Torontonians can embrace the first flush of the cold weather season with some joy as it provides a golden opportunity to parade new outerwear, or smashing purchases from seasons past. The supposed societal injunction against fur coats, for example, was observed more in the breech here and on the cold Sunday after Remembrance Day, 2006, when Margery Beebe Temple was baptized at the Church of Saint Vitus a few well-cut coats, wraps, jackets, and trims were on display.
Ardie drove us over to the church in order for us to “get a good pew” and save a spot for Beebe and Ted who, Ardie said, were “much more open-minded” than I realized.
Not “open-minded” enough to be in a mood that could be described as celebratory, but happy in their own way for Margery. Faith, Ardie believed, was a personal matter and to each their own.
“Do you go to church, Ardie?” I asked, suspecting a no in response.
Ardie coughed a wet laugh and with the deep rumble in his chest said that his membership application had been blackballed.
The church itself was actually a handsome affair that was restrained and without any of the tacky elements that often announce religious buildings; lit-up signs, illuminated crosses, weeping statuary cheaply rendered and other totems were nowhere to be seen. St Vitus’ was something of a gem of a church, with an altar bathed in natural light projected through the jewel tones of stained glass windows.
“It’s pretty enough, which might distract my sister from the show up front,” said Ardie.
Kat and Suky—with a few friends of Margery’s—motioned us over and we joined a growing party. Ted and Beebe Grade arrived soon after and settled in to the right of Ardie. Ted leaned over to shake my hand with the hale greeting he offered everyone. Beebe snapped a hello as she slipped her wrap off of her shoulders.
She was wearing a charcoal suit—well cut—with a black cashmere shawl thickly trimmed in black mink. Her handbag and shoes looked to be alligator, and she had on pearls and a wedding ring.
Beebe was so stick-thin and angular that I wondered if she didn’t always feel cold. She patted Ardie on the knee and said that she had called Margery that morning to “congratulate her” and learned that there had been, sadly, a last minute change to the august guest list.
The Cardinal had, most regrettably, been called to an urgent matter and had personally called Father Greg with the news. Beebe pointed out that there were still an archbishop, a monsignor, a few local politicians—an election was looming and Margery had been known to support political causes—and a number of notables from her circle of friends and acquaintances.
“That makes it one ‘Excellency’ and two ‘Right Honourables’ if I am not missing anyone,” whispered Beebe in a good natured fashion to Ardie before pointing out that she might have spied an ‘Honour’ and possibly a former ‘Worship’ in what she called “the audience.”
The tea party afterward in the church basement was the finest event ever hosted at the church. Leveraging her ability to afford what she wanted ensured that Mrs Temple had the best post-baptism brunch ever catered at St Vitus’ parish hall. No alcohol, of course, but Ardie had already suggested that we have a drink after the service.
Margery looked happy and was a gracious hostess, or as much as anyone can be a “gracious hostess” in a church basement. Father Greg tended his flock while Margery tended her guests and Ardie made wisecracks. Beebe and Ted looked uncomfortable, and stayed for a decent amount of time to support Margery.
“I could tell you a thing or two about a few people here,” he said to me, in as sotto voce a manner as he was capable of producing. “You just never know where you are going to run into some people,” he laughed while reaching out to accept an offered hand, or kiss a dowager on the cheek.
Beebe said hello to a few people and I noticed that of six women who greeted her all but one bent forward to kiss her cheek. On not one occasion did she, however, make a move to return the kiss.
Arriving late to the ceremony saved Jack Grade and Leesa Mitzvah the ordeal of being the centre of attention as they entered St Vitus’ and searched for a place in the congregation. Beebe, therefore, did not duly note their arrival until the assemblage moved to the hall for Margery’s reception.
Jack congratulated his aunt, kissed his cousins, and introduced Leesa—fond hellos and gracious welcomes—before finding his parents and re-introducing Leesa to them.
Beebe extended her hand and Leesa duly shook it, receiving little effort in return. Her eyes—which tended to be bright and rather wet looking—narrowed briefly before her crisp smile returned. Her hair was the colour of prairie wheat and it was, as usual, brushed back and sprayed into place. Like all stylish ladies her hairstyle never changed; severe and unchanging she wore the same well-groomed style for many years.
She ignored Leesa conversationally and immediately began to talk about family matters including a planned supper that evening “for Margery and the family.”
Miss Cousins wasn’t there, but I saw her afterward at the office. I had some work to complete for the upcoming gallery show and I showed up in the afternoon and found her in her studio painting.
She wasn’t part of Margery’s circle—which latterly had been horses and station wagons in King City—but did ask who was there. I borrowed Beebe’s line and recounted the few honorifics I could recall plus any names that Ardie had introduced me to at the luncheon.
Of course, Miss Cousins smoked while she painted. She put the brush down frequently to take up her torch and the air was pretty thick for a Sunday afternoon. I busied myself at my desk—recently moved to a better location with a view—while she remained in the studio. I heard music playing, always a sign she was working, and we went about our business all afternoon without intruding on one another.
Toward the end of the day Miss Cousins asked me if I had plans for supper; I did have a tentative plan to meet Ardie for a drink but readily accepted an offer of joining Miss C for a fast bite at the end of the day.
We had supper at Seniors, near Yonge and St Clair, a long-established steakhouse in the midtown neighbourhood well known to local residents. Miss Cousins was feeling reflective and greeted the owners in a friendly fashion.
“Yonge and St Clair has lost some of its carriage trade appeal,” said Miss Cousins, sipping a gin martini. “Ely’s, Cameron Jeffries, Ira Berg—all of the good old retailers are gone now. Only Harry Young Shoes is left.”
There was a time when Yonge and St Clair could claim a title as a distinguished part of the city. It was still a major destination for residential living, of course, but the neighbourhood feel was gone. Two movie theatres offering four screens were gone, as were the liquor store—a dreadful loss—and most of the higher end fashion retailers displaced due to bankruptcy or declining business.
Large condominium developments, however, had sprung up around the neighbourhood and Ardie—for one—believed that this augured well for future retail and service offerings. Miss Cousins disagreed.
“The glory days of Yonge and St Clair are over now, and no hope of restoration is possible,” she said.
People, you see, are dangerously fickle.
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