The Latchkey Kid (16 page)

“Who are they?” was the whisper that ran round the room between the claps. Even the major-domo could not remember having seen them before, and came to the conclusion that they must be some young married couple who had recently come into the town.

Mrs. Stych looked cursorily at the Princess, did not know her and turned back to her rye and ginger ale; she barely glanced at the Prince. Boyd thought he knew the turn of shoulder on the man, but could not place him. He, too, went back to his drink.

The Mayor was not going to betray the fact that he did not know someone in the town who was rich enough to spend forty dollars on tickets for the ball, so, as he and Mrs. Murphy moved towards the dance floor to open the ball, he slapped Hank heartily on the back, and bellowed: “Have a good time.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and Hank and Isobel made for her brother-in-law’s table, which they had been invited to join; on the way, they passed the table of Isobel’s employer, a heavy dark-jowled man, who rose and caught her hand as she went by. “Happy to see you here, Isobel,” he said.

She smiled and, with a lighter heart, went on to her table. Some people in Tollemarche were evidently going to be pleased that she was in circulation again.

Joanne Dawson, in a tight, low-necked dress of salmon pink, had already consumed two gins, and greeted them effusively, while Dave Dawson, a quiet, tired-looking man of about thirty-five, pulled out a chair for Isobel.

Isobel introduced Hank to them, and he said politely: “How
d’yer do.” He sat down slowly, eyeing Joanne’s rather daring costume with an unblinking stare. She was dressed as a chorus girl, her full skirt hitched up to show tight-clad legs and hips, the low neckline leaving little to the imagination.

“Too much cleavage,” decided Hank. “No class.”

Dave wore dinner clothes of the period, and Hank knew instinctively that he and Isobel would get on very well together. Hank felt an ill-bred lout beside him, and he wondered how Isobel endured him; he decided he did not like himself very much, and this detracted for a little while from his enjoyment of the masquerade.

“You looked just fine up there on the steps,” Dave said to Hank. “In the half light, you looked just like old Georgie.”

“Thanks,” said Hank, warming to him. He checked that his moustache was still in place. “Hope I don’t lose this,” he added, while Joanne giggled shrilly.

“Say, what are these?” he asked, pointing to some tiny, pink cards with pencils attached to them which were lying on the table.

“Ladies’ programs, stoopid,” said Joanne amiably, leaning on her elbow unsteadily towards him. “Here, give one to Isobel,” and she pushed one over to Hank.

Hank looked it over, mystified. “Wottya do with them?” he demanded.

Isobel took it from him. “See,” she said, “it contains a list of all the dances. In the old days each girl had one, and the gentlemen came up to her and booked dances with her by writing in their names. It was the job of the M.C. or the host and hostess to see that, as far as possible, all the cards were filled.”

“That’s easy,” said Hank, taking the card back from her firmly. He wrote his name across the whole column of dances.

“Say,” protested Dave, “give us a chance.”

Hank looked at him with mock lordliness. “I’m the Prince of Wales, remember.” Then, good-humouredly, he passed the card to Dave, who wrote his name against a foxtrot before supper and a waltz later in the evening.

“What about poor little me?” demanded Joanne, with a pout. She regarded Isobel as a drip, and had no intention of spending the evening tied to their table. She was, however, placated when Dave wrote his name all over her card, and Hank wrote his name in the spaces of the dances which Isobel would dance with Dave.
She greeted with squeaks of joy the approach of two gentlemen dressed in Edwardian suits and white stetson hats, and made each of them sign his name on her card. Isobel, suddenly nervous of possible censure of their recent hero’s widow being at a ball, kicked Dave under the table, and whispered “Prince and Princess”. He was a quick man and, with exaggerated deference, introduced the visitors to Hank and Isobel, murmuring: “Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales.”

“Let’s dance,” said Hank, and dragged her unceremoniously to the edge of the ballroom floor. He stood tapping his foot impatiently in time to the music, while she carefully anchored the train of her dress by a loop hooked over her little finger.

He whirled her out on to the floor at the fast pace demanded by a Viennese Waltz, and was surprised to find her following him effortlessly.

“Say, where did you learn to dance?”

“In England – most English women dance.”

“Ballroom dancing, like this?”

“Yes.”

“I thought they were all swingers.”

