The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (5 page)

He was soon her darling, not for his janitorial services, but because of his grasp of theatrical lighting, a hobby he’d picked up from a Milwaukee matron devoted to little theatre. To Miss Bentwhistle’s elation, Mr. McTavish introduced coloured gels to the auditorium’s incandescent lamps. In the past, she’d suffered through assemblies under the ruthless glare of white light. Now she was radiant, her charms enhanced thanks to the glow of a soft pink front and an amber behind.

Oh, Mr. McTavish! Oh, oh, oh! Was ever a man such as this? A hard worker devoted to his child! An artist devoted to her interests! A common man worthy of her compassion!

Soon she was looking for reasons to call Mr. McTavish to her office and to see him after hours about one project or another. She professed to be astonished at the number of things that needed to be screwed in and out, and at the surprising array of nooks and crannies needing his manly attention. How she’d managed to live without him was quite beyond her.

Londoners noticed a change in the headmistress, but refused to contemplate the obvious. The image of Mr. McTavish and Miss Bentwhistle engaged in animal husbandry was simply too grotesque. Moreover, Miss Bentwhistle wisely included Mary Mabel in their outings. “How our Horatia dotes upon that little gumdrop,” remarked Mrs. Herbert C. Wallace, secretary-treasurer of the St. James Ladies Auxiliary Bridge Club. “She’s an example to us all.”

One Sunday, inspired by the Reverend Mandible’s homily on charity, Miss Bentwhistle visited the McTavishes bearing an orange. “This orange is especially for you, my dear,” she beamed at the girl, breasts swelling with the special joy that comes from giving. “From now on, you may be pleased to call me your ‘Auntie’ Horatia.” Mary Mabel looked up sweetly. “Thank you very much,” she said, “but I have more aunties than I can remember. If it’s okay, I’d like for you to just be a grownup.” Miss Bentwhistle chewed her dentures. Determined to teach the child some manners, she set her to work in the laundry and kitchen.

Meanwhile, female teachers were not so delighted with the new janitor. The third schoolmarm to lodge a complaint was that well-known rabble-rouser Miss Budgie, she with the fetish for “standards.”

“I don’t know quite how to put this,” Miss Budgie began, “but whenever I pass Mr. McTavish he starts to play with his fly. And he leers at me.”

Miss Bentwhistle was understandably appalled. “How dare you attack a poor victim of diphtheria!”

“Miss Bentwhistle, he stares at my breasts!”

“And what do
you
do to provoke him?”

“Nothing! And I’m not the only one to complain. Miss Lundy has spoken to you already. Miss Brown too. He pressed them up against the broom closet and invited them down to the boiler room to see his toolbox.”

“That is their point of view,” Miss Bentwhistle acknowledged with a thin smile. “Mr. McTavish has quite another.”

“Are you saying our word can’t be trusted?”

“I’m saying that Miss Lundy is a hypochondriac, and Miss Brown a known hysteric. Everyone has an agenda, Miss Budgie. Everyone. I, however, am the headmistress. It is my duty to rise above agendas.”

For once, Miss Budgie was not to be cowed. “I have witnesses!”

“What need have I for ‘witnesses’? Are you suggesting I’m afraid to deal with Mr. McTavish.”

“No. Just that you haven’t.”

“Tell me, my dear,” Miss Bentwhistle asked, as sweet as jam tarts, “are you in any position to make waves?”

Miss Budgie trembled. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I believe I’m asking a question.”

Miss Budgie hesitated. “I’m not trying to make waves. It’s just that Mr. McTavish … well … he makes it hard for me to do my work.”

“Well
you
make it hard for me to do
my
work. I have a school to run, Miss Budgie. I haven’t time for tattletales. If you are unable to do your job without vilifying your colleagues, I shall find someone who can. I expect a letter of apology on my desk by this afternoon.”

Miss Bentwhistle’s decision to betray her staff for Mr. McTavish was not the result of romantic infatuation. Rather, the charges implied that she had employed a lecher, a lapse in judgment that threw into question her moral discernment. In light of this, the headmistress saw the accusations for what they were — an attack against her person.

There was also every chance that the little backstabbers were delusional. Mr. McTavish’s essence was undeniable, and it would not in the least surprise her if Miss Budgie and her conspirators had picked up the scent and were indulging themselves in lurid sexual fantasies. Was she to sacrifice Mr. McTavish to satisfy a coven of sexually obsessed deviants?

In any case, even if the Academy janitor
had
been indiscreet, what of it? Men are well-known to be slaves to their dangly bits, especially men of common breeding. As members of the fairer sex, it was up to his detractors to comport themselves so as to discourage propositions. Why, if anyone was to blame, it was they! The trollops must be punished! And they were — Miss Budgie was humiliated in front of her students for allegedly stealing chalk from the office supply cabinet.

