The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (15 page)

Shanks'-maring it at five to five, pelting down an old street in the dock area past faded stores and warehouses stenciled with the names of unknown and unimportant enterprises: Pimlico Novelties; H. Lavalee Productions; Weiss & Schnee Imports; Wasserman Furs Ltd. And now, at one minute to five, he shanks'-mared it into a building, rode up in an ancient latticed elevator, came out on the third floor and hurried down a corridor which smelled overpoweringly of Jeyes Fluid, towards a frosted glass doorway stenciled:

TINY ONES INC. Ring & Enter.

He rang and entered. Behind the counter which protected the office staff from the public, the desks were empty, the typewriters hooded, the file cabinets locked. He was late.

Still, someone must be here, he reasoned. The place was

not shut. He rapped his knuckles on the counter, noticing a cubicle at the far end of the room in which a light still burned. He knocked again.

A small man appeared at the cubicle's doorway. "Closed," he said. "Sorry."

"But . . ." Coffey began. But what? What the hell could he say?

The small man gave him a warning look, then shut the cubicle door. There was a name stenciled on the shut door, and, reading it, Coffey felt his heart pull and jump. For wasn't this the very man he was supposed to see? A. K. BROTT, PRES. Again, he knocked his knuckles on the counter. The door reopened. The small man came out, angry now.

"Mr. Brott?"

"I said we're closed."

"I — ah — I work at the depot, sir," Coffey said. "Could I see you a moment?"

"What about?"

"About —ah—"

"Come in, come in. I can't hear you," the small man said, going back into his cubicle.

Coffey lifted the counterleaf and advanced among the empty desks. Inside the cubicle were several photographs in black frames, ex-voto scenes from the life of A. K. BROTT. Brott with wife; Brott with children; Brott with first TINY ONES van; Brott with first automatic washer; Brott with office staff; Brott with Chamber of Commerce outing. Coffey had plenty of time to study them as A. K. Brott, his shoulders hunched, whipped through the pages of a ledger. Brott with books.

At last, he raised his small gray head. Wary eyes studied Coffey. "Well now. What's your trouble?"

"I've just started work for you as a driver, sir. I was wondering if I might have an advance on wages?''

Driver? Unbelievingly, A. K. Brott's small eyes traveled from the big fellow's florid mustache to his woolly-lined coat, his tweedy legs and suede boots. What sort of people was Mountain hiring these days? Looks like a burleycue comedian. And that red face: a rummy? "No," said A. K. Brott.

"But it's only ten dollars, sir."

A. K. Brott's finger found a column, ran it down to a total. "Only ten dollars?" he said. "Look at this. Off 30 per cent from last year. And that's not because the birth rate is down. It's not down. It's up."

He turned the pages, found another total, contorted his small gray features as though he had been seized with a sudden attack of indigestion. "Look at this one," he said. "Worse. And you want ten dollars. You know what's going to happen here in TINY ONES?"

«XT • »

No, sir.

"You're all going to be out of a job, that's what. Fifteen years I took to build up this business, and look what's happened. Everywhere the same. Down 20, 30, even 50 per cent on some routes. All right; you're driving a route. Now, what is it? What's wrong?"

"What — ah — what do you mean?" Coffey asked.

"Disposable diapers, that's what I mean. Paper, that's what. I mean it's a goddamn crime. There should be a law. There is a law, forest conservation, why don't they enforce it? And it gives the kids a rash, let me tell you, no matter what they say, paper skins a baby's ass raw. Ask any doctor, if you don't believe me. But it's new, and that's what people want, something new. Something easy. Now, you meet the customers on your route. Admit it. They're asking you for paper diapers, aren't they?"

"No, sir."

"You're a liar."

Coffey felt as though his face had been slapped. "I'm not a liar/' he said.

"No? Well, come on then, wise guy. What do they want?"

What indeed? Coffey wondered. But if he was to get his advance, he must talk to this loony. Say something. What was it Eileen Kerrigan's mother had asked him for this morning?

"Well, as a matter of fact," Coffey said. "What most mothers want is to rent other things besides diapers."

"What things?"

"Cribs and — and bassinets and — and prams and so on."

"Sit down/' Mr. Brott said. "What's your name?"

"Coffey, sir."

"Well, go on. Let's hear it. If it's good, you won't be sorry, I promise you that."

