Why Rock the Boat

WHY ROCK THE BOAT

A Novel by William Weintraub

First published by Little, Brown, 1961.

Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-0-9867287-8-5

Copyright 2011 William Weintraub

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Chapter 1

It’s no use, you can’t write with gloves on. Putting the notebook and pencil into his mouth, Harry Barnes pulled off the gloves and once again the snowstorm bit into his hands like a salted cat-o’-nine-tails. Shuddering he stuffed the gloves into his overcoat pocket and waited for the two men coming up the steps.

Your names please? he asked.

H.R. Tapscott, said one of the men.

Gordon Enright, said the other.

Thank you, said Harry, writing it down. Then he brushed some snowflakes off his notebook and tried to decipher the name he had taken during the gloves-on experiment. The letters were big, wobbly, moronic – and they seemed to say GIRAF? Was that a name? He frowned, for there could be hell to pay if you didn’t get these things absolutely right.

It was dangerous, it was cold – but it was exciting. To be only nineteen years old and to actually speak to the great H.R. Tapscott! And who would be next? Eagerly he peered down to the curb, where the big limousines were debouching their passengers and vanishing down the windy whiteness of the street. There were pedestrians, too, breathing heavily as they climbed the half-dozen steps toward the lofty Gothic doorway. Here they gave their names to the frostbitten reporters and then, shaking the snow from their collars, they hurried on into the soothing warmth of the church.

You know what they do in Switzerland? said a man from the Mail. The ground gets frozen so hard they can’t dig the graves. So they keep them till spring.

"Now that is civilized," said a Bulletin man.

But in Montreal, the coffins went down all year round. And, when the funeral was an important one, the newspapers carried long lists of names to show who had attended.

Here comes old Cunningham, said a reporter. Want to bet he doesn’t make it up the steps?

It’s tricky with two canes, isn’t it?

Let’s just hope the old fool can stay alive for a few months more. I don’t want to have to cover his until it gets warmer.

How could they be so cynical, Harry wondered. Admittedly they were all older reporters, but surely they could still appreciate the glamour of a big occasion like this.

Charles D. Cunningham, Q.C., said Charles D. Cunningham, Q.C., hobbling past.

J. Omer Tremblay, representing the Lieutenant-Governor of Quebec.

"Mr. and Mrs. Alan – A - l - a - n – only one l, please – Macdonald, small d."

They kept shuffling by in solemn droves. Then there was a lull, but Harry’s pencil couldn’t stop. Greta Garbo, he wrote, Mr. and Mrs. Huckleberry Finn, Karl Marx, Q.C. These names would be easy to spot later and take out; right now it was essential to keep on writing, to keep the fingers moving. Otherwise they might freeze solid. Julius Caesar, Mickey Mouse.

Looking up, Harry saw a rotund figure mounting the steps. It was his supervisor, the Religious Editor of the Montreal Daily Witness.

Well, said the Religious Editor, addressing the press corps, isn’t this a lovely little son-of-a-bitch of a day?

Sure is cold, Harry said.

Oh, it’s you, said the Religious Editor. And what in hell, may I ask, is that thing on your head?

It’s Army surplus. Arctic commando hood.

"Well just take it off, will you? You happen to be covering a funeral, not a dog fight. Just a little respect, eh?"

Harry threw back the cozy, monkish cowl and felt the cold crashed against his ears. Well, this would probably etch the old face. A girl has once told him that he had quite a nice face, but it would become interesting only after it had become etched by experience, by suffering. This remark, as well as her subsequent behaviour, had made some contribution to the process, but there was still a long way to go. He was painfully aware that he looked even younger than he was. It was the freckles and untamed brown hair, the loose-limbed lankiness, the eager expression that he couldn’t quite suppress.

In future, said the Religious Editor, you wear a fedora or nothing at all when you’re in the presence of the dead. Don’t you forget that, sonny.

Obviously Religious was still on the warpath, venting his rage on any subordinate in sight. It was hard to believe that up to a week ago he had been a very amiable person, quite content as chief police reporter of the Witness. It had even been rumoured that he was in line for something really important, like the Sports Department. Then, suddenly, he had been assigned to replace the Faith man, who had just left the paper to go into advertising. It was a humiliating demotion, enough to unsettle any journalist.

Excuse me, said Harry, but I was wondering about these. He handed the Religious Editor a sheet of paper with three names typed on it.

What’s the trouble? asked the Religious Editor.

It’s three people who couldn’t make the funeral. But they want to be in the list. A friend of theirs just gave it to me.

So what’s the problem?

Should I put them in?

There are times, said the Religious Editor, when I honestly wonder whether we’re running a newspaper or a goddam journalism school.

