Strange Fugitive Page 7

  He was standing in the Salvation Army circle, which had become larger, and he moved along the street to the crowds where Pastor Henderson was shouting defiance at the Communists further down the street. Harry listened to Pastor Henderson who was proving by biblical prophecy that the English were God’s chosen people. The pastor, a small wiry man with a little round head and a narrow ten-fifteen-cent-store, sporty spring tie, turned and issued a challenge to the Agnostic Association, holding a meeting a few paces away. Harry stood on his toes, craning, looking for Isaac Pimblett but not sure he wanted to find him. Sometimes Isaac seemed a little nutty. Harry felt hungry and thought of going into a drugstore for a sandwich. He listened mechanically to the Agnostic who lisped in a sharp voice of contempt. He went on thinking of Isaac who had hinted he had something in mind, a kind of an organizing job, hardly worth listening to because Isaac was rarely allowed on the platform in the Labour Temple. “Too radical I guess,” he thought. He walked further along the street to the Communist group. Morris Grimmel was speaking. Morris Grimmel leaning out from the soap box, his arm flung wide, his hair tossed back. Morris Grimmel shaking his fist, his lips drawn back from the gums, teeth clenched, eyes blazing, heavy ponderous words rolling, then becoming analytical, coldly repressed, though trembling with excitement. “The war that would end war,” he screamed, along the street.

  Harry could not find Isaac. He followed a fat man, hatless, his long gray hair combed back neatly, away from the communists. This man carried his coat under his arm and mopped his head with a handkerchief though it was cool. Harry followed him from one crowd to another, standing at his elbow. At each crowd the fat man got into an argument. He made it clear that he was dealing with a lot of silly people. He turned and smiled encouragingly at Harry who grinned. “I’d like to push my hand in his fat face,” he actually thought. A lean woman dressed in military fashion came up to the fat man and talked about a mission that had held a meeting last night. The fat man listened attentively. Harry listened. At the meeting a coloured woman had spoken, the women dressed in military fashion said.

  “Ah, yes, I was there, sister,” he nodded. “It was a disgrace. She is a coloured woman and can have no message from the Lord for white people. When Mrs. Gibson, who held the meeting, saw me there last night she flushed up to the ears thinking I would be critical, but I never spoke once, just let the Lord speak through me once to give a message. But you understand,” he said turning to Harry, “I didn’t open my mouth once, though they knew what I thought of the coloured woman. Do you see, sir?” he said to Harry.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Was I right?”

  “You hit the nail on the head.”

  Harry, looking around, saw Isaac Pimblett walking away from the communist meeting toward the agnostics. He walked slowly, limping a little, his body held erect. Harry caught up to him. Isaac smiled, his lean face puckered and wrinkled. He wore no hat, his white hair was combed neatly. He had on a black coat, neatly pressed, and a black bow-tie tucked in under his collar.

  “Hello Mr. Pimblett.”

  “Harry, I was thinking of you last night.”

  “That’s fine, what were you thinking?”

  “Shall we take a little walk down near the waterfront?”

  They walked toward the corner. The Salvation Army man yelled “Peace on earth, good will to men.”

  Pastor Henderson, who was praising the large English fleet, cried out, “Peace on earth, good will to men.” The little Agnostic stopped speaking, grinned and sneered, “Peace on earth, good will to men.” They turned the corner and loud voices rose and fell and as they went further down the street, grew fainter.

  “I don’t like much the way Morris was talking tonight,” Isaac said, “too much of a categorical negation.”

  Harry didn’t understand Isaac when he used too many big words. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Pimblett, what about me, I mean?” he said. They had reached Queen Street. Isaac had explained one time why he liked talking with Harry about the movement. He hadn’t been spoilt by bad talk, he said. Too many young men had notions about things that didn’t amount to a hill of beans and they couldn’t get rid of them. Harry was young and healthy and in a way ready to get started right. Last night he had thought about it and realizing he was too old he had wondered if Harry mightn’t be the fellow he was looking for to organize the movement. They turned east on Queen Street and were a block away from the cathedral. Isaac was explaining he had never been able to command enough respect, probably because so many people were aware that he had been a labourer, and was now running a shed dealing in second-hand plumbers’ supplies, second-hand old baths, toilets, etc. His wife for example could never understand what he was talking about.

  “You got to get educated,” he said to Harry.

  “Yeah, but how is it going to work out?”

  “Things must begin with a young fellow, build on a young man, a strong man. See?”

  “Well, I’m husky, I’ll get guys doing things if I can only get hold of them.”

  “I saw you one night in the Labour Temple. I hoped you would ask a question, to get a line on your educational background.” He talked slowly, with a fierce swagger. “They talk of Marx and of Engels and prophets and leaders, without any appreciation of a philosophical interpretation of history. Study history.”

  “I know some now.”

  “You got to know more.”

  They were opposite the cathedral. The carillon bells chimed out rapidly. Isaac stood on the sidewalk staring at the cathedral spire. A full moon was in the sky. His wide mouth opened.

