The Globe and Mail, October 7, 1938

Griffen Lauds Munich Accord

SPECIAL TO THE GLOBE AND MAIL

In a vigorous and hard-hitting speech entitled "Minding Our Own Business," delivered at the Wednesday meeting of the Empire Club in Toronto, Mr. Richard E. Griffen, President and Chairman of Griffen-Chase-Royal Consolidated Industries Ltd., praised the outstanding efforts of the British Prime Minister, Mr. Neville Chamberlain, which have resulted in last week's Munich Accord. It was significant, said Mr. Griffen, that all parties in the British House of Commons cheered the news, and he hoped that all parties in Canada would also cheer, as this accord would put paid to the Depression and would usher in a new "golden era" of peace and prosperity. It also went to show the value of statesmanship and diplomacy as well as positive thinking and plain old hard-headed business sense. "If everyone gives a little," he said, "then everyone stands to gain a lot."

In reply to questions about the status of Czecho-Slovakia under the Accord, he stated that in his opinion the citizens of that country had been guaranteed sufficient safe-guards. A strong, healthy Germany, he claimed, was in the interests of the West, and of business in particular, and would serve to "keep Bolshevism at bay, and away from Bay Street." The next thing to be desired was a bilateral trade treaty, and he was assured that this was in progress. Attention could now be turned away from sabre-rattling to the provision of goods for the consumer, thus creating jobs and prosperity where they are most needed-"in our own backyard." The seven lean years, he stated, would now be followed by seven fat ones, and golden vistas could be seen stretching all the way through the '40's.

Mr. Griffen is rumoured to be in consultation with leading members of the Conservative Party, and to be eyeing the position of helmsman. His speech was roundly applauded.

Mayfair, June 1939

Royal Style at Royal Garden Party

BY CYNTHIA FERVIS

Five thousand honoured guests of Their Excellencies, Lord and Lady Tweedsmuir, stood spellbound along the garden walks at His Majesty's birthday party at Government House in Ottawa, as Their Majesties made their gracious rounds.

At half-past four they emerged from Government House by the Chinese Gallery. The King was in morning dress; the Queen chose beige, with soft fur and pearls and a large slightly uptilted hat, her face delicately flushed, her warm blue eyes smiling. All were charmed by her entrancing manner.

Walking behind Their Majesties were the Governor General and Lady Tweedsmuir, His Excellency a gracious and genial host, Her Excellency poised and beautiful. Her all-white ensemble, enhanced by fox furs from Canada 's Arctic, was set off by a splash of turquoise in her hat. Presented to Their Majesties were Colonel and Mrs. F. Phelan, of Montreal; she wore a printed silk, on which bloomed small vivid flowers, and her smart hat had a large clear brim of Cellophane. Brigadier General and Mrs. W. H. L. Elkins and Miss Joan Elkins, and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone Murray were similarly honoured.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Griffen were singled out; her cape was of silver fox, the furs placed on black chiffon in the form of rays, worn over an orchid costume. Mrs. Douglas Watts wore chartreuse chiffon with a brown velvet jacket, Mrs. F. Reid was trim and lovely in an organdie and Valenciennes lace gown.

No whisper of tea was heard until the King and Queen had waved farewell, and the cameras had clicked and flashed, and all voices had been raised in God Save the King. After that the birthday cakes held centre stage… enormous white cakes, with snowy icing. The cake served to the King indoors was ornamented not only with roses, shamrocks and thistles, but also with flocks of miniature sugar doves with white pennants in their beaks, the fitting symbols of peace and hope.

The Be rage Room

It's mid-afternoon, cloudy and humid, everything sticky: her white cotton gloves are already smudged just from holding the railing. The world heavy, a solid weight; her heart pushes against it as if pushing against stone. The sultry air holds out against her. Nothing budges.

