Читать книгу Lucky Strike - Pat Wilson - Страница 8

The following day, an unexpected visitor again disturbed my writing time. I must admit that my heart sank when I saw Father Donald’s little blue Toyota pull into the driveway. He had visited several times in the past few weeks, so I had come to know that regardless of the reason for his visit, it would last at least an hour. I resigned myself to setting aside my work in order to play host. Without Dorothy along with him to curb his intake, I could offer him some sustenance of the sweet variety, having laid in a few packages of the puffy chocolate and marshmallow concoctions that he loved.

In the past weeks, I had come to know him quite well. Aside from his proclivity for long-winded explanations and circumlocutions, his boundless enthusiasm for all things, both secular and spiritual, and his boyish good humour made him a popular figure in the community. Shut-ins, who looked forward to his visits, always welcomed him, knowing he was a bottomless well of local news. His bedside manner, although unconventional, seemed to have an uplifting effect on the spirits of those brought low by illness. You couldn’t ask for a more assiduous rector or a more kindly pastor of his flock. What he lacked in intellect, he more than made up for with his energy. Although his sister Dorothy seemed a daunting figure to many, I thought her common sense and stability kept his feet on the ground.

This day, I could feel the excitement coming off him in waves as he pushed through the front door and preceded me into my small living room. This room, like all the other living rooms in the community, eschewed the view of the ocean in favour of a picture-window panorama of the road. Father Donald settled himself in his favourite chair, an overstuffed monstrosity, part of the suite ordered by the same nameless bureaucrat who had purchased the house. The entire house had been furnished in government beige, no doubt most of it coming from the pages of the Sears catalogue. As well, I doubted that the purchaser had ever seen the house. Since every item was overstuffed, oversized and overdecorated, I suspected that the buyer’s selection reflected his own large size.

Twinkles leapt up and settled herself into Father Donald’s capacious lap. Although shy with most strangers, she had formed an affinity with Father Donald which he reciprocated. I felt a pang when it occurred to me that she looked more at home on his lap than on mine.

“It’s come!” he announced. “Not that I didn’t think it would, but with the Bishop, I can never be too sure, although your credentials were impeccable, absolutely wonderful, in fact, even the Bishop said so, not that I think he actually checked them, that would seem as if he didn’t believe you, well, not that anyone ever lies on their application, or not that I know of, after all, there’s no reason to lie . . .” He rummaged through his battered brief case. “Here it is! Your certificate of lay readership in the Parish of Cormorant Harbour. You can start right away, well, not right away, you’ll have to wait until Sunday, that is, if Sunday’s all right for you, you won’t need any training of course, although many do, in fact poor old Tom, our previous lay reader, had to take the course twice, most unfortunate, couldn’t get the hang of the thing, probably his deafness had something to do with it, not that there’s that much to learn, well, you know all about that, well, not all of it perhaps . . .”

“Cookie?” I said, a word that proved to be as effective as Dorothy’s “Donald!”. I had found the secret to turning off the flow.

“Oh! My! Chocolate mallows! My favourite!” I watched in fascination as he licked the chocolate off the top of the cookie, ate the marshmallow filling, and then popped the jam-covered biscuit bottom into his mouth whole. The ritual never ceased to amuse me. I handed him a steaming cup of my special blend of coffee, wincing as he stirred in several large spoonfuls of sugar and laced it with plenty of cream. He blew across the top surface, closed his eyes and sipped. “Oh my stars! Oh my soul! This is wonderful coffee. Not at all like Dorothy makes, not that Dorothy’s coffee isn’t good, well, certainly not as good as this, although I wouldn’t want her to hear me say so, her being so touchy about the domestic side of things, and of course, I’d be the first to say that she’s a wonderful cook, although . . .”

“Another cookie?” It worked again. I watched as he ate his way through several more cookies. I smiled as I realized that Dorothy was not going to be pleased anyway, whether he told her about the coffee or not. The combination of chocolate and caffeine would have Father Donald wound up tighter than a mainspring for the rest of the day. I topped up his cup.

Taking advantage of his full mouth, I moved the conversation to a topic that had not yet left my mind since yesterday’s excursion to Sherri’s. “How are plans progressing for the Casino Night?” I asked him, by way of preamble.

Father Donald bounced up and down in his chair as he launched into an enthusiastic description of the plans. “It’s all coming into place. It’s in the Fire Hall and the A.C.W. is lined up to cater and the casino equipment has been ordered from the City and Boris’s friend Mattie is doing all the decorations and all of the firemen are going to dress up as Wild West gamblers with green eye shades and sleeve garters and fancy vests and I’ve already got mine and I was trying them on just this morning and I must say I do look so much the part and I’m sure that everyone is going to have a wonderful time and I know that it will raise a lot of money for our wonderful cause and I’m hoping . . .”

“Cookie?” I waited until Father Donald crammed the cookie into his mouth before I slipped in my next question. “Mrs. Barkhouse must be a great organizer,” I suggested.

