The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (2 page)

And shanks' mare up Beaver Hall Hill, last lap, all on his onlie-oh, remembering that any man who ever amounted to anything was the man who took a chance, struck out, et cetera.

But oh! he was close to the line today. Only he knew how close.

And at last, shanks'-maring it into a big office building, riding up in an express elevator to the fifteenth floor, he was let out into a very grand reception hall. Up he went to a modern desk that was all glass and wooden legs which let you see the legs of the smashing blond receptionist behind it. Who smiled at him but lost her smile when he said his name and in aid of what Ginger Coffey had blown in. She was sorry but Mr. Beauchemin was presently in conference and would you just sit over there for a moment, sir? And would he just fill in this form

while he was waiting? In block letters, please. In block letters he pondered once again the misleading facts of a life.

When he had set them down, he handed back the form, and the girl read it over in front of him. Which mortified him. There were so few things you could write down when faced with the facts of a life. "Fine, sir," she said in a schoolmistressy voice. "Now, perhaps while you're waiting you'd like to familiarize yourself with our house organ. Here's our latest issue."

That was very kind of her, he said. He took the glossy little magazine and went back to the banquette to study it. The Nickelodeon was the name of the house organ. He wondered if that was funny on purpose but decided not. Canadians saw nothing comical in the words "house organ/' He flipped through the glossy pages. Pictures of old codgers getting gold watches for twenty-five years of well-done-thou-good-and-faithful. Wasn't it to avoid the like of that that he had emigrated? He skipped through the column of employee gossip called Nickel Nuggets but looked long at the photos on the Distaff Doings page. Some of the distaffers were very passable pieces indeed. Well now, enough of that. He turned to the main article which was entitled J. C. FURNTSS., Vice-Pres. (Traffic): A PROFILE. It seemed that even J. C. himself had started in humble circs as a chainman (whatever that was). Which was the rags to riches rise the New World was famous for. Which cheered a fellow up, because at home it was not like that. At home it was Chinese boxes, one inside the other, and whatever you started off as, you would probably end up as. Which was why he had come here. Which was why, this morning, he had been stumped when faced with the facts of a life.

For the true facts you could not put on an application form, now could you? For instance, when Ginger got out of the Army, Veronica's relatives had influence at Kylemore Distilleries and the job they offered him was a real plum, they said: Special Assistant to the Managing Director. Plum! Two years as a glorified office boy. Get me two tickets for the jumping at the Horse Show, Ginger. Book me a seat on the six o'clock plane to London. Go down to customs and see if you can square that stuff away, Ginger. Orders, orders . . . And, after two years, when Ginger asked for a raise and more responsibility, the Managing Director gave him a sour look and kicked him downstairs into the Advertising Department. Where, when he tried some new ideas, the Advertising Manager, a Neanderthal bloody man, name of Cleery, called him in and said: "Where do you think you are, Coffey? New York? Remember, the thing that sells whiskey in this country is being on good terms with the publicans. Now, get back to your desk at once."

Orders. Taking guff from powers that be. So, the minute Ginger heard of an opening in a place called Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear in Cork, he resigned and over Veron-cia's protests moved his family down there. But Cork was not New York either. Ah, no. Orders, orders . , . Fifty years behind the times. Taking guff. Never free.

In fact, he might never have got free if his father (R.I.P.) hadn't died, leaving two thousand quid to Ginger, enough to pay their debts and start them off again. Again, he did it over Veronica's protests; but this time, by J, he decided to get right out of the country. Far too late now to do the things he once had dreamed of: paddling down the Amazon with four Indian companions, climbing a peak in Tibet or sailing a raft from Galway to the West Indies. But not too late to head off for the New

World in search of fame and fortune. So he went up to Dublin and took his old boss out to lunch. Filled the Managing Director of Kylemore Distilleries with Jam-met's best duck d Torange and asked him point-blank if Kylemore would be interested in opening up a North American market. They would not, said the Managing Director. "All right then/' Coffey said. "You'll be the sorry ones, not me/' And went straight across the street to Cootehill Distilleries, Kylemore's chief competitor. But flute! At Cootehill they told him they already had a man in New York. "Well" said Coffey. "Well . . . what about Canada, then?" No, they did not have anyone there. And yes, they were willing to let him have a crack at selling their whiskey in Canada. Seeing he was paying his own way out there, why not? A small retainer? Yes, they might manage that.