But then the train comes in, and she waits at the gate as is required of her, and like a promise fulfilled he comes through it. He sees her, comes towards her, they touch each other quickly, then shake hands as if distantly related. She kisses him briefly on the cheek, because it's a public place and you never know, and they walk up the slanted ramp into the marble station. She feels new with him, nervous; she's barely had a chance to look at him. Certainly he's thinner. What else?

I had the hell of a time getting back. I didn't have much money. It was tramp steamers all the way.

I would have sent you some money, she says.

I know. But I had no address.

He leaves his duffel at the baggage check, carries only the small suitcase. He'll pick up the bag later, he says, but right now he doesn't want to be hampered. People come and go around them, footsteps and voices; they stand irresolute; they don't know where to go. She should have thought, she should have arranged something, because of course he has no room, not yet. At least she's got a flask of scotch, tucked into her handbag. She did remember that.

They have to go somewhere so they go to a hotel, a cheap one he remembers. It's the first time they've done this and it's a risk, but as soon as she sees the hotel she knows that no one in it would expect them to be anything but unmarried; or if married, not to each other. She's worn her summer-weight raincoat from two seasons before, pulled a scarf over her head. The scarf is silk but it was the worst she could do. Maybe they'll think he's paying her. She hopes so. That way she's unremarkable.

On the stretch of sidewalk outside it there's broken glass, vomit, what looks like drying blood. Don't step in it, he says.

There's a bar on the ground floor, although it's called a Beverage Room. Men Only, Ladies and Escorts. Outside there's a red neon sign, the letters vertical, and a red arrow coming down and bending so that the arrowhead points at the door. Two of the letters are dead so it reads Be rage Room. Small bulbs like Christmas lights flash off and on, running down the sign like ants going down a drainpipe.

Even at this hour there are men hanging around, waiting for the place to open. He takes her elbow as they go past, hurries her a little. Behind them one of the men makes a noise like a tomcat yowling.

For the hotel part of things there's a separate door. The black-and-white mosaic tiling of the entranceway surrounds what was once perhaps a red lion, but it's been chewed away as if by stone-eating moths and so it's now more like a mangled polyp. The ochre-yellow linoleum floor hasn't been scrubbed for some time; splotches of dirt bloom on it like grey pressed flowers.

He signs the register, pays; while he does this she stands, hoping she looks bored, keeping her face still, eyes above the glum desk clerk, watching the clock. It's plain, assertive, without pretensions to grace, like a railway clock: utilitarian. This is the time, it says, only one layer of it, there is no other.

He has the key now. Second floor. There's a tiny coffin of an elevator but she can't stand the thought of it, she knows what it will smell like, dirty socks and decaying teeth, and she can't stand to be in there face to face with him, so close and in that smell. They walk up the stairs. A carpet, once dark blue and red. A pathway strewn with flowers, worn down now to the roots.

I'm sorry, he said. It could be better.

What you get is what you pay for, she says, intending brightness; but it's the wrong thing to say, he may think she's commenting on his lack of money. It's good camouflage though, she says, trying to fix it. He doesn't answer this. She's talking too much, she can hear herself, and what she's saying is not at all beguiling. Is she different from what he remembers, is she much changed?

In the hallway there's wallpaper, no longer any colour. The doors are dark wood, gouged and gored and flayed. He finds the number, the key turns. It's a long-shafted old-fashioned key, as if for an ancient strongbox. The room is worse than any of the furnished rooms they'd been in before: those had made at least a surface pretence of being clean. A double bed covered by a slippery spread, imitation quilted satin, a dull yellowy pink like the sole of a foot. One chair, with a leaking upholstered seat that appears to be stuffed with dust. An ashtray of chipped brown glass. Cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and under that another more disturbing smell, like underclothes long unwashed. There's a transom over the door, its bumpy glass painted white.

She peels off her gloves, drops them onto the chair along with her coat and scarf, digs the flask out of her handbag. No glasses in sight, they'll have to swig.

Does the window open? she says. We could use some fresh air.