Still, Miss Bentwhistle fretted about the charges. At last, she confided them to her handyman. He denied them outright, allowing that at most he may have given his accusers a well-intentioned smile, which they no doubt misunderstood on account of his facial paralysis. Miss Bentwhistle stroked his sweet, beleaguered brow. Poor Mr. McTavish. How she would comfort him tonight.

It occurred to her that, having saved his skin, she had him in her debt.

A remembrance of this debt was at the forefront of Miss Bentwhistle’s mind as she completed the reconstruction of her face. At this morning’s confrontation, she’d call upon Mr. McTavish to force his daughter to recant the miracle. Miss Bentwhistle knew that nothing short of a denial would keep this scandal from her door.

After all, what kind of headmistress employs a publicity hound who claims to raise the dead? How could she discipline her students if she couldn’t control her staff? Toss in a Pentecostal freak show and Miss Bentwhistle’s head reeled with nightmares of a convoy of limousines emptying the Academy of its young ladies. Then what? The Academy collapsed, her debts unpaid, and her family name disgraced, it would be a mere hop, skip, and a jump to the poorhouse.

It was the vision of that grim future that had caused Miss Bentwhistle’s explosion of tears. She’d seen herself shacked up in the hobo jungle at the outskirts of town, a sad old derelict with nary a penny to wash her drawers. Imagined herself shuffling up for a ladle of broth at the St. James soup kitchen, cowering before Mrs. Herbert C. Wallace, Reverend Mandible, and the rest.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. As God was her witness, by the time she’d finished with the McTavishes, Mary Mabel would be on her knees. She’d issue a public proclamation that the Beeford boy was never dead, but merely stunned; she’d seen him move and helped him to his feet. She was a young woman wronged by fabrications of the press, an innocent whose life within the halls of the Bentwhistle Academy had taught her to place integrity, honour, and dignity before all else.

There was, of course, the awkward detail of the death certificate, but that was small potatoes. Dr. Hammond wouldn’t admit to signing death certificates for the living; it would scare away his clientele. Besides, it wasn’t in London’s interest to have its hospital seen as a happy-go-lucky loony bin shipping healthy out-of-towners to the morgue; that would be bad for tourism. In the end, the death certificate was just a piece of paper waiting to be misplaced by an underpaid clerk.

She made her way to the wardrobe. Selecting a frock was easy; she’d been wearing black since her father’s death. The decision, a sly cost-cutting measure, had proven good for business, a constant allusion to the Horatio Algernon Bentwhistle Memorial Fund. “Funerals provide such a dignified excuse to pass the hat,” she observed.

All that was left was to steady her nerves. Miss Bentwhistle took two tablespoons of laudanum, a homebrew she concocted from the lifetime supply of opium she’d found in her father’s effects. (He’d acquired it during his tenure as chairman of the Middlesex County Hospital Association. When the drug was outlawed, he’d generously overseen its disposal from the county’s repositories.)

Miss Bentwhistle washed the laudanum down with a glug of brandy, the smell of alcohol contained by a peppermint drop, and glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Battle stations. She stood in front of the mirror and repeated the mantra “I am a Bentwhistle, I am a Bentwhistle, I am a Bentwhistle.” With that, the regal barge navigated to the door and floated forth to rendezvous with destiny.

In
the
Lion’s Den

T
he
instant Timmy Beeford resuscitated, the assembled Pentecostals erupted with whoops of joy, cartwheels, and grand huzzahs for Jesus.

“We’d best be off,” Mary Mabel whispered to Brewster. She grabbed him by the arm, and made for the door.

“Wait!” Mrs. Wertz called after. “We have to celebrate!”

“I’d love to,” Mary Mabel sang over her shoulder, “but I have to be up at four.”

I
n bed, Mary Mabel couldn’t sleep for the silly grin on her face. Her mama’d had a reason to send her to the bridge: it was to get her to the hospital to save that boy. She gave thanks and promised to follow her mama’s guidance forever.

Soon it was time to rise and shine. By five the stove was stoked, the tables set. By six, milk, porridge, and scrambled eggs were on the serving trays. By seven, she’d ladled breakfast to the Academy’s young delinquents. And by eight, she was up to her elbows in dirty dishes, when the porter arrived. “You’re to report to Miss B. immediately.”

“She’ll have to wait or there’ll be no clean plates for lunch.”

“Don’t worry about that. Miss Budgie’s been assigned the wash-up before her morning class.”

