The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (7 page)

So when he checked the coats, he hurried.down the back stairs to the row of public telephones in the basement. He called Canada's Own.

"How did it go, Ginger?"

"Disaster. Listen, Gerry, he caught me red-handed. Now listen — I haven't had the heart to tell Veronica the truth. And listen — he's offered me a job and I have until half-past four to make up my mind. It's in the proofroom, but that's only temporary. He's promised to promote me to reporter. Now, if I take it, maybe I can last out a few weeks without Vera being any the wiser. Until they make me a reporter, you see?"

"But did MacGregor give you a definite date for this promotion?" Gerry asked.

"No, he didn't. I think it won't be long though."

"How do you know? I wouldn't put it past that old bastard to con you into this, just so's he can get himself a nonunion proofreader on the cheap."

"But dammit, what's the use in talking, I'll have to take it," Coffey said. "I've told Vera I have a job."

"It's up to you," Gerry said. "But if you start small, you'll wind up small."

"Yes, but beggars can't be choosers—" Coffey began. Then he stopped. In the little mirror in front of the telephone, he saw Veronica's face. He turned around.

"Let me speak to Gerry," she said.

At once, Coffey hung up.

"Why did you do that? You're too late, anyway. I heard you."

He took her arm. "Now, listen — listen, Kitten, it's not as bad as you think. Let's — let's go up and have a cup of tea. I want to talk to you."

Carefully he led her up the stairs. They went into the Palm Court, a room that reminded Coffey more of a drawing room in some big house than a place where you could

buy a cup u of tea. He guided her to a sofa in a corner and at once called a waiter, ordering tea and crumpets from the waiter, taking as long as he could, postponing the inevitable. But at last the waiter went away. "Now listen, Kitten/' Coffey said. "It's a sort of apprenticeship, that's all —'

She was sniffling. He passed her his handkerchief, then looked anxiously around at the other people in the room. "Vera, please?" he said. "People are watching."

"Go and sit by yourself, then."

"Vera, I didn't mean that. Now, cheer up."

"Why?"

"Well, this thing is only temporary, just for a week or so."

"Does Gerry think it's temporary?"

"Of course he does."

"Word of honor, Ginger?"

"Word of honor. It's just a training period —"

"Proofreading, isn't that what it is?" she said. "How much are they going to pay you during this 'training' period?"

"Ah — seventy dollars a week. We can manage on that."

"How much? Do you want me to phone Mr. Mac-Gregor and check?"

Nervously, Coffey touched the parting in his mustache. "All right," he said. "Fifty is what it is. But that's only for a week or so."

"Oh? How many weeks? Ginger, for once in your life, why can't you tell me the truth?"

"Well . . ." he said. "Well, anyway, this is Grosvenor's fault, not mine. Bloody daft caper, asking me to tell this old codger I had experience. Sure he trapped me in no time, made me look like a bloody idjit. God, wait till I see Mr. Gerry Grosvenor. Him and his bloody schemes."

"It's Gerry's fault," she said. "Not your fault, jof course. Oh, it's never your fault, is it, Ginger?"

"Well, it wasn't my idea to pretend I was something I'm not."

"A proofreader,'' she said. "That's what you are. That's all you are. How are the three of us going to live on fifty dollars a week?"

"But he promised to make me a reporter. And then an editor, he said. Now, that's true, Kitten. Here — have a crumpet."

"You can't afford a crumpet," she said, weeping.

"Ah now, for the love of Mike, will you give over that boohooing, Vera? What sort of way is that to carry on?"

"Listen to me," she said. "Li-listen to me. I'm not going to put up with this any more, do you hear? God knows," she said, her tears now coming uncontrollably, "I've tried. You'll never know how hard I've tried. I was even ready to go home, even though I hated to go home. But I thought it was the only way to save us. That wasn't easy. No, it wasn't easy, believe you me."

"I know, Kitten. I know."

"And then — then last night you walked in and admitted that you'd been lying to me for weeks. Letting me pack and write Mother and make plans and everything. After you'd promised on your word of honor you'd never touch a penny of that passage money."

"I know," he said. "I should have told you. I'm sorry, Kitten."

