Chance Developments: Unexpected Love Stories

  “But you said he could?”

  “Why not? He’s going to do it tomorrow, he told me. Innocent fun, Frank.” She reached for the plate of sandwiches. “Another sandwich?”

  “You spoil me.”

  “And why not?”

  Frank looked about him. He loved the comfort of Ruby’s trailer. He liked the neat antimacassars on the chairs. He liked the way that she made the trailer into a home. It was just a basic trailer, a cart really, but she transformed it into something much more than that. Somebody—one of the dancers, he thought—had said to him that there was a German word to describe the atmosphere that Ruby’s trailer created. Gemütlichkeit. It was a great word—if you could get your mouth about it.

  —

  “All right,” said Ruby. “I’m ready.”

  Eddie sat himself in front of her. His chair was slightly lower than hers, and that meant he was looking up into her face. In ordinary circumstances he would not have liked that—being lower than the person whose fortune he was telling—but it did not seem to matter with Ruby.

  “Can you give me your hand, please?”

  Ruby stretched out her right hand, and Eddie took it. His touch was slightly damp, she thought, but then the weather was hot and everybody was damp. She watched as he examined her palm, bending his head forward to peer at the lines and creases. I must get a gentler soap, she thought. You have to watch what soap does to your skin—it could change your whole future!

  “You’re smiling,” said Eddie. “What’s the joke?”

  “Just something I thought of,” said Ruby. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you off your stride.”

  “That’s all right,” said Eddie. “Pelmanism teaches you to concentrate. That’s one of its big things, you know.”

  “I must read about it some day,” said Ruby.

  “I’ve got a pamphlet,” said Eddie. “I can bring it round…”

  She cut him off. “Not just yet, Eddie. I’m reading Dickens. It’s a big book. Some other time, perhaps.” She paused. “Now this hand of mine—what do you see? Am I going to be rich?”

  Eddie shook his hand. “Not rich, no. Nor poor, really. You see this line here? That’s wealth. Yours goes down there, but it’s not as long as some I’ve seen. I’d say that you’re going to be comfortably off. Yes, that’s probably the best way of putting it.”

  “Well, who would have known?” said Ruby.

  “Your life line’s good,” said Eddie. “It’s this one here. You’re going to have a good, long life.”

  Ruby chuckled. “That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to think I’d be run over by a train next week.”

  “The hand doesn’t give such specific information,” said Eddie. There was a note of reproach in his voice.

  “Sorry,” said Ruby. “It’s just that I felt quite relieved to hear what you had to say about that.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Eddie.

  He turned her wrist slightly and the pressure of his fingers increased. She felt an urge to withdraw her hand, but did not do so. One of his fingers was moving slightly, as if stroking her. She frowned, and the movement stopped.

  “This line is all about love,” said Eddie, pointing with his free hand. “You will meet somebody who really loves you and you’ll ask him to marry you—no, I meant: he’ll ask you to marry him. And you must marry him. When the question comes, you must say yes, because he loves you very dearly and he’ll make a good husband for you.”

  She caught her breath. “Tell me about him,” she said—and then immediately regretted it. I should end this now.

  “He’s a bit younger than you,” said Eddie. “You may already have met him, I think…Let me look closer…Yes, I think you have.”

  She withdrew her hand. He tried to keep hold of it, but his own hand had become sweatier, and it slipped. She rose to her feet, adjusting her skirt.

  “Well, Eddie,” she said cheerfully. “That was a very interesting experience. I’m glad that my future is not entirely bleak.”

  He seemed flustered.

  “I’ve made some sandwiches,” she said. “And a pot of tea. I’ll give Frank a shout—I’m sure he’ll want to join us.”

  Eddie fingered his collar. “I didn’t really finish the reading,” he said.

  She was firm. “Some other time…maybe.”

  When Frank arrived the atmosphere of slight tension seemed to dissipate. William Lion Mackenzie King was off his food for some reason, and that became the topic of conversation.

  “Give him a dose of salts,” suggested Eddie.

