Jack of Diamonds (6 page)

Then my father grabbed his coat and gloves and stormed out of the house, presumably heading for the tavern before it closed.

It was the first and last time I accompanied my dad to a game of any sort. I think my mom must have put her foot down. But I don’t suppose he needed much persuading. I don’t think my dad liked me, and I’ve got to admit the feeling was pretty mutual. I wasn’t the kid he’d wanted, nor was I, like most kids my age, mad about sport and collecting cigarette cards of football and hockey stars. I just wasn’t into ball games.

We had never been a proper family. We seldom, if ever, shared anything, not even meals, except occasionally on a Sunday night. Dad must have eaten somewhere, because my mom rarely cooked for him. If she left a plate of food for him to warm up when he got home from the tavern at night, in the morning she’d invariably find it untouched and scraped into the garbage pail. He’d never just leave it on the plate so we could maybe eat it ourselves. Eventually, she simply gave up. You couldn’t waste perfectly good food like that.

He can’t have been all bad – he seemed to have plenty of friends. One of my school pals said his father had called my dad generous because he’d never let a pal go without a drink. We knew all about that! Perhaps he used up all his generosity in the tavern. At home he was a morose grunter – nothing seemed to please him and I can’t remember him ever saying anything nice about my mom or speaking kindly to her.

Maybe he resented her for giving him only one kid, a boy he couldn’t really enjoy in the way some other fathers seemed to enjoy their sons. On Sunday mornings he’d come out of his bedroom just as we were leaving. Scratching his crotch, he’d called after me, ‘Fuckin’ mama’s boy! Tit sucker!’

At school we once had to write an essay on the subject ‘Why I like my dad’. The girls had to do the same about their moms. I was forced to invent a whole lot of bullshit, saying how lucky we were to have him. Later, Miss Mony handed back the essay and said quietly, ‘Jack, imagination in a child is a good thing, but sometimes you have to stick to the facts, to the truth.’ She must have guessed the cause of the split lips, bruised cheeks and black eyes I occasionally sported, or maybe she’d heard about my dad somewhere. But she was dead wrong about telling the truth. A boy never talked about having a drunk for a dad, never ever. It was a lousy choice for an essay topic and she should have known better.

A drunken bashing was a source of personal shame, always kept within the family. A thrashing – or a good hiding, as it was sometimes called – was quite different. Six of the best on the bum was the definition of a thrashing, and you could talk about it if you wanted to. Thrashing a child for a misdemeanour was accepted practice in all families and happened when your dad was absolutely sober. The adage ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ was a universal truth at that time and, as far as I can gather, applied in proper middle-class homes as well. You can be sure everyone knew the difference between a thrashing and a beating, and who were the truly violent drunken fathers. There were no secrets in Cabbagetown. But still, you never admitted or talked about a bashing, even when you came to school with a battered face. The doorknob had a lot to answer for.

So my home life was divided into two parts: a father whom I avoided, and a loving mother. Somehow my mother’s part outweighed my father’s, and all things considered, I was a pretty happy kid. My dad did one good thing that was to change my life: he gave me the harmonica for my eighth birthday.

School was good. With my quick wit and easy manner, I was quite popular, though I never had a
best
friend, preferring my own company. Still, in the summer there were plenty of boys ready to play marbles in the schoolyard, or muck about after school among the deserted factories and along the river, and in winter play shinny on the frozen pond. By the time I’d turned eight, I was well ahead of the other kids my age. I mean, I couldn’t help it, with all that reading and with the stuff my mom and I learned on weekends, and especially with Miss Mony pushing me along. Just before she left for Vancouver, she told me I should be at another school, because ours wouldn’t let you skip a class, let alone two, which she said was what I needed to do. ‘Jack, the principal here doesn’t understand children like you who
really
want to learn. He’s been at Cabbagetown School too long and simply doesn’t know how to handle truly bright children.’ But I knew what she’d done for me was much better than being promoted to a class where I’d probably have to endure a worn-out and dispirited teacher, and the snubs and slights of the ten-year-olds, on top of ostracism in the playground by guys of my own age for being too clever for my own good. She’d set me on a course, created within me habits of reading and questioning that would serve me well all my life. One of the last things she’d said to me before leaving for Vancouver was, ‘Jack, you don’t need me any longer. Keep reading and asking yourself questions, or anyone else you think may have the answers. That’s all you’ll need until you get a scholarship to a decent high school and then university.’

