Jack of Diamonds (30 page)

‘Absolutely!’ I patted my stomach. ‘Chock-a-block. You’re going to need all your strength as a farmhand and cowboy, buddy. Eat up. Never know where your next chop’s coming from.’ I handed the napkin back to him.

Pat Malone began to wolf down the chop and roast potatoes and it was surprising to see how someone so puny could have such an enormous appetite. He ate voraciously, as if he were catching up on all the meals he’d missed in his life.

When Pat had first mentioned the ranch near Moose Jaw where he’d be working, it had suddenly occurred to me that this was no dry-boned prairie I was heading into. You’ve got to wonder which of us was the chucklehead. Geography had never been my strongest subject at school, and most of my ideas had come out of books, such as
The Great Lone Land
by the Irish-born army officer William Francis Butler, in which he evoked tenantless solitudes in prose that Mrs Hodgson at the library claimed was almost poetic. Hence there was little room in my head for any modification of my imagined landscape of the north-west prairies and Canada’s west.

Whenever the train pulled into a station along the way, I would buy coffee or a soda for Pat and me, and the whole journey cost me the grand sum of three bucks, which left me $172 in my wallet, but most of that was my mom’s nose money. I knew I’d have to find a job quite quickly, but I could probably stretch Joe’s and Miss Frostbite’s money and the little I had over from my rail fare to last me a month. After that, I told myself that if I failed to find a job in Moose Jaw, I’d be riding the rattler.

Arriving late in the afternoon, the steam train let off a loud hiss before coming to a halt beside a very long platform teeming with people waiting for the passengers to alight in what proved to be an enormous railway station.

‘Jesus, Jack, how’m I gonna find the man supposed to meet me?’ Pat said in a near-panicked voice, looking every which way out of the compartment window.

‘Keep looking, they’ll probably be holding up your name,’ I suggested. Then, as luck would have it, I saw a big guy two carriages down from us holding up a large piece of cardboard above his head on which was painted in crude black letters: PAT TORONTO. The paint had dripped down to the edge of the board so that it looked as if each letter was held up by a haphazard arrangement of black sticks. Pat Malone didn’t make the connection until I pointed out the guy, a thickset man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. ‘Buddy, I think that’s for you.’

‘Nah, me name’s not Toronto.’ Pat glanced at me reproachfully. ‘I ain’t
that
bad at readin,’ Jack.’

‘Still, I think you should try him,’ I suggested.

‘He don’t look happy,’ Pat said, hesitating.

I heaved my large rucksack onto my back (another example of Mrs Sopworth’s kindness), Pat grabbed his battered suitcase, and we stepped down into the milling, shouting, gesticulating crowd on the platform. ‘Hang onto me, Pat,’ I instructed, making my way to where I thought the guy stood. I pushed my way further through the crowd, saying, ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ with Pat hanging on to my rucksack until we reached the guy. ‘Are you looking for a Pat Malone from Toronto?’ I asked.

‘You him?’ he demanded with a scowl.

‘No, he is,’ I said, jerking my thumb back at Pat.

‘Frank Farmhand,’ he said, addressing Pat and ignoring me. I wasn’t sure if ‘Farmhand’ was his surname or job description. ‘You got here,’ he barked at Pat, then, ignoring his proffered hand, he glanced upwards as if at the sky, even though the platform was under cover. ‘More snow comin’. Got to hurry. Chevy don’t like travelling through mush without snow chains. Fuckin’ idjit ranch mechanic don’t put them back’a the truck.’ He punched a fat forefinger in the direction of Pat. ‘Follow me, Toronto.’

‘Pat! Pat’s me name, sir!’ he called out, but Frank Farmhand had dropped the cardboard sign at his feet and was already pushing his way through the crowd.

‘Go, buddy!’ I yelled, giving him a shove.

Pat set out after the big man. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he called back and then disappeared into the crowd.

‘Good luck!’ I shouted in his general direction. Poor bastard, it hadn’t been the most propitious start to his new life as an asthmatic cowboy.