"You're sorry. That makes it all right, I suppose? What good does saying you're 'sorry' do? Is that supposed to make me stay with you?"

"What do you mean, stay with me?"

"You heard me," she said. "I'm going to get away before it's too late."

"Is that so?" he said, with all the sarcasm he could

manage ijj his sudden fright. "And what about Paulie? Did you ever think of Paulie?"

"Oh, who's talking! Don't you know the only thing that's kept us together, this past while, is Paulie?"

She doesn't mean that, he thought. Ah no, she doesn't mean that. He looked at her.

"Not that you care about Paulie," she said. "Not that you care about any of us except yourself. If you did care, we'd never be in this mess."

"Now, is that fair, Vera? Just because I happen to be between jobs —"

"Ginger, Ginger," she said, shaking her head, "aren't you always between jobs?"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't the job you're in always a burden to you, isn't it always no good, according to you? And isn't there always a crock of gold waiting for you in the next job you're going to get? Ginger, will you never learn anything? Will you never face the facts?"

"What facts?"

"That they let you go in nearly every job you've had. Why do you think Mr. Pierce sent you down to the advertising department? Why do you think Mr. Cleery in the advertising let you go? I'll tell you why. Because you're a glorified secretary, that's all you are, that's all you can ever hope to be. But you can't see that, you had to tell them how to run their business, you that knew nothing about it."

"Glorified secretary, my foot," he said. "Those old codgers were living in the dark ages," he said. "Fifty years behind the times."

"Yes," she said. "Everybody's out of step except our Ginger. Same thing when we were in Cork, wasn't it? And then you were coming over here to Canada, setting yourself up to do a job you never did in your life, a job you

had no experience in. How could you sell whiskey or tweeds or anything, you that had no experience?"

"If it wasn't for those thicks at home —"

"Oh yes. Blame them. Blame anybody except yourself. And today — walking in, bold as you please, asking to be made an editor. You that knows nothing about it/*

"That was Gerry's idea."

"But you went along with it, didn't you?" she said. "Oh yes, it's Gerry's fault. ... Do you know the thing I can't stick about you? It's never your fault. Never. You've never had the guts to admit you were wrong."

"That's nonsense," he said.

"Is it? Then is it my fault you spent the ticket money home? Is it, Ginger?"

"Ah, what's the sense in raking all that up again, Vera? Former history."

"Former history! It happened yesterday!"

"Shh" he said, looking around the room.

"Yes, shush," she said. "People are watching. And you care more about people than you do about me. Playing the big fellow, spending our passage money."

He looked at his hands. He joined his fingers in the childhood game. A game between him and all harm. Here's the church . . .

"Well, from now on, don't bother to tell me anything," she said. "Not even lies. Because I don't want to hear. I'm sick of lies and dreams and schemes that founder as soon as you put your hand to them. I'm sick of your selfishness and your alibis. You can go to hell for all I care."

And here's the steeple. Open the gates . . .

"Tomorrow morning," she said, "I'm going to look for a job of my own. And when I get it, I'm moving out." "What about Paulie?"

"I'll take Paulie," she said. "Then you won't have to worry about anybody except yourself. Which will suit you down to the ground/'

. . . and let in the people. And here is the minister coming upstairs . . .

"In the meantime," she said, "I'd advise you to take this proofreading job. Come down off your high horse, Ginger. It's just about what you're fit for. A proofreader/'

And here is the minister saying his prayers.

He separated his hands, looked at her at last. "For better or for worse," he said. "For richer or for poorer. Ah," he said bitterly. "You could sing that, if you had an air to it."

"You'd better go," she said. "You have to let Mac-Gregor know at half past four, don't you?"

"There's plenty of time. It's not even four. Besides —"

"Oh, God's teeth, Jim, why are you so dense? Don't you understand anything?"

She never called him Jim except when things were desperate. She wanted rid of him, this minute, that was what she wanted. All right. All right. He stood up and took the bill. "I'll have to wait for change," he told her.

She took a ten-dollar bill out of her bag. Where did she get that, he wondered. "Go on," she said. "I'll pay the bill."

But he could not move. Suffering J, they weren't going to leave things like this, were they? Ah, Vera —

"Are you leaving, or must I?" she said.