When I told my mom, she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘University!’ she squeaked. ‘Isn’t and never was nobody in our family ever could have thought about something like going to university.’

I owe Miss Mony a great deal and mostly because she got me reading, which wouldn’t have happened otherwise. ‘Curiosity is the greatest habit a human can cultivate and reading is the best way to satisfy it,’ she’d say. Reading made me happy for another reason, too. I loved sharing books with my mom. Late at night, when we’d padlocked ourselves in the bedroom, I’d read just for her. Because she’d had very little education, she was anxious that I didn’t end up the same as her, just another child following in the pretty miserable footsteps of ignorant parents. She’d constantly ask me about school and Miss Mony’s private lessons, and she’d be proud as punch when my report card came in at the end of term with a whole string of straight As. Although you never allowed yourself to appear clever in class, you were allowed to be clever in tests. End of term report cards were regarded with indifference by most kids and never discussed. They were usually bad news, anyhow. The reports probably didn’t get too much attention from parents either. Most, recalling their own time at school, didn’t harbour great expectations for their kids. In those days people really believed you inherited your stupidity: like father like son; like mother like daughter. Working-class women especially were never expected to have brains and were regarded as breeders and factory fodder.

I remember my mom would give me a hug and a big kiss and shake her head in genuine wonder when she saw my results. ‘I don’t know where your brains could possibly come from, Jack. In my family nobody was good at schooling, yer father’s family neither; hopeless, the lot of us. Miracles will never cease, dumb marries dumber and, lo and behold, out pops Clever Jack!’ Then she’d laugh. ‘You don’t suppose they swapped babies at the hospital by mistake, eh?’ I could see she was surprised that I kept topping my class and it pleased me no end to see her so proud.

My father would just grunt and say, ‘Yeah, nice,’ in an off-hand manner, barely glancing at my results before adding, ‘It’s all bullshit, son. Remember yer from Cabbagetown, nothin’ here to beat. Only means yer the least stupid of a bunch o’ knuckleheads, so don’t you go thinking you’re God’s gift, eh, boy.’ Without discussing it, we stopped showing him my report card, and he never asked to see it.

But I had a long time to wait for my mom to come home each night, and sometimes I’d even grow weary of reading. Singing along to the McClymonts’ gramophone upstairs would, of course, help pass the hours occasionally. My mom and I had always sung together – mostly Iroquois tribal songs her grandmother had taught her – and often enough she’d say I had a real nice voice, but you couldn’t take too much notice of her. With only one child, who she loved to bits, she was a bit biased. Not that it mattered, because the one thing a boy never did at school was sing, except for ‘God Save the King’. You were allowed to belt that out because it was an act of loyalty to your king and country. Otherwise, our school was no place for a boy soprano.

I’d long since memorised the lyrics of the songs I heard drifting through the ceiling, and when the gramophone started upstairs I’d sing at the top of my voice, pausing at the parts where the needle stuck in the worn grooves. It never occurred to me that my voice would have travelled up through their floorboards as readily as the music travelled down, but they never complained; perhaps the silent treatment they’d imposed on us prevented them from speaking.

I recall my favourite song was ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, but I loved most of the songs filtering down from the McClymonts’: ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, ‘A Bicycle Built for Two’. Many of them were popular during the Great War, when, I suppose, someone in the McClymont family had a good enough job to be able to afford the gramophone and seventy-eights. They hadn’t added any new records since and all of them were badly worn from being played so often.

But there was worse, much worse, to come for Dolly McClymont, Mac and the twins. The arrival of the harmonica marked the beginning of a whole new musical era. I was desperate to learn to play, and practised for so long that my reading suffered. I knew all the tunes by heart, so I didn’t have to wait for the gramophone to start up. Sometimes I’d practise until my lips hurt. When I think back, it must have been sheer hell for ‘them upstairs’. The boy soprano might have been annoying but the novice harmonica player would have been far worse. Unknowingly, I had probably paid them back for the emotional hurt they’d so cruelly inflicted on my mother.