I decided to wait until the crowd thinned and dug into my rucksack for my Mrs Sopworth anorak. I put it on, zipping it to the neck and fitting the hood over my head, then moved over to a station wall clear of the pigeons overhead and sat on my rucksack with my back against it. Jesus, it was freezing! I silently blessed Mrs Sopworth for her two-dollar anorak.

The crowd eventually began to thin and I was about to leave when a train pulled in on a parallel track and the platform was soon crowded again. I began to realise that I hadn’t arrived at a terminus, a town at the end of the line, the
Nowheresville
I’d always imagined Moose Jaw to be, but at a city that acted as a junction to just about everywhere. All passenger trains on the CPR stopped here to take on coal and water, while transit passengers left the train to grab a meal in one of several dining rooms. I was to learn that, for the most part, these stayed open and busy twenty-four hours a day.

I suddenly felt very alone. It wouldn’t be the last time, but the first time is always the worst. Miss Mony, then Mrs Hodgson, then Mac followed by Joe, Miss Frostbite, the boys in the band, the kitchen staff, even Miss Bates and latterly the twins, they had all been my anchors and understood the why and how and what of me. Was it the same in the country? I was in a strange place with people milling around like a cattle roundup, everyone seeming to know someone or have some sort of purpose, even if it was only to have a nice dinner and then hop back on the train and head for some familiar destination, where they would be met by family and friends and taken to a home with a fire in the hearth, food in the oven and a warm bed. A city is full of disparate people so you can always find someone who shares your peculiarities and understands your background, where you are coming from the moment you open your mouth or behave in a particular way. But I suddenly found myself a dot, a nothing, a cipher, nobody. Shit, I was lonely.

On the train Pat Malone had protected me from feeling the full force of my isolation. Despite his slowness, Pat had been enthusiastic about his new life, peering out of the compartment window like a small child, exclaiming about the smallest things he saw in the passing landscape, gleefully counting the grain elevators whenever we approached a small town or country siding. Would little Pat be happy and find his feet? Could he discover new skills, get to know and love animals? Dogs, for instance. Dogs don’t judge you, just love you for who you are. I’d always wanted a dog. But dogs live off scraps and there was never enough left over. Could Pat make himself useful and needed? All these questions racing through my mind sounded like the end of a weekly radio serial I’d listen to on Mac’s crystal set, with the announcer building anticipation for the episode to follow.

But I couldn’t help worrying. Here out on the prairies there would be no crowd where Pat could lose himself. Would country folk look upon him as a simple-minded no-hoper who everyone could yell at and kick around with impunity, laughing and humiliating the clumsy city kid? Was Frank Farmhand the first of many? Pat’s smallness would count against him. Huge and slow-witted lads could always be put to work doing the heavy lifting, the grunt and heave that was part of farm and ranch life, but Pat’s puny frame would be a disadvantage even without his chronic asthma.

My worries about Pat were probably distracting me from worries about myself. It was getting dark and I had to find a place to stay the night. My sandwiches were gone and so were the peanut biscuits. Despite eating breakfast and lunch in the dining car, Pat had polished off most of what remained of the food the kitchen had prepared for my journey. His eyes had almost popped out of his head when he saw the Hershey’s bar and he’d eaten most of it, not letting it melt slowly in his mouth, but gobbling it down like there was no tomorrow or as if someone was going to snatch it away from him.

My own life hadn’t contained too many Hershey’s bars either, but now I urged myself to buck up, pull myself together. My own childhood and teenage years had been filled with opportunity and the kindness of people I had no claim on, not to mention private school, piano concerts, the eye-opening trip to New York and meeting the jazz greats. I’d even been lucky enough to be born with a decent brain. Pat Malone had been given so much less than me, and it was high time I put my brain into gear to solve my immediate problem – food and shelter.

I wasn’t really hungry but I reasoned that the staff in a railway restaurant would be accustomed to strangers asking them for information, and so I decided to blow a buck or two on a steak. It was an indulgence, but if I picked one of the better restaurants at Moose Jaw station, the waiters or waitresses would have been chosen for their initiative, serving as they did a passenger prepared to pay a bit more for their food. Sloppy joint, sloppy waitress: they invariably go hand in glove.

