Clara Callan (29 page)

Went to Loew’s theatre and saw
Dancing Lady
with Joan Crawford and Clark Gable.

Saw
Beloved Enemy
with Brian Aherne and Merle Oberon. On the train home I was the only passenger in the coach for the last thirty miles. The conductor was dozing in his seat and the wet snowflakes clung to the windows. I wanted the train ride to last for hours.

Saw
When You’re in Love
.

Marion has not been well all winter and today I learned from Mrs. Bryden that she has gone to stay with an aunt to convalesce. The aunt is a retired nurse and lives in St. Thomas. Marion came by yesterday with her mother and father to say goodbye but, of course, I was in Toronto. Haven’t heard from Nora in weeks. I should write, but I have nothing to say to her. And apparently she has nothing to say to me.

Saw
Camille
at the Loew’s theatre.

Went again to Loew’s. It is handy and I can’t be bothered looking for other theatres in which to pass an hour or two. Something today called
Great Guy
with James Cagney and Mae Clark.

The Last of Mrs. Cheyney
with Joan Crawford and Robert Montgomery.

Felt too sluggish and out of sorts to go down to Toronto.

I met a man today. At the end of the picture (a musical absurdity with those two warblers, MacDonald and Eddy), he spoke to me. I had come out onto Yonge Street, my eyes narrowing in the afternoon sunlight, and then this voice beside me.

“Excuse me, Miss!” I turned. A man in his early forties perhaps. Not even as tall as I am, but pleasant enough looking. Neatly dressed in suit and topcoat. Fair with grey eyes and a thin sand-coloured moustache. He touched the brim of his homburg. The word
decorous
came to mind. I thought perhaps I had dropped a glove. Around us others were stepping into the street with the dazed look of afternoon movie watchers. Then the man said, “You weren’t here last Saturday. I was looking for you.”

I thought at first glance he had mistaken me for someone else, but
how could that be? We were face to face there on the street. He was smiling. “My name is Frank Quinlan. I have seen you at the movies for the past several weeks and then you missed last Saturday. I was looking for you. I hope you weren’t ill.”

He was looking at me. What did he mean by that? I told him that I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Look,” he said. “Please don’t be alarmed. I realize that my speaking to you on the street like this is unusual. I mean no harm, believe me.”

I must have been frowning, but he continued to smile. “You come early,” he said. “You always sit in the same seat. I’m four rows behind you.” Then he asked me to join him for a cup of tea at Child’s up the street.

“But I don’t even know you,” I said. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“Well,” he said and looked away for the briefest moment before smiling at me again. “I just thought it might be enjoyable for the two of us to have a cup of tea together. Surely, there can be no harm in it.”

I found his looking away like that affecting. And the manner in which he said “well,” as though he expected improbable encounters like this to be forever resisted. That won me over in a way. Certainly he didn’t look in the least sinister, and so I surprised myself by going along with him. I remember thinking as we walked up Yonge Street that no harm could come to me in a restaurant. In Child’s I told him that I could not stay long. “I have to be at the railway station by a quarter past five,” I said.

He asked me then if I was going on a trip.

“Why no,” I said. “I don’t live in the city.”

“I see,” he said. “And you come in every Saturday to go to the movies.”

Then I said, “I also visit my aunt who is ill.” The lie came so easily to my lips that I scarcely missed a heartbeat in uttering it. But I said that because I did not want to appear pathetic in his eyes; I did not want to be seen as a woman who comes all the way into the city
to go to the moving pictures by herself. I also lied about my name. I told him it was Carrie Hughes and that too came as easily and quickly as the name I gave that doctor on Sherbourne Street when I was pregnant.

“Well, Carrie Hughes,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

How odd it feels to have someone call you by a name you have just invented! Yet I felt strangely alive at that moment. It was as if I had taken on another life, even though I felt mildly ashamed to be lying to this man who seemed decent enough.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked. And when I said I didn’t care, he filled a small brown pipe with tobacco and lighted it; the smell of the pipe smoke drifted across the table as we drank our tea. And all the while I was thinking what on earth am I doing here with this man? Yet it was interesting that he had chosen me. We talked about the movie and agreed that it had all been very silly. I said I preferred the melodramas and he said he did too. He told me it was wonderful to have someone to talk to after seeing a picture.

