Winter of the World (15 page)

Charlie picked him up. Daisy noticed he had big hands. ‘You must show Rusty you’re the boss,’ Charlie said. ‘Hold him tight, and don’t let him jump down until you
say so.’ He put the dog back on her lap.

‘But he’s so strong! And I’m afraid of hurting him.’

Charlie smiled condescendingly. ‘You probably couldn’t hurt him if you tried. Hold his collar tightly – twist it a bit if you need to – then put your other hand firmly on
his back.’

Daisy followed Charlie’s orders. The dog sensed the increased pressure in her touch and became still, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

‘Tell him to sit, then press down on his rear end.’

‘Sit,’ she said.

‘Say it louder, and pronounce the letter “t” very clearly. Then press down hard.’

‘Sit, Rusty!’ she said, and pushed him down. He sat.

‘There you are,’ said Charlie.

‘You’re so clever!’ Daisy gushed.

Charlie looked pleased. ‘It’s just a matter of knowing what to do,’ he said modestly. ‘You must always be emphatic and decisive with dogs. You have to almost bark at
them.’ He sat back, looking content. He was quite heavy, and filled the chair. Talking about the subject in which he was expert had relaxed him, as Daisy had hoped.

She had called him that morning. ‘I’m in despair!’ she had said. ‘I have a new puppy and I can’t manage him at all. Can you give me any advice?’

‘What breed of puppy?’

‘It’s a Jack Russell.’

‘Why, that’s the kind of dog I like best – I have three!’

‘What a coincidence!’

As Daisy had hoped, Charlie volunteered to come over and help her train the dog.

Eva had said doubtfully: ‘Do you really think Charlie is right for you?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Daisy had replied. ‘He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in Buffalo!’

Now Daisy said to Charlie: ‘I bet you’d be really good with children, too.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘You love dogs, but you’re firm with them. I’m sure that works with children, too.’

‘I have no idea.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you intending to go to college in September?’

‘I might go to Oakdale. It’s a two-year finishing college for ladies. Unless . . .’

‘Unless what?’

Unless I get married, she meant, but she said: ‘I don’t know. Unless something else happens.’

‘Such as what?’

‘I’d like to see England. My father went to London and met the Prince of Wales. What about you? Any plans?’

‘It was always assumed that I would take over Father’s bank, but now there is no bank. Mother has a little money from her family, and I manage that, but otherwise I’m kind of a
loose wheel.’

‘You should raise horses,’ Daisy said. ‘I know you’d be good at it.’ She was a good rider and had won prizes when younger. She pictured herself and Charlie in the
park on matching greys, with two children on ponies following behind. The vision gave her a warm glow.

‘I love horses,’ Charlie said.

‘So do I! I want to breed racehorses.’ Daisy did not have to feign this enthusiasm. It was her dream to raise a string of champions. She saw racehorse owners as the ultimate
international elite.

‘Thoroughbreds cost a lot of money,’ Charlie said lugubriously.

Daisy had plenty. If Charlie married her, he would never have to worry about money again. She naturally did not say so, but she guessed that Charlie was thinking it, and she let the thought hang
unspoken in the air for as long as possible.

Eventually Charlie said: ‘Did your father really have those two union organizers beaten up?’

‘What a strange idea!’ Daisy did not know whether Lev Peshkov had done any such thing, but in truth it would not have surprised her.

‘The men who came from New York to take over the strike,’ Charlie persisted. ‘They were hospitalized. The
Sentinel
says they quarrelled with local union leaders, but
everyone thinks your father was responsible.’

‘I never talk about politics,’ Daisy said gaily. ‘When did you get your first dog?’

Charlie began a long reminiscence. Daisy considered what to do next. I’ve got him here, she thought, and I’ve put him at ease; now I have to get him aroused. But stroking the dog
suggestively had unnerved him. What they needed was some casual physical contact.

‘What should I do next with Rusty?’ she asked when Charlie had finished his story.

‘Teach him to walk to heel,’ Charlie said promptly.

‘How do you do that?’

‘Do you have some dog biscuits?’

‘Sure.’ The kitchen windows were open, and Daisy raised her voice so that the maid could hear her. ‘Ella, would you kindly bring me that box of Milk-bones?’