Isobel laughed. “Most of us can dance modern dances as well.”

“Can you?”

“Well, I haven’t danced more than a couple of times since I was married, so I’m probably a bit out of date, but I think I could make a fair showing even so.”

He grinned down at her wickedly. “Mebbe we’ll go to a night club sometime and get back into practice. What say?”

“Maybe,” she said cautiously. “I think more people in England dance than people here.”

He considered this while he negotiated a corner, in which the city editor of the
Advent
appeared to have got stuck with his partner. The partner was saying: “Now, Joe, one-and-two, one-and-two, one-and-two. Now, turn!”

“Don’t you have any fundamentalists?” he asked.

“I don’t think there are many. We’re mostly heathens.” She added, a little breathlessly: “When your book is published in England, it won’t cause half the stir it is going to cause here.” Then, after being twirled neatly out of the way of the Mayor, she remembered the reporter’s visit to Hank the previous evening. “What does the
Advent
have to say about you today?”

“Haven’t had time to look yet. I don’t care, anyways.”

He pulled her a little closer, so that she could feel the warmth of him. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

She looked up at him and her face was alight with gaiety. My God, she’s really beautiful, he thought. She just needs bringing out. He held her close, and did a dashing double reverse turn with sheer exuberance, much to the discomfort of at least half a dozen other couples who were already finding such a fast waltz rather exhausting and were thrown into confusion by Hank’s lively variation.

Dave Dawson was honestly glad to see her flushed face so bright when they returned to the table. She had been the subject of several anxious consultations in the family, who felt responsible for her future and yet found her supercilious English manner very trying. Only Dave’s and Peter’s father, himself once an immigrant, had understood how profoundly different was her life in Canada compared to her childhood in North Wales and her business life in London. Her mother-in-law was a Canadian who had failed to adapt in Britain and persuaded her husband to emigrate. Had Peter lived, thought Dave, probably Isobel would have settled in, but he had not been surprised at her decision to go home. Now, as he watched her while he drew out Joanne’s chair, he wondered if the talented boy who had brought her to the dance might not persuade her to stay in Tollemarche.

Dave was not the only person who watched her with interest. From across the empty floor, Olga Stych, her eyes glazed with horror, had just recognized her son and was saying in a furious voice to her husband: “Who’s that bitch he’s with?” She half rose, prepared to sail across the floor to the attack, but Boyd leaned solicitously over her and pressed her back down into her chair with bruising fingers.

“Shut up,” he said in a whisper. “Remember where you are! The other directors are here.”

She recollected her hostess manner and smiled up at him sweetly; then, turning so that her hat hid her from the curious eyes of their guests, she muttered: “The impudence of him!” Her bosom heaved as she glared at Boyd from under the safe shadow of her hat: “You gotta deal with him, Boyd. You really have.”

Isobel danced the whole evening. Occasionally, Hank had to yield her up to other gentlemen; her employer politely claimed a dance, and one or two friends of the Dawson family visited their table, were introduced and, with varying degrees of good manners, asked for dances. Prompted by Isobel, Hank dutifully asked their ladies for dances, and pulled faces at Isobel over their shoulders whenever they passed on the floor.

By the time the buffet supper in an adjoining room was announced, they were both hungry again. They found themselves the centre of a rowdy party, made up of acquaintances of Joanne and Dave, and as soon as Isobel had collected a plateful of food, Hank found himself conniving with Dave to edge Isobel out of the crowd and back to their table by the dance floor, where they ate quietly together.

Isobel, well aware of the conspiracy, said: “Thank you, Hank.”

“Think nothing of it,” Hank replied. “They’re not your type. Dave said to tell you he thought he’d better stay with Joanne.”

“I think I’m being spoiled tonight,” Isobel teased gently.

Hank looked bashful. “I wouldn’t know about that, but I sure know the kind of company you should not be in.”

“Well, bless you!” she said, laughing, as they got up to dance.

The city editor of the
Advent,
who had been the original owner of the paper until he had sold out to a syndicate about six months previously, could remember the days when he had helped to set the type himself, and he felt tremendously important when he was asked to judge the costumes at the ball, aided by Mrs. Murphy and the wife of the president of the Bonnie Scots Men’s Club.