He goes over, hoists the sash. A thick breeze pushes in. Outside, a streetcar grinds past. He turns, still at the window, leaning backwards, his hands behind him on the sill. With the light behind him, all she can see is his outline. He could be anybody.

Well, he says. Here we are again. He sounds bone tired. It occurs to her that he may not want to do anything in this room but sleep.

She goes over to him, slips her arms around his waist. I found the story, she says.

What story?

Lizard Men of Xenor. I looked everywhere for it, you should have seen me poking around the newsstands, they must have thought I was crazy. I looked and looked.

Oh, that, he says. You read that piece of tripe? I'd forgotten.

She won't show dismay. She won't show too much need. She won't say it was a clue that proved his existence; a piece of evidence, however absurd.

Of course I read it. I kept waiting for the next episode.

Never wrote it, he says. Too busy getting shot at, from both sides. Our bunch was caught in the middle. I was on the run from the good guys. What a shambles.

Belatedly his arms come around her. He smells malted. He rests his head on her shoulder, the sandpaper of his cheek against the side of her neck. She has him safe, at least for the moment.

God I need a drink, he says.

Don't go to sleep, she says. Don't go to sleep yet. Come to bed.

He sleeps for three hours. The sun moves, the light dims. She knows she ought to go, but she can't bear to do that, or to wake him either. What excuse will she present, once she gets back? She invents an old lady tumbling down stairs, an old lady needing rescue; she invents a taxi, a trip to the hospital. How could she leave her to fend for herself, the poor old soul? Lying on the sidewalk without a friend in the world. She'll say she knows she should have phoned, but there wasn't a phone nearby, and the old lady was in such pain. She steels herself for the lecture she'll get, about minding her own business; the shake of the head, because what can be done about her? When will she ever learn to leave well enough alone?

Downstairs the clock is clicking off the minutes. There are voices in the corridor, the sound of hurrying, rapid pulse of shoes. It's an in and out business. She lies awake beside him, listening to him sleeping, wondering where he's gone. Also how much she should tell him-whether she should tell him everything that's happened. If he asks her to go away with him, then she'll have to tell. Otherwise perhaps better not. Or not yet.

When he wakes up he wants another drink, and a cigarette.

I guess we shouldn't do this, she says. Smoking in bed. We'll catch on fire. Burn ourselves up.

He says nothing.

What was it like? she says. I read the papers, but that's not the same.

No, he says. It's not.

I was so worried you might get killed.

I almost did, he said. The funny thing is, it was hell but I got used to it, and now I can't get used to this. You've put on a bit of weight.

Oh, am I too fat?

No. It's nice. Something to hang on to.

It's full dark now. From down below the window, where the beverage room empties onto the street, come snatches of off-key song, shouts, laughter; then the sound of glass shattering. Someone's smashed a bottle. A woman screams.

Some celebration they're having.

What are they celebrating?

War.

But there isn't a war. It's all over.

They're celebrating the next one, he says. It's on the way. Everyone's denying it up there in cloud cuckoo land, but down at ground level you can smell it coming. With Spain shot to hell for target practice, they'll start in on the serious business pretty soon. It's like thunder in the air, and they're excited by it. That's why all the bottle-smashing. They want to get a head start.

Oh, surely not, she says. There can't be another one. They've made pacts and everything.

Peace in our time, he says scornfully. Fucking bullshit. What they're hoping is that Uncle Joe and Adolf will tear each other to pieces, and get rid of the Jews for them into the bargain, while they sit on their bums and make money.

You're as cynical as ever.

You're as naive.

Not quite, she says. Let's not argue. It won't be settled by us. But this is more like him, more like the way he was, and so she feels a little better.

No, he says. You're right. It won't be settled by us. We're small potatoes.

But you'll go anyway, she says. If it starts up again. Whether you're a small potato or not.

He looks at her. What else can I do?

He doesn't know why she's crying. She tries not to. I wish you'd been wounded, she says. Then you'd have to stay here.

