The Stubborn Season. Lauren B. Davis
his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys, watching her fold her purchases and put them in the dresser. “For someone so very fond of pointing out how difficult times are, you certainly seem to be selective about where you economize. I don’t mean to scold, my dear, not to scold at all, but merely to draw attention to how important it is not to live above ourselves.”
“Above ourselves? What are you talking about? I’m the one who’s scrimped and saved and done without while you waste your money on booze. You’ve got your nerve, mister.”
He had looked blankly at her and turned heel.
Now, in the living room, Margaret said, “I went into Mrs. Munsen’s today.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yes, I had quite a chat with her.”
“That’s good, my dear. You should get out more often.”
“I wanted to buy some cloth, to make dresses for Irene and me.” She began to scratch the back of her hands without noticing she was doing it.
Douglas continued listening to the music on the radio.
“You can imagine my surprise when she wouldn’t take our money.” Margaret had the satisfaction of seeing his head snap around to look at her. She could hear the bones in his neck crack. He picked up his tea cup and took a sip.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
“If you have something to say, Margaret, then say it.”
Remembering the scene in the yard goods store, she was embarrassed all over again. “Yeah, a fine cloth. Blue suits you fine,” Mrs. Munsen had said, her arms waggling as she folded the cloth. “But you put your money away, missus. We owe your husband a penny or two. Not all the world’s as kind as him.”
“You’ve given them credit, haven’t you?” Margaret said, and heard his startled little gasp. “I had to stand there and hear about it, hear how my husband had put me in the position of having to barter, for the love of God!”
“Not me for sure, but Karl, my middle son, he’s not doing so good now that Inglis let off everybody just like that,” the woman had said, as though Margaret cared about her doltish son. “We help out where we can, but who’s got extra these days? You feed the family and it’s all gone, eh? You know how it is. Karl with the twins to feed, he’s got his hands full, and your husband, a good man him, he says you pay when you can. So you don’t pay here either, missus. We’ll just make a note of what you take and tell the mister to set it down against what we owe. Like the old country, eh? When the newfangled ways all go to hell, the old ways are best again.”
“There’s nothing wrong with extending a little credit to a good customer, Margaret. It’s good for business, in fact. Builds goodwill.”
“I know what you’ve been doing, Douglas. I’ve seen the books.”
Douglas stood up, overturning his tea cup.
“Douglas! Be careful!” Margaret knelt and mopped at the tea with her apron.
“Do not tell me, Margaret, do not tell me you’ve been going through my papers!”
It had been so easy to jimmy the flimsy lock on his desk with a hairpin and a nail file.
“Oh yes, I’ve been in your precious sanctum sanctorum. You’ve extended credit to almost as many people as have paid. How could you be so stupid? When do you think anyone’s going to be able to pay? Next month? Next year? And what are we supposed to live on in the meantime?”
“You had no right!”
“I have every right,” she said, standing. “You won’t tell me things. All you say is, ‘Buy cheaper meat, Margaret. Cook with beans instead, Margaret. Do without new shoes, do without new stockings, don’t buy a magazine, can’t afford this, can’t afford that!’ ” She sing-songed the words, her hands on her hips. She felt more alive than she had in some time, the fear for their future mixed with the red-hot joy of having him dead to rights, the perverse pleasure of having her fears confirmed. “We’ll lose everything!”
“Things are not that dire.”
“Collect that money, Douglas.”
They stood facing one another, their laboured breathing the only sound.
“I’ll run my business as I see fit,” said Douglas. “Stay out of it.”
And before she could say another word, he strode to the hallway, picked up his hat and walked out, not even bothering to close the door. Margaret wanted to run after him, to scream at him in the street, but the neighbours would see and she couldn’t bear that. She stood in the doorway, all the passion of a moment before draining out of her feet onto the chilly floor. Then she slammed the door. She kicked over the chair, ran up to her bedroom, slammed that door and threw herself sobbing across the bed. Soon they would be out on the street, she knew they would be. They would starve.
Down the hall Irene turned her face to the wall and pulled the pillow over her head.
It was mid-October now, and they were blessed with a fine Indian summer. As the day ended, Douglas decided to take a long walk before going home. He was in a slightly bleary fog of whisky and goodwill toward men. He was thankful he was no longer burdened by an automobile. A brisk walk was good for the constitution. He stepped out into the lengthening shadows and took deep breaths of the muggy air. His flask rested against his heart. Although it was a balmy night, he whistled “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” and doffed his hat at ladies.
He decided to walk all the way along Queen Street, maybe as far as University, even up to Queen’s Park and then back along College to home. He strolled along, pleased with himself and the world. As he rounded the corner of Bay and Queen Street he came upon a group of perhaps twenty-five men and five or six women. They were a ragtag group; even in his jolly mood he could tell that. They were lean and serious. The man in front of him wore pants so thin in the backside they were barely decent.
Douglas did not like crowds, especially not crowds of dingy men and especially not on an evening when he felt so full of fellow-feeling. He tried to pass, but he was slightly unsteady on his feet, and someone bumped into him. A man reached out a steadying hand, and Douglas saw that the knuckles were covered in scabs.
“Whoa there, pal,” the man said, his voice friendlier than his hard-luck face. “Steady,” he said and smiled.
“Fine,” said Douglas. “I’m fine.”
“Course you are. Can’t blame a man for taking a snort to make hisself feel better in times like this.” The man looked around and then leaned into Douglas, speaking softly. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a taste thereabouts yer person, do you? For a pal?”
“Certainly not,” said Douglas. He brushed imaginary crumbs from his lapels.
“Ah well, too bad, eh?” said the man.
Douglas was gently jostled into the centre of the crowd. Finding himself surrounded, he thought he might as well listen. No doubt some Methodist preacher calling on the Lord to bring on Armageddon. It might be amusing.
A young man stood on a crate, head and shoulders above the crowd. He was pale and wiry, and didn’t look like he’d be much good at anything that didn’t involve a desk and a stack of paper.
Douglas couldn’t follow the man’s words. He said something about the capitalists and how they didn’t care about the working man, who was starving for lack of food and atrophying for lack of work. He waved his hands about a great deal.
“Now Tim Buck, he’s a man with a difference, let me tell you. He’ll not sell you out the way the Tories have, the way the so-called Liberals have. He’s a man who cares, is Tim Buck. You support him and he’ll support you!”
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