“I get tired,” he said, “of walking out by myself every Saturday afternoon and no one to share a thought with.”

I don’t think I believed him then, and I’m not sure I believe him now. He seems altogether too presentable, this small, neat, handsome man. He must be married. He wanted to know where I lived, but I was circumspect, inventing a little life for myself even as I spoke. I found I enjoyed doing this. I told him I was from Uxbridge and my aunt lived on Huron Street; I was thinking of the boarding house I lived in years ago when I went to Normal School.

“Why don’t you have something to eat before your trip back?” he asked. “A piece of pie, Carrie?” But I told him it was late. I was petrified at the thought of missing my train. Frank Quinlan (if that is his name) looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll take you down to the station in a taxi,” he said. “You won’t be late. I promise.”

And so he did. We talked a little more about movies we had enjoyed, and afterwards we went down Yonge Street in a taxi and I
thought to myself, I am sitting in a taxi with a man I didn’t even know this morning.

“Will you be coming into the city next Saturday, Carrie?” he asked, and I felt so utterly dishonest having him call me by that name.

“I might be,” I said and hated the suggestion of coyness in that answer, for I knew very well that I was going to.

“I wish you would,” he said. “Perhaps we could sit together.”

I could see the taxi driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. What was he thinking I wondered? Probably that I was the kind of woman men pick up in movie houses! But, why should I have cared what a taxi driver thought? Why did that matter? I told Frank Quinlan that in all likelihood I would be at the movies next Saturday. We were then in front of Union Station, and I had climbed out of the car and was looking in at him. I thought of my shabby coat. I have been intending to buy a new coat now for weeks, and yet there I was in that old thing. How down at the heels I must have appeared!

“I would really like to see you next Saturday, Carrie,” he said. “Please come. I’ll be looking for you.” His face was upturned to mine under the hat. But I was so afraid of being late for my train that I didn’t even say goodbye. Carrie Hughes indeed!

A visit from the school inspector today, a new man, a Mr. Gibson. Milton was in a state. The inspector was not pleased with Milton’s preparation for the senior classes. At the end of the day, Milton sat in his office, looking discomfited. I made him a cup of tea to settle his nerves. As for my classes, Gibson seemed pleased. A tall, humourless man, he stood at the back of the room for half an hour making notes. But I have endured many such visits, and I gave him a good performance. If you are prepared, there is nothing to fear from the Gibsons of this world. That is Milton’s problem as a teacher; he just makes things up as he goes along. Father used to remark on it. My pupils
sensed the importance of the visitor and were very helpful, thrusting their hands into the air at every question. I was proud of them.

Finally, a letter from Nora. All about her new boyfriend and their weekend together. How casually she enters into these arrangements! I wonder if I should mention Mr. Quinlan. “Nora, I met this man last Saturday in a movie theatre on Yonge Street and he would like to see me again.” What would she think?

Dear Clara,

I guess I’m the one who owes the letter and it’s been months, hasn’t it? Gee, I’m sorry, I should have kept in touch before this, but the days just fly past, and half the time I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Now it’s very late on a Sunday night, but I wanted at least to get this off to you, so you’ll know I’m still in the land of the living. Les just dropped me off. We spent the weekend in Atlantic City. It’s kind of a strange place to go this time of year. Most things were closed and the weather was absolutely lousy, cold and damp and foggy. But so what? We had fun and we mostly had the place to ourselves. We stayed in this old hotel and there were only three or four other guests. We walked along the boardwalk in the mist and fog and then came back to this old hotel for drinks. I guess you could say it was romantic. Les’s wife and kids were visiting relatives in Philadelphia, so that’s why he had the weekend to spend with me. He
still hasn’t moved out of the house, but he’s thinking of it. I know, I know. I remember saying some time ago that I wasn’t seriously interested in him, but now I’m not so sure. Les kind of grows on you. He’s very easy to get along with and he’s so good-looking. You should see the green stares I get from other women when we’re out together (“dancing cheek to cheek”). Anyway, we’ll see. I don’t think his wife
wants to give him a divorce. She is going to battle him all the way and Les is not much of a fighter. He’s maybe just a little too easygoing and Miriam (wife) more or less rules the roost. So things are a bit up in the air at the moment. Some days I think I’d marry the guy if he asked me. Other days, well. . .