Mary Mabel couldn’t figure what could be so important. It hadn’t occurred to her that her miracle might have altered her relations with the world. Not that there hadn’t been warnings. On the way home, her papa had gaped like a goldfish, and Miss B.’s young ladies had lined up for breakfast as slack-jawed as a row of pithed frogs. Still, it wasn’t until she hit the office that she realized the enormity of things.

Two police officers were hauling off a scruffy man in a trench coat. The secretary, Miss Dolly Pigeon, a wizened rat terrier with small breasts and big hips, was beside herself. “You’re the cause of this!” she yipped at the girl. “I hope you’re satisfied!”

“Are you her?” the man demanded as he was dragged out. “Are you Mary Mabel McTavish?”

“Who’s he? How did he know my name?”

“He’s from the
Free Press
. There’s more at the gates.”

Before Mary Mabel could think, her papa barrelled through the door. “Look at the trouble you’ve got us into!”

“Shut your traps,” Miss Pigeon ordered. “To the Bench!”

The Bench was a church pew retrieved from St. James. Hard and unforgiving, it was the Academy’s version of the stocks. The pair waited an eternity before the headmistress sailed in, a copy of the morning’s paper tucked beneath her arm. “How are we this morning, Miss Pigeon?”

“As might be expected.”

“Quite so.” Miss Bentwhistle swept into her private study and closed the door. A pause, and then she pulled the servants’ cord, tinkling the little brass bell that announced she was ready to receive appointments.

M
iss Bentwhistle’s inner sanctum was hushed and dark, the heavy velvet curtains secured to ward off light.
Oh-oh
, Mary Mabel thought,
she’s having a migraine
.

“Shut the door,” came a low purr from the far end of the room.

Her papa obeyed.

“Come closer,” the headmistress growled. “I’m not about to bite.”

Her papa gave a nervous chuckle and pushed her forward.

“The both of you.”

Brewster gulped and stepped onto the dusty Persian carpet, almost tripping on the head of the Bengal tiger rug splayed across it. Miss Bentwhistle claimed her great-grandfather, Horatio III, had bagged the beast on safari. In truth, he’d stalked it down in a dusty Toronto curiosity shop. Either way, it was a skinned warning to any who’d dare to cross a Bentwhistle.

Now in range, their eyes accustomed to the muslin light, Mary Mabel and her papa saw a vision gave them pause — Miss Bentwhistle in the highest of high dudgeon, a grand inquisitor to make the angels quake, as imperious a judge as the combined host of Bentwhistles past who glowered through the gloom from the baroque frames that lined her lair. Mary Mabel felt faint, the air heavy with powders, pomades, and lavender potpourris. She glanced at her papa. He looked set to vomit.

An awkward pause. The Iron Maiden cocked an eyebrow. “Well, Miss McTavish, you’ve been quite the busy bee.”

“The girl is sorry,” Brewster said. He stuck an elbow in his daughter’s ribs. “Apologize to your Auntie Horatia.”

“Don’t interrupt,” their captor snapped. She fixed Mary Mabel in her sights. “It is barely nine o’clock in the morning, and we find ourselves besieged by the Middlesex County press. Muckrakers from the
Gleaner
,
Bugle
, and
Beacon
, not to mention our London rag, have decamped at the Academy’s front gates. We’ve been obliged to call in constables, Miss McTavish. Constables. It’s a positive scandal.”

“But what’s it got to do with me?”

She flung the
Free Press
on her desk and tapped her right index finger three times on the banner headline: L
ONDON
G
IRL
R
ESURRECTS
D
EAD
B
OY
.

“Oh my.”

“Oh my?”
Miss Bentwhistle’s breasts elevated to the heavens. “All you can say is ‘
Oh my
’? A young lady knows better than to draw attention to herself, but you, you flibbertigibbet, you made a scene! And on a Sunday! In so doing, you sullied the Academy’s hard-earned reputation for propriety!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not. You’re just a sweet, little Florence Nightingale. Although even
she
was never ascribed the powers of our Lord Jesus.”

“I didn’t say a word to the press.”

“Why bother when three hundred witnesses, Holy Rollers, God spare us, are happy to babble away on your behalf. Well, you just march outside and tell the press their story is absurd.”

“But it happened. I can’t deny it.”

“Listen to me,” the headmistress said, “and listen hard. I am telling you: there was no miracle. That boy was never dead.”

“He
was
. Dr. Hammond signed the death certificate.”

“A piece of paper can easily be ripped up.”

“I don’t care. The boy was dead. A power surged down my arms, out of my fingers, and he came back to life.”

“You make it sound like jump-starting a car.” Miss Bentwhistle circled her prey. “Some might say the lad was simply unconscious. That the affair was a stunt. Adolescent theatrics.”

“They’d be wrong.”

“It’s those books of hers,” Brewster blurted. “They’ve turned her wits.”