He tried to grin. "Just looking for the cloakroom tickets, dear. I have yours in my pocket somewhere."

He fumbled for a while.

"Breast pocket," she said. f

"Oh, yes. Silly. I always put it there and then forget. Vera — listen to me —"

"No," she said. "And stop standing there like a dog waiting for a pat on the head. You're not getting any pat. Not any more. Now, go away."

He saw her hands tremble on the catch of her purse. Listen, listen, listen, he cried silently, for God's sake don't let this happen. But he had said listen so many times, in so many rows, for so many years. And she had said listen, as often. Listen to me, they cried to each other. Listen! Because neither listened any longer. She stared at him. Her face was pale, her eyes were fixed and bright, and, now that it haid been said, he saw that all her irritations, all the fits of temper he had discounted, all that was hate. She hated him.

Still, as he went away across the room, he turned back to her once more. Tried to smile, hoping that somehow she . . . sure that she . . . Wouldn't she signal, call him back?

But she did not. She sat watching him, willing him to go. Go away, Doggy.

So he went.

Three It was twenty past four. For several minutes he had been standing in the lobby of the Tribune building wondering whether he should go upstairs. After all, Mac-Gregor had said it would only be a short while until he was made a reporter. And you wouldn't heed Gerry, would you? Why should Gerry know whether MacGregor was tricking him or not?

But he had heeded her. That was why he was here. Ah, sure that was a lot of malarkey, that stuff about them letting him go in those other jobs he had. A lot of malarkey too about him being selfish and putting the blame on other people — all nonsense — sure, what did she know, the woman? But it was not nonsense that she said she wanted to leave him. Not nonsense that he had seen a hatred in her look. She would get over it. Sure, she would. She had just been letting off, as women do, with the first hurtful thing that came into her head, hadn't she? She didn't hate him; not Vera. Not his Dark Rosaleen?

He was troubled as he had rarely been. It was hard to find something to be cheerful about in what she had said and the way she had looked at him. And so, he had to think of something else. He thought of J. F. Coffey, Journalist. There was some good in that thought. Say what you like, he had a foot in the door there. Maybe Mac-

Gregor would promote him in a week or so? Probably would. All right, then. Take the job. Show her she's wrong.

At twenty-five past four he went in, took the elevator up and once again presented himself at the open doorway of the Managing Editor's office. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Aye?"

"I — ah — I would like to take the job, sir."

Mr. MacGregor pulled out a sheet of paper. "Right," he said. "Full name?"

"James Francis CoflFey."

MacGregor wrote it down. "Hours, six to one, five nights a week. Except when you take the late trick, until two. Saturdays off, and one rotating day a week. If sick, report to me pairsonally by phone before three in the afternoon. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing, Coffey. I have fifty gurrls wurrking in the mailroom, one floor down, Dinna interfere with them, d'you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now go to the composing room and ask for a man called Hickey. He'll give you a stylebook. Study it before you start wurrk tonight."

Galley slave. Suffering J, that was apt. CoflFey went back down the corridor and asked directions of a man in shirt sleeves. He followed the directions and after several turnings entered a large room, loud with noise. In even rows, like children in some strange classroom, the linotyp-ers threaded their little tines of words. Men with wooden mallets hammered leads into place; others, wearing long blue aprons and green eyeshades, plucked strips of lead from a table, fitting them in, tossing the rejects backwards to crash into large tin hellboxes. A foreman in stiff white

collar and black knitted tie moved with ecclesiastic tread up the aisle. As he drew level with Coffey, he leaned over, hand to his ear, in smiling dumbshow inquiry as to the visitor's business.

"Mr. Hickey?" Coffey shouted, over the machine roar.

The foreman showed comprehension by a nod and led Coffey across the room to a small, cleared area, surrounded by rows of linotype machines. There, in Dicken-sian concentration, sat three old men, each facing a pigeonhole desk, each scanning a galley of proof. At once their strange apartheid, combined with the extreme shab-biness of their clothing, reminded Coffey of MacGregor's remark. These were outcasts in a union sea. As he drew near he saw that each desk was double, with seats for two men.