Afterward Mr. Nicholson took off through the back door, charging across the heath in a turmoil.
Ephraim took Mrs. Nicholson by the hand and led her toward the bedroom.
“Are you mad?” she demanded, hanging back.
“Mr. Nicholson will not be back until the morning. It is arranged.”
Monday, and through the rest of the week, Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson did everything possible to avoid each other. They ate in silence. If their eyes met, she blushed and his lower lip began to tremble. On Saturday he pretended not to be aware of her weeping over the kitchen sink. Peeling potatoes, she cut herself. The sight of her blood was too much for him. He repaired to The Wagon and Horses and lingered there until closing time and had to be helped home by two of his young friends. “Easy does it, Auntie.”
Sunday was intolerable.
“Bolt the door. We won’t let him in, Mr. Nicholson.”
“Yes.”
But when they heard him singing on the cinder path they both leaped up. She raced to undo the bolt, but he managed to be the first to greet him.
Because she was knitting him a sweater he presented him with the gold pocket watch that he had inherited from his uncle. When she splurged on a joint for Sunday night dinner he hurried out and bought a bottle of claret for them to share at their lesson. Other accommodations were made, but not spoken of. She, for instance, would wind into her shawl and go out for a stroll while they were at their lessons. Then he would leave the cottage and not return until Monday morning. In return for his consideration, on Wednesday nights she now retired early to her bedroom and allowed him to entertain his young friends from the poetry society. In preparation for these visitations he sometimes borrowed one or another of her garments, but she did not taunt him with Deuteronomy, Chapter 22, verse 5. Neither did he remark on the scent she trailed on Sunday mornings.
Ephraim carried on until he grasped that his knowledge of Latin and penmanship far surpassed Mr. Nicholson’s ability to help him further. There was something else. One Sunday night he observed how her breasts had begun to swell and the dark brown nipples trickled an unfamiliar sweetness. Only then did he notice the thickening of her waist.
The following Sunday Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson sat and waited until after dark and still he did not appear.
“He’s not coming,” she said.
“Nonsense, Mrs. Nicholson. He’s been late before.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, weeping, “your uncle’s candlesticks are gone.”
Pearls of sweat blossomed on Mr. Nicholson’s forehead.
“It’s your duty to inform the authorities,” she said.
WEARING HIS NEW SWEATER, carrying a gold pocket watch, the candlesticks, and a purse with five pounds and twelve shillings in it, Ephraim quit the mine in Durham and started out on the road to London. He also had with him some mementoes from his father’s house. Phylacteries, a prayer shawl, and a Hebrew prayer book.
Spring it was, the earth moist and fragrant, rhododendrons and azaleas in blossom.
Ephraim never saw Mrs. Nicholson again, or laid eyes on his son, the first of what would become twenty-seven unacknowledged offspring, not all of them the same colour.
Eight
“What did you think, Olive?”
“I’m not saying, because you’ll just point out a boo-boo and spoil this movie for me too.”
As usual, they went to The Downtowner for a treat. Mrs. Jenkins gave him what she hoped was a piercing look. “I’ll bet you’ve had a wife stashed away somewhere all these years, Bert, with grown kids, and she’s finally tracked you down for back alimony payments.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The shyster from Denby, Denby, Harrison and Latham who came to see you, what is it a month now? You still haven’t told me what he wanted.”
“It was a case of mistaken identity.”
“Don’t look now, Pinocchio, but your nose just grew another three inches.”
“Mr. Hughes was looking for another Smith.”
“Then how come you get all that mail from those lawyers and suddenly you keep a locked strongbox under your bed?”
“You’ve been snooping.”
“What are you going to do about it? Move out. Go ahead. Make my day. For all I know your name isn’t even Smith. Bert,” she said, covering his hand with her own, sticky with chocolate sauce, “if you’re wanted by the cops you can count on Olive, your only pal in this vale of tears.”
“I’ve never broken a law in my life,” he said, sliding his hand free before anybody saw.
“Hey,” she said, giggling, “what’s the difference between a lawyer and a rooster?”
He didn’t want to know.
“A rooster clucks defiance.”
He didn’t even chuckle.
“It’s a play on words, Bert. I’ll explain it to you, if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Said the farmer’s daughter to the preacher.”
Rattled, Smith paid both their bills for once and left a sixty-five cent tip in the saucer.
“I think somebody’s ship has come in and he’s not telling.”
Pleading a headache, Smith did not join her in the parlour that night to watch “Kojak”.
“Somebody saw you come home in a taxi last Tuesday, but you got out at the corner so that Olive couldn’t see from her window.”
“I was feeling dizzy.”
“Bert, whenever you’re ready to spill the beans, I’ll be waiting. Meanwhile,” she sang, “I’ll tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.”
“Thank you.”
“Loyalty is my middle name. Let’s just hope it’s yours too, old buddy of mine.”
The legacy, which Smith was told had been left to him by his late Uncle Arnold, who had died childless in Hove, had come to $228,725.00.
“But I thought it was fifty thousand pounds,” Smith had said.
“That was in 1948. It was invested on your behalf.” Trudging through the driving snow, Smith had taken the certified cheque right to the Royal Bank. Deposited it. Started home. Panicked. Hurried to the Westmount post office to rent a box. Then back to the bank to tell them no statements were to be mailed to his home address any more, but only to his P.O. number. He was back first thing in the morning to test things, drawing two hundred dollars in cash.
Smith decided that he was too old to have his teeth fixed. He considered buying a Harris tweed jacket, some shirts that weren’t drip-dry, a pair of wingtip shoes, but Mrs. Jenkins would demand to know where the money had come from. Strolling through Eaton’s, he saw a small refrigerator that would do nicely for his room. He came across an electric kettle that would be a blessing. He could fix himself a cuppa whenever he felt the urge. Not Salada tea bags, either, but Twinings Darjeeling. No, he didn’t dare. Olive never missed a trick.
“What do you make of Murph Heeney in number five, Bert?”
Heeney, the new roomer next door to him, was a big bear of a man, hirsute, a carpenter, never without a bottle of Molson Export in his paw.
“He’s not my type.”
“Guessy guessy what I found under his bed? A stack of Playboys. Certain pages stuck together with his spunk.”