How are things with you? Do you have any plans for the summer? I mention this because Evy and I were talking the other day about the Dionne quintuplets. There’s a big splash on them in
Life
magazine and we were looking at the pictures. And I said how much I would like to see the little girls. They are on display at their home and thousands of people visit the place every year. Then Evy said why not, and maybe Clara could join us. Evy said she could borrow her mother’s car, “a sturdy old Packard,” and we could drive up to Whitfield and then on to the quints’ place. She wanted to know how far Callander is from Whitfield, but I wasn’t sure. You know what my geography is like!!! But it doesn’t really matter. It can’t be all that far and we could take a week and just be on our own (no men included, right?). So give this idea some thought, will you? Have to go to bed now or I’ll drop. Let me know how things are going.

Love, Nora

I saw Frank again today. Decided as I was walking up Yonge Street at a quarter past one. Would I see
Waikiki Wedding
at the Imperial or
Lost Horizon
at the Loew’s? Five minutes after I arrived in the theatre, he sat down beside me.

“Well, Carrie, I’m glad you came.”

Again, it was strange to hear my imaginary name, and I felt so guilty lying to him like that. I was glad when the lights went down. When the feature began, I had trouble concentrating. Some people were fleeing a political crisis in China. They got into an airplane, but it crashed in the mountains of Tibet. From time to time, I glanced at
Frank’s profile and at the businessman’s hat in his lap. An ordinary, pleasant-looking man watching a movie. He seemed absorbed, but once he caught me glancing at him and he smiled. I had agreed to meet a man I don’t even know. And where do such things lead if not to a hotel room on some rainy afternoon? How did the Englishwoman in Rome meet her lover? I wondered. At some point he must have introduced himself. “Would you join me for a cup of coffee, Signorina?” Or, “May I show you the way to the Protestant cemetery? It is not far.” There has to be a beginning, and when others invite us into their lives, we must, of course, choose. And I
had now chosen.

We went again to Child’s and talked about the film. I can scarcely remember what I said. Frank told me he goes to the movies to get away from things. What things, I wonder? Family? Business? There is trouble in his life somewhere; I can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. And he seems such a kind and gentle man. At one point he said, “You come a long way to see a picture, Carrie. Is there no movie house in Uxbridge?”

“No,” I said.

“But of course you visit your aunt too. How is she, by the way?”

I had forgotten the invented aunt and I think he sensed I was lying.

“She’s recovering,” I said.

“Good.”

Afterwards we again got into a taxi and drove down to Union Station. In the car, he asked me what I liked to do besides watch movies. I told him I liked poetry and music and he said, “I thought you might.” The smell of his pipe filled the taxi. “What about next Saturday?” he asked. “Will you be in town? Please say you will.” He had taken my hand and his fingers were gently pressing mine and I said yes, I would. Then on the street, I waved goodbye to him.

Dear Nora,

I too am sorry not to have written before this, but I seem to have been busy with this and that. We are having a gentle, mild spring up here and everything seems to be coming on early. The trees are already in their fresh new green and it makes me so happy just looking at them. Mr. Bryden has already spaded his garden and hopes to put things in the ground as early as next week. He asked me if I was going to put in a garden this year and I said I didn’t think so. He looked disapproving. “When your father was alive” and so on. But I just haven’t the heart to stand in the garden on a hot summer day pulling the weeds that invariably overtake things. Gardening is just not in my blood, I suppose.