I heard about it last week.”

“The guy knows nothing about writing magazine copy. Here they are trying to bring the book’s circulation up to a half-million by the end of the year and they promote a dud like that to associate editor. George MacFarlane used to rewrite half the stories Living bought, especially the stuff from ministers’ wives and literary schoolteachers. That job needs a good journeyman journalist who can write bright readable English, not a son of a bitch who visits Matheson’s house and plays the recorder in the family band and secretly screws Mrs. Matheson on the side.”

Grant smiled and glanced quickly around the office, habitually searching out an eavesdropper. “It’s the old story, Walt. You know it as well as I. Naturally Matheson, who isn’t a publisher anyway, but a guy who sucked his way up from the accounting office, is going to give a promotion to a family friend —”

“Friend!” Walter shouted.

McKay glanced about him and lowered his voice. “Whether what you say about Clauser and Mrs. Matheson is true or not, that’s the way these things go. Just wait for six months; Clauser won’t last.” He shifted some papers on his desk with a nervous gesture. “You only survive, Walt, if you learn to roll with the punches. Wait and see what happens.”

It was on the tip of Walter’s tongue to say “What, wait the way you’ve done for thirty-five years?” But he realized he couldn’t hurt the old man like that.

He stood up and turned to go back to his office, seething with the injustice of Clauser’s appointment.

Grant said, “In six month’s time, or even less, the job could be yours if you work for it.”

“I’ll try to keep my nails clean and learn how to play the recorder,” said Walter. “And even try to work up a passion for the other thing.”

Back at his desk he thought about Grant McKay. Before the First World War he had been one of the brightest newspapermen in the city. Now he was a soon-to-be-pensioned hack who spent his working day answering letters from householders who wanted to get rid of silverfish, or re-prime septic tanks, or wished to know the amount of interest to be stuck for on a second mortgage.

When Walter took the editorship of the magazine in 1954 he had quickly made friends with the old man. During the first summer he and Brenda had entertained Grant and his wife Edna a few times at their house. Mrs. McKay, who was a semi-invalid with a kidney ailment, had enjoyed these visits very much. She used to sit in the Fowler front room gazing fondly through the picture window at the children playing in the street. His boys, Walter Jr. and Terry, had soon sensed the old lady’s need of them, and young Walter used to save the things he made in kindergarten to show her, while young Terry had climbed on her lap and chattered away to her for hours on end. Walter had taught them to call her “Grandma,” and she had been very pleased with this.

Then one day Brenda had said to him, “I hope you’re not going to invite the McKays up here for Sunday dinner again this week.”

“Why?” he had demanded.

“Corinne Adams and Bill are going to drop over, that’s all.”

“But I’ve already invited them.”

“You had no right to without first asking me,” she said petulantly.

He had said, “But it’s such a treat for them to come here, especially for Edna who’s stuck in their little flat all day. What are the Adamses coming across the road for, has Corinne got a new outfit to show off, or is Bill going to bend my ear for hours talking about his summer cottage and new motorboat!”

“They’re coming because they’re my friends, and I’ve invited them. And besides, Bill Adams has a good position at City Hall, and you never know when a friend like that will be useful.”

He had really exploded then. “I don’t need any little petit bourgeois clerk like that to do me any favours,” he said. “That’s the criterion of friendship in this overpriced slum! Only have friends who can fix your parking tickets, get you something wholesale, elevate you to the street’s socially acceptable clique! To hell with it, to hell with Adams, and to hell with your stupid and rotten little manoeuvres! Go on, get your hair set, buy a pre-baked pie at the supermarket, get a five-buck bottle of rye, and have your so-called friends over for dinner. But leave me out of your plans!”

“They’re coming anyway, and I don’t want the McKays.”

On Sunday morning Walter emptied half of the expensive liquor (it was Scotch, which he loathed) into another bottle, and drove down to the house where the McKays lived. Edna McKay was dressed and waiting for him when he arrived.

