The End of Music Read online

  “Dmitri, I believe his name is. I wonder did our friend Billy Scheffman drop by to say hello?”

  “You might like to know, Joyce, that before coming among us as a merchant, our Billy did a stint in the Russian army.”

  “So he and Dmitri are old comrades, you might say.”

  “You might.”

  “It’s a point of interest, if nothing more.”

  “Especially when you consider that Billy is of the Hebrew people.”

  “Which explains his success.”

  “Explains his flair for separating the Christian housewife from her dollar.”

  They talked across her, in a way that Joyce felt pinned to her chair.

  “Anyway, you’ll need to update the map,” she said. “That file I gave you. It’s from Den.”

  “Now see here,” said Frank. “Some of the great military campaigns in history were conducted without a map. The Romans, or Alexander the Great.”

  Dawson said something about Napoleon in Russia and they were off again.

  //////

  Joyce made the rounds with a big tomato juice can, dumping ashtrays into it. Old Dunphy dimmed the lights, throwing shafts of deep shadow over the room. Gord Delaney’s wife, Fran, appeared with a steaming pot of beans and wieners, and scurried back to get the buns. You’d never know Fran and Gord were married, to see them on an evening at the Airport Club. Him running the band and her running the kitchen, not so much as a glance between them. People said they weren’t happy, rarely seen together except at church. There was no sign of Gord today.

  Men began drifting to the table, where Rachel towered over the used teabags, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, and bread crusts marked by half-moon bites. She dug a ladle into the beans. The men lined up before her, dutiful and quiet, as if taking Holy Communion. Joyce laid out spoons and napkins.

  “Are they Russians out there?” she asked one, laying a full bowl in his hands. “Or Germans?”

  “Well, miss, I’d say they’re awful fools, whoever they are. Out on a night the like of this.” The man grinned at her, pleased to be singled out for conversation. “Did you know, miss, they had mind to blow this place to bits during the war?”

  “Who? The Germans?”

  “No, my love. The Brits. They had a plan to blow the works rather than see it fall to the Krauts, if it ever came to that.”

  “That’s enough,” said the next in line, a balding, stubby man in bib overalls. “Mind your dinner.”

  “Bern Henley got the Jack-a-tars out looking,” said the next one behind him, and the group broke into giggles.

  “The Jack-a-tars will find ’em for sure.”

  “Got the smell of the bog right in them.”

  “They say there’s a bottle in it for them.”

  “That got their attention.”

  “The Jack-a-tars with a bottle? Look out!”

  They were interrupted by a commotion near the front. Frank was shouting, though he didn’t seem to direct it at anyone. His shirt was soaking wet, with pink flesh and a ribbed undershirt showing through at the shoulders. He must have been outdoors, or fallen in something.

  “Cripes. Can’t the wife come and get him?” someone asked.

  “Gloria won’t go near him in that state.”

  “He might find a friend among the Jack-a-tars.”

  Frank fumbled with a package of Viceroys, dropping several cigarettes as he made an unsteady path to the door. A crash of coat hangers as he slipped in the muddy foyer and tumbled into the closet. Open laughter rippled through the room, and a smattering of applause.

  Joyce wondered if she ought to call Gloria and warn her not to let him in. He shouldn’t be allowed in the house with her and the baby.

  It seemed unlikely that men would carry on like this, if there were Russian agents about. Or would they? She didn’t understand the Gander crowd at all. It was all a bit of a lark around here. You had to scratch the surface to get at the serious business of life, and people didn’t like having their surface scratched.

  //////

  Nobody wanted to say, with dusk coming on, that the search might soon be for bodies rather than men. Joyce and Rachel were waiting on a tray of sandwiches—Fran Delaney had just loaded a boulder of ham into the meat slicer—when Maeve Vardy came through the kitchen door at great speed.

  “Dirty dishes sitting out there gone rotten,” she said. “You’d never run a kitchen where I’m from.”

  Fran, stout and slightly walleyed behind thick glasses, ignored Maeve and flicked the switch on her slicer.