Coffey stared at Mr. Brott, then exhaled in astonishment, his breath feathering up the ends of his large mustache. Someone had asked his opinion. Memories of former years, of the District Manager of Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear's unpleasant smile, of Old Cleery in Kylemore Distilleries shaking his Neanderthal skull — ah, so many head men all unwilling to hear his ideas. Yet now, when he'd least expected it, here was a head man waiting. What could he say? He began to speak, making it up as he went. "Well, sir," he said. "A lot of families are small nowadays. I mean, they have one or two children, and buying prams and bassinets and cribs is an expensive proposition for them. I remember in my own case, we only have one girl, and so we had to give all that stuff away when she was finished with it. Even the pram, which was in tiptop condition. I just think if we could have rented those things, we'd have saved money/'

"Mnn . . . hmm . . ." Mr. Brott said. "Go on."

"So — ah — If you rented those things, sir? Rent a crib, for instance —"

"Rent-a-Cribl" Mr. Brott said. "You think of that name yourself?"

"Ah — yes, sir." What name was he talking about?

"Rent-a-Crib. . . ." Mr. Brott closed his eyes and sat for a long moment, as though trying to solve some problem in mental arithmetic. "I don't say it's without merit," he said. "What's your name again?"

"Coffey, sir."

"And you're a driver? You don't look like a driver."

"I'm a New Canadian, sir. This is just a temporary job. I have a night job as well. But the trouble is, sir, I've just started in both jobs, and haven't received any salary as yet. So that's why I came to see you about the advance, sir."

"Advance?"

"Ten dollars, sir. If possible."

Mr. Brott shook his head.

"I mean, I could sign a receipt. I've earned more than ten dollars already. Couldn't you manage . . . ?"

Still headshaking, Brott took out his wallet and handed CoflFey a ten-dollar bill. "Advance nothing," he said. "You take it as a bonus. So you work at two jobs, eh? You know that reminds me of me when I was a young fellow. Ambitious, I was. How do you like Canada, Coffey?"

"I like it, sir. Very go-ahead country."

"And you'll do well here, CoflFey, you know that? You're a go-ahead fellow yourself. New Canadian, are you? Bet you never went to college, eh?"

"Yes, sir, I did, sir."

"You did? Yet you're working as a delivery man. That's the spirit. Kids nowadays, they go to college, they think

the world owes them a living. But it doesn't. I tell my Sammy that. I say to him, Sammy, you can have all the degrees in the world, they're no substitute for one good idea. What do you think, Coffey? Am I right?"

Coffey thought that A. K. Brott was not such a bad old geezer, after all.

"Yes, you're the kind we need over here," Mr. Brott said. "Of course, this particular idea might not work. Might fail. Probably would fail. Lots of overhead on maintenance, that's one problem. Disinfecting the equipment; repainting; repairs; eh?"

"Yes, sir," Coffey said. "I suppose there would."

"And then the pads, baby blankets, sheets, all that stuff? You figure on renting that too?"

"Well, why not, sir? You have a laundry. It would be just like diapers, wouldn't it?"

"That's right," Mr. Brott said. "Cleaning tie-in. Yes, you're all right, Coffey, you know that? If you've got any more ideas, why you just come right up here and we'll talk it over. Okay? Nice meeting you."

Pleased, confused, hungry for some supper, late because it was five-thirty now and he must rush, Coffey stood up, smiled at Mr. Brott and wagged him the old salute. "Good-by, sir," he said. "And thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it," Mr. Brott said. "And you just keep that ten bucks, that's a bonus. Now, turn off the lights in the main office and shut the door when you go out."

He switched off the lights, he shut the door. He hurried downstairs, hungry but content. Nice old geezer. It renewed your faith in Canada, meeting a man like that, a man who thought you were a go-ahead fellow. And he was a go-ahead fellow, dammit; he was no glorified secretary, no joeboy. He had been right to emigrate, no matter what. Tomorrow, he would find some place for Paulie and

him to live, and at the end of the week he would ask Mac-Gregor for a raise. In a week or two he would be promoted. There was always a bright side: you just had to look for it, that was all. It was still uphill, but, with a little victory now and then, you could keep on running. As long as you had hopes. And he still had hopes.

Eight "Miss Pauline Coffey?" said the girl at the desk. "Yes, if you'll just take a seat over there, sir. Won't be a moment."

