MURDOCH JOGTROTTED ALL THE WAY to Ontario Street in an attempt to dispel his anger. His head was filled with fantasies, all of them violent, of what he would do to Nathaniel Eakin. When he’d finished smashing the man’s head against the floor for the second time, he slowed himself down. Yes, the old geezer was a horse’s arse but Murdoch knew the rage he’d stirred up didn’t totally belong with him. His memory of his father shouting about his mother was a tight pain in his chest and he felt short of breath. “She’s a whore, a tart, cheap as a dish clout.” And more, words that he didn’t want to recall. She, silent as always, going about her task, head bowed in a way that made him, the boy, want to scream out, “Look up! Don’t lower your head like that.” But when he spoke to her afterwards, she wept, and his feelings of fear and pity became overlaid with contempt for her and a burning rage toward his father that even now made him hot. According to the local magistrate, his mother had died accidentally, while she was gathering shellfish on the beach. A slip, a hard knock on the head that rendered her unconscious, and she drowned. Murdoch had gone to the shore afterwards, trying to find the pool where she’d died. He couldn’t place it exactly but it didn’t matter, they were all shallow, no more than splashing deep. That made her death even more meaningless.
“Evening, Mr. Murdoch.” His next-door neighbour, O’Brien, was going by. He had a sailor’s duffel bag slung over his shoulder and Murdoch assumed he was off once again to some exotic place. He turned and waved in the direction of his house and Murdoch could see his wife and children were crowded into the window. They all waved back with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Murdoch thought O’Brien had probably once again impregnated Mrs. O’Brien and they could expect to see child number nine.
All the little faces were watching Murdoch now and he tried to give them a cheery smile. He resolved to pick up some more barley sugar sticks from Mrs. Bail’s confectionery as soon as he could.
He let himself into the house and was greeted by the sight of his landlady and landlord.
Arthur was walking slowly down the hall, Beatrice close behind as if ready to catch him. They both turned around to welcome him.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Taking in the sights. I’m getting corns on my rear end from sitting so much. I thought I’d take a stroll. I’m pretending this is King Street. Any minute now I’m going to go in one of the fancy shops and spend a lot of money.”
“Good thing you’ve come, Mr. Murdoch,” said Beatrice. “He always overdoes it and he won’t listen to me. We’ve done quite enough for one night.”
Arthur had dressed himself in trousers and a flannel shirt for the occasion. In the candlelight, with a brighter energy in his face, he looked almost healthy. Murdoch felt a rush of affection for him and would have embraced him if he hadn’t known it would embarrass everybody. He tapped his foot on the floor. They had rolled up the hall rug to make walking a bit easier.
“This is perfect for doing a schottische. Mrs. K., we can practise whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ve forgotten how. Here, let me take your things,” said Mrs. Kitchen, abandoning her husband. “It’s been so miserable all day. I’ve got your dinner warming.”
“Thank you. As usual, I’m famished. Will you join me, Arthur?”
“Why don’t you eat first. I’ll have a rest to satisfy my wife and then we can have tea.”
“You can go right into the parlour,” said Beatrice. “I’ll just see to Father.”
“No, you won’t,” said Arthur and he flexed his arm to make a muscle. “I am strong as the Borneo Wild Man. I will go myself and sit in my chair until called.”
He was speaking jokingly but his frustration was evident. Before he became ill, Arthur Kitchen had been highly active, a keen bicyclist and walker. According to his wife, he was an excellent dancer, specialty the polka, something Murdoch was still aspiring to.
Beatrice went on down to the kitchen and Arthur into the middle room. Murdoch stood for a moment, blowing on his cold hands, but really trying to listen for sounds from upstairs – the typewriting machine, or Enid talking to her son. He was just about to go into the parlour when he heard the stairs creak. Mrs. Jones herself came down the stairs. She was holding her son’s hand and they were both dressed for the outdoors in long rubber waterproof coats. There was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite read. Guarded, not altogether happy to see him. He felt a rush of disappointment. Back to that again, were they?
“Mrs. Jones, Alwyn. Where are you off to on such a dreary night?”
“There is a special meeting at the church. A speaker has come up from Wisconsin. He is just returned from our mission in Nigeria. Apparently, he is most inspirational.” Her voice was full of enthusiasm and Murdoch felt jealous. It made him sharp.
“I sincerely hope he is worth braving the rain.”
She was aware of his tone and her face clouded. “He will be, I am sure. He has worked for Our Lord for many years.”
Murdoch stepped back so she could pass him. He tapped the boy playfully on his cap but the child shrank away as if he had dealt him a blow. That irritated Murdoch as well. The boy was a mardy tit most of the time. At the door, Enid hesitated and turned back to him.
“I really don’t expect us to be late, Mr. Murdoch. Perhaps you and I could have a word together if you’re still up?”
“For that I’ll wait till midnight.”
He’d meant to be gallant but the words came out angry.
“Good evening, then.”
She opened the door, letting in a surge of cold, wet air. Murdoch went into the front room, chastising himself for being such a boor. Mrs. Jones seemed highly devout to him. Not likely to change her religion. He caught himself. If it came to that, what about him? Could he denounce his faith, which is what he supposed he would have to do if … Again he stopped. Look at him, racing ahead of himself like a fanciful girl. Marriage on his mind and they didn’t even use each other’s first names! He went over to the table and sat down at the place set for him. Does any of it really matter? Our Lord didn’t declare himself a Baptist or a Catholic for that matter. He’d started out his life as a Jew. Who was he anyway? Murdoch had asked that question once when he was being taught his catechism. The priest had slapped him with the holy book on the side of the head. “Those sorts of heathen questions sound too close to blasphemy, young man. Go kneel down in that corner and say your Paternosters until I tell you to move.”