And a fat lot of good that would do you, he says. Come here.

Leaving, she can scarcely see. She walks by herself a little, to calm down, but it's dark and there are too many men on the sidewalk, and so she takes a taxi. Sitting in the back seat, she repairs her mouth, powders her face. When they stop, she rummages in her purse, she pays the taxi, goes up the stone steps and through the arched entranceway, and closes the thick oak door. In her head she's rehearsing: Sorry I'm late, but you wouldn't believe what happened to me, I've had quite a little adventure.

Yellow curtains

How did the war creep up? How did it gather itself together? What was it made from? What secrets, lies, betrayals? What loves and hatreds? What sums of money, what metals?

Hope throws a smokescreen. Smoke gets in your eyes and so no one is prepared for it, but suddenly it's there, like an out-of-control bonfire-like murder, only multiplied. It's in full spate.

The war takes place in black and white. For those on the sidelines that is. For those who are actually in it there are many colours, excessive colours, too bright, too red and orange, too liquid and incandescent, but for the others the war is like a newsreel-grainy, smeared, with bursts of staccato noise and large numbers of grey-skinned people rushing or plodding or falling down, everything elsewhere.

She goes to the newsreels, in the movie theatres. She reads the papers. She knows herself to be at the mercy of events, and she knows by now that events have no mercy.

She's made up her mind. She's determined now, she'll sacrifice everything and everyone. Nothing and nobody will stand in her way.

This is what she'll do. She has it all planned out. She'll leave the house one day as if it's any other day. She'll have money, money of some description. This is the unclear part, but surely something will be possible. What do other people do? They go to the pawnshop, and that's what she will have done as well. She'll get the money by pawning things: a gold watch, a silver spoon, a fur coat. Bits and pieces. She'll pawn them little by little and they won't be missed.

It won't be enough money but it will have to be enough. She'll rent a room, an inexpensive room but not too dingy-nothing a coat of paint won't brighten up. She'll write a letter saying she isn't coming back.

They'll send emissaries, ambassadors, then lawyers, they'll threaten, they'll penalise, she'll be afraid all the time but she'll hold firm. She'll burn all her bridges except the bridge to him, even though the bridge to him is so tenuous. I'll be back, he said, but how could he be sure? You can't guarantee such a thing.

She'll live on apples and soda crackers, on cups of tea and glasses of milk. Cans of baked beans and corned beef. Also on fried eggs when available, and slices of toast, which she'll eat at the corner caf © where the newsboys and early drunks also eat. Veterans will eat there too, more and more of them as the months go past: men missing hands, arms, legs, ears, eyes. She'll wish to talk with them, but she won't because any interest from her would be sure to be misunderstood. Her body as usual would get in the way of free speech. Therefore she will only eavesdrop.

In the caf © the talk will be about the end of the war, which everyone says is coming. It will only be a matter of time, they'll say, before it'll all be mopped up and the boys will be back. The men who say this will be strangers to one another, but they'll exchange such comments anyway, because the prospect of victory will make them talkative. There will be a different feeling in the air, part optimism, part fear. Any day now the ship will come in, but who can tell what might be on it?

Her apartment will be above a grocery store, with a kitchenette and a small bathroom. She will buy a house plant-a begonia, or else a fern. She will remember to water this plant and it will not die. The woman running the grocery store will be dark-haired and plump and motherly, and will talk about her thinness and the need for her to eat more, and about what should be done for a chest cold. Perhaps she will be Greek; Greek, or something like it, with big arms and a centre part in her hair, and a bun at the back. Her husband and son will be overseas; she'll have pictures of them, framed in painted wood, hand-tinted, beside the cash register.

Both of them-she and this woman-will spend a lot of time listening: for footsteps, a telephone call, a knock on the door. It's hard to sleep under these circumstances: they'll discuss remedies for sleeplessness. Occasionally the woman will press an apple into her hand, or an acid-green candy from the glass container of them on the counter. Such gifts will be more comforting to her than their low price would suggest.