Right, then! Before he sailed, he lined up two side lines. A North American agency for Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear, which the Dublin office gave him over the Cork office's objections. And a little side line as American representative for Dromore Tweeds of Carrick-on-Shannon, which was part-owned by an old school pal of his. And so, six months ago, after a round of good-bys forever, he, Veronica and Paulie sailed out to Montreal, taking the great gamble. His own boss at last.

Except that now, six months later, he was his own boss no longer. And so, at a quarter to twelve, the Nickelodeon read from cover to cover, he smiled at the receptionist, still hoping. She came over. "I'm afraid Mr. Beauchemin will be tied up until after lunch. Do you think you could come back at two-thirty?"

Coffey thought of Mr. Beauchemin trussed-up on his office carpet. He said yes, he thought he could.

Down he went in the express elevator, across the lobby and out into the street. The noon crowd scurried

along icy pavements from central heat to central heat. Six office girls, arms linked, high voices half* lost in the wind, edged past him in a tottering chorus line. Bundled against the wind, no telling what they looked like. He followed them for a while, playing an old game of his. That very instant a genie had told him they were all houris awaiting his pleasure, but only one must he choose and he must not look on any of their faces. He must choose from the rear view. All right, then, he decided on the tall one in the middle. His choice made, he followed them to the intersection of Peel and Ste. Catherine Streets, and as they paused for the traffic light he came level and inspected their faces. She had a long neb. He should have picked the little one on the outside right. Anyway, none of them was half as pretty as his own wife. He turned away.

Businessmen clutching hat brims butted impatiently past his aimless, strolling figure. A taxi, its tire chains rattling in the brown-sugar slush, pulled up beside him to disgorge six Rotarians who ran up the steps of a hotel, their snow-filthy rubbers tracking the wine-colored carpet. A bundle of newspapers, hurled from the tailgate of a truck by a leather-jacketed leprechaun, fell by his feet. He paused, read the headline on top, as a news vendor rushed from a kiosk to retrieve.

WIFE, LOVER SLAY CRIPPLE MATE

Which reminded him. He had not phoned Veronica.

Slow stroll across Dominion Square, everyone hurrying save he, every face fixed in a grimace by the painful wind, eyes narrowed, mouths pursed, driven by this cruel climate to an abnormal, head-bent helter-skelter. He passed a statue of Robert Burns, reflecting that this snow-drifted square was an odd place for that kiltie to wind up. And that reminded him of failures: Burns's

brew was called for a lot more often on this continent than usquebaugh. "Usquebaugh is the name of it, Mr. Montrose; yes, we Irish invented it, quite different from rye or Scotch. I have a booklet here, Irish coffee recipe . . ." Promotion, they called it. You had to promote before you could sell. But, to those thicks back in Ireland, promotion was not work.

Dear Coffey:

Yours of the 6th to hand. Before we approve these expenses, which seem very high to us, our directors would like to know how many suppliers you can guarantee. So far, in our opinion, you have not . . .

That was in the beginning of October. He should have seen the writing on the wall. But instead, he started to use his own savings to keep the ship afloat. He had to. Those thicks refused to pay the half of his expenses. And then, a month later, three letters with Irish postmarks arrived in the same week, as though, behind his back, the whole of Ireland had ganged up on him:

Dear Coffey:

I regret to inform you that at the last meeting of our board of directors it was decided tJiat in view of current dollar restrictions and the heavy "promotion' expenses you have incurred, we feel unable at this time to continue our arrangement with ijou. Therefore, we are no longer prepared to pay your office rent or to continue your retainer after this month. . . .

Dear Coffey:

Four orders from department stores and single orders from six other shops which have not been repeated do not justify the money you are charging us. And advertising at the rates you quote is quite out of the question. Coomb-Na-Baun Knitwear has always enjoyed a modest sale on your side of the water without any special promotion, and

so we feel at this time that it is wiser all around for us to cancel our arrangement with you. . . .

