Chapter Fifteen

15

Anglican

Cowgirls

TILLIE & KATHERINE

Ruminating over cheeses and biscuits and men, Tillie mumbled a chunk of sharp cheddar laid on a small bath oliver and contemplated a cheeseknife she had picked from the table. Cutting into the cheddar, the sharpness of the blade had surprised her, but it was the onyx black handle which took her attention; plastic, she supposed, though its hardness and weight were pleasing in her hand. “Katherine…” It was something recent that nibbled her memory, something about black and shiny and… Yes. “Katherine, dear, the black stone you saw in your painting, the one on the easel, was it onyx? No, not onyx, that’s not what I mean… Obsidian! Yes, obsidian – hard and black and brittle. Was it obsidian?”

“Uh, maybe, Gran.” A trickle of excitement had begun to percolate through Katherine’s stunned isolation and she was suddenly anxious to find Martin, to have him conduct her to the centre of attention where she belonged; it was, after all, her painting on that wall. “D’you see Martin anywhere?”

“Volcanic glass, translucent darkness… Yes, there he comes now, speaking of brittle.” Tillie fingered the cheeseknife, “You know, I believe they used it for blades, ceremonial daggers and such. The ancients did, for sacrifices and what have you. Hello, Martin, d’you know obsidian?”

Agitated, clasping Katherine’s shoulders to draw her away, Martin paused to frown at Tillie, “Is that a Klein? Nina Ricci? Not one of your old Yardley smells?”

“Human sacrifices, when necessary, Katherine.” Tillie waggled the knife, “Very sharp, obsidian.”

Bewildered, Martin nodded, smiled and pulled Katherine away in earnest, “I’ll have to get some. Come on, Dragon Lady wants you. Stay… Mrs Sutherland… David’s right here, somewhere, I…”

“Go away, Martin.” And Tillie turned back to make use of the knife again.

PAUL & BENA
& KATYA & DAVID & MAUDE

Paul hauled himself up the steps from the subway, blinking away wind gusts of grit, his throat closed on his gorge rising from the fume reek below. Managing a couple of mouthfuls of cool air, he began to relax, but his feet slapped the pavement when he meant to step lightly, so he stopped on the sidewalk in front of the bank and considered his condition – one more Manhattan had become a love affair with New York and he was drunk. Do I dare? I’m invited. Yah, by the husband of the wife who’s on the wall. That’s credentials. Those are. Yah. You’re pissed. Not so bad. Bet there’s an old bag or two bagged in a bigger bag than you’re bagged in. Bag on, Paulie-wog! Hey, and the Rubberboots and Whatsername are comin’ and they liked you. Yupper. And the Big Liz’s after your ass. She can’t have my ass. Well don’t tell her. She’ll treat you like the help. She treats everybody like the help. That’s true. Go for it.

Paul pulled, tottered, shoved on a bronze lion, the glass moved and he was through.

“We are invited by the sister of the wife of George Preston whose bank this is. Is it not so, Katya?” Bena’s hands flashed in the air before Percy’s face, “They are friends, old friends who have coffee together, the sister, not the wife. She is not a friend, but she is known to us. Is she not, Katya? And we have a ticket. You are a military man. You have ridden horses to war, I think.” Her fingertips brushed his breast, “And you have been very brave to own so many ribbons.”

“Bena, leave the man alone.” Katya interposed herself between her friend and the commissionaire, “Mr Preston’s sister-in-law, Maude Matthew, provided us with the invitation, though I believe she’s not able to come herself, and we…”

“Oh, she’s here.” Percy had always known the world would come to this – women in painted cobwebs wearing more tack than a grenadier’s horse, women criticizing the uniform, women without men to keep them in line, and foreign ones, too, these ones. He hadn’t wasted his career fighting to keep…

“Well, hello, hello, hello, my ladies of the pavement, you did come! And nicely turned out, I might add. What a marvellous costume. It’s… Bena. Am I right?”

“Aach, our young man, Katya, from this afternoon, from the Art Gallery of Ontario, he is here!”

“I can see, Bena, yes, hello. I’ve forgotten…”

“Paul Magarry.”

“Paul, yes, I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t say…”

“Now hold on a minute here!” Percy knew he hadn’t defended the world for some sissy to wear blue leather pants, “I think you’re in the wrong part of town, mister. Nobody wants your kind around…”

“Paul!” But no one noticed David who closed his eyes and emptied his wine glass in a gulp.

“Nobody? This is not a nobody.” Bena reared in a backstep, grasped Paul’s hand and raised it in a cascade of bracelets, “This is a person who is close to the Mrs George Preston, I think you should know. This is the young man to whom she gives the keys of her car, to whom she trusts her Art of the Gallery of Ontario. He is her guest, I am sure of it.”

“Well, not really.” Paul tried a small shrug, felt his stomach heave and looked about in a panic, “Actually, the husband of the…”

“Paul.”