  A whirring motor set the blade spinning. Wriggling sheets of ham, veined white with fat, piled up on the butcher’s paper.

  “Anyway, there’s news,” said Maeve.

  “News?” Rachel spoke through her full mouth.

  “They’ve found someone.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, woman?” cried Fran.

  From the lounge came a burst of applause. They all ran from the kitchen to find a crowd gathered around Den. He stood on a chair, talking, black hair gleaming under the lights. “Word from the doctor is, if he’d been out another night all would have been lost. So thank you. Thank you, all.”

  More clapping, but Den raised a hand for silence. “If I may, if I may… Want to acknowledge our rescue team today. A full effort by the whole town.” Vigorous applause. “You’ve all earned a drink,” shouted Den. A roar of approval.

  Music started up from unseen, crackling speakers overhead. Old Dunphy laid out bottles on the bar, one at either end and one in the middle, with stacks of tumblers. The liquor glowed gold and amber.

  “Joyce?” It was Den, appearing at her side with a drink.

  “They’re safe?”

  “There was only one fellow, as it turns out. I believe he’s alright.”

  “But is he a Jew? Some kind of criminal?”

  “Ah, some people just like to talk a lot of guff,” said Den. He held his drink with two hands, turning it slowly. “Look, Joyce, I thought you’d like to know. It’s that fellow Walser who was lost. I just thought…”

  “Julian Walser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cripes,” said Joyce, using her mother’s favourite curse.

  “He’ll be alright,” said Den. “He’s at the hospital. Some bumps and bruises. Hard night out there.”

  Rachel had been dragged onto the dance floor by a pair of men who were now dancing a ridiculous jig around her, spilling their drinks. She laughed as if nothing could be funnier. With everyone on their feet the lounge was suddenly crowded.

  Joyce returned to the empty kitchen to get her coat and bonnet. Fran was there, smoking furiously. The meat slicer still hummed, waiting for her to lean into the big ham again. Joyce had never seen such a machine before. Her father’s slicer had a hand crank.

  “Maeve bloody Vardy,” said Fran. “Wouldn’t run a kitchen where she’s from? I wouldn’t let my dog lift his leg where she’s from. Bloody townie.”

  //////

  She had been in the hospital once, to visit Gloria and the new baby. The medicine smells and church-like quiet had unnerved her. Tonight she appreciated the sharp, unsoiled air. It was a relief from the club, which was all mud and wet socks and whiskey.

  Through the small window in the door, Jules looked much as he always did, hunched over a magazine. But the posture was exaggerated, his back curled as if under a burden. The arm holding the magazine was bandaged.

  The head turned slowly at her knock, and Joyce saw the damage. One side of his face yellow and blue. Its cheek bulbous, as if he were a boy working on a jawbreaker. The eye above reduced to a red slit, though she felt its gaze.

  He lifted a hand to beckon her inside.

  “They gave you a room to yourself.”

  “Nobody wants to look at me.” His voice was hoa
rse and slurred.

  “You’ll be in here for a while, I think.” She held the door with one hand, as if just popping in for a moment.

  “I’d like to get out soon. See a proper dentist. Come in, sit.” He indicated a chair at the foot of the bed.

  The bruised side had little knots of black thread in three different places, the biggest running along his jaw line.

  “I trust you, Joyce,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t talk.”

  “I wasn’t lost.”

  “What?”

  He pushed two fingers into his mouth. Wincing with pain, he pulled a blood-soaked wad of cotton from the swollen side and dropped it in a metal tray on his bedside table.

  “I was never lost,” he said. The voice was still laboured, but sounding more like him.

  “You meant to stay out all night in the rain?”

  “I was detained, Joyce. Delayed.”

  Joyce felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, and shivering goose bumps raced down her arms. She pulled her coat tight, though the room was stifling, heat coming off the radiator in waves. “Did you hear what people are saying about you? That you’re a Jew?”

  “So I am.”

  “But you were at church.”

  “My parents converted, turned Catholic. Before they had me. Before they left Austria.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “All kinds have done it.”