Dear Ginger:

Hartigan says we would be better off sending an out-and-out traveler to cities like Boston, New York and Toronto to show samples and take orders as the British tailoring firms do. High-power American methods do not go over in Carrick-on-Shannon, so if you will kindly let us have back the swatches. . . .

He burned those letters. He economized by giving up their flat and moving to this cheap dump of a duplex. But he did not tell Veronica. For two weeks he sat in his rented office, searching the want ads in the newspapers, dodging out from time to time for half-hearted inquiries about jobs. But the trouble was what his trouble always was. He had not finished his B.A., the Army years were wasted years, the jobs at Kylemore and Coomb-Na-Baun had not qualified him for any others. In six months he would be forty. He thought of Father Cogley's warning.

The pulpit was on the right of the school chapel. Ginger Coffey, aged fifteen, sat under it while Father Cogley, a Redemptorist Missioner, preached the retreat. There's always one boy — Father Cogley said — always one boy who doesn't want to settle down like the rest of us. He's different, he thinks. He wants to go out into the great wide world and find adventures. He's different, you see. Aye, well, Lucifer thought he was different. He did. Now, this boy who thinks he's different, he's the lad who never wants to finish his studies. Ireland isn't good enough for him, it's got to be England or America or Rio-dee-Janeero or some place like that. So, what does he do? He burns his books and off he runs. And what happens?

Well, I'll tell you. Nine times out of ten that fellow winds up as a pidt-and-shovel laborer or at best a twopenny pen-pusher in some hell on earth, some place of sun and rot or snow and ice that no sensible man would be seen dead in. And why? Because that class of boy is unable to accept his God-given limitations, because that class of boy has no love of God in him, because that class of boy is an ordinary, lazy lump and his talk of finding adventures is only wanting an excuse to get away and commit mortal sins — Father Cogley looked down: he looked into the eyes of Ginger Coffey, who had been to confess to him only half an hour ago. And let me tell that boy one thing — Father Cogley said — If you burn your books, you burn your boats. And if you burn your boats, you'll sink. You'll sink in this world and you'll sink in the next . . .

And woe betide you then . . .

It was all missionary malarkey, of course. But although he had forgotten all else that was ever preached to him, Coffey had not forgotten that sermon. He had thought of it often; had thought of it that third week of December when Veronica found out. She wept. She said she had seen this coming for a long time. (It was the sort of thing she would say.) She said if he did not land a job by Christmas, they must go home the first ship in the New Year. She said they had six hundred dollars put aside for their passages home, and he had promised her they would go back if it did not work. It had not worked. And so, look at us — she said — we know no one here. No one would lift a finger if we froze to solid ice in the streets. You promised me. Let's get out before we have to sing for our passage. At home, there's people know you. You can always find something. Now, there's a ship leaving Halifax on the tenth of January. I'm reserving our tickets —

But it's not even Christmas yet, he said. What's the hurry? Ill find something. Chin up!

Christmas came and went, but the snow was their only present. They saw the New Year in, with Veronica starting to pack as soon as the radio played "Auld Lang Syne," while he, alone in the dun-colored duplex living room, decided that on January second, as soon as the offices were open again, he would humble himself and go down to the Unemployment Commission. Because he would have to find some job. Because, you see, there was one thing he still hadn't told her. He no longer had the money for the tickets. In fact, all that was left was — never mind — it was a frightener to think how little.

And today was D-day. The wind was stronger now. The snow had stopped and his ears began to hurt as if someone had boxed them. He looked into a restaurant, saw people lined three-deep beside the hostess rope, the waitresses stacking dishes, placing paper place mats and fresh glasses of water before anyone who dared to dawdle: no, there was no shelter in Childs. But he must phone Veronica — start preparing her. So in he went.

"That you, Kitten?"

"Did you get the tickets, Ginger?"

"Well, no, not yet, dear. That's what I'm phoning you about. You see, dear, right out of a clear blue sky I met a man on my way downtown who told me about a job. So I'm going for an interview."