Читать книгу Lucky Strike - Pat Wilson - Страница 6

The following Sunday, I felt a guilty pang as I sat down in a vacant pew near the front of St. Grimbald’s church. Although I had planned to sit at the back, where I would remain unnoticed, it seemed that everyone else had the same idea. I found myself walking down the single centre aisle under the unwavering gaze of dozens of pairs of curious eyes. I knew that this action broke the prime commandment of my new life: don’t get noticed. I hoped that none of the parishioners of Cormorant Harbour were connected to the Mob.

After a service that bore only a passing resemblance to what I had previously experienced at St. Thomas’ (or for that matter, at any Anglican church anywhere in Canada), I duly presented myself at the Rectory door for lunch. Before I could ring the bell, Dorothy Peasgood welcomed me in.

“Do come in, Charles.” She swung the door open wide. “Lunch is just ready, and we’re waiting for Donald. Fortunately, this isn’t a coffee morning, or we’d be waiting all day, since Donald is rather fond of home baking. If I’m not there to keep an eye on him, he’ll stay until the last crumb.”

I stepped into a dark hallway painted a bilious shade of bottle green. This didn’t surprise me, since most rectories seem to be decorated in the least appealing hues on the colour palette. However, this rectory hallway had one additional feature not often seen in ecclesiastical dwellings—a large framed poster of Elvis Presley in concert at Las Vegas.

I gestured to the print and said, “Elvis? Father Donald didn’t strike me as a rock ’n roll fan.”

Dorothy’s ruddy complexion deepened to an alarming shade of puce. “He’s not,” she said tartly, fingering the guitar brooch that she’d worn on our first meeting, now pinned to the lapel of her maroon and mustard striped blouse. “I am.” Something in her tone deterred me from pursuing the subject further. I suspected I had, quite by accident, touched on the hidden depth of a girlish heart.

I followed her into an equally dark dining room filled with a massive table and sideboard, both gleaming with numerous pieces of highly polished silver. It looked like the dining room of a large country manor house, complete with maroon velvet curtains and Turkey carpet—except for the row of Elvis commemorative plates arranged on the mantle of the brick fireplace.

The tableware told me that lunch was going to be more than just soup and sandwiches, a welcome change for me. My culinary skills only encompassed simple meals. I tended to eat lightly and avoid rich desserts, since smaller men tend to run to pot-bellies when they overindulge. However, an occasional splurge on someone else’s cooking wouldn’t hurt, I decided. Before I could inquire about the menu, Father Donald arrived, no less exuberant than he had been two hours before at the start of the service.

“Oh, shoot! You’re waiting for me! Dorothy told me not to dawdle, but once Mrs. Granger gets going, there’s no escaping from her, not that she’s not interesting, well, perhaps not interesting, but at least she has something to say, although she says it many times, well, not that often, but often enough you wish she’d come to the point, although I doubt there is a point, really, not that you have to have a point in all cases, but sometimes . . .”

“Donald!”

His words ceased. I wondered if I’d be able to master that same controlling tone. If my fate was to be a lay reader at St. Grimbald’s, I would have to learn how to deal with Father Donald’s ramblings. Here, another wave of guilt washed over me as I remembered how displeased my agent had been when I’d informed her of this new development. “Are you crazy?” she’d shouted at me in justifiable anger. I told her I thought it would create more attention if I tried to withdraw at this juncture. I’d been swept into the raging river of Peasgood enthusiasm, helpless to fight the current. I suspected that many people who’d come up against the Peasgoods felt the same way.

“Please, sit down.” Dorothy gestured to me. “Donald, say grace, and make it short.”

The delicious food kept coming in copious quantities, smothered in gravy, lavished with butter or doused in cream. I began to see the source of the Peasgoods’ girths. Although Dorothy kept a tight rein on Father Donald’s intake, she made sure that my plate remained full. I began to feel quite ill as my stomach, used to much lighter fare, bulged uncomfortably against my waistband. Dorothy and Father Donald seemed unaffected by the richness of the meal. When I bogged down in the middle of my dessert, a concoction of chocolate cake, syrup and whipped cream, Father Donald slipped the remainder onto his own plate, much to Dorothy’s disgust.

As he spooned up the last crumbs, the ear-splitting wail of an emergency siren filled the room, followed by the shrill beeps of a pager. I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and looked around wildly. Had the police come to protect me? Had I been lulled into a false sense of security by the Peasgoods’ aura of amiable guilelessness? Dim memories of movie clips of gangster shoot-outs in Italian restaurants rushed through my brain, and I dove for cover under the table.