Harry licked his lips and glanced around to see if the other reporters were listening. They were.

These three names, said the Religious Editor, "happen to be three important business executives. They probably have a board meeting this morning. But they wanted to come didn’t they?"

They’re advertisers, laddie, said a Mail man. That’s the simple facts of life.

Will someone please tell me why we keep hiring children? said the Religious Editor, snatching Harry’s notebook and thumbing through it. I admit they’re cheap, but in the long run – Suddenly he stopped and stared at Harry. Good God! he said. Have you taken complete leave of your senses?

It was just to keep warm. I had to keep writing to keep warm.

The Religious Editor read aloud from the notebook: ’Charlie Chaplin, Senator John Dillinger, Tarzan of the Apes, Q.C. . . ‘

Harry looked down at his shoes. If this ever got back to the office it could be the end. There was talk of a drastic staff reduction coming up, a blood-bath of an economy wave. Heads were going to roll and right now they were selecting the heads.

’. . . Pepe le Moko, Mae West, David Copperfield,’ said the Religious Editor.

Listen, said Harry, all those names come out later. I wasn’t going to type them into the list was I?

You’re playing with fire, kid, said a Mail man. I’ve seen plenty worse things than that slip into print by mistake.

The conversation was interrupted by a new, shivering wave of mourners. As they gave their names, their breath made little clouds of steam:

Colonel and Mrs. R. B. H. Strachey.

Mrs. Harrison Bulmer.

Miss Edith Bell. You know, of course, that Mrs. Bulmer has the O.B.E.

Oh Edith, I wish you wouldn’t.

You’re altogether too modest, my dear.

A. Norton Chalmers, representing the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.

Canadian Pacific . . . With distressing clarity, Harry envisaged the train that might soon be carrying him back, vanquished, to his home town. For several days he would skulk around, but eventually he would have to drop in at the office of the Actonville Weekly Voice. Mr. George Acid-Face Griffin, editor, publisher and rural sage, would look up from his roll-top desk and say, Well, if it isn’t the boy genius!

Acid-Face would require Harry to do considerable groveling and then might – only might, mind you – give him his job back. For two years, ever since he finished high school, Harry had worked for the Voice as reporter, advertising salesman and floor sweeper. Then, with lunatic ambition, he had stolen off while on vacation and had canvassed all the big dailies in Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal. Two of the editors had laughed, but most had been quite polite as they sent him away, clutching his scrapbook. But the Witness absent-mindedly, had hired him.

Remember, you’re only on probation, the Managing Editor had said. I’d rent a room by the week, if I were you. Don’t sign a long lease. That had been three months ago. Now the end was in sight, with all its degradation.

Brother! That casket really must have cost something, said one of the reporters.

The pallbearers, careful-footed in the snow, were now carrying the remains of one of Canada’s great empire builders up the steps. As the Witness editorial had said: He commanded trees to be felled and rivers to be reversed. He caused towns to sprout – and to wither. He took minerals from the ground. He took – and he gave. His generous contributions to the Sea Cadet movement proved once again how selfless philanthropy can make the camel smaller and the eye of the needle bigger – much bigger.

I guess you can’t take it with you, said a reporter. Sure makes you think.

Are you kidding? If that old bastard couldn’t take it with him, what makes you think he’d go? Don’t worry, it’s right there in that coffin, all in travelers’ checks.

But the casket contained only a lean, abstemious ninety-year-old and, light with this burden, it went floating smoothly through the doorway. The rest of the mourners swirled in after it. With a final look of disgust at Harry, the Religious Editor went in too, to cover the eulogy.

Young Ronny Waldron, another Witness reporter, who had been stationed at the opposite side of the doorway, came across to join Harry.

Guess we might as well pack it up, he said.

Harry and Waldron turned their collars up and went down the steps to the street, where the blizzard was strangling traffic. Motors roared as cars strained to break loose, like frantic beasts dying in quicksand; spinning tires whined in agony, horns bellowed; there were cries of advice, pleas, oaths and threats as the chaste white snow evoked the dark side of the driver’s soul.

Want a lift?" Waldron said, opening the door of a small snow-removal tractor parked at the curb. The city’s Public Works Department had lent it to him, in return for keeping a certain story out of the paper.

First they offered me a car, said Waldron, but this is more practical for winter.

They roared down the street, past stalled automobiles.

Listen, Ronny, said Harry, is it true there’s going to be a big economy wave at the office? Lots of guys getting fired?