  “That’s what you’re up against,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The ultra-respectable class, the cathedral and so on.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “What’s the matter with it? I think too much about it, that’s all. It’s personal, too. Once in the Labour Temple, just across the road from the cathedral, I was making a speech on the platform, a good speech. In the middle of it the bells chimed out and I forgot what I was going to say.”

  “Not so good, eh. Kinda tough, eh.”

  “It just struck me that you can’t get away from it. It’s right in the centre of things. I think too much about it, that’s all.”

  They walked down Church Street and smelled fruit, and bad odours from warehouses. They kept on walking down to the waterfront, crossing the railroad tracks. Leaning against a dock rail, Harry told about losing his job and his restlessness and inability to get going again. The water lapped on the piers. He talked slowly and carefully, for it seemed to have become important that old Isaac should understand it.

  “Now I think too much about Pape’s and the job. Something like the way you are about the cathedral,” he said.

  “At your age you should be restless.”

  “I want to step out, get going in a big way. I’ll be damned if anybody’ll ever boss me again. I’ll get going again, you bet your sweet life.”

  “I never got going. When I was your age I picked up a girl and lived with her almost a year. I couldn’t think of anything but her and when she got sick and died I lost all my energy. I got married six months later, but even now, I go to the cemetery and think of that girl. Of course my wife knows nothing about it. She has a bitter tongue.”

  Harry looked down at the dark water, discerning faintly the light wave line, following it till it lapped against the pier.

  Then Isaac said, “A young man should live alone. That’s the main thing.”

  “I guess so, it doesn’t matter much. Not to me anyway.”

  “It does matter, I tell you.”

  “It never bothers me thinking about it, I mean.”

  “Look at it in this way though. If you’re living with a woman she usually gets in the way when you really want to do something. You know that much, don’t you?”

  “I was thinking that the other day.”

  “That’s funny. That’s interesting.”

>   “No, it’s not funny. I had just had a quarrel with the wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Sure, my wife.”

  “God bless my soul!”

  “What’s up?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

  “What’s the matter with being married, it’s nothing to get excited about, is it?”

  “No, it’s not exciting. It just means your settled.”

  “Not on your life, I’m not settled, I tell you.”

  “Sure, as far as I’m concerned, Harry. I’m awfully sorry too. You couldn’t amount to anything the way I want you to. A married man has to go home at night and the bed creaks, and the wife has her tongue sharpened if you’re late. And you’ve got to stick to the groove. That’s all I mean.”

  “And you think I’m all shot because I’m married?”

  “Not at all. I’m just saying that a wife gets in the way of a man’s bright ideas,” Isaac laughed sarcastically.

  “Maybe so, only it sounds like a lot of crap to me.”

  “I’m not saying you won’t get along. You’ll just have to fit in. They all have to fit in where they belong.”

  “Is that so, eh? Well, if you think I’m doing any fitting you got another think comin’. You think I’m just one of the guys that go the same old way home, eh. Yeah, like hell I am. See. Settled down, eh. You’re all wrong. Married? Sure, but just let me get the breaks and I’ll have everybody eating out of my hand. Get that straight.”

  Isaac shrugged his shoulders. There did not seem to be anything to say. Harry looked down at the water. He was sore. He didn’t want to speak, he was so irritated.

  They turned and walked away from the dock. Isaac walked a pace away from Harry, walking silently. Harry was disappointed. At first he had resented the way Isaac had spoken to him, now he felt restive and cut off from something that would have been fine and satisfying. He wished suddenly that he wasn’t married.

  When they were opposite the cathedral again they both looked at the spire. Harry would not mention it.

  “You’ll find fellows on the lawn there looking for men. When they get caught they appear in the police court. Rotten at the base. That’s it,” Isaac said.

  They shook hands at the corner of Bay and Queen. Harry smiled sociably at Isaac, who didn’t have much to say. He smiled queerly, not that he had expected much; he had simply hoped for a thing and it had slipped away. Harry looked up the street to the clock in the city-hall tower. Half-past nine.

  “Come on home with me, Mr. Pimblett,” he said suddenly. “Meet the wife. I’ll bet a dollar you’ll like her.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I’ve got a wife, I must be going home.”

  Harry watched him walking slowly along the street, his body erect. “Maybe he’s a bit cuckoo,” he thought. He waited for a streetcar, and waiting thought of the way Isaac had talked about his wife. No use going on, simply because he had a wife. He was not sure what Isaac really wanted him for, though he realized vaguely that he was expected to become a leader, acting on Isaac’s advice until they became a political force. Maybe Isaac was right about marriage. But he had been happy with Vera. Until recently they had worked together beautifully. Now they annoyed each other. She opposed nearly all of his ideas. He wondered how he would get along by himself, out on the road with Jimmie Nash selling magazines, away from her and feeling stronger, alone until he got on his feet. Now they were bickering too much. He got on the car and sat opposite a girl with slender legs who had her knees crossed. He looked at the knees and thought of Anna. He never felt like quarrelling with Anna. Everything went smoothly, loosely, good-naturedly, his way. Vera was narrow, tight, too often holding herself in. Anna let herself go easily, lots of life in her. She was a big husky girl, loving a good sprawly time. She never expected anything and you didn’t need even to think about her unless you wanted to. It was easy to think of her, nice thoughts, only Vera was bothering him again. She was always with him. Maybe that was what Isaac meant. She was with him day and night. Every time he wanted to do anything important he thought of Vera and what she would say about it. He got off the car, remembering Isaac, with his heavy ponderous words, shaking his fist at the cathedral. He wasn’t anxious to get home, but there was nothing else to do.