Towards the end of the evening, after a suitable roll of drums from the orchestra, he announced a grand parade of everyone desiring to compete. There was considerable good-natured shoving forward of some competitors by the more shy, and finally almost
everyone made the circuit of the dance floor. Twelve were picked out and asked to parade again, among them a simpering Mrs. Stych, two Mississipi gamblers tossing a die between them, Hank and Isobel, a prospector whose gold-panning equipment was carried on a donkey which seemed to be slightly inebriated, and an assortment of ladies in fairly genuine-looking Edwardian fashions.

The twelve finally stood in line in front of the judges, who conferred earnestly together, Mrs. Murphy being anxious not to accidentally upset one of her husband’s political associates by not giving a prize to the Mississipi gamblers. The back legs of the prospector’s donkey began to sag, and Isobel was certain they would lose to such a gloriously wobbly donkey.

The judge stood up.

“First prize, a beautiful set of luggage donated by Pottle’s Best Brewed Beer, to Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales.”

Cheers and claps broke out as Hank and Isobel advanced towards the judge. Behind them, near the orchestra, Mrs. Frizzell clapped her hand to her mouth in shock as she recognized Hank. The orchestra behind her made her jump as it suddenly burst forth with a few bars of “God Bless the Prince of Wales.” “Bless him!” she sniffed, “H’mm!”

“Who are you?” whispered the judge. “They’d probably like to know.”

Hank looked at Isobel. “O.K.,” she murmured.

“I’m Hank Stych and this is Mrs. Isobel Dawson.”

The judge, with a startled look at them, wrung both their hands and announced who they were, while Mrs. Stych went slowly purple with rage.

Just wait till he gets home, she swore to herself. She’d teach him to run around with the widow of Tollemarche’s hero, and go to balls meant for adults. Just because he had written an indecent book didn’t mean he could invade her world and behave indecently with a woman only widowed six months. She’d teach him!

She turned and glared at that hussy of a Dawson woman.

The hussy did not remember who she was, and stared back with queenly coldness, thinking that Canadians did not know how to lose gracefully.

The announcement of Hank’s name had little effect on anyone present, except his parents and Mr. and Mrs. Frizzell. It was doubt
ful if anyone connected him with his parents. The announcement of Isobel’s name, however, gave rise to a fair amount of interested whispering behind hands and fans.

The second prize went to the prospector and his donkey, amid hurrahs from a lively party in a corner. Unfortunately, the back end of the donkey sat down suddenly and had to be undone from the front end and carried off.

Mrs. Stych accepted a set of records of Barbershop Singers, courtesy of Mollie’s Milk Bar, for the third prize, and was congratulated by the judge, who realized the relationship, on the success of her family in the competition. She was past speech by this time and smiled at the judge glassily, as she withdrew to her table. She hardly heard the congratulations of the Frizzells, who seemed to think she had designed Hank’s and Isobel’s costumes as well as her own. When her voice returned to her, she said loudly that she needed a drink. Boyd presented her with this, with an alacrity which betrayed his apprehension.

He had spotted Hank during the second dance, and had examined at leisure the pretty girl with him. He had realized that she was not Canadian and that she was probably older than Hank. Was she Hank’s widow woman, he wondered? He had watched her tiny, graceful figure as she danced, and had suddenly become nervous for his son’s future. She had “real nice girl” written all over her, he reckoned – the kind of girl one talked only marriage to – and he did not want his son to marry yet.

He looked at Olga, who was downing her drink steadily. He’d got married too young, he reminded himself desperately, and had had almost immediately a mortgage tied round his neck, as if he were a dog with a registration tag on its collar.

He began to consider how to persuade Hank to leave Tollemarche for a while, before Olga nagged him into a state of such perversity that he would marry the girl just to spite his mother.

They were leaving the ballroom after the last waltz and Isobel looked back at Mrs. Stych, who, clutching her prize, was talking to a distinguished, grey-haired woman in a black evening gown.

“I didn’t realize that lady was your mother, until she won a prize – she looked very pretty,” Isobel remarked kindly.

Hank looked at her sardonically. “Yeah,” he said. “And she sure was mad at our getting first prize. Come to think of it, she was mad because I came at all.”

Isobel laughed. “Wasn’t that the idea?”

“Sure.” He looked as pleased as a tiger after a kill. “She’ll have quite a time explaining to the girls how I came to be there – and with you.”