“Oh my stars! Oh my soul!” Father Donald hunted without success through his jacket pockets. “The beeper! It’s a fire! Oh, dear!” If anything, the beeping grew more penetrating as he leapt up and began searching around the room. “Ah, here it is!” He snatched the beeper off the mantlepiece and silenced it. However, the siren continued, an ululating ear-splitting wail that hampered any further conversation.

Dorothy alone remained unaffected, continuing to eat her dessert as if nothing had happened. I crawled out from under the table, righted my chair and sat down, unable to grasp the situation, but thankful that none of the commotion seemed to be directed at me.

“Oh shoot! The keys! Where did I put the keys? Dottie, where did I decide to put them so I wouldn’t lose them? Oh my soul! I know it was somewhere easy to remember!” He dashed from room to room. I could hear drawers and cupboards being opened and shut.

Without a word, Dorothy got up, walked through to the kitchen and returned with a large bunch of keys. Father Donald raced back into the dining room showing all the signs of a complete mental meltdown. “Oh my stars! The keys! The keys!”

“Here they are, Donald.” Dorothy held up the key ring. “Right where I always keep keys. On the key rack in the kitchen.”

Father Donald grabbed the keys and galloped out the door. I heard it slam. Even though the siren continued to wail, the room felt almost peaceful after his exodus. Relief washed over me. If I hadn’t leapt to the wrong conclusions about the situation, it would have been laughable.

“Coffee?’ shouted Dorothy. “I hope you like decaf,” she bellowed, filling my cup. “We find that regular coffee is rather too much for Donald’s nerves. Cream?” She continued to speak over the continuing wail of the siren. I was surprised how quickly I was becoming accustomed to the hideous noise. “Sugar?”

I declined both and took a sip. To my horror, I detected instant decaffeinated coffee. I made a mental note to avoid coffee at the rectory in the future.

“Is there really a fire?” I asked her, trying to shout above the continuing din.

“Oh, yes. The firehall is right next door to the rectory, so it seemed a good idea to have Donald drive the engine, since he’s usually right here. It’s a volunteer brigade, so our proximity was the deciding factor in Donald’s appointment. He, of course, is quite thrilled. When he was a little boy, he always wanted to be a fireman.” She took another sip. “Fortunately, we have few fires in Cormorant Harbour and area, so this kind of commotion doesn’t happen very often. I’m sorry it disturbed our little luncheon . . .” At this point, the siren ceased. My ears rang, and Dorothy’s voice seemed loud in the new silence. “. . . and I know Donald wanted to talk to you about joining us as lay reader, but there’ll be plenty of time in the future for you two to talk business.” She leaned forward, fixing me with a penetrating stare. “This will give us an opportunity to get to know each other so much better.”

I quailed at the thought of enduring another one of her interrogations. If anyone could rattle me into making a mistake, it would be Dorothy Peasgood. In desperation, I turned the subject back to the fire. “How does Father Donald know where the fire is?” I had a mental image of Father Donald at the wheel of a bright red pumper truck, driving off in a mad search for smoke.

“Oh, when you call in, the civic address is noted. It’s no problem, unless of course, Donald has to start off by himself. One or two of the others try to make sure that they’re on board before he leaves the hall.” She offered me another cup of the abominable coffee, but I declined, leaving her to finish the rest herself. “Most of the fires are false alarms. Otherwise, in the winter it’s chimney fires, and in the summer, grass fires. Seldom is it a serious blaze, I’m happy to say. People have been educated to take more precautions against fire today. In the past, however, there were many more fires due to careless accidents. Then of course, some of the locals were always trying for a ‘lucky strike’.”

“A ‘lucky strike’?” I queried the unfamiliar term.

Dorothy’s face twisted in disgust. “I regret to say that some people had a reputation for setting fire to their own homes in order to collect the insurance. It’s not so common now, but people will still try. If someone started to remove valuables from their home and then had a blaze a week later, you could be sure it was a ‘lucky strike’.”

“But why a ‘lucky strike’?”

Dorothy sniffed. “It’s a joke—in poor taste, if you ask me. There is a brand of American matches called ‘Lucky Strikes’. The name stuck, I suppose. It seems applicable when someone ends up with a nice new house in place of the hovel they burned down.”