“Oh my stars! Wonderful! We’re just chugging along in our little boat with Mildred’s hand firmly on the tiller. Amazing how that woman gets thing done! She’s a born leader, well, not that all leaders . . .”

I cut him off. He’d gone where I wanted him to be. “Mildred seems to be quite a powerhouse in the community,” I began. “She must be very popular . . . ?” I let the question hang.

“Oh, my soul! Popular? I suppose she is. Certainly she has no trouble getting everybody on board with her ideas. Well, not everybody, I suppose. I can think of one person who’s not enthusiastic, although she is enthusiastic about most things, well, almost all things, she didn’t care for the new choir gowns, not that we didn’t need them, but it was Mildred who chose the turquoise, not a good colour, well, nothing wrong with it as a colour, it’s certainly bright and cheerful, although Dorothy was quite right when she said that maroon wouldn’t show the dirt, not that they get dirty, well, not muddy, unless of course we have a church parade and it’s raining very hard, although I doubt we’d have a parade if it were raining . . .”

“Dorothy doesn’t care for Mildred?” I cut in.

“Oh my soul! I hate to say it, but I am most grieved by the bad feelings between them. It all goes back to when we first arrived. In our previous parishes, Dorothy had always taken on the role and duties of the rector’s wife, and I must say, executed them very well, despite the fact that she’s only my sister. However, when we arrived at St. Grimbald’s, Mildred was already firmly entrenched as the President of the A.C.W., a role usually reserved for the rector’s wife. The previous rector had no wife, poor man, although perhaps ‘poor’ is a misleading word, since we are quite well paid now, really, not at all the way it once was, and indeed, he did have fewer expenses without a wife, I’m sure, although on the other hand, he would suffer from the lack of support and companionship that are so vital to the success of ministry . . .”

“More coffee?” Father Donald stopped long enough to hand me his cup. I endeavoured to get him back on track. “So, Mildred was already the president of the A.C.W.?” I asked.

“Oh yes, and she wasn’t about to give it up. As she pointed out to Dorothy at their first meeting, Dorothy was in fact not the rector’s wife, but only his sister. I’m afraid their relationship went downhill from that point. In fact, I said to Dorothy just last week that it was her Christian duty to be more forgiving in her attitude towards Mildred . . .” He paused and licked his lips. “I’m afraid she didn’t take my little suggestion very well . . .” He took another large bite of a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. I felt it best not to ask for details.

“Your sister did seem a little upset about the Casino Night. . . .” I prompted.

“Oh my stars! Oh my soul! A little upset? Dear Charles, she was beside herself with anger at Mildred. I had to give her two of her nerve pills, not that she takes them very often, just when she’s feeling a little stressed, well, not a little stressed, she’s usually a little stressed, but when she’s extremely stressed, then she definitely needs them, I shouldn’t say ‘needs’, sounds likes she’s addicted or something, not that I know any real addicts, but I do think they are unable to do without their drugs, and I’m sure Dorothy could, that is, if she had to, although I wouldn’t want to be there if she needed one of her nerve pills and didn’t avail herself of them, having only experienced such a thing once in the past when her prescription ran out and indeed, it was not as dire as the police report made out . . .”

I let him ramble on as I digested the fact that my impression of Dorothy Peasgood as a rock of stability for Father Donald might be mistaken. Seeing that Father Donald had snagged the last cookie off the plate, I took it back to the kitchen for replenishment.

As I loaded half a dozen more of the chocolate cookies on the plate, I heard Father Donald shouting. “Oh my stars! A fire! A fire! Call 911!” Twinkles shot past me and disappeared into the bedroom.

I rushed into the living room to find Father Donald dancing up and down in front of the window, waving his arms “Charles! Your neighbour’s house is on fire! I can see the smoke from here! Somebody do something!” I looked out the window. Sure enough, I could see a thin curl of smoke seeping out the front door of the Jollimore homestead. I dialed 911 and gave them the address.

Immediately, Father Donald’s beeper began to emit the sounds I remembered from our last encounter with the fire department. “Oh shoot! What shall I do? I’m here, and the pumper is there. Oh my soul! By the time I go back and get it, it will be too late!” He rushed back and forth between the front door and the window.

“Can’t someone else drive the fire truck?” I asked him.

“Well, yes, of course, we have several drivers, it’s just that I’m next door, well, not today, but usually, and that’s why they leave it to me, and now, I’m here, and they’re there! Oh shoot!” Father Donald sounded close to tears with frustration.

“Let’s go over and see what we can do,” I suggested. “We can wait for the pumper there.”

“What a wonderful suggestion. I have a fire extinguisher in my car. We all have, well not all, but all the volunteer fire fighters have, it’s part of our kit, and perhaps we can do something. Come along, Charles. There’s no time to waste.”

