The idea came to him the last thing one night as he stood looking out of the window just before going to bed. Vangie was sitting there reading as usual. Eternally reading. In the same chair, squeezed in between the piano and the hallway arch. Saying nothing for hours on end. Just quietly turning the leaves. Her large, shortsighted eyes perceptibly moving from left to right and from right to left across the page. There. Slowly to the right. Quickly to the left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Jove!
He went to the window.
Every night when they were home together like this he would go to the window and look out, just before he said—“Well, Vangie, what do you think?”
It seemed to finish the evening, always a little sadly, but it finished it. Why it should make him a little melancholy to part the curtains and look out on the deserted street, he didn’t quite know. It wasn’t deserted tonight. There were people trudging through the snow, half-turned against the wind. A street-car had just stopped at the corner. He had heard the wheels scrape a minute ago as it came round the bend.
He watched them out of sight. Perhaps a dozen people. Most of them carrying parcels. Not many days to Christmas now. The Ramsays were coming over. That would help. Bernard always helped. He always seemed to make his visits an occasion. You remembered that he had been there. You looked back on it and recalled things he had said.
But somehow Christmas was never quite Christmas out here. He had been here twelve years now, and yet Canada was still somehow foreign. He liked it. He wouldn’t want to go back. Not the way things were. But there was still something foreign about it.
Couldn’t they do something this Christmas that would make it more like home. Not like home in the sense … not like his old home. Hmmmmm! What a difference! Pillars, parlours, horses, maids, gardeners, grounds—all that. And here—hmmmmm—a basement suite. A basement suite. With the pipes showing.
No, not like that. Not to recapture here anything of England. No. Quite the reverse. Something that would help to wipe out England and his memories. Something that would make this feel like home. Make him satisfied with it, and stop this fool hankering.
What was there to hanker for, anyway? Two fortunes frittered away. Not such a lot, but still, for most people—fortunes! Gone! If he’d kept out of that Edmonton real estate deal. If he hadn’t bought that fool business. Well, it would have gone somehow. No use kidding himself. He couldn’t hang on to money. He was like his father. That great house—a castle—Murray’s folly—yes, they had rightly named it—sold up, sold up when he was a boy. And his uncle, too. Look what was left of that mess. A few thousands each. True. But nothing compared with …
A girl with her back to the wind, loaded with parcels, down there. Snow’s getting deeper. Two inches more today. At least. Yes. Christmas.
Well, what about it? A chicken. Just imagine turkeys fifty-five cents a pound! A chicken. Some muscatels and almonds. A glass of port.
Eh? A glass of port! That would help.
No. A dollar and a half for a prescription. The port itself wouldn’t cost more than that. Three dollars for a bottle of wine! Ridiculous! And he’d only spent two and a half on Vangie. Another book. Always books. “Honestly, Rod, there’s nothing gives me more pleasure.” But what about the library? Can’t you get … “But it’s nice to own a few, Rod. They feel better in your hand. You know. You can cuddle them.”
Hmmmm. Another book. Maurice Hewlett. That’s her latest crush. The Forest Lovers. Two and a half.
And then three dollars for a bottle of wine! But it would make a nice touch after the dinner. “Bernard, old chap, will you have a glass of port?” Yes, it would help. It would make a bit of an occasion. Bernard would open his eyes a little. He would feel flattered, somehow. He was always feeling flattered. Things happened every day that flattered him. And no wonder. There is something about him. A damned clever chap. And yet loyal. No difference now from the way he was out in Souris. And yet, since he came to Winnipeg, look how he’s gone ahead.
Nice to sit down with Bernard over a glass of wine and hear him tell about things at The Herald. Critical, of course; but not cynical. Now they’d made him music critic … well, it was natural he should feel a cut above the other reporters. But never cynical. Outspoken, yes. Courage of his convictions. Fine chap.
Three dollars. Well, of course, he could manage it. But was it right? There were so many things, and after all … a few minute’s enjoyment! Besides, no glasses. You couldn’t serve it …
No.
There’s Logan going home. Jove, it’s coming down.
“Well, Vangie, what do you think?”
“I’m ready, dear. I can finish this chapter in bed.”
“Gee, your eyes look bad.”
“They’re allright. Ready?”
“I guess so.”