Charlie broke up one of the biscuits, then took the dog on his lap. He held a piece of biscuit in his closed fist, letting Rusty sniff it, then opened his hand and allowed the dog to eat the
morsel. He took another piece, making sure the dog knew he had it. Then he stood up and put the dog at his feet. Rusty kept an alert gaze on Charlie’s closed fist. ‘Walk to heel!’
Charlie said, and walked a few steps.

The dog followed him.

‘Good boy!’ Charlie said, and gave Rusty the biscuit.

‘That’s amazing!’ Daisy said.

‘After a while you won’t need the biscuit – he’ll do it for a pat. Then eventually he’ll do it automatically.’

‘Charlie, you are a genius!’

Charlie looked pleased. He had nice brown eyes, just like the dog, she observed. ‘Now you try,’ he said to Daisy.

She copied what Charlie had done, and achieved the same result.

‘See?’ said Charlie. ‘It’s not so hard.’

Daisy laughed with delight. ‘We should go into business,’ she said. ‘Farquharson and Peshkov, dog trainers.’

‘What a nice idea,’ he said, and he seemed to mean it.

This was going very well, Daisy thought.

She went to the table and poured two glasses of lemonade.

Standing beside her, he said: ‘I’m usually a bit shy with girls.’

No kidding, she thought, but she kept her mouth firmly closed.

‘But you’re so easy to talk to,’ he went on. He imagined that was a happy accident.

As she handed a glass to him she fumbled, spilling lemonade on him. ‘Oh, how clumsy!’ she cried.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, but the drink had wet his linen blazer and his white cotton trousers. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to mop it.

‘Here, let me,’ said Daisy, and she took the handkerchief from his large hand.

She moved intimately close to pat his lapel. He went still, and she knew he could smell her Jean Naté perfume – lavender notes on top, musk underneath. She brushed the handkerchief
caressingly over the front of his jacket, though there was no spill there. ‘Almost done,’ she said as if she regretted having to stop soon.

Then she went down on one knee as if worshipping him. She began to blot the wet patches on his pants with butterfly lightness. As she stroked his thigh she put on a look of alluring innocence
and looked up. He was staring down at her, breathing hard through his open mouth, mesmerized.

(iv)

Woody Dewar impatiently inspected the yacht
Sprinter
, checking that the kids had made everything shipshape. She was a forty-eight-foot racing ketch, long and
slender like a knife. Dave Rouzrokh had loaned her to the Shipmates, a club Woody belonged to that took the sons of Buffalo’s unemployed out on Lake Erie and taught them the rudiments of
sailing. Woody was glad to see that the dock lines and fenders were set, the sails furled, the halyards tied off, and all the other lines neatly coiled.

His brother Chuck, a year younger at fourteen, was on the dock already, joshing with a couple of coloured kids. Chuck had an easygoing manner that enabled him to get on with everyone. Woody, who
wanted to go into politics like their father, envied Chuck’s effortless charm.

The boys wore nothing but shorts and sandals, and the three on the dock looked a picture of youthful strength and vitality. Woody would have liked to have taken a photograph, if he had had his
camera with him. He was a keen photographer and had built a darkroom at home so that he could develop and print his own pictures.

Satisfied that the
Sprinter
was being left as they had found her this morning, Woody jumped on to the dock. A group of a dozen youngsters left the boatyard together, windswept and
sunburned, aching pleasantly from their exertions, laughing as they relived the day’s blunders and pratfalls and jokes.

The gap between the two rich brothers and the crowd of poor boys had vanished when they were out on the water, working together to control the yacht, but now it reappeared in the parking lot of
the Buffalo Yacht Club. Two vehicles stood side by side: Senator Dewar’s Chrysler Airflow, with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, for Woody and Chuck; and a Chevrolet Roadster pickup truck
with two wooden benches in the back for the others. Woody felt embarrassed, saying goodbye as the chauffeur held the door for him, but the boys did not seem to care, thanking him and saying:
‘See you next Saturday!’

As they drove up Delaware Avenue, Woody said: ‘That was fun, though I’m not sure how much good it does.’

Chuck was surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Well, we’re not helping their fathers find jobs, and that’s the only thing that really counts.’

‘It might help the sons get work in a few years’ time.’ Buffalo was a port city: in normal times there were thousands of jobs on merchant ships plying the Great Lakes and the
Erie Canal, as well as on pleasure craft.