I followed him out the front door. We lost a couple of precious seconds while he fumbled in the trunk of his car before producing a large, professional-looking fire extinguisher. I stayed well back from him, not wanting to be in the vicinity of any sudden heroics by Father Donald. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the contents of the fire extinguisher were in any way dangerous to humans. I thought that it might be a good idea not to get between Father Donald and the fire.

I stood in awe as Father Donald lumbered down the littered driveway, dodging the various impediments. With surprising efficiency, he threw his not inconsiderable weight against the front door, which fell open with a bang. It occurred to me that the caffeine and chocolate, combined with the adrenaline rush brought on by the situation, must have kicked in with a vengeance. I might have tried the door handle first, but I must admit, Father Donald’s direct approach proved more effective. He’d been trained for just such an emergency. In seconds, I heard the roar of the fire extinguisher.

At this moment, the Four Cormorants Fire Department truck manoeuvered down the driveway, its siren wailing, followed by several pickup trucks filled with volunteer firefighters. The Jollimore collection of used vehicles, appliances and bedsprings were crushed and scattered before the onslaught. Hoses were unreeled and snaked across the unkempt lawn. Several men pulled out a ladder to place against the front of the house.

Before they could turn the pumper on, Father Donald appeared in the open doorway, waving his fire extinguisher in triumph. “No need, fellows,” he called. “I put it out. Well, it looks out, and it was just a small fire, nothing at all really, a bunch of rags and some paint thinner that someone had left very carelessly in the front hall, spontaneous combustion, I suppose, quite surprising, although you only have to read the reports to know how often it happens, well, not that often, lightning being much more likely to strike, I believe . . .”

In obvious disappointment, the Cormorant crew began to reel in the hoses and stow the ladder. Those who had managed to put on their safety gear started to undress. A definite air of anticlimax hung over the scene.

Several other cars full of sightseers drove by, slowed down, looked, then drove on. I realized that a fire in Cormorant Harbour was a community event,

The appearance of a small van in the driveway caused a minor flurry of excitement among the firefighters. “Here’s Bev,” said one. “I could use a cold drink. Hope she brought some sandwiches.”

The men clustered around the open back doors of the van, where I could see Beverly Barkhouse handing out cans of pop.

“Oh, good,” said Father Donald. “It’s the Auxiliary Van. They always come to every fire with refreshments. Mildred has a beeper, too, and she makes sure that someone brings us a little something to keep us going.” He grabbed two cans, offering one to me. When I declined, he slipped the second can in his pocket.

“Nobody home,” said one fellow, who had done a quick search of the house. “Good thing, too. Those fumes can be pretty bad. Not much damage. Nothing a little redecorating won’t cure.”

From the rags and paint thinner Father Donald had found in the hallway, I could tell they’d already started redecorating. Kevin’s carelessness did not surprise me. If it hadn’t been for the quick actions of Father Donald, he might have lost his whole house to the fire. I congratulated myself that I had resisted Kevin’s attempts to have me hire him as my handyman.

I heard the screech of brakes. Kevin arrived in his decrepit pickup truck, which he parked off to one side of the road. He and Clarence scrambled out and ran up the driveway.

“Hey, Kev. What’s your hurry? Where’s the fire?” yelled one of the lounging firefighters. The rest laughed at the old joke.

“Did you bring the marshmallows?” called another.

Kevin and Clarence stood in front of the house, a look of stunned amazement on their faces.

“It hasn’t burned down?” Clarence stammered. “It’s still all here?”

“Shut up!” Kevin hissed to Clarence. “What happened?” he asked a nearby fire fighter.

“Some stuff you left in the hall caught fire. Paint rags is famous for doing that. ‘Spontaneous confusion’ they calls it. Lucky for you that Father Donald was on the spot. Called it right in and put it out afore we got here. Hardly scorched the walls. Won’t notice a thing after a lick of paint.”

Kevin looked shaken, and the depth of his emotion surprised me considering that nothing had been lost. It struck me that he must be very attached to his little abode, despite its outward appearance. He seemed at a loss for words, an unusual state for Kevin. He didn’t even thank Father Donald for his heroic efforts.

“Gotta go and get Arleen,” he muttered as he turned away from the house. “She’s over at her Ma’s. She’s not going to be happy about this.” He and Clarence made their way back to the truck, got in and drove away.

Father Donald and I waited until the last firefighter had left, then we, too, made our way back to my little house, stopping while Father Donald re-stowed the empty fire extinguisher. In the living room, Father Donald picked up his briefcase.

“Well, I must say, this has been much more exciting than I expected it would be, not that I didn’t think a visit with you, Charles, wouldn’t be exciting, well not exactly exciting, perhaps, but interesting at least, what with the news of the Bishop and all, but I never expected to be donning my firefighter’s hat in your living room, well, not in your living room, since it was on the truck, but metaphorically speaking, I guess you could say that I am always on duty, as a firefighter, as well as in my ministerial capacity. Yes, that’s me. Always on duty.” He beamed at me, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Always on duty,” he repeated.

“Thank heavens you were on duty,” I told him. “Otherwise, the Jollimores might have lost their house.”