  Frank asked whether animals responded to a dose of salts in the same way as humans. “Can you give salts to animals?”

  “Yes,” said Eddie. “My uncle’s dog was always getting these turns, you see. I told my uncle to give him salts. He did, and he always got better.”

  “I could try,” said Frank. “But with him off his food, how am I going to get the salts into him?”

  “In his water,” said Eddie.

  “I’ve made sandwiches,” said Ruby.

  Frank brightened. “Egg and cress?”

  “Specially for you,” said Ruby, smiling at him.

  Eddie watched. She didn’t listen, he thought. She didn’t listen. That was the problem with so many people—they didn’t listen. That’s why they needed Pelmanism to help them. If more people did Pelmanism, then more of them would listen. It was so obvious.

  6

  On their second night in Calgary, immediately after a show to a packed tent, fire broke out among the wagons and trailers. The cause was uncertain, and the damage was relatively light—it could have been far worse had the fire started while people were still in the tent. As it was, the fire trucks reached them within minutes and extinguished the blaze before it could take hold. A large truck used for storing seating was destroyed and so was Ruby’s trailer. She was not in it at the time, as she had a cousin in Calgary and she had gone off to spend the night in her house.

  They had no means of contacting her. When she returned the following morning, she saw Frank standing outside the charred shell of her trailer, along with the manager and the human cannonball. She screamed, and Frank spun round. He ran to meet her.

  “We don’t know what happened,” he said. “Probably a cigarette tossed down by some passer-by—smoulders away and then, well…thank heavens you weren’t in it.”

  She entered the charred ruins of the trailer—a barely recognisable mass of twisted metal, ash, and fragments of glass.

  “Harold,” she muttered.

  Frank took her hand. “I found him,” he said.

  He led her away. On a small table erected by the manager, the burned frame of the ventriloquist’s doll was laid out, like a human victim of a conflagration. The wires that had been used to operate his limbs and his lips were twisted into a blackened bundle.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” said the manager. “It must be a real loss to you.”

  She said nothing. She reached out to touch what had been Harold’s head. Her fingers came away blackened. She rubbed these against her skirt, marking it.

  “What do you want to do?” whispered Frank.

  She shrugged. “Carry on, I suppose.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said the manager. “We all carry on.”

  She shot him a glance, and he looked away quickly.

  The human cannonball came up to her and put an arm round her shoulder. “He was a great prop, Harold was,” he said. “He wouldn’t have known anything about it. The heat was very intense.”

  Her mouth twisted. “Thank you, Jack,” she said.

  The manager had an idea. “There’ll be an insurance claim,” he said. “It will more than cover a new doll.”

  She nodded her thanks. “I just want to cry,” she said quietly. “I just want to cry by myself.” But then she looked up sharply. “What about tonight? What about the show?”

  Frank stroked his chin. “Come along with me, Rube. I’ve got a suggestion.”
/>
  He looked at the manager, who nodded his assent.

  They walked off, watched by Eddie. He had wanted to say something, but had been unable to find the words.

  That night was the first time that Frank and Ruby did their act together. They had had no idea that it would be so successful, but the near-hysterical laughter of the audience and the thunderous applause at the end of their act left no doubt in anybody’s mind: they had stumbled upon a whole new approach to ventriloquism.

  The concept was simple. Frank played the part of the ventriloquist’s doll, and perched on Ruby’s lap in exactly the same way as Harold had done. She then engaged in conversation with him in which he merely opened and shut his mouth, leaving the speaking to her. What produced the laughter, though, was the occasional spontaneous movement from Frank—wave to the audience, a wink, a pulling of the tongue—while Ruby was looking elsewhere. This just happened to work.

  At the end of the first performance the manager came to congratulate them in Ruby’s temporary trailer.

  “We have just witnessed,” he said, “the inauguration of the greatest ventriloquist act in Canadian history.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” said Frank. “It was just a piece of nonsense, really.”

  “Liked it?” the manager exploded. “I loved it!”