“Look, Mrs. McKay, I can’t take you up to my place today,” he said. “Brenda isn’t feeling well and she’s gone to bed. I thought maybe we could have a drink or two and then go out into the country for a drive. The trees are starting to turn, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy a drive for a change.”

Both the old people had agreed, but Walter knew they hadn’t swallowed his lie. He had carried the old lady out to the car, and they had gone for a long drive through the autumn countryside.

On the way back to the city he had stopped and bought them dinner at a well-known highway restaurant. After dropping them off he had driven through the downtown streets where he had lived as a boy, looking up old landmarks and the addresses where he had once lived. It had been a fairly good residential neighbourhood in those days, but now it was getting semi-slummy and sleazy-looking. It depressed him, so he had driven out to the west end of the city, parked the car, and stood on the platform of a railroad station and watched the trains.

A long manifest freight had pulled west through the station, and he had read the old familiar names of the railroads on the sides of the boxcars, living for a few moments back in the depression days when he had hoboed around the continent like thousands of his generation. Missouri Pacific, KATY, Frisco Lines, C.P.R., Burlington “The Route of the Zephyrs,” “Ship on the Blue Streak,” Canadian National, Wabash, Lehigh Valley, “The Route of Phoebe Snow.”

It was late when he let himself into his darkened house, staring balefully at the empty glasses and the half-eaten plates of sandwiches lying around the living room. In the kitchen he found one shot left in the bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a drink. The slogan on the bottom of an insurance company calendar caught his eye. “What are you doing for your family’s future?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I’m holding down a crummy job to feed, house, and clothe them, sticking with a wife who doesn’t love me, and trying to instill some basic truths and a sense of values into my kids, who don’t want to listen to me.” He lifted his drink to the eager smiling young couple on the calendar and gulped its contents down.

The McKays had not visited his house again, parrying his invitations with the excuse that Edna was too ill to go out. Two years later the Adamses lost their house across the road and moved away, and he never saw them again.

Jane entered the office with the letter to his lawyers. He read it over and signed it.

“Where’s the one to our friend Mr. Collins?” he asked.

“Did you really want me to type it? I figured you were just blowing off steam.”

He laughed. “You’re one in a million, Janey,” he said.

She picked up the letter he had signed. Then she said, “Bill Lawrence wants to know when you can go over the series on school construction with him?”

“This afternoon, after the conference.”

“Mr. Peele called up. He said he didn’t want to speak to you, but wanted to be sure you knew about the trade editors’ meeting this afternoon.”

“All right, Jane.”

“He said something about your editorial on building strikes and lock-outs in the last issue.”

Walter nodded. “Fine.”

Peele was the trade publications manager. What was up with him? Walter found himself making excuses already for the way he had treated the builders’ lock-outs in the editorial. Matheso-Corbett hid its real conservatism behind a small-l liberalism in Living, but this was not allowed to spill over into the trade publications.

Jane headed for the door, then stopped and turned in his direction. “There was another phone call a few minutes ago,” she said. “From a woman.”

“So, do you think I’m too old and fat to get phone calls from young women?” he asked.

“She wasn’t young and she sounded foreign, maybe German.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked the name of the editor.”

“Yes.”

“I gave her your name. Then she asked where you lived. I had to tell her you had moved yesterday and I didn’t know your new address, but it was on Adford Road.”

“What did she say then?”

Jane shrugged. “She just hung up.”

He laughed but there was annoyance showing behind his laughter. “That would be my landlady,” he said. “Checking on my credentials.”

“Was it all right to say what I did?”

“Sure, Jane. It was okay.”

He stepped to the large window and looked below him at the sun-drenched sidewalk across the street. There were several young men strolling along without topcoats. It would be good to walkin the sun again without a heavy coat. He jammed his hat on his head and left his office.

“I’m going to lunch, Jane,” he said.

“Right, Mr. Fowler.”

As he passed Ivy Frobisher she looked up at him and smiled. Perhaps things weren’t dead between them yet, he thought. Now that things were over between him and Brenda he’d probably discover that the psychological block to casual lovemaking was broken too. Maybe it had only been his moralistic conscience after all.