“Him!” His hand trapped in Bena’s, he wiggled his fingers to wave. “Jesus, David, just like magic. I knew this was a magic event.”

“So I’ve been hearing. What’s the problem?”

“May I ask who you are, sir?”

“David Bailey. That’s my wife on the wall over there and I invited my friend here. I’m sorry, I forgot to speak to you when we arrived, I was just coming to give you his name. Do we have a problem?”

“Well, he’s not dressed…”

“Katya Saarila! You came after all, I’m so glad.” Full of scotch and mischief, Maude swept up beaming, ready to make the most of a rare opportunity, “You dug me out of my yard, you see, you and the kettle. And you must be Bena. How d’y’do, Maude Matthew.” Her hand extended released Paul from captivity. “I’ve heard about you, quite the item. Love the dress. You must meet my sister.”

“You are my Katya’s friend, the crazy lady in her chair, yes, who gives her coffee. And you are the sister of this Mrs George…”

“Madam!”

“What’s your problem?” Maude’s head swung from Bena to Percy and back again, “Crazy lady?”

“Madam…” His blood up and running from pink to red to purple, Percy felt the invasion rolling over his borders, “Madam, these people…”

“Are all friends of mine.” Maude pointed her glass with a splash, “My friend, Bena, my friend Katya, my friend…?”

“Paul.”

“Maude Matthew, how d’y’do?” And back to Percy, “You happy now, General? Go polish something. We’ve got serious work to do.” Linking arms with Katya and Bena, “Come on everybody, bar’s this way,” she tossed her head to lead the men and plowed on into the party. “So, Bena, tell me. Who do you know?”

BEA

Beatrice Louise, make an effort, you can get through this without wetting your pants, you can if you try. It’s not that you can’t, it’s the fact that you don’t try. Before a mirror in the flare white light, Bea McAlpine, née Sutherland, gave herself a talking to. It was a lecture she had invented to get herself through doll tea-parties and found useful on occasion since. Just take it slowly and don’t get worked up, it’s when you get excited that you forget. The hat, you managed to take off the hat. I left my hat with the hat-check girl, do da, do da.

Calm down. Poor girl’s not doing so well for tips; those who have, keep. David’ll be generous, he’s a kind man. He’s like Dad. Good Lord, he is, too and I’ve never noticed till now. Well, I’ll be darned. She has to keep him. He’s even got the same blue eyes. Look at my hair! Bea shoved her hands through her hair back from her face, patted it once, clutched her purse over her heart and pushed her way from the washroom.

ELIZABETH & GEORGE
& KATHERINE & MARTIN

It could be worse, Elizabeth, she could be raddled and lank in a leotard, or puttied together in an empire waist; it happens, be grateful she’s presentable, “Elizabeth Preston, how do you do, Miss Bailey, we are finally introduced. I believe you have met my husband, George.”

“It’s Missus Bailey, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, Mr Preston, you do.” Katherine gave George an innocent smile and touched a finger to Martin’s cheek, “And I remembered to bring my jawbone.” She swung the same smile to her hostess, “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last and it certainly would appear to be a successful evening if this crowd is any indication.”

“Yes, it would seem…” A twitch of her own cheekbone distracted Elizabeth, “Jawbone? Is that a new… uh, word for an agent? I’ve not heard it. Rather like ‘mouthpiece’ for a lawyer; not our kind of lawyer, of course. But are you a ‘jawbone’, then, Martin?” And Martin, quite at sea, breathed through his mouth and craved liquor.

George remembered, “I believe Mrs Bailey means the jawbone of an ass, dear, in case she needs to clear us from the room.”

A rippling of her nostrils caused Elizabeth to blink and wonder how frequently her husband had sneaked up to the bar. “Now why would she wish to do that, dear? We’re her patrons, surely, we’re here for her, and she for us, certainly. Why, look at how we honour her… talent, we’ve generously made this very desirable… wall, available to a public hanging of…” Either the slither of her own voice, or the tongue wiggling inside George’s cheek stalled her. “…Yes, successful! It’s really something of a crush, isn’t it? One has to do this sort of thing, expected in our position, rather a bore, but I take it in stride and Martin has been a bit of a help, not often punctual, but willing. Why don’t you men slide off and be necessary somewhere? Uum? Katherine and I – may I call you…? – good. And you may call me Elizabeth, people do. Off with you.” An imperious wave dismissed the men.

Immensely relieved, George barely mumbled something gracious before slipping into the crowd.

“But shouldn’t we…” Martin clutched at a vision of himself at the foot of the painting, a cautious hand on Elizabeth, another on Katherine, rivetting the attention of the assembled guests with a brilliant display of critical erudition and…
“Run along, Martin. Katherine is going to tell me all about her Art.” And Martin, stung by the turning of their backs, feeling abandoned, exposed and foolishly unnecessary in a crowded room, made for the bar with a cracking of heels on the slate.