Fitzroy sat up straight, with his hands on the knees of his Humphrey pants. He had the peculiar gaze that men in the woods have: determined, far-reaching and silent.
“And what Preston, then, are you?” old Joyce Fitzroy said.
“I’m Ian Preston.”
“Well, all them Prestons are brown-skinned.”
“Just a bit.”
“Black Irish and French.”
“As they say.”
“Where do that come from?” the old fellow asked.
“What?”
“Black Irish.”
“From the Spanish taken in by Ireland—after the sinking of the armada.”
“Oh—is that a fact?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“Then my, oh my—what are you doing, working the wood like me?”
And so Ian Preston, who was actually fairer-skinned than the relatives they spoke about—ginger-coloured, in fact—mentioned that he was an electrician at the large second-hand store in town, and that he was secretly trying to buy it, and that only a few people knew it was up for sale and he did not want to advertise the news himself. But here wasthe problem: he had been turned down by the banks. Now these bank managers, as much as they had clay feet, had various friends who did not. So he was worried now he would lose the enterprise, for he was looked upon as both an outsider and a loner. There would be someone these bank managers would want to tell or go to. He began to use a profusion of big words because he was angry.
“Can you get the loan someplace else, then, and make yer deal?” the old man asked.
“No—I’ve been everywhere.”
Old Joyce Fitzroy stared at Ian Preston for a moment, as if accusing him. Then he lifted the lid and spit. “I never keep my money in the bank,” the old fellow admitted perfunctorily. He didn’t trust the banks. He didn’t like them. He admitted that since before starting to work for Leo McVicer in 1947—before that, he had been working for Jameson, cutting wood—he had kept his money safe in the house.
“ ’Cause of the Depression! Banks would steal from anyone.” Fitzroy sniffed again in proud unawareness. “They stole from Janie McCleary, who owned the theatre back then—the Dime, as we used to call it. People will sell their soul for money, and it’s best to just work the woods.”
Ian Preston was silent. He wanted to leave. It was as if he was being kicked in the guts. He had spent half his life in these silent, cramped rooms, with winter outside. And he was the only one of his family left, the last of the Prestons. And no one who knew him had been sure about him. That is, they had not known if he could stand on his own two feet as a man. And a couple of days before, at one of the shops downtown, Annette Brideau had tossed her head as she walked by, as if to mock him. As he thought of this now, it infuriated him (although in fact, she hadn’t even seen him).
I will still become rich—and have nothing to do with her, he thought again. But his anger remained.
The old man kept looking at him in sardonic silence, a kind of impetuousness on his old, hard face. He straightened his back, as if to stretch, and then opened his Copenhagen tin and took a bit more snuff. Thewind blasted against the house. “Get up boy, now, and make us a cup a tea,” he said quickly.
Ian Preston put the kettle on.
It was nothing to the old man to drink tea with a mouthful of snuff. He laid the snuff full in his puffed-out bottom lip. “Yup, them banks—they know nothing, and never did. How big is this here store?”
The old man kept up bursts of subtle but self-important comments as the tea was made, and telling stories about banks.
Finally Preston said, with a laugh, “I’ll never get the store, Joyce, so it is best to forget it! I’ll bet everything you have in this house that I won’t.”
“Oh, is that so?” old Fitzroy muttered. “You just made quite a bet! I will show you why young Harold Dew shovelled my driveway and his little vixen charmer Annette brought me a boiled dinner.”
Then he went into the back
“And what Preston, then, are you?” old Joyce Fitzroy said.
“I’m Ian Preston.”
“Well, all them Prestons are brown-skinned.”
“Just a bit.”
“Black Irish and French.”
“As they say.”
“Where do that come from?” the old fellow asked.
“What?”
“Black Irish.”
“From the Spanish taken in by Ireland—after the sinking of the armada.”
“Oh—is that a fact?”
“It’s what I heard.”
“Then my, oh my—what are you doing, working the wood like me?”
And so Ian Preston, who was actually fairer-skinned than the relatives they spoke about—ginger-coloured, in fact—mentioned that he was an electrician at the large second-hand store in town, and that he was secretly trying to buy it, and that only a few people knew it was up for sale and he did not want to advertise the news himself. But here wasthe problem: he had been turned down by the banks. Now these bank managers, as much as they had clay feet, had various friends who did not. So he was worried now he would lose the enterprise, for he was looked upon as both an outsider and a loner. There would be someone these bank managers would want to tell or go to. He began to use a profusion of big words because he was angry.
“Can you get the loan someplace else, then, and make yer deal?” the old man asked.
“No—I’ve been everywhere.”
Old Joyce Fitzroy stared at Ian Preston for a moment, as if accusing him. Then he lifted the lid and spit. “I never keep my money in the bank,” the old fellow admitted perfunctorily. He didn’t trust the banks. He didn’t like them. He admitted that since before starting to work for Leo McVicer in 1947—before that, he had been working for Jameson, cutting wood—he had kept his money safe in the house.
“ ’Cause of the Depression! Banks would steal from anyone.” Fitzroy sniffed again in proud unawareness. “They stole from Janie McCleary, who owned the theatre back then—the Dime, as we used to call it. People will sell their soul for money, and it’s best to just work the woods.”
Ian Preston was silent. He wanted to leave. It was as if he was being kicked in the guts. He had spent half his life in these silent, cramped rooms, with winter outside. And he was the only one of his family left, the last of the Prestons. And no one who knew him had been sure about him. That is, they had not known if he could stand on his own two feet as a man. And a couple of days before, at one of the shops downtown, Annette Brideau had tossed her head as she walked by, as if to mock him. As he thought of this now, it infuriated him (although in fact, she hadn’t even seen him).
I will still become rich—and have nothing to do with her, he thought again. But his anger remained.
The old man kept looking at him in sardonic silence, a kind of impetuousness on his old, hard face. He straightened his back, as if to stretch, and then opened his Copenhagen tin and took a bit more snuff. Thewind blasted against the house. “Get up boy, now, and make us a cup a tea,” he said quickly.
Ian Preston put the kettle on.
It was nothing to the old man to drink tea with a mouthful of snuff. He laid the snuff full in his puffed-out bottom lip. “Yup, them banks—they know nothing, and never did. How big is this here store?”
The old man kept up bursts of subtle but self-important comments as the tea was made, and telling stories about banks.
Finally Preston said, with a laugh, “I’ll never get the store, Joyce, so it is best to forget it! I’ll bet everything you have in this house that I won’t.”
“Oh, is that so?” old Fitzroy muttered. “You just made quite a bet! I will show you why young Harold Dew shovelled my driveway and his little vixen charmer Annette brought me a boiled dinner.”
Then he went into the back
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