"Thank you,'* Coffey said. He sat in the strange lobby and watched the girl — a nice little piece in a pony-tail hairdo and a pink angora sweater — go upstairs in search of his daughter. He read a sign over the staircase: RESIDENTS ONLY: No GENTLEMEN ALLOWED. Which meant that Grosvenor was barred too. He was glad of that.

Still, it was strange to think that his wife and daughter were living upstairs in this place and that he, their legal husband and father, could not go up. Not that Veronica would be up there at the moment. Oh no. Because, you see, Veronica never came back from work until half past five. No, it was not unfair, or sneaky. Hadn't Veronica taken Paulie away from him in just that way? It was only tit for tat.

He had promised Paulie. He had kept his promise. Friday it was; here he was, a taxi at the door, a little flat rented, everything as planned. And now, as he watched the staircase, he saw the girl in the fuzzy pink sweater start down again, carrying two untidy bundles of possessions. Behind the pretty girl, his own Paulie, wearing

sloppy white socks and saddle shoes, her winter overcoat a bit shrunken at the wrists and hems. He made a note to buy her a new coat. He went to her and kissed her pale cheek. "Hello, Apple."

"Be careful, Daddy, you'll make me spill this stuff."

"Til take it," he said. "I have a taxi outside."

"Wait, Daddy." She put her things down in the hall. "We can't go yet."

"Oh?"

"Mummy came home. She found out, I don't know how. She's upstairs pressing my good dress. She'll be down with it in a minute."

"Oh?" he said.

"I'll put this stuff in the taxi, Daddy. You stay here. I think she wants to talk to you."

"All right, Apple." She was not going to take his Apple from him now: not after he had worked like a dog all week to get things ready. Just let her try.

He walked towards the stairs, ready to repel the enemy, and as he did the enemy appeared on the landing above, carrying Paulie's party dress over her arm. He watched her come down, seeing not his wife but a stranger: a stranger who was more exciting to him than the woman who had been his wife. She had changed her hair style, and her dark hair, now cut short, fitted her face like a helmet. She wore more make-up and a dress he had never seen. He tried to imagine the familiar body beneath that dress; the full breasts with their large bruised nipples, the full thighs which swelled out of her slender waist, the familiar small mole beneath her ribcage. But it did not work: how could he imagine the body of this total stranger who now came towards him, smelling of an unfamiliar perfume? Was this what falling in love with Grosvenor had done to her — changed her from wife to a beauty he would have envied any man's possessing? With

shame, he realized that were she not his wife, he would preen and think of flirting with her; might even fall in love himself.

But when she spoke, she was Vera; no change. "Hello, Ginger," she said. "Could we go into the lounge a moment? I want to speak to you."

Yes. She was Vera and yet she was not. Again a stranger, as he followed her into the small lounge and shut the door so that they might be alone. But Vera once more as she handed him Paulie's dress, saying: "I've just pressed this. Mind you don't crush it."

He took the dress. He noticed that she was carrying her overcoat. She swung the overcoat out as a bullfighter tests a cape, whirling it on over her shoulders in a most un-Vera-ish manner. She pulled a new black beret out of the pocket and began fitting it on in front of the mirror over the fake fireplace. Was that what a crush could do to a person, make her exciting, a bit of a whore? What would she say if he were to kiss her this minute?

"What sort of place have you got, anyway?" she said, still adjusting her beret.

"It's a nice little place/' he said. "Two bedrooms, a kitchenette and a living room. Reasonable too. Seventy a month."

"Does that include bedding?"

"Well, I — ah — I have the sheets and pillow cases from our old beds."

"Yes, so you have." Her beret now adjusted to her satisfaction, she began to powder her nose.

"Listen, I — ah — I was just wondering . . . You — you wouldn't think of coming with us?"

"No," she said, still powdering. "If Paulie had been going to stay here, I'd have stayed. As it is, I'm moving/'

"Where?" The moment he'd said it, he knew it was a mistake.

"I've taken a cheap room," she said. "Not that it matters, as I don't suppose I'll be in it much."

She looked in the mirror to see how he had taken this. "Matter of fact, my things are outside now. Gerry's giving me a lift."

Again, she looked at him through the mirror. "Of course, I'd be willing to stay on here, if you'd leave Paulie with me?"