How will he know where to reclaim her? Now that her bridges have been burned. He'll know, however. He'll find out somehow, because journeys end in lovers meeting. They should. They must.

She'll sew curtains for the windows, yellow curtains, the colour of canaries or the yolks of eggs. Cheerful curtains, like sunshine. Never mind that she doesn't know how to sew, because the woman downstairs will help her. She'll starch the curtains and hang them up. She'll get down on her knees with a whisk and clean out the mouse droppings and dead flies under the kitchen sink. She'll repaint a set of canisters she'll find in a junk store, and stencil on them: Tea, Coffee, Sugar, Flour. She will hum to herself while doing this. She'll buy a new towel, a whole set of new towels. Also sheets, these are important, and pillowcases. She'll brush her hair a lot.

These are the joyful things she will do, while waiting for him.

She'll buy a radio, a small tinny secondhand one, at the pawnshop; she'll listen to the news, to keep up with current events. Also she'll have a telephone: a telephone will be necessary in the long run, although no one will call her on it, not yet. Sometimes she'll pick it up just to listen to it purr. Or else there will be voices on it, having a conversation on the party line. Mostly it will be women, exchanging the details of meals and weather and bargains and children, and of men who are somewhere else.

None of this happens, of course. Or it does happen, but not so you would notice. It happens in another dimension of space.

The telegram

The telegram is delivered in the usual way, by a man in a dark uniform whose face brings no glad tidings. When they're hired for the job they teach them that expression, remote but doleful, like a dark blank bell. The closed coffin look.

The telegram comes in a yellow envelope with a glassine window, and it says the same thing telegrams like that always say-the words distant, like the words of a stranger, an intruder, standing at the far end of a long empty room. There aren't many words, but every word is distinct: inform, loss, regret. Careful, neutral words, with a hidden question behind them: What did you expect?

What's this about? Who is this? she says. Oh. I remember. It's him. That man. But why did they send it to me? I'm scarcely the next of kin!

Kin? says one of them. Did he have any? It's meant to be a witticism.

She laughs. It's nothing to do with me. She crumples up the telegram, which she assumes they've read on the sly before passing it on to her. They read all of the mail; that goes without saying. She sits down, a little too abruptly. I'm sorry, she says. I feel quite strange all of a sudden.

Here you go. This'll buck you up. Drink it down, that's the ticket.

Thank you. It's nothing to do with me, but still it's a shock. It's like someone walking on your grave. She shivers.

Easy does it. You look a little green. Don't take it personally.

Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps they got the addresses mixed.

Could have done. Or perhaps it was his own doing. Perhaps it was his idea of a joke. He was an odd duck, as I recall.

Odder than we thought. What a filthy rotten thing to do! If he was alive you could sue him for mischief.

Perhaps he was trying to make you feel guilty. That's what they do, his kind. Envious, all of them. Dog in the manger. Don't let it worry you.

Well, it's not a very nice thing, no matter how you look at it.

Nice? Why would it be nice? He was never what you'd callnice.

I suppose I could write to the superior officer. Demand an explanation.

Why would he know anything about it? It wouldn't have been him, it was some functionary on this end of things. They just use what's written down in the records. He'd say it was a snafu, by no means the first, from what I hear.

Anyway, no sense in making a fuss. It would just draw attention, and no matter what you do you'll never find out why he did it.

Not unless the dead walk. Their eyes are bright, all watching her, alert. What are they afraid of? What are they afraid she'll do?

I wish you wouldn't use that word, she says fretfully.

What word? Oh. She meansdead. Might as well call a spade a spade. No sense not. Now, don't be…

I don't like spades. I don't like what they're used for-digging holes in the ground.

Don't be morbid.

Get her a handkerchief. It's no time to badger her. She should go upstairs, have a little rest. Then she'll be right as rain.

Don't let it upset you.

Don't take it to heart.

Forget it.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 873