“Really, Hank, you’re dreadful.”

“Well, you won’t come to any harm from it – you’ll be away from here.”

“I suppose so – though I feel very guilty.”

He stopped, while the crowd milled round them towards the exit. “Listen, honey. I could have gone through all the business of introducing you to her, saying I was taking you and what we would wear, and all I would have got for my pains would have been a real earful.” As he spoke, he shouldered back anyone who pressed too close to her, so that she was not ruffled by the passersby. Then he asked abruptly: “Would you like to meet Dad? He’s over there, by the pillar.”

She moved round so that she did not appear to be straining to look, and saw a tall, thin brown man, very fit looking. In repose, his face appeared hard and a little cunning. He caught her eye and stared back at her; a glimmer of a smile showed, as if they were sharing some secret joke. Then it seemed to her that a shadow of anxiety passed across his face, if such a man could possibly be anxious about anything.

“Waddya think of him?”

“He looks very nice,” she said politely.

“Don’t kid me, hon. He’s as tough as they make them – and you know it.”

“One can be tough and nice,” she countered, drawing her handbag closer up her arm.

“O.K. Wanna meet him?”

“Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be the best night, Hank. Some other time.” This would probably be the last time she would go out with Hank, and she felt there was no point in getting involved with his parents.

“From what you tell me, Mr. Stych seems to be taking a lot of trouble on your behalf to see that the money you’ve made is properly invested,” she remarked to Hank, as he tucked a blanket round her in the car.

Hank was silent while he tried the ignition key in its lock. The engine coughed into life immediately.

“Making some money was the first thing I ever did that pleased him,” he finally replied.

“Hank, Hank,” she said reproachfully, “what shall I do with you?”

“Well, I could suggest a few things,” he responded promptly, which silenced her.

In the station wagon parked next to them, a childish howl arose. Some child, put to bed in a sleeping-bag in the back of the car, had awakened, presumably cold and hungry. Isobel winced. Had his parents done that to Hank when he was small – or had they just left him in an empty house? she wondered.

The storm was now in full blast, and they crawled carefully through the shadowy mass of vehicles moving round them.

“If this continues till morning, think I’ll go up to Banff and ski for a coupla days. Give Ma time to cool off.” He laughed. “Don’t want her to burst a blood vessel.”

“Good idea. You have been shut up too long.”

“So long as I’m not shut up in that factory of a school, I’m fine.”

He stopped at a red light and looked at her with laughter in his eyes.

“Can’t imagine you still in school,” said Isobel frankly. “I can’t understand why you didn’t just take off years ago.”

“There’s a lotta pressure from all quarters here to keep you in
school. Education’s just become a fashion. They tell you you can’t even run an elevator unless you got Grade 12.”

“You can go into the police force if you’ve got Grade 10 – and the Mounties will take you with Grade 11,” countered Isobel.

Hank chuckled. “Sure. They don’t want their police to be brainy – how’d they get away with what they do, if the police had brains?” His voice was hard and cynical. Then he changed the subject. “Say, if I come to Europe, can I come and see you?”

“Of course. Both Dorothy and I will love to see you.”

He said practically: “I’ll get your address from you, before you leave.”

The thick snow muffled the sound of the approach of the car to Isobel’s house, and when he stopped he did not immediately get out to open the door for her, but sat looking moodily at his hands on the steering wheel.

She gathered up her fan, posy and handbag. “It’s been a wonderful evening, Hank, and I’m really grateful to you for dragging me out.”

He turned eagerly towards her.

“Yeah, it was fun, wasn’t it? We’ll do something else together soon.” He added baldly: “I’d expected it to be a dead bore – I just wanted to take a rise out of Ma.” His voice was husky. “But you’re fun – you’re lovely.” He put his arm round the back of her seat. “Isobel,” he said urgently, and then stopped.

She was afraid of what was coming. Remember, he’s too young, an inner voice warned her, and she said in her most comradely voice: “Yes, Hank?”

“Stop being so bloody friendly,” he exclaimed angrily, and leaning half over her, he kissed her hard, holding her firmly round the shoulders so that she could not escape it.

For a moment she yielded to him. She had not been kissed by a man since her husband had left for Cyprus, and this strong, healthy youngster aroused feelings in her that no kiss from her husband had ever aroused. Then she began to struggle.