* * *
At the bank next morning he approached Wallis. Yes, Wallis would be the chap. At the bank, after all, he had a certain standing, a certain background. They knew he had been manager for the Ottawa in Souris before he bought that fool business and lost his seniority. And though he was only on the temporary staff at the Commerce they treated him somehow … well, they knew … he had let out a little …
“At Flores, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay, and a pinnace like a fluutered bird …”
He would quote it lightly, attitudinizing. But somehow he would get it in that the Murrays and the Grenvilles were all mixed up … at the time of the Armada.
And of course it got around. About his father, too, Murray’s Folly, and all that sort of thing. Oh, they knew. And, of course, they didn’t know about the basement suite. And the pipes. Wallis certainly didn’t. Wallis would be the chap. “I say, Wallis, how does a chap go about getting something to drink for Christmas, eh? I mean wine. What about native wine? Do you have to have a prescription for native wine, old dear?”
Didn’t the chap ever smile? That’s so? Port. Yes, port, that’s what he wanted. You’d have to have one, eh? Hmmmm. Yes, ridiculous. A good graft for the doctors. Yes, thanks Wallis.
A dollar and a half, then, for that. He could stand it. He would stand it. And the glasses? Well, it seemed ridiculous to buy glasses just for one occasion. Couldn’t he laugh off the glasses? Do you suppose Bernard would notice the tumblers? Rose certainly would. And anyway the whole enjoyment would be in doing it right, doing it lightly. “Will you have a glass of port, old chap.” Just like that, rather carelessly, as though it didn’t matter. What do they cost—glasses?
* * *
He had never liked the doctor. What didn’t they have somebody else? Well, Vangie … Of course, that kind of chap always makes a hit with the women.
“Ah, Mr. Murray. And what’s the trouble today?”
No, old man, I’m not a woman. You can take your damned smile off. There it goes. The crowsfeet smoothing out around his eyes. The nose-pincher and the black silk cord going up. How do you ask for a prescription, anyway?
“You do look a bit seedy. Take a chair. Overworking?”
Seedy be damned. Seedy! Prescription. Christmas. Will you have a glass of port, old chap?
“I was wondering. Not just up to the mark, you know. And Christmas coming. Thought I’d like a little port. Can you …? No, no. Just a bottle. A quart, I suppose, eh?”
What’s he talking about? A half case. Ah yes, costs no more for a script for a quantity. Does he think I’m an infant. What, held down to thirty a month now? Thirty a month. Ridiculous. A bottle’s plenty. Just a mouthful after dinner. Christmas comes but once a year, eh? Rarely touch it.
Well, he’s going to have it.
“Yes. R.G. Murray, doctor.”
And if Vangie says anything. But she won’t. She’s a good sport. What? Two dollars? “I thought it was …”
“Two dollars, now we’re cut down to thirty a month. Sorry. I’d like to give it you with my compliments, but you’ve no idea of the demand. Really. Oh yes. Yes, I … Thanks … Oh yes. Well, Merry Christmas.”
Two dollars! Where’s that hat? Oh yes. Merry Christmas. Two dollars. Ridiculous! Robbery!
* * *
Do a great business, these little drugstores. Bright looking shop for away out at this end of town. Rance is pretty keen. How do. Waiting for Mr. Rance thanks. Guess the booze is all behind there. What brands of port are there, anyway?
It wasn’t brands in the old days. It was years. Somebody talking to his father: “What is this, General?” “This is some of the rare old ’72. S’been all the way to India and back.”
General Murray. Moustaches going grey, even then. And his shoulder blades. He could always remember his shoulder blades. Well, a glass of port, dad. Just for old time’s … No, damn it. To blot all that out. Blot it out. What’s the use? It’ll never be like that. Not within miles. Just the bank. Perhaps a manager’s job again one of these days. Away out on the prairies. Farmers talking about crops, crops, crops, crops, crops. Vangie in the choir and the Ladies’ Aid. And the kids. What’ll Vincent do? Some funny little lawyer’s office, perhaps. And Marjorie? And perhaps there’ll be more. You can’t tell. But back there … the rhododendrons, the pond, people touching their hats, the vicar … yes, the red cushions and red hassocks in the old pew … and that girl … what was her name? … no, that was later … that was Lord Axford’s daughter … no, this one was a Miss … Hmmmm … Gwen … Gwen, that was it. Jove! Eh? That day his mother came back from Exeter and caught up to them in the lane and took them into the carriage with her and asked them about the berries over at Lovell’s … mother … how long, now? … twenty three, twenty four … yes, twenty four years … eh?