“Surely a ‘lucky strike’ would be investigated?” I pressed.

“Indeed it is. That is why we seldom have these convenient fires any more. Only a very stupid person would try to get away with it today.” Dorothy stood up. “Shall we go into the living room? Donald shouldn’t be long.”

I followed her into a room filled with the kind of antiques that would set a Toronto dealer’s heart beating faster. On an elegant piecrust table beside the door sat a large photograph of Elvis Presley in an ornate silver frame. I read the inscription with unabashed curiosity. “To Dorothy, my faithful fan and president of the Canadian Maritime Fan Club, love, Elvis, 1964.” The pieces fell into place. I could see now that Dorothy’s infatuation with Elvis had roots deep in her past.

I sat down upon an antique horsehair sofa with great care. The surface proved slippery beyond belief. My continual struggle not to slide down in a heap onto the Axminster carpet helped me stay awake, since my intake of food at lunch had put me in danger of quietly dozing off at any moment.

“Well, now, Charles. Do tell me all about yourself.” The only thing missing in the room was a bright light shining into my eyes. I now knew how the most hardened criminals felt when confronted with the top interrogator on the force. My sleepiness vanished under the threat of inquisition, and I began to marshal the facts in my mind.

Before I could muster a reply, the door bell cut off my words. It sounded like the opening notes of the Elvis Presley classic, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Surely not, I told myself. Then it rang again. “Dah dah daaah da da dah”. It was. Dorothy excused herself with a sigh.

I could hear a murmur of voices from the front hall. I pulled myself together, as usual anticipating the worst. I reminded myself that people often called at a rectory. I told myself that I’d have to get used to dealing with life’s everyday little incidents without blowing them out of proportion. At this rate, if I didn’t make these mental adjustments soon, I’d have a nervous breakdown.

Dorothy reappeared with a tiny lady in tow, a delicate woman who looked like everyone’s idea of a sweet grandmother. Dorothy, however, glowered at her as she offered her a seat. I put this down to the fact that our little tête-à-tête had been interrupted.

“This is Charles Trenchant,” she said to her guest. “He’s just moved to Cormorant Harbour. I’ve discovered he’s a writer, and I’m trying to persuade him to lead our little literary group. Donald and I hope he’s going to be the new parish lay reader.” I could feel the noose tightening. “Charles, this is Mildred Barkhouse, the president of St. Grimbald’s A.C.W. and of the Firefighter’s Auxiliary.” A certain tension in Dorothy’s tone gave me the impression that these two were not bosom buddies.

Mildred shook my hand with a dainty air, then perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair with an intricately worked tapestry seat.

“And what brings you to our little corner of the world, Mr. Trenchant?” Despite her sweet and silvery voice, I heard the steel beneath her words and recognized the touch of another top interrogator. My cover story was getting a lot of air time.

“I’m retired,” I told her. “Ex-civil servant out of Ottawa.” This time, the words flowed easily. Perhaps it only required practice to be an accomplished liar.

“My,” she said. “How brave of you to come so far from civilization.” She tittered at her own small joke. “Whatever possessed you to choose Cormorant Harbour?” she pressed. “We’re hardly a centre of culture and refinement, I’m afraid, and I can’t imagine a man such as yourself finding our little bit of the world inviting.” This last she said with an upward inflection. The question had been asked, and I knew I had to rise to the occasion. Mildred Barkhouse hardly posed a threat to me, but I needed to keep my wits about me at all times. I couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. My careless admission of a small part of my past to the Peasgoods had brought me to this pass.

I took a deep breath as I launched into the history I had been coached in. “Well, Mrs. Barkhouse, it is a most interesting little story. One of my colleagues in the Planning Department returned from a touring holiday of Nova Scotia raving about the beauties of the Eastern Shore. I’d always dreamed of a little cottage by the sea where I could pursue my writing. Ten minutes on the web, and I’d found myself a real estate agent, and just weeks later, I was the proud owner of Innisfree.” I sat back and blew out my breath in relief. As far as I knew, I’d got it right. Next time would be easier.

“Innisfree?” Dorothy’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “But aren’t you living in the old Barnes place on Lupin Loop?”

“Well, yes, it is the old Barnes place.” I knew they were picturing the rundown clapboard house surrounded by unkempt lawns on an unpaved side road, but to me, it represented freedom. “I call it ‘Innisfree’. Yeats, you know.” I quoted the first verse for them, raising my voice slightly to convey the beauty of the lines. ‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree . . .’ ” I liked the resonance of my voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room, so I continued, “ ‘And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade’.”