“Hank, please – please, Hank.” She felt desperately unhappy, and pushed at his chest, so that he finally let her go, though he did not take his arm from around her shoulders.

“Isobel!” he pleaded.

“Hank – you mustn’t, you know.” She laughed unsteadily and thought what a fool she had been to enter into this masquerade.
She felt she could not trust herself, and said in a formal tone of voice: “I must go in.”

His face looked heavy, sulky. He silently climbed out of the car, and paused, the snow whirling round him, letting the icy air cool him, before he walked round the car and opened the door for her. He had not had the slightest intention, when the evening commenced, of making love to her, but now he realized that he wanted her passionately.

She climbed out, and silently he picked the rug up from the seat on which she had been sitting. With a quick flick, he swung it over her head and shoulders.

His voice was trembling, as he said: “I’m sorry, honey,” and he looked as forlorn as a flag on a windless day, as he held the rug round her with one great fist.

She smiled gently at him, her eyes soft below their golden lashes. “It’s all right, Hank. It was mostly my fault.” The snow was coming through her shoes, and she began to shiver. “Would you like to come in for a drink? I think Dorothy will still be up.”

“No, thanks. I’d better get home.” He still held the rug close under her chin. “You’ll still be here when I get back from Banff?” he asked.

“Yes – I’m leaving next Sunday. Dorothy will stay a fewdays longer to tie up a few ends for me- but I have to start my London job.”

He hardly heard what she said. He stood looking at her as if mesmerized, watching the snowflakes land on her hair and cheeks, to melt into gleaming droplets. She was so different from anyone he had ever met before, and, though he had often talked to her before through the years he had known her, he wanted now to talk to her for ever.

“Like me to carry you up to the house?” he asked mischievously. “Your feet’ll sure be wet otherwise.”

“Oh, Hank! Don’t be an ass – I won’t melt. And thank you very, very much for a lovely evening – all of it,” she added. She was quite steady now.

“Aw, come on – I’ll behave – I promise.” And before she could reply he had picked her up like a baby and was carrying her quite carefully, despite her laughing protests, up to the front door. Before he put her down, he put his cheek against hers for a moment and then very gently kissed her again. Then he put her down quickly.

“See you,” he said. “Thanks a lot for coming. ‘Bye.” And he
tore down the steps and got his Triumph on the move again, so fast that she had hardly got her key into the lock before the protesting machine was shrieking round the corner on two wheels.

“I’m mad,” he told himself, as he closed the garage door, and opened the trunk in order to put in his typewriter and manuscript to work on in Banff. “I’m plumb crazy.” He stopped, with the lid half closed. “I’m in love.” He snapped it shut. “I’ve always loved her – ever since I first saw her.”

He put up the collar of his evening jacket and dashed the two blocks to his home, as if trying to get away from more than the storm.

He felt he could not face either parent that night, so he pried open the window of his ground-floor bedroom and hauled himself quietly in through it. Carefully he slid shut both inner and storm windows. He could hear angry voices, muffled by distance, and was thankful he had not tried to unlock the front door and come in that way.

He took off his wet jacket and shook it.

The room was very untidy. He had not made his bed before going out in the morning, and it was still in the same muddle in which he had left it. His pyjamas lay on the floor, with yesterday’s T-shirt and socks, and a half-read novel, face down, lay on top of them. He was glad he was going to Banff – at least in the motel his bed would be made for him.

From the back of his clothes closet he pulled out a zipper bag, and quickly crammed into it some sweaters and underwear, the novel, and his transistor radio – he’d need the latter on the road, for weather reports. His ski boots were with his skis in the basement, and he decided to get them on his way out in the morning.

Slowly and thoughtfully, he stripped off his clothes and then lay down on the unmade bed. He would sleep about four hours and start for Banff about six in the morning, before the traffic on the highways got heavy. He told himself he was nuts to set out on a journey of hundreds of miles in the middle of a storm, but he had a great urge to pit himself against the elements, get away from cloying, sickening Tollemarche, and think.

He closed his eyes firmly – better sleep. He hauled a blanket over his nakedness, though the room was warm, but sleep did not come. All he could think of was a tiny queen in a coronet decorated with snowflakes.

“Jeeze!” he moaned miserably.