So I hear, said Waldron. They say this is going to be one of the very lean years. Hey, watch this! Waldron pushed a lever that lowered the tractor’s plow. Then he stopped, took aim and slammed the vehicle into a snowbank, opening a passage from the road to the sidewalk. A policeman, noticing, blew a whistle and stopped traffic as Waldon crashed about, clearing snow. Fun, eh? Waldron said.

Then, growing bored, he headed out into the road again, leaving the sidewalk a churned-up chaos.

Now they sailed down Sherbrooke Street, past the gleaming windows of luxurious stores, shops, shoppes, ateliers, nooks and boutiques – gowns from Paris, neckties from Milan, diamonds from Africa. Past the fortress-like apartment buildings, past the art galleries. This, Harry realized, was the metropolis, the big city he’d never had a chance to get to know. He’d be saying good-by before properly saying hello.

Say, will you let me out here please? said Harry, as they approached the Imperial George Hotel.

Aren’t’ you coming down to the office?

No, I’ve got another assignment. Bellringers’ Club.

Waldon jammed on the brakes. You may think I’m out of my mind for suggesting this, he said, but how would you like me to take the Bellringers off your hands? I’ll cover it and you can relax for a few hours.

Thanks, Ronny, but I think I’d better do it myself.

Then you wouldn’t have a dollar that isn’t something would you?

But Harry didn’t, and Waldon scurried off down the glacial street, grinding his gears. Harry went through the revolving door and into the warm hotel lobby. Poor Waldron. Broke like everybody else, just before pay day, and so luncheon club to cover. On hungry days like this, even the Bellringers were a coveted assignment. The humble Bellringers – at the bottom of the hierarchy, below the Rotary, the Kiwanis, the Optimists, the Brotherlymen, the Goodchaps and all the others. At the very bottom of the heap, and yet their chicken pot pie was just as filling as anyone else’s.

Harry’s appetite was keen as he strode through the brown plush and worn gilt of the lobby. As he walked, he flexed his benumbed fingers to get the circulation going again. If only you could take funeral names with your gloves on. . .

Chapter 2

It’s a violation! boomed the President. So whaddaya say we find Brother Bill half a dollar and ring it up on this here Bell? Whaddaya say, boys? The Bellringers roared assent and tinkled their glasses with knives and forks. The President, his mandate clear, picked up a silver mallet and prepared to smite a large brass gong that stood in front of him at the head table.

Now just a minute! Let’s hold that Bell a minute! It was Brother Bill, a bald little man who was getting to his feet at one of the tables at the back of the banquet hall. The Bellringers settled into their chairs to listen to his appeal.

All right, orated Brother Bill, I’ll admit to that Rule Number Seven violation. And it’s an honour to shell out half a buck to the Kiddie Kamp Fund. But am I the only violator in this room?

Smiling slyly, he made his way through the tables, now strewn with after-lunch crumbs. A waiter, bearing coffee, stood aside as Brother Bill mounted the dais to face the long white-draped head table. Dramatically, he lifted his arm and pointed at the President, sitting under the big Union Jack.

Confrontation! he announced. Do you yield, Brother?

The Ringers held their breath.

Yes, yield on confrontation, said the President. Aye, boys, he said, your President, personally. Darned if I know how Brother Bill found out, but I too made and unbrotherly remark on a Brotherly Wednesday.

The Ringers chuckled delightedly at the irony of the situation.

Do you yield mallet, fellow violator? Brother Bill said. Co-violator yields mallet, said the President. He handed it across the table to Brother Bill, who took hold of it lovingly.

At the Press Table, Arthur Spears clapped his hands over his ears. If they hit that goddam gong once more I’ll go crazy, he muttered. Jesus, did we ever tie one on last night!

Old Fred Harris, the Bulletin reporter, nodded sympathetically and sipped his coffee. The gong was hard on hangovers. It was only slightly less throaty than Big Ben and its reverberations took a long time dying out. You could feel them in the roots of your teeth. Send this had been a particularly philanthropic and clangourous luncheon.

It raises money for the kids, said Fred Harris. You’ve got to admit that.

Can’t they do it quietly? asked Spears.

Just then the good news pealed out again as Brother Bill belaboured the Bell with frightening zeal. Then he and the President each dropped fifty cents into the Kiddie Kamp box. There was loud applause.

Whazzat? said a photographer at the Press Table, starting in his sleep. Whazzat? Is the speech over?

No, it’s just a fine, said Pierre Beaulac of Le Temps.

With admiration, Harry watched as Beaulac buried himself again in a magazine called Spicy Detective. This young Frenchman certainly had style, reading magazines as he did through most assignments and always displaying sophisticated boredom. Harry blushed to remember his own excitement on covering his first service club meetings; it has been so glamorous to be behind the scenes with these leaders of the community, to watch them at