“Oh yes. Hello, Rance. Port. Have you got any port? Just a mouthful you know, at Christmas time, eh? Oh, I don’t know. What’s good? Eh? Yes. Is that allright? Well, honestly, I don’t know a thing about this stuff out … That’s good, is it? Ymmmm. How much is that? Is it? Well, I don’t know. I thought … Yes, about that. A dollar seventy five, eh? Catawba? It’s allright, is it?”
Two dollars. A dollar seventy five. It’s the freight, I guess. Three seventy five.
“Yes, it looks allright. Allright. Fine. Yes. You know. Little wine, women and song. Fine. Allright. Thanks. Goodnight, old man.”
Well, he has it, against his ribs. Vangie, old dear, here it is. It is an extravagance. Absolutely. I know. But this is different. This is just once. In the old days … No. These are the days. We’ll have a glass of wine. A glass of Catawba. We’ll do things right. We’re here and we’re going to stay here. It’s a great country. Look at young Vin. Look at the opportunities. Look at Bernard. Great country this, Bernard. Bernard, old chap, will you have a glass of Catawba?
* * *
No, the glasses shouldn’t be expensive. Four of them. That’s enough. Probably Vangie won’t take any. She might. But Rose won’t. Still, he ought to have four. You know. You can’t tell. What would they charge you at Ivey’s, do you suppose? Of course, you pay for the name on the wrapping. But it would be fine to get them at Ivey’s. There’s something about buying a thing there. Even the cheapest they have. What would they be? Fifty cents apiece? Two dollars. Six dollars before he’s through.
Dash it, they certainly get their windows up in great style, eh? Look at that floor walker. That’s right, that’s where I’ve seen him. St. Stephens. Must be a warden there. Always thought the fellow …
“Glasses. Wine glasses. Thanks.”
Wine glasses. By Jove, this is going to be a real Christmas. I believe Vangie will like this idea. You know. After all, she’s full of luxurious notions. Reads those books all the time. Bound to. And Bernard. You’ll see. Flattered. Oh yes, I think …
“Wine glasses.”
Nice looking girl. Yes, look at those now. Beautiful stems. That brings back the …
“No. Just wanted four. Thirty a dozen? Thirty dollars a dozen? Hmmmm. Well, I thought … Twenty? That would be … each? Ymmmm. Well, that’s more than I … Nothing at all? Well, I thought about a dollar apiece, you know. Ymmmm. Well, thanks. No, I guess not. Thanks.”
Ivey, The Jeweller. Jove!
Of course, there’s Rutherfords down there on Main Street. Pretty cheap place. But why won’t the tumblers do. Couldn’t he laugh off the tumblers? He’d better. Six or eight dollars for glasses. Ridiculous.
But his feet move. People pass. Corner of Portage and Main. Traffic cop. Cars. Crowds. Past the bank. City hall. Fifty cents apiece. Not a cent more. Two dollars. Five seventy five. That’s the limit. Enough, too, for one drink of wine. “I say, old chap, will you have a glass of Catawba.” Well, he had the damned Catawba, anyway.
Rutherford’s Credit Jewellery. Credit, eh? Not worth it. Fifty cents apiece. Or the tumblers. He goes in. Girl all made up. Scratchy voice. Wine glasses. About what price? About fifty cents, or have they anything cheaper. He has to be cheap. Who’s going to know, anyway? Seven fifty a dozen? Nothing lower than that. Too much money. Why hadn’t he gone to Eatons?
He stands thinking. Girl scratching her head with a pencil. A thoroughly scratchy person. Well, allright. Clink, clink, clink, clink. Four of them. Box. Paper. String. Check. Scratchy looking writing. Thanks. Two fifty. Jove! Six and a quarter. Six dollars for a drink of wine after dinner. Ridiculous!
Out. People. Parcels. Christmas. Oh well. Once. Just once. “Not bad stuff, Bernard, is it?”
* * *
“Can’t we open the old country parcel, daddy?”
“This is only Christmas Eve, my boy.”
