The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (6 page)

Still, for all his decency, Gerry could be a strain at times. Talk? A phonograph. And, being a political cartoonist, he fancied himself as in the know. He was always up in Ottawa, and to hear him talk about the place it was the hub of the bloody universe. He referred to the two head men in the Canadian Government as Lester and Louie. He had once had tea with Madame Pandit, and when he talked politics he let slip names like Joe Enlee or J. F. Dee or Rab or Mac or Matsy Dong or Mick OTan as if he was related to all of them.

But today, for a change, Gerry talked about Ireland. He said he was glad they were not going back there. He said until he had met the Coffeys he had considered Irish people bigoted, untrustworthy and conventional. Although he had some very good Irish friends, he said. But he had been relieved to find that the Coffeys were not nationalists or religious. Although he admired people who believed in something; didn't they? Of course, none of his Catholic friends ever went to church, he said. Which was a relief to him. Yes, the Irish were wonderful people, imaginative, romantic and creative. Wonderful people.

Coffey winked at Veronica.

Then Gerry talked about the interview that was coming up: "Confidence," Gerry said. "That's the important thing in an interview. Now, in Canada, we don't go in for the hard sell. On the contrary" — and his face loosened in that self-satisfied smile peculiar to him when discussing his country — "I like to think that Canadians combine the best facets of British reticence with a touch

of good old American down-to-earthness. And,, that's the tone I took when I sold you to MacGregor. I made him feel I was doing him a favor."

This time, it was Veronica who winked. Ah, God knows, Coffey thought, when you come right down to it, she's a darling. Not that Gerry would notice that, he was so wrapped up in himself. But she was a darling.

After the lunch with Gerry, the Coffeys walked over to the Tribune building and just the fact of having her with him made Coffey less nervous about the interview to come. Into the lobby they went and she stopped to straighten his tie. 'Til wait for you here," she said.

"But there's no need, Kitten. I mean, even when you have an appointment in this country, they often keep you hanging around for hours on end."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "I'll be nervous no matter where I wait. Oh, Ginger. What if they find out you've no experience?"

"Steady the Buffs," he said, smiling at her. But the sickness came suddenly upon him. No faith, she had. No faith. "Don't worry," he said. "Why, I'll bet you a —"

"I know," she said. "A brand-new frock. I could run a dress shop if I collected on half your bets. Now go on, and good luck."

So, into the elevator he went, sick with nerves, praying that . . .

"Fourth floor. Editorial," the elevator man said. Funny, whenever you were in no hurry to get somewhere, elevators, buses, taxis all went like the wind. Coffey stepped out, hearing the elevator door shut behind him, feeling shabby and ill at ease in his old blue suit, pausing to stare at his image in the brass plaque in the corridor. The plaque said CITY ROOM and in it he seemed all squeegeed up, head tiny, eyes aslant like a Chinaman. Exactly how he felt. But you'll do, he told himself. Keep your chin up

and somecjay you can buy yourself a brass plaque like this to remind yourself of the day your luck changed and you started in a whole new career. Right, then! He went in.

On the fourth floor of the Tribune, the night's business was just beginning. Under fluorescent lights, lit all year round, a few reporters studied the afternoon papers. A police radio blared routine calls in a corner and in the nearby teletype room a jammed machine tintinnabulated incessantly, calling for attention. In the center slot of a large horseshoe desk a fat man in a woolen cardigan sliced open the afternoon's crop of wire service photographs. He looked up as Coffey approached. "Yes?"

"May I speak to Mr. MacGregor, please?"

"Boy! Take this man to Mr. Mac."

An indolent adolescent shoved a rubber cylinder down a communications tube, then hooked a beckoning finger. Across the City Room he led and down a corridor to a partitioned-off office on the opened door of which a small brass plaque announced MANAGING EDITOR. The boy pointed to the plaque, then went away, wordless. Inside, Coffey saw three young men in shirt sleeves looking over the shoulders of an old man who was seated at a large, scarred desk. He was a thin old man with a pale, bony face, a pumping blue vein in his forehead and eyebrows thick and crumbling as cigar ash. His voice, a Low Church Scottish rumble, could be heard clearly in the corridor. For once, Coffey was not comforted by the fact that he faced an older man.

"Dorrothy Dix? Where's Dorrothy Dix?"

"Here, Mr. Mac."

