"Ouch!" said Erica, wincing.
"Well, damn it", Charles expostulated, "she’s already been married once and she’s only-how old is Miriam?"
"Twenty-four".
"And how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight".
"Besides, Miriam hasn’t half your brains", said her father, dismissing Miriam, and asked, "Where was I?"
"Starting a business with a son and a daughter", said Erica. "Though why you have to pick a time when your wife’s in the middle of giving a cocktail party…"
"Yes", said her father unconcernedly. "Anyhow, the point is that with you and Tony to choose from, I just automatically picked Tony. I don’t know why. It isn’t even as though Tony had ever particularly liked the idea of going into the firm. He did all right, he was there for five years, but I often had a queer feeling that he was just waiting for something to happen".
"So did I".
"Well, something did happen. I don’t know what he’s going to do after the war, he’s talked a lot about staying in aviation, but at any rate, I might just as well face the fact that he’s not going back to Drakes’. After four generations, it looks as though we’re finished…".
"Wait a minute", said Erica, staring at him. "Are you offering me Tony’s job?"
"Not Tony’s job-just a job. From then on it’s up to you".
"No", said Erica involuntarily. "I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly".
Ever since her childhood she had had one recurrent nightmare of an interminably long corridor from which there was no turning back and no exit, except the door at the other end toward which she was walking faster and faster, trying to get away from something which threatened to close in on her. Nothing ever happened; the door always remained the same distance ahead of her and whatever it was that threatened her, the same distance behind. The nightmare had neither beginning nor end, and when she woke up, she was still hurrying along the corridor, with a sense of oppression which was so strong that it often stayed with her half the morning.
Sitting on the arm of a chair in her father’s study she wondered why the mere suggestion that she should go into the family business had been enough to bring back that unpleasantly familiar sensation of something closing in on her, unless it was simply that, like the corridor, there would be no exit from Drakes’ except a door which it would take her forever to reach. The job would be permanent; after all, that was the whole idea. Once there, she would have to stay, and the only way of getting out would be for her to marry someone, and even that possibility would become increasingly remote as time went on. Her father would dominate her life; she would not only be living in his house but working in his office, and at some point, that domination would begin to take effect, probably without her even realizing it. It is all very well to view a situation from a distance and vow to remain detached, but when you are actually in the middle of that situation, detachment is not so easy. Your point of view and your scale of values alter without your being aware of it. Between her father’s opposition-and influence-on the one hand, and her own sense of responsibility to him and to her job, on the other, marriage would not stand much of a chance.
"Don’t you like the idea, Eric?"
She glanced at him, then got up suddenly from the arm of the chair and went over to the window. There was an apple tree in the sloping garden next door, and as she looked at it, she remembered Marc and felt free again. The tree was in full blossom and half of it was white against the bluish haze of the city below and half of it was gold against the setting sun. The apple tree, the singing and the gold….
"You and I have always got along so well together…".
She could not bear the sudden drop in his voice and she said quickly, turning back to the room and the dark, heavy figure in the chair in the corner, "It isn’t you, darling", remembering that in spite of all his dogged, rather touching efforts-though Tony had never made much effort! — he and his son had never got along well together. "I wouldn’t be any good at it, Charles", she said desperately.
"Yes, you would. You’re good at everything you really put your mind to". He shifted a little in his chair and added, smiling at her affectionately, "Anyhow, I’m glad it isn’t just me".
The smile did not quite hide his disappointment and she said, hoping that if he understood it, he would not mind so much, "There’s something too final about going into a family business, particularly when it’s been the family business for four generations. Dash it, Charles, I’d have the feeling that I was going to join my ancestors! People are always coming and going on the Post, I couldn’t be stuck there for the rest of my life even if I wanted to, but Drakes’…"
She shook her head and said, "I don’t want to end up with rum and molasses instead of a husband and children!"
"Well…"
"After all, I’m only twenty-eight!"
"It depends on the husband". He relit his pipe and went on, puffing, "You can be a lot surer that you’re not getting married in order to escape from a more or less unsatisfactory set-up, if you’ve got a really good job that’s going to lead somewhere, than if you’ve got the kind of job that leads nowhere".
She said incredulously, "Do you really imagine that I’d marry anybody for a meal-ticket?"
"Not anybody", he said, flicking a dead match across the carpet and into a waste-basket standing beside his desk. "And not for a meal-ticket, but as you’ve just finished saying yourself, for a husband and children".
"Yes?" said Erica. "Who, for example?"
He blew out a cloud of smoke and as it drifted upwards he said, watching it, "René".
"René! René’s not in love with me…".
"I’ve never been wrong yet about any of the men who’ve been in love with you".
"Well, you can always start".
He said imperturbably, "And I’d prefer rum and molasses to René".
"But he doesn’t want to marry me!"
"Why not?"
"Why should he?"
"I can think of a lot of reasons besides the fact that he’s in love with you…".
"Now, look, Charles", said Erica. "René doesn’t approve of mixed marriages between French and English Canadians, particularly when the English Canadian is Protestant…".
"Don’t you believe it. He’s headed for politics-there’s even some talk of his running as Liberal candidate in the provincial by-elections next month…".
"Where?"
"In Saint-Cyr down in the Eastern Townships. Apparently his great-grandfather owned a mill there or something".
"He’s never said anything about that…".
"Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that René has a talent for never saying anything about anything-even to you? And he never will, either".
"Really, Charles", said Erica, exasperated.
She sat down on the arm of the chair again. "Have you got a cigarette?"
He tossed her a package and when she had lit one, she said, "Anyhow, if René’s going to be a politician, he won’t have much use for a wife who’s one of the ultra-Protestant Drakes, will he?"
"That depends on whether he intends to end up in Quebec City or Ottawa. My guess is Ottawa. And if I’m right, then marrying you wouldn’t be at all a bad idea".
"I suppose you think René’s got all that figured out, too".
"Obviously".
She blew three smoke rings, considered her father for a while with her tongue in her cheek, and finally observed in a detached tone, "You know, Charles, you have a very suspicious mind. No matter who it is, as soon as some poor man shows signs of wanting to invite me out to dinner, you start to think up a set of perfectly hideous motives. Rather unflattering, if you ask me. Who knows? Some day some poor deluded idiot might want to marry me just for the sake of my beaux yeux and then where would you be?"