  —

  Harold was never replaced—there was no need. Frank, described in the circus programme as Oscar, the Almost Human, continued in his supporting role, perched on Ruby’s lap, a perfect foil for her wit. He still continued to show William Lion Mackenzie King, but that act never provided him with anything like the enjoyment he derived from his role as Oscar. “It’s the difference between vaudeville and Shakespeare,” he said to friends. “One pays the rent, the other is art.”

  A month after the fire, when they were on tour over the border in Washington State, Frank asked Eddie to come to his trailer.

  “I want to talk to you in private,” he said.

  Eddie was uneasy; he had a good idea what Frank wanted to talk to him about, and he was correct.

  “I think you should know that Rube and I are getting hitched,” said Frank.

  Eddie bit his lip. “I see…”

  “And I want you to be best man,” said Frank. “I hope you can accept.”

  Eddie closed his eyes. This was the biggest challenge his Pelmanism had ever faced. He had to remain calm.

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Frank. Of course I’d be delighted to do that for you.”

  Frank looked relieved. “We’re not going to leave it long. Two weeks from now we’ll be in Spokane. We’ll get a judge up there to marry us.”

  Eddie swallowed hard. “That’ll be good.” It cost him a great effort to say that, but he did it again when he said, “I’m really pleased.”

  Frank went with him to congratulate Ruby. She gave Eddie a hug, and felt him withdrawn and stiff with sorrow.

  “You were right, Eddie,” she gushed. “You said I’d already met the man I would marry—and I had! You said he would be a bit younger than me, and Frank is exactly two months younger! It’s all there in the palm isn’t it? You were absolutely right!”

  And so, two weeks later, they appeared before a judge in Spokane. It was a hot afternoon, and the wind on those high plains was dry and persistent.

  “Where do you think the wind comes from?” said Ruby. “You know the answer to that, Eddie?”

  He turned his head. The warm wind was on his face. If he had tears to shed—and he did—then they would be quickly dried by that wind.

  “The wind comes from a happier place,” whispered Ruby. “That’s where it comes from.”

  He took the photograph. Frank sat on her lap, wearing his best white Stetson. “You happy, Oscar?” she asked. And from Frank’s closed mouth came the reply, “Very happy, love.”

  7

  On the last day of July in 1998, the Kingston Whig-Standard carried this short obituary:

  The death at 98 last Saturday of Edward Beaulieu robs the Canadian circus world of one of its most distinguished sons. Edward Beaulieu was the son of a fur trapper turned tax accountant, Aristide Beaulieu, and his wife, Hope Beaulieu (née Patterson). As a young man he joined the Great All-Canada Circus in BC and soon established a reputation for mounting one of the best sleight of hand acts in North America.

  Beaulieu married Miss Gwen Torrent of Saskatoon, a niece of another well-known circus performer, Jack Torrent, known as the human cannonball. It was a long and happy marriage and the couple saw their Golden Anniversary together.

  Beaulieu was a generous man, given to telling fortunes. He tried to tailor fortunes to the needs of those who consulted him, and few were sent away disappointed. His life was not without incident, including one occasion when he unwisely attempted to read the lines on the paw of a circus lion named King. The injuries he sustained as a result of this required a three-week enforced recuperation period at Lake Louise, during which Beaulieu began the writing of his one and only book, The Future Lies in the Past, eventually published in Toronto by Douglas Gibson five years ago.

  His wife having predeceased him, and there being no children, Beaulieu left his entire estate to the Pelmanism Institute of Southern Ontario.

  He was a good man.

  1

  On a chilly spring morning in 1913 in the west of Ireland, a young man assisted in the changing of a car’s wheel. The car was being driven by Roger Kelly, by night a consummate poacher, by day employed by the father of the young woman in the white double-breasted coat. Her name was Anthea, and she was the daughter of a successful speculative builder, Thomas Farrell, who, having made a fortune in Dublin, had retired to an estate in the country. Thomas was aware that Roger took most of the fish from his trout stream, but turned a blind eye to this, as Roger had proved himself indispensable in so many ways. These included being the only man able to humour their car out of its habit of stalling at awkward moments.