“But we’ll have so much to open tomorrow. Can’t we have something to play with today?”
No, no. Ridiculous. What? Now, Vangie. Keep ’em quiet? I’ll keep ’em quiet, I’ll keep ’em quiet, I’ll keep ’em quiet !
Round the table. Into the living room. I’ll keep ’em quiet. Now, now. No cushions. Here, where’s the girl’s ribs? Goodness, mother, the girl has no ribs. Eh? No ribs. The ribless wonder! Walk up, ladies and … What, you’re asking for it? You’re asking for it, eh? You’ve got ribs, have you. Bang! Too bad, Vin. Now! Be a man, Vin. Vin! Hit his head on the stool, dear. There, there, that’s allright. Now, Vin. I’ll tell you, we’ll open Aunt May’s parcel, eh? Look at that. The boy’s not hurt. Bump? What bump? Where is it? That’s your supper, man. Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s that great big potato. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Allright. Where is it, Vangie?
Paper crackling. String snapping. Vin’s turn to have the stamp. Now. Stand back, ladies and gentlemen. Jove! Another doll, Marge. Guess we’ll have to send it back. Too many, now. What? Allright. What’ll you call it? What’s this? An aeroplane, Vin. Look, it goes. You wind up this elastic band. Careful. Come in here. See. Wheeeeew! Eh? Isn’t that great? Careful, now. Don’t grab at it, Vin. Let it come down. Look out, look out, LOOK OUT! Crash ! Jove! I knew he’d do it. Quick! A bowl or something. Dear, dear, dear! It’s the wine. Knocked it off the buffet. Well, thank God it was only the neck. You’re a bad boy, Vin. Half of it, anyway. Jove! Huhhhhh! Well! What’ll we put it in? Diddddd, diddddd, didddd!
* * *
Picken’s Auction Rooms.
Junk. Dust. Musty books. China. Glass.
“A decanter. Have you got a small decanter?”
Dash that boy, anyway. Can’t serve it in a medicine bottle. All the way downtown again for this darned thing. Haven’t got one? What? You sure, now?
Voice from the back. With what stuff? Oh, over here. Sure. There you are, you see. These fellows! How much?
Voice from the back. A dollar, he says. No, you can bargain with these fellows. No, I’ll give you seventy-five cents for it. No.
Voice from the back. Says to give it you. It’s dirt cheap. Seventy-five cents from a dollar. Quarter. Thanks.
Six and a quarter and seventy-five. Seven. Seven dollars for half a bottle of wine. Still, this will be better. Better still. Polish it up. Little tray—decanter— four glasses. Paper caps. Pass the nuts. Rise. Go to buffet. Lift tray. “What do you say to a glass of wine?”
* * *
“Well, it certainly was a lovely pudding, Vangie.”
Nice girl, Rose. That cap suits her. Bernard ought to take his off. There, now. There’s telepathy for you. Much better without it. What, the nuts? Rose, how about you? Stop that, Vin. Stop it. Vangie looking at him. Half smile. Half glance at the buffet. This is the time. Right now. This is what he’s been waiting for. Tray. Decanter. Four glasses. I say, old chap …
Vin’s music lessons. No, doesn’t know Miss Cooper. Who doesn’t? Oh, of course, Bernard. No, he wouldn’t. Leonard Crane. Chopin. Nobody in town … tone … town … tone … Leonard … marvellous technique … technique … town … tone … push the chair back … rise … tray … I say, old chap …
“Sorry, Bernard, thought you had some. Pass the crackers, Vin.”
He doesn’t want nuts. He wants to talk about Leonard Crane … studio the other day … no, never been inside his studio … suppose so … Steinway … Chopin … little thing of Ravel’s … Raveldebussycyrilscottplayedherelastyear … listen … never mind … he’ll stop in a moment … there’s plenty of time … bestcriticsscottmoderncriticsdiscords … ymmmmm … yes, beautiful.
Now. Actually. The moment. The exact pause. If he can keep Vangie from breaking in. Chair back. What’s the matter with his throat? Tray. Everything allright. Faces looking up. Smiles. Vim’s grin. Say it, man. Just a moment more. That’s it, lift the tray. What the devil! Trembling! Say it. Yes, by Jove, it was worth it, it was worth it.
“Bernard, old chap, will you have a glass of Catawba?”