4
Dear Mary,
Sorry I’ve been so long in replying. The job is as hectic as ever. That’s the only excuse I can offer, and I don’t suppose it’s a very good one at that, but I hope you will forgive me as ever! I’m glad to hear that you are winning the Adolescent War with young Sandy. Give him my best wishes, will you? He must be real man-sized by now. Could you maybe send me a photo of the two of you? I keep meaning to find a recent photograph of myself to send on, but you know what it’s like. I think I’ve changed a bit since the last photo I sent you. That was Christmas 1980 if my memory serves me right. Or was it ’79? The brain cells have given up the battle! Only the body soldiers bravely on. There are few new victories. I sit behind my desk all day signing my name to scraps of paper. Sometimes I am allowed out of my chair to walk around one of the sites. You would think I have an important job, huh? Sometimes I even fool myself that I do have an important job. Truth is, I’m no more than a glorified clerk. I wish I was out on the sites again, running things out there rather than in this little box. (Yes, I’m writing to you from my place of work. This is the company’s stationery.) Old Emerson himself was in to see me last week. That’s the first time I’ve seen him since they promoted me, which apparently means that I’m doing fine, or at least making no visible botches. Emerson nodded his head a few times and grunted and then asked if I was getting married yet. He’s been asking me that for four goddamn years! One day I’ll maybe surprise him, but I think not. I’m a born bachelor, I guess, so it’s no use you hounding me to get hitched either!
This schoolteacher guy sounds okay. You have my blessing, sis, whatever you decide. I suppose you feel you have to think of Sandy just now, but he’ll soon be flying the roost himself. You’re only thirty-one, Mary. In your last letter you sounded like some fifty-year-old. Get out there and grab some guy! Enjoy yourself while you’re young. Look at me, I’m all of thirty-three, still single, still having an okay time with my decreasing band of merry bachelor men. There are lots of nice men around, Mary, so there’s no excuse for you. If I could I’d swim the Atlantic and marry you myself... but of course I don’t have the time! (Just joking, sis!)
Have you asked Sandy about his coming over to Canada for a holiday this year? I still think it would be a good idea — and no, I’m not trying to steal him! But maybe he could strike it lucky here like his Uncle Tom did. (Okay, so I’m no Howard Hughes.) Anyway, it would do him good to have a break after his exams. He needs time to think over his future, don’t you think? And it would also give The Teacher and you some well-earned time by yourselves. Please think it over. For this year only! Super special offer. Much reduced prices. Hell, we’re giving the stuff away. Canada doesn’t have an incredible amount going for it as a holiday centre, but there are parts of it I’d still like to see myself, parts I’m sure Sandy would enjoy. Way up north. Remember I went lumberjacking up that way when I first arrived here? What an experience that was. I only lasted four days! And I promise to keep Sandy out of mischief if he comes. You have a bachelor’s word on that! (Worth a grand total of not much.)
How’s the money working out? Don’t take any nonsense from that bloody bank manager, and please remember that you have my money in the account as a standby. I would be really grateful if you would feel that you can freely use it. I told you. It has been arranged with the bank for ages. I’ll never touch that money, I don’t need it, and I’m sure Mum and Dad would have wanted you to take it. I know they would. Please.
Well, Mary, I’m being allowed out of doors for a breath of fresh construction-site air in five minutes, so I better finish this. It was real nice to get your letter, Mary. Thanks. And keep them coming. Also, tell Sandy that if he doesn’t write to me soon I will do something drastic to him while he sleeps! And all my love to him as well as to your good, good self. Closing for now.
All my love,
5
The daytimes glazed through the rest of the spring, blowing warm winds and the smell of grass into the nostrils of those still aware enough to appreciate such things. Everything opened up into the transient summer. Sandy would rise early, afraid of oversleeping for his exams. He took them seriously, and did an hour’s revision before breakfast. Then, leaving his mother at the door, he would choose a stone to kick all the way to school.
The examination hall was stuffy and full of smiling, unserious contenders. He feared to look up in case his attention should be distracted and his crammed memory evaporate entirely. He had been storing rote answers for weeks. It needed only one of Belly Martin’s funny faces to knock a dozen equations from his head. So he kept his eyes on the desk, though the air near the wood was dank and overpowering. Here was his school career: scrawls on a scratched desktop; a rickety chair; a list of multiple-choice questions; a one-in-five chance; feet sliding over the dusty tiled floor. One teacher sat at the front of the hall reading his newspaper. Another stared out of a window as he paced the rows of desks. This was it. Everything. It was ludicrous. Nothing about it equated with ten years of schooling. Sandy was suddenly glad that he had swotted — not that he meant to stay on, but grades mattered. It had been drummed into him until it had seemed as casual a knowledge as the gospel stories he had known as a child, and like them this new knowledge — not knowledge, but facts pure and simple would be forgotten in time.
The examinations weren’t too difficult. Between them there were days of nothing, a time to laze and to taste freedom and to study the few sentences which constituted a distillation of several years’ teaching. Sandy carried his lists of important sentences and equations around with him. He would take a list from his pocket and study it at random moments. These nuggets replaced, for a few weeks, his collection of good stones.
After each exam he was pleasantly surprised to feel himself drained and in need of sleep. He would go home and doze in the chair until tea-time. On waking, he would be unable to recall many of the exam questions. He would delete from his lists the information no longer needed, then would take the examination paper from his pocket and examine it as if it were an alien object. He could not have answered it. It would not seem the same paper that he had so recently sat. Even the words would be unfamiliar. It was a curious sensation, and one which others experienced. Belly Martin laughed at them when they discussed it one day.
‘You’re fucked then, aren’t you? When that happens it means you haven’t been concentrating. You might have written anything down. Serves you right, you fucking swots. What good will it do you when we leave? There’s no jobs anyway. Why bother?’