Murdoch had stayed there until his knees screamed with pain but he had not begged for release.
He rubbed at his face hard. This seemed to be his day for chewing over old grudges. Father O’Malley was one. A big, tough priest, he had both a brogue and brain as thick as an Irish bog.
Murdoch knew his mother would have liked to have seen him enter the priesthood, but he couldn’t imagine it. However, his sister Susanna had gone into a convent school and took her final vows at the age of eighteen. She lived as a cloistered nun in a convent in Montreal and he hadn’t seen her for a long time. He was allowed to write and received one letter a year. Hers was impersonal, full of devout phrases. The playmate he had loved, argued with, and ultimately protected had vanished behind a veil of platitudes.
“My, you are looking very fierce, Mr. Murdoch.”
Mrs. Kitchen came in carrying a tray.
He grinned at her, glad to be brought out of his thoughts. “You’re right. I was thinking about the Church.”
She gave him a shrewd glance. “The Church or people in the Church?”
He helped unload the dinner plate. Tonight she had cooked his favourite dish, sausages and mashed potato and baked rutabaga.
“Your sweet is an egg custard. Mrs. Jones made it. She insisted. She said your gum was probably still sore. Arthur even tried some. Very tasty too.”
“Can I start with that?”
“Don’t you dare.” She smiled at him. “I find Mrs. Jones is a woman who grows on me. Quiet. I thought she was standoffish at first but she’s just reserved. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Murdoch?”
“I do indeed.”
“I particularly like the fact that she teaches her boy proper manners. She won’t take any nonsense.”
Murdoch nodded noncommittally.
“She’s a good mother, I’d say. Not one of these flighty women who’d stuff their children into whatever purse suits them.”
He looked at her but she wasn’t giving anything away.
She removed the tray to the sideboard. “I’ll leave you in peace then. Ring when you’re done.”
When she’d closed the door, Murdoch slowed down on the gusto with which he’d approached his meal. The potatoes were cold and lumpy, the rutabaga bitter, and the sausage had turned hard as a rock. But he didn’t live here on account of the food and he would never want Mrs. Kitchen to know what a dreadful cook she was.
He must have been asleep for more than an hour. The last he remembered was sitting in the armchair by the fire and putting his head back. He had the hazy impression of Beatrice covering him with a quilt, but he couldn’t let go of the sleep that was pulling him down. What finally woke him was the sound of the front door opening. He sat up, groggy, trying to grab awareness. The candle had burned low in the holder and the fire was down to embers. The clock showed eleven.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and, yawning, he got up and went into the hall. Enid Jones was struggling to negotiate the hall furniture. She was carrying Alwyn, who was fast asleep.
“Here, let me.” He held out his arms for the boy. At first he thought she was going to refuse but her only other choice was to put Alwyn down.
“Thank you.”
Awkwardly, she passed him over, heavy with the relaxation of sleep. His head dropped against Murdoch’s shoulder and he tucked him in under his chin.
“I’ll hold the door,” said Enid, and she whisked up the stairs ahead of him.
At the entrance to her room, he paused for her to light a lamp and pull back the coverlet from the bed. How warm and solid the boy felt in his arms, his breathing deep and regular. Murdoch gently kissed his cheek, still cool from the outdoors.
“Let me take off his waterproof.” She manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of the sleeves while Murdoch held him up. She was so close, he could see the shape of her mouth, a faint down on her upper lip.
“Lay him here, if you please.”
He did so and Alwyn immediately rolled onto his stomach, knee bent.
“I’ll have to take off his boots, but I don’t have the heart to disturb him now. I’ll wait.”
“Surely you didn’t carry him all the way from Jarvis Street?” asked Murdoch in a whisper.
“No, just from the top of the street, but by the time we got here, he felt heavier than a sack of potatoes. I would never have managed the stairs. Thank you so much, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Not at all. It was my pleasure.” And he meant it.
She hesitated. “I was hoping we could talk for a few moments. If you’re not too tired, that is.”
“I’m wide awake. We can go down to the parlour if you like. I don’t hear anything from the Kitchens so I’m assuming they are asleep.”
“I am much later than I expected.”
“The speaker had a lot to say then?”
“Yes. He was quite wonderful and people had many questions for him.”
She took off her waterproof, unpinned her hat, put it on the dresser, and quickly smoothed back her hair.
“Shall we go downstairs?”
Nathaniel could not understand why Jarius was not answering him. He had told him twice that he wanted to get up. He had vomited on his bed, on the pillow, and the sour smell was in his nostrils. He wanted to move his face away but he couldn’t. He tried to talk again but the words he heard coming out were garbled, not what he wanted to say. He could see Jarius frown uncomprehendingly. My arm has gone to sleep, help me roll over on my back. Somebody must have put the rug over him because he could feel the weight. It was far too heavy. He was cold though, the fire must have gone out. Had he tripped when he was going to put on another piece of coal? He wanted to turn his head to see but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. He could hear somebody talking gibberish. What idiot is that? he wondered.
“Father? Father?” Jarius was kneeling beside him, and he slipped an arm under Nathaniel’s shoulders to hoist him into a sitting position. Nathaniel made an anguished effort to tell him what was happening but all that came out were grunts.
“Augusta!” yelled Jarius. “Augusta, come here quick!”