A Celibate Season. Carol Shields

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СКАЧАТЬ Old Town Lane

      Ottawa, Ont.

      Sept. 18

      Dear Chas,

      I love getting letters from you—do you realize that we’ve been married twenty years and have never written to one another before? I feel as though I’m catching glimpses of a whole new you that’s been lurking there all along and that I didn’t even suspect. Do you feel that way? Actually it’s even a bit scary.

      This is just a quick note to let you know I’ve found a place. Not grand (understatement), but not dreary either. It was advertised as a bachelor apartment, but it’s a cut above that. It has a separate bedroom—the smallest in the Western World, but separate. In it is one double bed—which takes up a lot of room, but I cherish the hope you will visit at least once—and a night table that clears the door by exactly three centimetres. Tucked into the corner by the foot of the bed—with a whole twelve inches of clearance—is a shabby, brown, scarred dresser. Clothes cannot be hung in the bedroom but must go in a tiny closet at the top of the stairs—I know that sounds unlikely, but bear with me.

      The combination living room-kitchen is small, but there is a little wooden balcony off it that looks out on a tiny park. Ottawa is full of parks—remember how we noticed that when we came with the kids? Dr. Grey pointed out in his gentle way that I should enjoy them to the fullest, since it’s the taxpayers of Canada, not Ottawa, who pay for them.

      In the distance, on the other side of the park, you can see City Hall, and if you were to lean way out over the balcony (only second floor, not too risky), you could see along Sussex Drive. When I mentioned to Austin—Dr. Grey—that the Prime Minister’s house is almost within spitting distance, he said he didn’t think he’d be able to resist the temptation if he were in my shoes.

      He’s actually quite nice. Yesterday I really boobed—changed Jessica’s response to a brief on pay equity to conform to what I thought were the regulations. Turns out my source was two years out of date. Jessica slapped the hole in the knee of her jeans and yelled, “Christ, what kinda stuff are they passing off as law in Lotusland?” I really was mortified, felt so stupid I couldn’t eat my dinner. This morning I found Austin’s copy of the new regulations on my desk and a poem:

       These rules are meant to ease the lot

       Of women out for hire,

       And if you say you know them all

       You just might be a liar.

      Anyway, just because my “pad” is close to the PM’s doesn’t mean the neighbourhood borders on posh. It doesn’t. Do you remember that wonderful market in Ottawa that we took the kids to? Well, there is an area beyond it called Old Town that has a mixture of very modest frame and brick buildings, and some of them are being restored by the National Capital Commission. Mine is in one of the unrestored two-storey frame buildings, within walking distance of Parliament Hill (about twenty minutes) and very close to Rideau Street. So, location couldn’t be better.

      Back to the living room. Well, as I say, it’s small. The furniture is terrible: a shabby chesterfield that pulls out to make into a bed (maybe one of the kids will visit?) covered in a cheap brown tweed material, a matching chair, an Arborite coffee table, and—unbelievably—a bay window. With cushions and a view! Nice. And, as I said, a glass door leading out to a little wooden balcony that makes me think of Charles de Gaulle. (Don’t ask why.) The strangest thing of all is that the stairs from the front door are mine, all mine. They’re part of the apartment! On the ground floor is a door, my door, Number 4, and when I unlock it I walk up this long flight of stairs and there, without benefit of further doors, is a small landing with the clothes closet directly in front, and on the right the living room. No arch, no curtain, it’s just there. It gives me kind of a vulnerable feeling, their not being shut off like proper stairs, and I expect it will be drafty. (Also expect that I or someone else will tumble down.)

      And that’s about it, except for a very small bathroom, which somebody in a psychedelic sixties freakout decorated in purple and pink. Purple tub, matching John, and every inch of counter space and walls brightly enamelled in “passion” pink.

      Oh yes, kitchen is a sink, hot plate, microwave, tiny fridge, and small counter on the stairs side. I know it sounds awful (depends on your point of view; Jessica is loudly scornful—thinks it elitist), but actually it’s nice. The living room has funny little angles, and the bay window and view of the park make it seem a bit homey. Or cosy, at least. I do need a desk—there seems to be some mix-up about my pay, but maybe when I get it I can find something cheap.

      Just glancing over your letter and note with some surprise that you and the children think Vance looked paunchy on TV. Actually he’s slimmed down, tells me he’s gone back to jogging along the canal every morning.

      About your cleaning-woman problems, did you ever stop to figure out what seventy dollars for six hours’ work is per hour? About twelve bucks. Backs up what we keep hearing re the disparity in men’s and women’s incomes. I’ll spare you the sermon that springs trippingly to the tongue and confine myself to pointing out that cleaning women charge at least fifteen bucks an hour these days. That’s why we were getting along without one. (I’m not suggesting that you don’t need one, love.)

      Am dying to hear what happens re Sanderson et al. Phone when you hear, hang the expense. Wait—I don’t have a phone. As soon as they connect it (promised for tomorrow) will call you.

      Oh, I miss the kids! Do you think Greg is being especially difficult? If so, I wonder why. Would it have to do with my departure do you think? I would have thought Mia would be the one to react to that, but gather she loves being the little mother.

      The mattress is lumpy on one side. Would gladly give you the good side if you were here.

      Much love,

      Jock

      P.S. Would you ring Mother and give her my new address? She feels threatened if she can’t locate me precisely on a map.

      P.P.S. We start the hearings proper next week. We’ve been going through the written briefs, but now the Commissioners will get a chance to question the groups that submitted them. Vance says I shouldn’t hesitate to ask questions, but I’m worried it might seem presumptuous. What do you think?

      29 Sweet Cedar Drive

      North Vancouver, B.C.

      25 September

      Dear Jock,

      Well, kiddo mine, you’ve pulled off a real live déjà vu. Unbelievable! I’m sure it must have been unconscious on your part, but do you realize that your new Ottawa pad—except for the Charles de Gaulle gallery—is a dead ringer for the suite on Tenth and Cambie where you were living when I first met you? My God, I read your letter with dry mouth and dropped jaw. The same apartment—the bay window, the clothes closet on the landing, the missing door, and the sad little bashed-up dresser, and even (you must remember) a double bed with one lumpy side. What does all this replication mean? I ask myself this, being in a contemplative frame of mind this rainy Wednesday morning. What does it signify?

      Yes, the rain continues and continues. We’re setting some kind of record, apparently. Good for us. A government plot, no doubt, to keep our minds off “harsh economic realities.” But despite cold winds and grey skies, the kitchen is СКАЧАТЬ