  The car was a 1907 Standard Tourer, made in a factory in Coventry, and briefly owned by an exiled Irishman in Manchester who used it for a trip to Galway. Unfortunately, he had died on the journey—“expired while travelling,” as his newspaper obituary put it. The car was stolen by the proprietor of the hotel in which its owner had died, and subsequently repainted and sold to Thomas Farrell. He had no idea that he was purchasing a stolen vehicle, and would have been appalled at the thought: he had always prided himself on the honesty—and general integrity—of his business dealings in Dublin. “They may say that I built slums,” he said. “But I built decent slums, so I did!”

  Thomas was proud of his Standard Tourer. “It’s a real beauty of a car,” he said to his daughter. “Look at the seats, darling. Buttoned leather, with velvet trimmings. Just like one of those grand sofas, those…those…”

  “Chesterfields.”

  “Yes, Chesterfields. Look at them. And you see the high window at the front? See it? That’s called the windscreen, and the wood it’s made of is ash. The very best ash from some forest over in England. They make fine cars, the English—fine cars.”

  She had not been particularly interested in these details, but enjoyed riding in the car, perched on the high passenger seat with the hood down and the sun on her face, although more frequently it was rain—that thin, drifting rain that fell in veils over their slice of Irish countryside.

  Thomas Farrell had little use for the car, as he rarely went anywhere. There were occasions, though, when he was invited to other country houses, and since he was trying to establish himself with the gentry of the area, it was important that he should arrive in style. His acceptance in the county, though, would always be half-hearted, as he failed every test that such circles applied, from religion to his table manners. In his undoubted favour, though, was the fact that he owned two thousand acres, and some of those acres were good shooting country, with pheasants and woodcock in abundance.

  “A touch of the gombeen,” said one neighbour to another. “But such are the times we
live in.”

  “Not a bad fellow,” replied the other. “Close your eyes and block your ears and he passes with flying colours.”

  Thomas was a widower, and Anthea was his only close family, apart from his two brothers in Cork, from whom he was largely estranged. He had waved olive branch after olive branch in their direction, to very little avail. One had borrowed money from him and never paid it back; the other had some vague, ancient complaint against him, dating back even into their childhood—something to do with a bicycle—the details of which now evaded even the bearer of the grudge.

  Anthea had been educated at a small school for girls in Dublin. She had then been sent to England for a year, to a finishing school in Cheltenham, where young women were given instruction in deportment, French, and a few other subjects thought to be helpful in making a good marriage. As if to confirm this, she had received a proposal from the brother of one of her friends at this school, but had been put off him by the friend herself.

  “William is quite useless,” the friend had warned. “I should know, as I’ve known him all my life. He would not make a good husband. In fact, the only place for him is the army.”

  “Oh…”

  “Indian Army,” continued the friend. “And here’s another thing: my father feels exactly the same way. William is a great disappointment to him.”

  It was unambiguous advice, and Anthea followed it.

  “You’re so kind,” she said to William. “But I must go back to Ireland, as my father needs me there. I’m sure you will find a nice girl soon, and you will be very happy.”

  “I would have been very happy with you, you know. More than happy.”

  “That’s as may be, but I have made up my mind. I’m so sorry.”

  He went into the army, as Anthea’s friend had predicted, although he did not go to India. In August, 1914, two days after he reached France as a young lieutenant, and within the first hour of his arrival at the front, he was shot dead at the battle of Le Cateau.

  2

  The young man helping to change the wheel was called Ronald O’Carroll. He was twenty-five at the time, and he was the teacher in the small National School in the nearby village. This school had only eighteen pupils, and Ronald ran it single-handed, although the Board of Education occasionally gave him a temporary assistant to help with the younger children. He had succeeded his father in the post: George O’Carroll had taught there for thirty years before he and his wife retired to a house left to him by an uncle in Sligo. Ronald, who had just finished at university, stepped right into his father’s shoes, not only taking up the job he had vacated, but moving back to the teacher’s house in which he had spent his childhood. This house adjoined the school, its vegetable plot being separated from the children’s playground by no more than a flimsy fence.