"O.K. Now, where's the funnies?"

"Here, Mr. Mac"

"Make sure that Blondie is up top and then Mutt and Jeff and then Moon Mullins. Not Rex Morrgan, M.D. Some bleddy rascal in the composing room changed the order in the Early last night/*

"Right, Mr. Mac."

"O.K. Now, away with ye."

The three young men clutched up page proofs and galleys and rushed out, jostling Coffey in the doorway. For the love of J, how was he going to tell this sulphur-breathing Scottish Beelzebub that he was an experienced subeditor? Grosvenor must be daft.

The old man spiked a scrap of paper, like Calvin downing sin. His eye picked out Coffey in the doorway.

"Come in. State your business."

"My — my name is Coffey. I believe Gerry Grosvenor spoke to you about me?"

"Grrosvenor? Och, aye, the cartoonist. Come in, come in, sit you down. Where's my notes? Aye, here we are. Deskman, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What paper did you wurrk for in the Old Country?"

Confidence, Grosvenor had said. The time and tide that leads on to fortune. One good lie and — But as Coffey opened his mouth he was taken with a sort of aphasia. The old man waited, becoming suspicious. "I — ah — I worked on the Irish Times, sir."

"Times, eh? Good paper."

"Yes. Yes, isn't it?"

"Grrosvenor said you were in the Army?"

"Yes, sir."

"Officer weren't you? Serve overseas?"

"I — I was in the Irish Army, sir. We were neutral during the war."

"Indeed?"

"I — I was a press officer in the Irish Army," Coffey

added, trjdng to correct the hostility in that "Indeed?"

"Press officer," the old man said. "Trying to keep the facts from the public, that is the services* job. However, I need a man who has some knowledge of wurrld events. Most Canadians have none. What about you?"

"I — ah — I try to keep up, sir."

"Grrosvenor tells me you were a publicity man for a whussky company?"

"Yes, sir."

"Scotch whussky?"

"No, sir. Irish."

"No wonder you're out of a job, then. Did you wurrk on the foreign desk at the Times?"

"Yes, sir. Ah — part-time."

"What do you mean, part-time?"

"Well, ah — summer holidays and so on. Filling in."

The old man nodded and consulted his notes again. Coffey fingered his mustache. A good touch that summer holidays. He was pleased with himself for thinking of it.

"When was it you wurrked for the Times?"

"Oh — after I got out of the Army. About — ah — six years ago."

"How long did you wurrk there?"

"About" — what had Grosvenor said? — "about eighteen months."

"I see." The old man picked up one of the phones on his desk. "Give me Fanshaw," he said. "Ted? When you were in Dublin, did you ever hear tell of a subbie on the Times by the name of Coffey? . . . Aye, about five years ago. . . . Hold on." He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Coffey. "What was the name of the foreign editor?"

Coffey sat, his eyes on his little green hat.

"Well?"

He raised his eyes and read a title on the bogkshelf behind MacGregor. Holy Bible.

"Right, Ted," the old man told the telephone. "Disna' matter/' He put the phone down and glowered at Coffey under the crumbling ash of his eyebrows. "If you'd been a Scot," he said. "You'd have come in here wi' references in your hand. But you carry nothing besides your hat and a lot of cheek. Och, aye. You may fool the likes of Gerry Grrosvenor, but there isn't an Irishman born that I'd trust to pull the wuul o'er my eyes!"

Coffey, his face hot, stood up and put his hat on.

"Where are you going?" MacGregor said.

"I'm sorry I took up your ti—"

"Sit down! Are you hard up for a job? Tell me the truth."

"Yes, sir."

"O.K. Can you spell? Spell me parallel."

Coffey spelled.

"Correct. Are you married?"

"Yes, sir."

"Children?"

"One daughter, sir."

"Hmm. . . . Have you a vice?"

"Advice, sir?"

"Are you deef? I mean, have you a weakness? Booze or horses or wimmin? Own up now, for I'll find out, anyway."

"No, sir."

"O.K. You say ye've been a P.R. That may be. But what a P.R. knows about the wurrkings of a newspaper could be written twice over on the back of a tomtit's arse and still leave room for the Lorrd's Prayer. So you'd best start at the bottom. Do you agree?"

Coffey took a deep breath. He was too old to start at the bottom.

"Well? I^)on't stand there gawking/'

"Well, sir, it depends. I'm not a boy of twenty."