  2

  At home there was no light in the front room, but along the hall he saw the kitchen light. Vera was not in the kitchen. He went into the front room. She was lying on the chesterfield in the dark. He sat on the chesterfield. She did not speak and he didn’t know whether she was awake or not. He put his hand on her hip and thought of telling her about Isaac Pimblett and the walk down by the waterfront, and then he heard her giggling. She was awake, waiting for him to say something.

  “I thought you were asleep,” he said.

  “No, it’s only ten o’clock.”

  He wouldn’t be bothered telling her about Pimblett. “Look, Vera get up and play me a game of checkers?”

  “Aw no, I don’t want to.”

  She got up and followed him to the kitchen. He got the board and checkers from the cupboard and they sat down at the end of the table.

  He glanced at the board, holding his head in his hands, watching her getting ready to make a move. She made two false moves in the corner of the board but didn’t take her hand off the checker. He leaned forward each time she made a false move and straightened up when she withdrew. They played the game steadily until of eight checkers on the black and red squares, six were Harry’s. He grinned eagerly, confidently. Gradually he had driven her into a corner. Wherever she moved he had her. His organization had been perfect. Not a single false move and now he had her. Wherever she moved she was bound to lose one checker. She studied the board. He leaned back, grinning, making a swaggering motion with his hand. He had her.

  He looked at the six checkers he had manipulated perfectly, each one having a definite part in the trap he had set. Playing carefully, he had at first sacrificed five just to get rid of five of hers to bring the game quickly to an interesting point. Now he had complete control of the game’s course. Things going his way. Every move thought out and making absolutely sure he couldn’t be beaten. Vera moved reluctantly and he quickly jumped her, removing the checker from the board. She had only one left and the game was practically over. He considered the board and the checkers, ready for the last move, but in reality thinking of the board as his own life and the life around him, his interest reaching a high pitch until it became for him no longer a game of checkers. He had the issue, the opposition, in the hollow of his hand. He felt fine.

  Vera moved, and the game was over. She swung her hand petulantly across the board, knocking aside checkers, losing reluctantly.

  “You didn’t do so bad,” he said, groping in his pocket for a cigarette.

  “You’re always lucky. That’s the trouble.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Sure, lucky. Or you get away to a good start.”

  “Play me another game then.”

  “No sir, not on your life.”

  He puffed the cigarette rapidly, his thoughts far away. He was looking at the board. “Play me another game,” he said.

  “No, Harry, I’ve got some work to do. Now you’ve beaten me you ought to be satisfied. You’ve beaten me often enough haven’t you?”

  “Well, you’re getting to be a better player.”

  “I’m not playing any more anyway and that settles it.” She got up. “Go on and play Stan Farrel. You’re getting on my nerves.”

  “You get on my nerves too, don’t you?”

  “Not in the same way you get on mine.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “All right, go to the devil, I’ll see if Stan’s in.”

  He kicked back the chair and went out to the hall and downstairs. The trouble was he had played Stan the night before three long drawn out games and had won them. He liked playing with Stan because he tried so hard and got worried thinking
each time he might be beaten. He would rather beat Stan than anybody. They had argued the night before, and Harry had yelled at him because he had taken his finger off a checker after a false move. They had argued and he had wanted to hit Stan, who talked pompously. Vera had advised them to play ring-around-a-rosy, they were acting like silly kids. He rapped on Farrel’s door.

  “Come on, have a game a checkers, Stan,” he said.

  “What, tonight, too?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’m not too keen. Don’t you ever do anything but play checkers?”

  “Come on, Stan. Just a game.”

  “Aw hell, I’m getting sick of that game.”

  “Come on, just a game.”

  “All right, you’re the doctor, but not more than an hour. I guess I can beat you in an hour.”

  They went upstairs to the kitchen. Vera was sitting in the kitchen.

  “I just beat Vera,” Harry said. “She’s getting better.”

  “I’m off my game,” she said. “I’ve gone stale.”

  “Come on, let’s get to it,” Stan said.

  They sat down facing each other. Vera went out and came back carrying dishes. Harry grinned cheerfully and rubbed his hands, not concealing satisfaction in having Farrel face him across the board. Farrel moved first, carefully. Harry’s thoughts didn’t wander from the game. He was getting all the satisfaction he might have got from fine and buoyant thoughts. He concentrated, playing the game. It was important, requiring all his energy. He was excited but confident. Stan Farrel, his neighbour, a friend of his, his antagonist, someone to hold off, someone to beat, then twist aside. Stan sitting opposite him, his white pudgy hand dallying with a checker, head drooping, three fat chins lapping over a gates-ajar collar, and grinning, easy jests on a ready tongue, his agreeable good nature marking his assumption of superiority, his distinction as a professional man. They were playing a game but he was matching himself against Stan, the strength in him against the strength in Stan.