I finally selected one called The Watering Hole, which had white tablecloths and three fancy chandeliers. Miss Frostbite had long since instructed me on table manners, so I didn’t feel out of my depth as I was shown to a table by a head waiter. I also told myself that this was my first and last indulgence, and that I could only justify it because of the situation in which I found myself.

As luck would have it, I was served by a woman who appeared to be in her forties. She was very obliging when I asked if she could recommend somewhere in town for me to stay the night. I explained why I had chosen her dining room and that I wanted somewhere cheap. She nodded. ‘I thought you looked a bit young for this restaurant, sir, but I completely understand.’

‘Please call me Jack, ma’am,’ I hastened to say.

‘I’m Marge and this is our busy time with a train just come in. If you can order now and eat slowly, I’ll come talk to you later, Jack.’ She smiled.

I ordered my steak. It wasn’t cheap – $1.75 – more than I could ever remember paying for a meal. In fact the prices were pretty extortionate and I didn’t dare order anything else, like an ‘appetiser’, whatever that meant. I think it was what the menu at the Waldorf-Astoria had called an entrée. Although why someone would need something to tempt their appetite when they were already in a restaurant was beyond me. I glanced around. At the next table a couple were tucking into these appetisers. I checked the menu and identified Cream of Tomato Soup (fifteen cents) and Fresh Shrimp Cocktail (forty-five cents)! No way I’d be having an appetiser at that price, or even bread and butter, ten cents, and no jam on the table. Miss Frostbite would have been happy, though: there was Fried Fillet of Sole for seventy-five cents. I couldn’t look too long as that would have been rude, so my eyes flicked all over the place. On the other side of me a family were already on to their main courses, all of which seemed to cost $1.25: the mother had chosen Half Chicken Broiled, and the father was tucking into Calves Liver Sauté with Bacon. The two rather plain children had chosen fish. I’d never seen a kid who liked fish, and wondered where they came from. But whether they were eating Broiled Halibut Steak Maitre d’Hotel or Baked Fillet of Flounder Veronique I had no way of knowing and as far as I was concerned fish is fish and best avoided.

Marge brought my steak and a side plate of beans and French fries. ‘Enjoy,’ she said. ‘See you later, Jack.’

I tried to eat the steak slowly but it wasn’t possible; it was thick and juicy and absolutely delicious. The fries and beans in butter were also pretty good and I scoffed the lot. At these prices, leaving something on the plate, as Miss Frostbite said nice people always did, just wasn’t on. It would be like ignoring a nickel you came across on the pavement.

I didn’t have dessert, although the Waffles and Pecan Maple Syrup (thirty-five cents) sounded good, but I lingered long over two cups of coffee until the train finally departed. With the restaurant empty but for myself, Marge finally approached me. I asked her if she’d care to sit down and she gave a grateful sigh. ‘Thank you, be nice to be off my feet. That’s me for the night – not my turn to set up for the next train, but the others will want to get going. Why don’t we go sit in the foyer?’

I paid the cashier as we left the main dining room, and Marge led me into the entrance, where we sat in two comfortable chairs. She sighed again. ‘Always a rush when a train comes in,’ she said, then handed me a slip of paper. ‘The head waiter let me make a call, Jack. I’ve booked you a shared room at Mrs Henderson’s boarding house. It’s six doors down from where I live with my husband, just clear of the main part of River Street. It ain’t the best part o’ town, but it’s near everything, almost in the centre of the city.’

‘That’s terrific, thank you, Marge. May I pay you for the phone call?’

‘
Tush!
’ she said with a dismissive sweep of her hand. ‘The railways can pay, they make enough.’

‘It’s just until I can find my way around, see what’s what around the place.’

‘It’s Friday today. Will you stay the weekend?’

‘What? At Mrs Henderson’s? Yeah, I guess.’

‘Oh, then I’d better warn you about Sunday. By the way, Mrs H. doesn’t take boarders who drink.’

‘Is she Temperance?’

‘No, no, Apostolic.’

‘Huh? Can’t say I’ve heard of them. Anyhow, I don’t drink.’

‘Wish I could say the same for Mervyn.’