I don’t know whether it was from kindness or desperation but Mac confronted me one afternoon in the hall when Dolly and the twins must have been out. ‘Jack, you’re coming along nicely with that mouth organ. I’m surprised how quickly you’ve learned to play. Well done, and my goodness, all self-taught, eh?’

I was too young or gauche to know how to react, so, instead of thanking him for the compliment, I said, ‘Sorry, sir.’

He gave me a knowing grin. ‘Can’t speak for the missus and the girls, but I reckon you’re doing great. I liked it when you used to sing, you’ve got a real nice voice, Jack. But the harmonica makes a nice change from the records; goddamn gramophone drives me crazy.’ He smiled again. ‘Jack, I like the way you push the beat, put some
oomph
into the music. I like jazz. “Alexander’s Ragtime—”’

‘Jazz?’ I’d never heard the word.

‘Black man’s music, from America.’

I’d seen one or two black people on the street, but I’d never met one, and was surprised to learn that different coloured people had different music. ‘Do black people have black music?’ I asked, curious.

‘I’ll say!’ he replied, obviously enthusiastic.

My mother called the Iroquois songs I sang with her folk songs, but because they were just tunes, they didn’t count in my mind as real music. Now Mac was talking about jazz music that belonged to American black people.

‘You can hear it at the Jazz Warehouse on Dundas Street, not far from Yonge Street. Take you if you like,’ he offered.

I instinctively glanced upstairs.

‘No, no, tomorrow.’ He glanced up too. ‘It’s quilting night. They’ll leave for St Enoch’s just before four o’clock. What say we take off about half past? Plenty of time to catch the jam session.’

‘What’s a jam session?’

‘Oh, it’s when the musicians play for themselves. We’ll just stand outside and listen. I know just the spot.’

Jazz, black people’s music, jam session, and all happening in some warehouse on Dundas Street, not far from the street where the Mission handed out free beef sandwiches, tea and milk. It was close enough for us to walk there, no more than half an hour away, so we wouldn’t need money for the streetcar. ‘That would be great, thank you, sir,’ I said formally.

‘Good. Bring your instrument, Jack.’

‘My what?’

‘Mouth . . . er, harmonica.’

Instrument! Mac was treating me like I was a proper musician. The timing was good – I wouldn’t have to tell my mom – and I knew I was safe with Mac, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

The following afternoon when my mother gave me my supper I was having trouble concentrating.

‘What’s the matter with you today, Jack? Cat got yer tongue?’ she asked, after I’d failed to answer yet another question. ‘You’re jumpy as a jackass!’

I wanted to tell her, but then again I didn’t. I knew she liked Mac and was grateful when he fixed her snow boots, but he was still one of ‘them upstairs’ and she might be worried about Dolly’s reaction should she find out Mac was mixing with the enemy. ‘We had an exam today,’ I said, ‘it was hard.’ This wasn’t the truth – the exam hadn’t been difficult at all – but afterwards some of the brighter girls said they’d found it hard, so I was only half fibbing.

‘Oh, Jack, you’re such a clever boy, I’m sure it will be all right,’ she replied, dismissing my concern as she piled my plate with mashed potato and boiled cabbage. ‘Eat up. Maybe I’ll manage a soup bone from the butcher tomorrow. Never know, eh?’

I felt a bit ashamed because I knew she trusted me completely.

After my mom left for work, I got ready for the grand adventure. It was late November and already pretty chilly. We’d be returning after sunset and so I packed several sheets of newspaper inside my shirt – more than I probably needed, but this way I wouldn’t crackle as I walked. Then I put on my big overcoat (the charity lady, Mrs Sopworth, had been right, I had grown into it), my winter cap with padded flaps that covered my ears, and a pair of knitted gloves (same charity lady). I felt a bit overdressed for the time of the year, but walking to the library two days previously a chilly November wind had blown up around six o’clock, and Mac had mentioned that we’d be standing outside. I hated the cold. I decided that when I was grown up I was going to live in the South Seas or somewhere like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday lived.