Winter of the World

‘Stop being irrepressible. I know it’s charming, but I’m not in the mood.’

Woody tried to calm down. ‘We missed you in church,’ he said. ‘The sermon was about Noah.’

To his consternation she burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Woody,’ she said. ‘I like you so much when you’re funny, but please don’t make me laugh today.’

He thought this remark was probably favourable, but he was far from certain.

He spotted an open grocery store on a side street. ‘You need fluids,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He ran into the store and bought two bottles of Coke, ice-cold from the refrigerator. He got the clerk to open them, then returned to the march. When he handed a bottle to Joanne, she said: ‘Oh, boy, you’re a life saver.’ She put the bottle to her lips and drank a long draught.

Woody felt he was ahead, so far.

The march was good-humoured, despite the grim incident they were protesting about. A group of older men were singing political anthems and traditional songs. There were even a few families with children. And there was not a cloud in the sky.

‘Have you read Studies in Hysteria?’ Woody asked as they walked along.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Oh! It’s by Sigmund Freud. I thought you were a fan of his.’

‘I’m interested in his ideas. I’ve never read one of his books.’

‘You should. Studies in Hysteria is amazing.’

She looked curiously at him. ‘What made you read a book such as that? I bet they don’t teach psychology at your expensively old-fashioned school.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I guess I heard you talking about psychoanalysis and thought it sounded really extraordinary. And it is.’

‘In what way?’

Woody had the feeling she was testing him, to see whether he had really understood the book or was merely pretending. ‘The idea that a crazy act, such as obsessively spilling ink on a tablecloth, can have a kind of hidden logic.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’

Woody knew instinctively that she did not understand what he was talking about. He had already overtaken her in his knowledge of Freud, but she was embarrassed to admit it.

‘What’s your favourite thing to do?’ he asked her. ‘Theatre? Classical music? I guess going to a film is no big treat for someone whose father owns about a hundred movie houses.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well . . .’ He decided to be honest. ‘I want to ask you out, and I’d like to tempt you with something you really love to do. So name it, and we’ll do it.’

She smiled at him, but it was not the smile he was hoping for. It was friendly but sympathetic, and it told him that bad news was coming. ‘Woody, I’d like to, but you’re fifteen.’

‘As you said last night, I’m more mature than Victor Dixon.’

‘I wouldn’t go out with him, either.’

Woody’s throat seemed to constrict, and his voice came out hoarse. ‘Are you turning me down?’

‘Yes, very firmly. I don’t want to date a boy three years younger.’

‘Can I ask you again in three years? We’ll be the same age then.’

She laughed, then said: ‘Stop being witty, it hurts my head.’

Woody decided not to hide his pain. What did he have to lose? Feeling anguished, he said: ‘So what was that kiss about?’

‘It was nothing.’

He shook his head miserably. ‘It was something to me. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.’

‘Oh, God, I knew it was a mistake. Look, it was just a bit of fun. Yes, I enjoyed it – be flattered, you’re entitled. You’re a cute kid, and smart as a whip, but a kiss is not a declaration of love, Woody, no matter how much you enjoy it.’

They were near the front of the march, and Woody saw their destination up ahead: the high wall around the Buffalo Metal Works. The gate was closed and guarded by a dozen or more factory police, thuggish men in light-blue shirts that mimicked police uniform.

‘And I was drunk,’ Joanne added.

‘Yeah, I was drunk, too,’ Woody said.

It was a pathetic attempt to salvage his dignity, but Joanne had the grace to pretend to believe him. ‘Then we both did something a little foolish, and we should just forget it,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Woody, looking away.

They were outside the factory now. Those at the head of the march stopped at the gates, and someone began to make a speech through a bullhorn. Looking more closely, Woody saw that the speaker was a local union organizer, Brian Hall. Woody’s father knew and liked the man: at some time in the dim past they had worked together to resolve a strike.

The rear of the procession kept coming forward, and a crush developed across the width of the street. The factory police were keeping the entrance clear, though the gates were shut. Woody now saw that they were armed with police-type nightsticks. One of them was shouting: ‘Stay away from the gate! This is private property!’ Woody lifted his camera and took a picture.