Miss. Bentwhistle bristled. “When it comes to scandal, insanity is a complication not a defence.” She cast her eye on Mary Mabel. “Though you have shamed the Academy, my pet, I am willing to compromise. You may think what you like in private, provided you say what I want in public.”

“What sort of compromise is that?”

Smoke might have shot from the dowager’s ears. She stormed to the window — migraine be damned — and threw back the curtains. “Do you see those clouds? They take such pretty forms. I imagine I see the shapes of people. Little homeless people scudding across the sky. Why look — an odd-jobs man and his lumpen daughter. Do you see them, my pet? It’s a picture clear as day. Or perhaps not, for look, even as we speak the wind is blowing them apart. Take care, precious,
my
visions have a habit of coming true.”

Mary Mabel threw back her shoulders. “Do what you like. I won’t deny the reason I’m alive.”

“Indeed, little martyr?” Miss Bentwhistle laughed dryly. “And are you prepared to sacrifice your father for your arrogance?”

“How dare you threaten Papa!”

“Damn right.” Brewster leapt to attention. “If the girl insists on being wilful, do what you must. But why punish me?”

“Heavens, what do you take me for?” Miss Bentwhistle gasped. “I’d hardly put a young thing on the streets alone.”

Miss Pigeon flew into the room. “Toronto’s on the line! A man from the
Globe
!” The
Globe
was the paper of record for Academy parents.

Miss Bentwhistle spun on her heel. “No more delay. Recant. Now.”

“No.”

The headmistress whirled back to her secretary. “Inform the
Globe
that we no longer have McTavishes on staff. Furthermore, should they intend to feature us in their account, provide them with the name of our solicitor.”

Miss Pigeon scuttled off.

“You have one hour to pack and be gone,” Miss Bentwhistle said, with a glance at her watch.

“For God’s sake,” McTavish pleaded, “don’t cast your darling Brewster to the wind!”

“‘My darling’?” Miss Bentwhistle’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Imagination must run in your family! How dare you think I’d stoop to the likes of you?”

“Stooping’s the least of it,” Brewster rose to his feet, no longer the supplicant. “If I’m kicked out, I’ll leave with lips flapping. Your ‘special interests’ will turn this county on its ear.”

“Lunacy!”

“Don’t play the innocent. You’re no more virgin than I am. Why, you take to acrobatics that’d make the Devil blush.”

“Depraved ravings!”

“Not half so depraved as your delight in feather dusters!”

Miss Bentwhistle’s eyes twitched. “Mr. McTavish, your rant is nothing short of slander. Nor is slander the least of your sins. You’ve been denounced by the Misses Budgie, Lundy, and Brown. Their accusations are documented in my filing cabinet. Gross indecency. Attempted rape. Why, I myself had cause to fend you off.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Oh? And who do you suppose will be believed: a McTavish or a Bentwhistle? We know the local magistrate, my dear. Be careful how you tread. Any loose talk and you will find yourself locked in the Kingston Pen with a bounty on your bottom! Now — get out of my school, my town, my county!”

“Mercy for Papa,” Mary Mabel begged.

Miss Bentwhistle curled her lip. “That, my dear, would take a miracle. And you’re fresh out.”

B
ack in their quarters, Brewster went on a tear. “Trouble, that’s all you’ve ever been. Well, now you’ve ruined us. Happy? You only had to say it never happened.”

“I don’t have much, Papa. I couldn’t give her that.”

“But you could give away our home? I’m too old to start over. There’s younger men can do the things I do, and better.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find something else.”

“There’s no more ‘we.’ It’s time to be rid of you.” He snatched some coins from his money tin and threw them at her. “There. Don’t say I left you nothing.”

Mary Mabel wilted onto the cot.

“Ah, here come the tears. I’m to feel guilty, am I? Well, you can boo-hoo till doomsday. You brought this on yourself, you and your games of pretend.” He brushed a tear with his sleeve. “It’s for the best, us parting. You’ve hated me your whole life. I don’t mind. Just have the guts to say it. Say that you hate me, so I can leave in peace!”

She couldn’t. He went to smack the hurt off her face. Instead, he grabbed her mama’s teacup and smashed it against the wall.

“Now, curse me,” he wept. “Curse me to hell!” He grabbed his knapsack and ran out the door.

She listened as he blubbered down the corridor, and up the steps to outside. Heard the heavy door slam. She stayed very still for a time, as if, if she stayed still long enough, it would all go away. At last, she crawled across the floor, collected the shards of her mama’s cup, and shrank into a ball in the corner. It was time to pack and go. Go? Where?

“Mama,” she called out, “what am I to do? I need you. Help me. Please.”

But there was only silence.