Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“Ah, Marc, you’ve arrived early,” RobertBaldwin said, coming into the room with his father. “What asurprise.”

***

Brodie continued along Front Street at a leisurelypace. While he was looking forward to his evening at theShakespeare Club – his third such evening since he had beenpersuaded to join by his supervisor, Horace Fullarton – he neverhurried this pleasurable stroll eastward along Toronto’s baysideavenue. Looking left, one’s sensibility was stroked by the subtle,natural tints of the water, the gently treed island, the silts andsands of the shoreline, and the vast skies that seemed to hold themall in place purely for the benefit of those observing theirwonders. Then, glancing right, the eye took in the architecturalniceties of the city’s most expensive and ostentatious residences -Somerset House and the Bishop’s Palace being the most prominent ofmany. Farther along at John Street stood the twin parliamentbuildings, where during the upcoming sessions the fate of thecolony would be decided. Nearing Peter Street, Brodie picked up hispace. On the far corner, facing the bay, sat The Sailor’s Arms,site of the weekly meeting of the Shakespeare Club.

At first glance The Sailor’s Arms did notappear to be the sort of place where a group of gentlemen wouldgather to venerate the Bard and confirm their own worthiness, whilesipping brandy, sniffing snuff and nibbling sweetmeats. The primarypurpose of this public house was signaled by its location: ahundred yards from the Queen’s Wharf. Its half-dozen second-floorbedchambers attracted officers and sailors from the manypassenger-ships, mail-packets and freighters – men seekingovernight accommodation and a noisy, well-lubricated taproom. Butat the back of the building, occupying the entire rear half of theupper storey, was a single, commodious room – eminently suited tolodge meetings, folk dancing, or any event where ample space, agenerous hearth, and continuous catering from below wereprized.

Some members of the Shakespeare Club,affronted by the raucous, boozy atmosphere of the tavern, preferredto enter the clubroom via the stairs at the rear of the building,although to do so they had to step perilously close to the flotsamand stench of the alley back there. But Brodie, by far the youngestmember of the idolators, did not mind passing through the taproom.In his youthful exuberance, he enjoyed tossing the barmaid or herhusband a genuine Yankee smile, inhaling the masculine smoke of theseafaring patrons and then, with a wink and a nod, stepping intothe narrow stairwell used by the staff to appease the needs of thegentlemen in the clubroom above. (Last week, they had been waitedupon by Etta Hogg, the young sister of Jasper Hogg, who lived nextdoor to Marc and Beth and who was courting Charlene Huggan, theirservant. Brodie hoped Etta would be on duty again tonight. Herfragile, freckled beauty – so different from Diana’s dark andsensuous allure – stirred in him feelings both erotic andprotective.)

With this latter thought uppermost in hismind, he walked into the taproom, and was confronted by the usualdin of argumentative male voices raised ever higher inself-defeating waves. But just as the door clicked closed behindhim, the din stopped, as if some invisible choir conductor hadgiven the signal for silence. So abrupt was the cessation of noisethat Brodie assumed his entrance had somehow triggered the event,and he braced himself for the onslaught of stares that must soon betrained upon him. But not one of the three-dozen patrons jammedinto the room was paying the slightest bit of attention to him.They were all transfixed by a scene unfolding at the far end of thebar – in front of the stairwell to the meeting-room above.

Tobias Budge, proprietor of The Sailor’sArms, had both of his hairy-knuckled hands around the coat-collarof a skinny fellow, who was struggling helplessly in the barkeep’sfierce grip, though it was apparent the victim was trying harder tomaintain his dignity than he was attempting to escape. Budge wasalternately jerking him up off the floor until his feet flailed atthe air and dropping him slack-kneed upon its stone surface.

“You’ve got a helluva nerve stickin’ yer uglybeak back in my pub, mister. But I’m a tolerant kind of guy, eh?Until you start pesterin’ the hired help. No body, especiallythe likes of you, interferes with my maids an’ lives to brag aboutit!”

The skinny fellow did not respond to hisassailant’s charge. Instead, he peered over at the mesmerizedaudience with a smug smirk on his face, which seemed to convey thenotion that it was the victim who was more likely to come out ofthis contretemps triumphant. The shaking and bobbing he wassuffering, however, was making it difficult for him to portrayhimself as the eventual victor. As was the red welt on his cheekwhere, Brodie concluded, Budge had slapped him (producing the soundthat had rendered the pub’s patrons speechless).

“You’d better let me down, Budge, I’m warningyou!” This threat came out somewhere between a snarl and a whine,and drew a derisive response from those observing the fun. “I wasmerely talking to the girl. Ask her!”

The girl, Brodie now noticed, was coweringbehind the combatants and clutching the arm of Gillian Budge, afiery sprite of a woman with eyes as sharp as cut-glass – whomno-one, obstreperous drunk or overly amorous sailor, dared cross.As Brodie feared, the girl in question was Etta Hogg. He had asudden urge to step up and slap the impudent villain on the othercheek, although it wasn’t clear whether Etta was cringing from anyill-treatment given her or simply reacting to the violence of heremployer’s response to it. Budge’s wife was standing stock-still,staring at her husband’s back with a look that seemed onlypartially approving.

“I don’t need to ask her! You grabbedher hand when she was tryin’ to get away from yer stink, an’ that’sall I needed to see. Now get the hell out of here an’ don’t evercome back!”

“Perhaps I would if you had enough sense tolet me down!”

This witty riposte drew sympathetic laughterfrom the hard-drinking sailors. Seeing no humour in the remark,however, Budge thrust the fellow down so suddenly that his kneesbuckled and his rump hit the floor with a comical thud.

“How’s that now? Down far enough?”

The skinny fellow gave the onlookers alop-sided grin (made necessary by his swollen left cheek) and triedmanfully not to grimace as he tottered to his feet. He did not moveimmediately towards the door, however, despite the gloweringpresence of the barkeep a foot behind him, fists clenched. Rather,he brushed himself off with meticulous care, obviously proud of hisblack morning-coat (one size too large for the thin but muscularbody), his frilled blouse and knotted tie. He straightened thelatter with slow precision, then glanced about for his top-hat andcloak (on a nearby chair, miraculously upright). He plunked the hatover his rigidly parted, coal-black hair, rolled his enormous blackeyes at his audience in a gesture meant to mock the futility ofBudge’s crude intervention, pointed the elaborate curvature of hisnose towards Brodie and the door, and walked serenely out into theOctober evening. But not before he swivelled his head around andcalled back, “You may live to regret this, Budge. If I letyou!”

The taproom was rocked by spontaneouscheering.

***

“Are you all right?” Brodie said to Etta.

“I think so,” Etta said, releasing her gripon Gillian Budge’s arm and offering Brodie a less than reassuringsmile. At this moment, though, she looked more embarrassed thanfrightened.

“She’s perfectly fine, Mr. Langford, as youcan plainly see,” Gillian said sharply. “And if my husband hadn’tacted like a gorilla, she’d be a damn sight finer!”