The two women looked at me blank-faced.

After a brief moment of silence, Mrs. Barkhouse said, “The Barnes place on Lupin Loop? Why, you must be my nephew Kevin’s new neighbour!”

My head reeled. I couldn’t for the life of me reconcile this delicate little ladylike creature sitting in front of me, her pale pink suit immaculate, her hat a froth of feminine frills, her gloves and purse neatly placed on her lap, with the lout who had accosted me about the clothesline.

“Kevin?” I sputtered. “Kevin Jollimore?”

“Why, yes. Have you met him?”

I nodded.

“A dear boy. My favourite sister Mona’s only son. Such a pity he married that Arleen creature. The Hubleys from Lower Cormorant were always a rough bunch. But what could he do? She caught him good and proper.”

I noticed that her air of refinement slipped several notches as her indignation grew.

“Knocked her up, she claimed, as if we all didn’t know there were half a dozen others sniffing around her at the same time. But dear Kevin was always a sucker for a pretty face. Married her just in time. Cat’licks don’t care when the ceremony is as, long as it’s before the baby comes. As it was, she practically dropped it at the altar steps. Wore white, too.”

I felt uneasy and glanced at Dorothy to see her reaction to the change in Mildred Barkhouse’s demeanor. From the look on her face, Dorothy knew how thin a veneer covered Mildred’s spurious gentility.

“Yes, well . . . um . . .” I floundered for a suitable reply until Dorothy rescued the conversation by changing the subject.

“Is the Auxiliary still determined to have a Casino Night?” she asked Mildred, bluntly.

“Yes, that’s why I popped in. I looked for you after church, but you’d disappeared. Now I know why.” She smiled at me, her ladylike façade firmly back in place. “I wanted to let you know that we had a quick executive meeting last night, and it was unanimous—Casino Night is a go.”

I watched a dark cloud settle over Dorothy’s face. Her mouth turned down into a grim line. “Casino Night,” she sneered. “I hardly think we should be encouraging the local people to gamble. Surely they have enough with bingo every other night and the buses running them to the real Casino. Not to mention the video lottery terminals at the Treaty Store in Upper Cormorant. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s not a suitable fundraiser for a responsible organization like the Volunteer Fire Department. Donald will be most disappointed with your decision.”

“Oh, no. I spoke to Father Donald after church, and he’s agreed to sell tickets at the door for us.” Mildred smiled in sweet triumph. “In fact, the A.C.W. are going to cater the lunch.” If she had torn one of the black velvet Elvis cushions on the sofa to shreds, she couldn’t have gotten a stronger reaction from Dorothy than these words wrought.

Dorothy stood up, her large frame quivering with indignation. Her voice trembled with fury as she faced Mildred. “Donald! Agreed! Tickets!” She drew a rasping breath. “And the Anglican Church Women’s group involved!”

I shrank back on the sofa, wishing myself anywhere but here. In fact, given a choice, I’d almost have preferred to be back in the courtroom facing the mob. It reminded me of a battle of the titans. Although only Dorothy physically fit the “titan” bill, Mildred Barkhouse’s saccharine-sweet demeanor covered a determination to control, every bit as daunting as Dorothy’s size.

Having delivered her payload, Mildred began to put on her gloves. She stood up, adjusted her hat and smiled at me. “It’s been so pleasant to meet you, Mr. Trenchant. I do hope you’ll enjoy living in our little community. I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon. Of course, if you become our lay reader, our paths will cross often.” She turned to Dorothy, as if her angry words had never been uttered. “Well, I’ll be off now, Dorothy, my dear. I can see myself out. Do give Father Donald my regards.” She swept out of the room on a waft of flowery perfume.

Dorothy fell back into her chair. To my dismay, tears glinted in her eyes. From the look on her face, I realized they were tears of pure rage. “I could kill that woman,” Dorothy said through clenched teeth, more to herself than me. “And Donald,” she hissed, “how could he be such a fool? The Bishop will be furious. The idea. Selling tickets at a Casino Night! Wait until I see him . . .”

I gabbled something incoherent about what a lovely church service it had been, and how much I’d enjoyed my lunch, and what a marvellous hostess she was, and beat my retreat, leaving Father Donald to face the music alone.