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 one hundred per cent brighter since I took down those heavy old curtains of ours—you’ll be amazed when you see the difference it makes. On the other hand, it leaves me more or less open to Gil Grogan’s steady scrutiny. Every time I look up (contemplatively) from my drafting table I see the old bugger standing at his kitchen window, looking daft and lonely and waving a coffee cup at me. Your mother was sceptical about my letting Sue take down the curtains, but I told her you’d thank me for doing it. I gave them (the curtains) to her (your mother) to sell at her Fall Fair, though Sue says she can’t imagine anyone going for that particular shade of purply-green.
Sue—Sue Landis, that is—is our new treasure and salvation. We no longer stick to the floor around here or kick up dust balls when we cross the living room rug. She even changes the sheets (first time since you left) and throws out the rotten oranges and cheese rinds and empty cereal boxes. The four-hour dynamo we call her, and worth every bit of seventy bucks—you were right, lovey, about the current pay scale for cleaning help.
She’s been here twice now, and the place shines. Even Greg is looking somewhat shinier since she’s started coming, but that’s probably because she’s taught him a new chord on his guitar—a bar chord I think it’s called.
I have to admit that she wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I put that ad up on the notice board at Cap College. Lord only knows what I expected, but when she turned up at the house last week I thought there’d been some kind of misunderstanding. She’s young for one thing—well, thirty-two—and wears jeans and a sweater Mia would kill for, and has a head of crazy red hair. And she’s intelligent! (Now, Jock, for crissake don’t go and write me a Jessica-inspired sermonette about feminine stereotypes and male perceptions. Spare me this once, since I’m already chastened.)
Well, we sat down in the kitchen for a couple of Red Zingers (Sue carries her own teabags, feels caffeine is definitely carcinogenic and has some impressive statistics to prove it), and she told me a little about her background. This cleaning thing is just temporary, she says, just bread and butter until she gets her old job reinstated or finds something new. Until last August 15th she worked for the Department of Education as part of something called a Sexual Abuse Team that went into city schools and put on dramatizations of situations that kids apparently run into. At any rate, the gov’t. decided it was nothing but an expensive social frill and cancelled the whole program. Sue maintains that the province will have to pay the real cost down the road. She gets fairly heated on these themes, and we’ve had a couple of lively discussions, downright arguments in fact, all of which is a hell of a lot more entertaining than analysing the stock market with Gil. (God, that man makes rotten coffee. Boils it I think.)
Sue was interested in hearing about what you are doing in Ottawa. She asked all kinds of questions, says it’s about time someone took a good hard look at the economic burden on women and on single mothers in particular. But all the time she was talking I had a funny feeling that she was simultaneously eyeing our laser printer, the Toni Onley in the dining room, the Chinese carpet in the hall, etc., etc., and wondering what the hell a couple of bourgeois schmucks like you and me know about poverty.
Speaking of which, your good senator seems to be something of a stranger to the down-and-out set too, at least according to that cryptic profile in Maclean’s last week (p. 52). Upper Canada College! Harvard, yet! A BMW! Good God, does he really “collect” rare burgundies and nineteenth-century sheet music? The kids were disappointed that the article didn’t mention the people working for the Commission by name, but the bit about “Senator Pierce’s unique ability to surround himself with dedicated hard-headed realists” was nice, and we all basked in the reflected glow of it.
Still no word from Sanderson’s, just a letter saying they had received my letter and would be in touch soon. I hope they mean this week or next—I’d like to get that furnace bill taken care of, not that they’re pressing me yet. The furnace repairs came to more than the original estimate—what else is new? Afraid that scratches a Thanksgiving reunion.
The