"I'm proposing to start you off in the proofroom/' the old man said. "So that you can acquaint yourself with the rudiments of our style. That's the best training there is/'

"A — a p-p-proofreader, did you say, sir?"

"I did. My readers are not unionized, thank the Lord. And I happen to be shorthanded there at the moment. If you wurrk well, I might try you out on the floor as a reporter. You might even wind up as a deskman if you play your cards right. What do you say?"

"Well I — I'd have to think about that, sir. How much — how much would that pay?"

"Fifty dollars a week, which is more than you're wurrth. Start at six tonight. Go and think it over now, but let me know no later than half-past four, if you want the job."

"Thank you —"

"Clarence?" Mr. MacGregor shouted. "Where's Clarence?"

A fat man rushed in, notebook at the ready.

"What's the last two paras of Norrman Vincent Peale doing in the overset, Clarence?"

"Don't know, Mr. Mac."

"Bleddy well find out, then."

The fat man rushed out. Mr. MacGregor spiked another galley. "All right, Coffey. Good day to you,"

Coffey went away. Fifty dollars a week, reading galleys. A galley slave ... He passed along a corridor lined with rolls of newsprint, wandered across the wide desert of the city room and out past the brass plaque to the elevator. The red light flashed above the elevator door. Going down. Down, down, all his high hopes failed; with Veronica waiting below, Veronica who wanted to know that the bad days were over, that they could move to a better place . . .

"Ground floor/' the elevator man said. "Ground floor. Out/There she was under the big clock, the nervous beginnings of a smile on her face. Poor Kitten, it was not fair to her, not fair at all, she'd be in such a state —

Maybe, through Gerry Grosvenor, maybe he might just manage? Maybe. And so, he went towards her, his mind made up. Don't tell her now. Smile instead, be the jolly Ginger she used to love. He kissed her, squeezed her and said: "Steady as she goes."

"Did you get it, Ginger?"

"I did, indeed."

"Oh, thank God."

"Now, now," he said. "What's that? Sniffles? Come on, come on, it's laughing you should be. Listen — let's — let's go and have a cup of tea. How would you like to sail into the Ritz, just like the old days?"

"Oh, Ginger, I'm so glad for you."

"Glad for me? And aren't you glad for yourself, Kitten? Ah, it's going to be super. Just super. Come on now. We'll take a taxi."

"But we can't afford it, Ginger."

"Come on, come on," lie said, out in the street now, signaling a cab. "Let me be the judge of that. In with you. Driver? The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, on the double!"

He leaned back in the taxi, put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her, watching the city rush past: pretending. Making her feel as she did in the first weeks they landed, two people in a new and exciting country, him with three good agencies to make his fortune and all the old fogeys at home confounded. Sweeping her off to the Ritz for tea, happy as sandboys, the pair of them.

"But, how did the interview go?" she said. "What did he ask you?"

"Why, .first rate, first rate," said he. "The old fellow took to me like a long-lost relative. He's going to show me over the different stages of the job, let me work awhile in each department until I get my hand in."

"Isn't that marvelous?" she said. "We must phone Gerry and thank him."

"Plenty of time. Tea first."

"Ginger, how much are they going to pay you?"

"Hundred and ten, but that's only a start. There's no telling how far I can go in a job like this. You may be looking at an important citizen, Kitten. J. F. Coffey, the editor."

"But Ginger, do you think you can do it?"

"Didn't Gerry say I could?"

"Yes, but—"

"Gerry has perfect faith in me," Coffey said, "and you have none. Isn't that a nice thing?"

"No, I didn't mean that," she said, contrite. "It's just that I hope nothing goes wrong this time."

"What would go wrong, would you tell me? Now, come on. Here we are."

He helped her out of the taxi under the brass carriage lanterns of the hotel, already lit in the gray winter afternoon. Up the steps they went, past the black wood panels of the entrance hall, and into the heat of the lobby. He took her coat and removed his own, dodging off to the cloakroom. He had to get a hold of Gerry. For one thing Gerry might be able to tell him how long he'd have to wait before they made him a reporter. And, for another, Gerry would have to help him because this was Gerry's fault after all. They would just have to keep mum, Gerry and he, and try to get through the weeks until he was made a reporter. Wasn't that the best plan? Well, if it wasn't, it was the only plan he could think of at the moment.