‘Provided the President can get the economy moving again.’

Chuck shrugged. ‘So go work for Roosevelt.’

‘Why not? Papa worked for Woodrow Wilson.’

‘I’ll stick with the sailing.’

Woody checked his wristwatch. ‘We’ve got time to change for the ball – just.’ They were going to a dinner-dance at the Racquet Club. Anticipation made his heart beat
faster. ‘I want to be with humans that have soft skin, speak with high voices, and wear pink dresses.’

‘Huh,’ Chuck said derisively. ‘Joanne Rouzrokh never wore pink in her life.’

Woody was taken aback. He had been dreaming about Joanne all day and half the night for a couple of weeks, but how did his brother know that? ‘What makes you think—’

‘Oh, come on,’ Chuck said scornfully. ‘When she arrived at the beach party in a tennis skirt you practically fainted. Everyone could see you were crazy about her. Fortunately
she
didn’t seem to notice.’

‘Why was that fortunate?’

‘For God’s sake – you’re fifteen, and she’s eighteen. It’s embarrassing! She’s looking for a husband, not a schoolboy.’

‘Oh, gee, thanks, I forgot what an expert you are on women.’

Chuck flushed. He had never had a girlfriend. ‘You don’t have to be an expert to see what’s under your goddamn nose.’

They talked like this all the time. There was no malice in it: they were just brutally frank with each other. They were brothers, so there was no need to be nice.

They reached home, a mock-Gothic mansion built by their late grandfather, Senator Cam Dewar. They ran inside to shower and change.

Woody was now the same height as his father, and he put on one of Papa’s old dress suits. It was a bit worn, but that was all right. The younger boys would be wearing school suits or
blazers, but the college men would have tuxedos, and Woody was keen to look older. Tonight he would dance with her, he thought as he slicked his hair with brilliantine. He would be allowed to hold
her in his arms. The palms of his hands would feel the warmth of her skin. He would look into her eyes as she smiled. Her breasts would brush against his jacket as they danced.

When he came down, his parents were waiting in the drawing room, Papa drinking a cocktail, Mama smoking a cigarette. Papa was long and thin, and looked like a coat-hanger in his double-breasted
tuxedo. Mama was beautiful, despite having only one eye, the other being permanently closed – she had been born that way. Tonight she looked stunning in a floor-length dress, black lace over
red silk, and a short black velvet evening jacket.

Woody’s grandmother was the last to arrive. At sixty-eight she was poised and elegant, as thin as her son but petite. She studied Mama’s dress and said: ‘Rosa, dear, you look
wonderful.’ She was always kind to her daughter-in-law. To everyone else she was waspish.

Gus made her a cocktail without being asked. Woody hid his impatience while she took her time drinking it. Grandmama could never be hurried. She assumed no social event would begin before she
arrived: she was the grand old lady of Buffalo society, widow of a senator and mother of another, matriarch of one of the city’s oldest and most distinguished families.

Woody asked himself when he had fallen for Joanne. He had known her most of his life, but he had always regarded girls as uninteresting spectators to the exciting adventures of boys –
until two or three years ago, when girls had suddenly become even more fascinating than cars and speedboats. Even then he had been more interested in girls his own age or a little younger. Joanne,
for her part, had always treated him as a kid – a bright kid, worth talking to now and again, but certainly not a possible boyfriend. But this summer, for no reason he could put a finger on,
he had suddenly begun to see her as the most alluring girl in the world. Sadly, her feelings for him had not undergone a similar transformation.

Not yet.

Grandmama addressed a question to his brother. ‘How is school, Chuck?’

‘Terrible, Grandmama, as you know perfectly well. I’m the family cretin, a throwback to our chimpanzee forbears.’

‘Cretins don’t use phrases such as “our chimpanzee forbears” in my experience. Are you quite sure laziness plays no part?’

Rosa butted in. ‘Chuck’s teachers say he works pretty hard at school, Mama.’

Gus added: ‘And he beats me at chess.’

‘Then I ask what the problem is,’ Grandmama persisted. ‘If this goes on, he won’t get into Harvard.’

Chuck said: ‘I’m a slow reader, that’s all.’

‘Curious,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law, your paternal great-grandfather, was the most successful banker of his generation, yet he could barely read or write.’