  She wondered if he might be a bit touched after all those hours out in the cold and wet. His good eye looked glassy and marbled, as if looking inward rather than out at the world. It reminded Joyce of her mother in her final days, when her mind went bad.

  “They came for me,” he said. “Your friend was one of them.” He wiggled his fingers. “The piano player.”

  “Eric Furlong.”

  “Right. They did this”—he touched the bandaged arm—“and this”—drew a finger across his brutalized features.

  “Why in God’s name would they come after you?” A drop of sweat rolled down her spine. This goddamn town and its nonsense. She was always trying to make sense of it.

  “I didn’t do anything, Joyce. If people are saying I’m Jewish, I suppose that was the cause.”

  Setting her things on the chair, she approached the bed. Lifted his shoulder to adjust the pillows and pulled the covers up around him. Touched his hair. “Is that good?”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Bracing her hands against the head rail, she leaned into him, close enough to smell the ointment on his wounds and decay on his breath. Laid a hand on the swollen cheek. His eyes widened.

  “Now you’ll tell me what’s going on.” Flecks of saliva hit his cheekbones.

  “Joyce.”

  “Tell me.” She pressed against the bruise until he emitted a groan that frightened her.

  “You know I make runs to the base,” he said finally.

  “Yes.”

  “Two or three times a week. Parts and supplies from Argentia, mostly.” The bad eye slowly closed, and she heard the lid release as it peeled open again. He touched her hand where she pressed the bruise. “Cripes, Joyce. Please.”

  She stood straight, and folded her arms. “Keep going.”

  “There’s a woman, works evenings at the base. We got to talking.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. The base.”

  “Talking how?”

  “Talking, just…She was working nights. And…” Both eyes closed. “I always arrived at night, it seems.”

  Joyce curled her toes. The sweat coming off her was thin and gritty. “She works at the laundry?”

  “No.”

  “She does.” Joyce leaned into him again. Touched his stitches.

  He gave a little gasp. “Okay, yes. There’s a night supervisor, Mitchell. He’d be off playing cards, so she was the only one there. At the laundry. Do you see?” he said, as if the whole story hinged on the arrangement between the woman and Mitchell. “Anyway, she has a husband. So that’s where the trouble starts.”

  Joyce backed up and gripped the rail at the foot of the bed. “You don’t seem the least bit ashamed.”

  “And why should I be ashamed? A woman makes a fool of herself, she gets what’s coming to her. I told her my next posting might be Bermuda or Rangoon. Let her believe whatever she liked.”

  “You brought this trouble on yourself, then.”

  “Yesterday I went trouting at Boot Pond.” His voice gathered strength, sounding more like him. “These boys show up and throw me in a truck. Start driving, out past Union East and down some old dirt road. Barely a road at all. I had to lay in the truck so the branches wouldn’t tear me to pieces. Stopped at an old cabin. Tore my clothes off. Took my boots. Said I could walk back to town if I liked. I sat in the back of the truck, freezing. Them in the cabin, drinking and playing cards. Rain started up. This morning they came out and knocked me around a bit and let me in the cabin for a bit. They said never lay a finger on another girl in this town, or it’ll be worse next time.”

  “And Eric Furlong was among them?”

  “He’s a nasty customer. He said to me, ‘You were lost last night, and we found you. Tell anyone otherwise and we’ll be back.’”

  “And here you are telling me otherwise.”

  “I trust you.”

  Joyce saw Eric’s hands at the piano. The black grease worked deep into the creases and knuckles. The fingers striking sharp, staccato notes. Pictured those fingers curled into a fist. A nurse entered, and Joyce stared at the floor a moment. But on who’s account was she being discreet? “You’re disgusting.”

  The nurse stared straight ahead, silently lifting his wrist to take the pulse. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not so well.”

  “I thought you were the sort to make his way in this world,” said Joyce.

  “What world is that?”

