all sorts of trades and occupations. It wasn’t really out of desperation that he’d done so but at least partly out of a feeling that a man of his talents could mould them to almost any task. Therefore he’d tried making badges and ribbons, he’d tried driving a taxi, he’d tried clerking in abank, he’d tried being a barber—he still insisted on inflicting haircuts on his relatives—he had tried everything a reasonable man might do, and failed at them all. It wasn’t that his practice proved inadequate to his theory, but that the real market never met his expectations.
Except that one time he’d been a clerk. The problem there had been getting caught. The episode was occasionally referred to by Grandfather or Uncle as “the Bank Job,” but never to Father’s face.
Father discovered that getting Angus’s money was just a matter of pushing the forms through, and so he spent the following weeks pushing. While he awaited the arrival of the cheque, he looked round at the overcrowded hallways and rooms, at the broken, scarred and second-hand furniture. Couches were draped with faded bedspreads to hide their torn fabrics; chair legs were held in place with glue and baling wire; lamps were turned so their cracks and chips would face the wall. He’d always longed to be able to afford genuine antiques instead of junk furniture.
Suddenly he had the brainstorm he felt would shape the rest of his life: he would open a shop and sell and repair antiques. Further, he would open it right next door. That old woman and her son didn’t need the huge old house all to themselves, and he would get it from her. If he had to, he’d bully her into an arrangement; they could live on the top floor, and Father would even give the boy a job, something he’d never had. He’d pay them a woefully small amount of money to rent the entire ground floor as a showroom,and the basement as a workshop for repairs. At first he worried he’d be unable to find real work simple enough for the boy to do. Bah! he decided, he’d merely set him to driving nails into a plank for no reason at all, and give him five dollars at the end of each day. Father imagined himself driving around town to visit decorators and other antique dealers and architects and designers, and standing them all drinks and dinners to drum up business. He’d buy himself a fine grey suit with a bowler hat in which to look his best for his “clients.”
Mother’s grief became his happiness. Her father’s death was as great a blow as a father’s death always is, no matter how loud he yells or how disappointed he is or how angry, intolerant, even destructive; still she cried for her father because she’d never have another. But for him, his father-in-law’s death was a boon: no more awkward Sunday dinners, no more meddlesome, disapproving advice, no more struggling for the acquiescence of his own wife. For her it was the end of a kind of life, but for Father it was the promise of a new beginning.
In Grandfather’s life there had been little joy or happiness, and he had worked at keeping that little bit hidden. In a world of poverty and numbing physical labour, happiness was a weakness, a kind of lever to be used against its unwary possessor. A happy person was an unsuspecting person, and an unsuspecting person was, well … victimized.
The Desouche family history begins in mystery because Grandfather was an orphan. In the aftermath of the last great cholera epidemic in Montreal, before the Great War, he became one of dozens of children who were merely deposited at Catholic schools without references. Thousands of parents had died, but most of them were known or at least known of. Grandfather had no memory of his parents and never knew if they’d died friendless and unremarked, or had simply taken advantage of the general tragedy to relieve themselves of the burden of an infant. It wouldn’t have been unheard of in the days of Victorian poverty, when it was hard enough
Except that one time he’d been a clerk. The problem there had been getting caught. The episode was occasionally referred to by Grandfather or Uncle as “the Bank Job,” but never to Father’s face.
Father discovered that getting Angus’s money was just a matter of pushing the forms through, and so he spent the following weeks pushing. While he awaited the arrival of the cheque, he looked round at the overcrowded hallways and rooms, at the broken, scarred and second-hand furniture. Couches were draped with faded bedspreads to hide their torn fabrics; chair legs were held in place with glue and baling wire; lamps were turned so their cracks and chips would face the wall. He’d always longed to be able to afford genuine antiques instead of junk furniture.
Suddenly he had the brainstorm he felt would shape the rest of his life: he would open a shop and sell and repair antiques. Further, he would open it right next door. That old woman and her son didn’t need the huge old house all to themselves, and he would get it from her. If he had to, he’d bully her into an arrangement; they could live on the top floor, and Father would even give the boy a job, something he’d never had. He’d pay them a woefully small amount of money to rent the entire ground floor as a showroom,and the basement as a workshop for repairs. At first he worried he’d be unable to find real work simple enough for the boy to do. Bah! he decided, he’d merely set him to driving nails into a plank for no reason at all, and give him five dollars at the end of each day. Father imagined himself driving around town to visit decorators and other antique dealers and architects and designers, and standing them all drinks and dinners to drum up business. He’d buy himself a fine grey suit with a bowler hat in which to look his best for his “clients.”
Mother’s grief became his happiness. Her father’s death was as great a blow as a father’s death always is, no matter how loud he yells or how disappointed he is or how angry, intolerant, even destructive; still she cried for her father because she’d never have another. But for him, his father-in-law’s death was a boon: no more awkward Sunday dinners, no more meddlesome, disapproving advice, no more struggling for the acquiescence of his own wife. For her it was the end of a kind of life, but for Father it was the promise of a new beginning.
In Grandfather’s life there had been little joy or happiness, and he had worked at keeping that little bit hidden. In a world of poverty and numbing physical labour, happiness was a weakness, a kind of lever to be used against its unwary possessor. A happy person was an unsuspecting person, and an unsuspecting person was, well … victimized.
The Desouche family history begins in mystery because Grandfather was an orphan. In the aftermath of the last great cholera epidemic in Montreal, before the Great War, he became one of dozens of children who were merely deposited at Catholic schools without references. Thousands of parents had died, but most of them were known or at least known of. Grandfather had no memory of his parents and never knew if they’d died friendless and unremarked, or had simply taken advantage of the general tragedy to relieve themselves of the burden of an infant. It wouldn’t have been unheard of in the days of Victorian poverty, when it was hard enough
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