  “The way everything’s changing now, a man needs a good head on his shoulders. But you…”

  “What do you mean, everything’s changing?” Jules laughed in spite of himself, wincing as his mouth stretched. “A woman looks for trouble she bloody well gets it. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You had best let him get some rest, miss,” the nurse said without looking at Joyce. She picked up the tray with its blood-soaked cotton, the red so deep it was nearly black. “We’ll get you a new dressing.” She glided from the room.

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Joyce. That night I found you wandering around the Officers’ Mess, well in your cups. A fellow could have done anything with you. Taken you anywhere. You’re lucky it was me. I can still get you out of here, if you’ll clean up your act and do your duty.”

  The nurse returned, scissors and dressing in hand, the quiet pad of her shoes surprising them. “Open wide, let’s have a look,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed.

  “Come on, Joyce.”

  “That’s enough,” said the nurse.

  “Don’t you ever think about living somewhere else?”

  “I already live somewhere else,” Joyce said, and left.

  //////

  Mary brought her a coffee in the locker room. Joyce took the paper cup and ran a finger along the blue crosshatched pattern that swirled top to bottom like the stripe on a barber’s pole. She had never been a coffee drinker until she joined TCA. The women drank it black and the men added long streams of milk and sugar.

  Mary dropped into a discarded office chair, which rolled back and bumped the row of lockers. They had long been promised new furniture, but were still stuck with broken chairs and lockers salvaged from the RAF.

  “Would you like a pair of shoes?” She produced a shiny black box. Not without a sense of performance, she lifted the cover, which held for a moment and released with a tiny puff of air. Parted
the tissue with her fingers.

  The camel-coloured pump felt like velvet in Joyce’s hands.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Suede leather,” said Mary. “I don’t know how they make it. The silky end of the cow, I suppose.”

  “You can’t give these away.”

  “Well, I could leave them in the closet, for all the good that would do.”

  Joyce gripped the shoe by its wedge heel. Light as air. Three slender straps across the front. Three gold buckles. She shook off her flats.

  “Joe got them in Montreal. He knows I can’t wear them, but he can’t walk by a shoe store.”

  “But even if you wore them once. The Christmas dance.”

  The buzzer went, indicating a customer at the front counter. Joyce started to rise.

  “Somebody will get them,” said Mary. “A fifteen-minute break is fifteen minutes.”

  Joyce took the second shoe from the box in Mary’s lap and stood to slip into them.

  Mary’s chair let out a metallic shriek as she leaned back. “Oh, my love. It’s like your legs grew them.”

  “Thank you.” The left one nipped at her pinkie toe. She sat and lifted the foot, rotating it, examining all sides.

  “They’re from Spain. It’s all that spicy food they eat. Makes them randy, and they put it in their shoes.”

  “Mary!”

  The buzzer again. “Girls!” shouted Mike Devine with a rap at the door. In a frenzy, as always. Racing around with a telex in one hand and a stack of reservations in the other. Crew schedules half done. Shouting for a weather report, as if it was someone else’s fault that he hadn’t paid attention. Mike was always flustered or on the verge of it, gasping for breath with his big mouth hung open.

  Joyce slipped the shoes back in the box and folded the tissue paper back over them. “My mother,” she said. “She never…” Her fingers left moist prints in the slippery black cardboard. “I mean, she wouldn’t have allowed herself. Even the thought of it.”

  “I know,” said Mary, and they both laughed.

  //////

  Gert kept her girls in line by force of shame and exposure. Lateness, shabby dress, scuffed shoes, smoking at the ticket counter, tawdry lipstick or eyeliner, too much perfume, stale breath, undesirable odours of any sort, curt manners, less-than-cheerful comportment, illegible cursive, “wild” hair, making a show of yourself, and other lapses were usually corrected with a glance and perhaps a quiet word. (“Run in the stockings, love.”) Repeat offenders were chided before the whole crew. (“Now girls, we don’t care what Catherine does on her own time, but she can’t be coming to work with those big black bags under her eyes.”) Only the worst offences earned a private audience with Gert, with the whole crowd catching every word of it through the paper-thin walls of her office.