Burrard Inlet

by Tyler Keevil

  ‘Just don’t tell Roger,’ she says.

  ‘Alcohol and water don’t mix.’

  ‘A dry barge is a safe barge.’

  ‘Good old Roger.’

  We both laugh, affectionately, and then settle into silence. Out on the inlet there’s a tugboat chugging by, and on the stereo Emmylou is singing about some guy named Poncho who got shot in Mexico.

  ‘What do you think he’ll do?’ I ask. ‘About the barge, I mean.’

  Doreen sips her cocktail and considers this.

  ‘We got a couple more years left in us, before we retire.’

  ‘Before you retire from your retirement.’

  ‘That’s right. And of course Roger’s been looking for somebody to take this old girl over after that.’ She glances at me, and then her eyes slide away, over towards the window, as if this person might be out there instead of in here. ‘But that’s the company’s problem, really. They’ll find somebody who wants the job. It’s good, honest work. Man’s work.’

  ‘I know it.’

  She looks at me, and smiles, and it’s a tough thing to see – so sad and understanding.

  ‘What about you, Alex?’ she asks. ‘Is this trip for good?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you, Doreen.’

  ‘You sure are giving up a lot.’ She gestures with her free hand – a sweeping gesture that seems to take in not just the barge, but the city and landscape outside the window. ‘But we all got to make our own way, I guess.’

  ‘I’ll be back now and again.’

  ‘And this girl of yours – does she ever come out to visit you?’

  The way she says it implies that any girl wouldn’t be worth much if she didn’t.

  ‘She sure does.’

  ‘Well, maybe next time you could bring her out to the barge. Have lunch with us, and show her around.’

  ‘That’d be something.’

  The oven timer goes in the kitchen. Ding.

  ‘That’s your bread,’ Doreen says, but doesn’t make a move to get it.

  We’re still sitting there, stirring the pot, when Roger gets back. We hear him on the stairs first – the iron rungs ringing out, anvil-like, beneath his steel-toed workboots. Then comes the familiar, beer-keg rumble of his footsteps rolling down the breezeway. Me and Doreen stand up, like soldiers coming to attention. Roger has that effect on you. Nobody – even his wife – likes to be caught by Roger doing nothing. Being idle, he calls it. She slides into the kitchen and I hear the sound of her dumping her ice into the sink, then the tap running as she rinses her glass. My own brandy sour is only half-finished. I debate leaving it like that, then down the rest and tuck the glass behind the lamp on the side table, out of sight. Just before he arrives, I turn down the stereo and pick up a book – one of Roger’s westerns – and go to sit with it on the sofa, taking Doreen’s spot.

  The door opens in the kitchen, and Roger bellows, ‘Something sure smells good.’

  ‘Dinner’s almost ready,’ Doreen tells him. ‘You got my salad?’

  ‘I got it. Where’s Alex?’

  ‘Our invalid’s recuperating in the lounge.’

  He comes on through without taking off his boots, and pauses in the doorframe. It looks too small for him, that doorframe. At sixty-seven he’s still big and strong as an old boar. In one hand he’s gripping a paper bag, the top rolled down to form a handle. I smile and stand up, clasping the western in front of me like a prayer book.

  ‘Well, greenhorn,’ he says, ‘let’s see this scrape of yours.’

  He stomps over to me and I bow my head for him to inspect. I realise I’m going to be doing this a lot, in the weeks to come: for friends, for family, for total strangers. Displaying my scar like a new tattoo.

  Roger takes my head in his hands. His fingers are thick and powerful and it feels as if he could crush my skull like a walnut. I’m holding my breath, hoping he won’t catch a whiff of the brandy. He whistles, long and low.

  ‘That’s a man’s wound, Alex.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you he scalped himself?’ Doreen calls.

  ‘He sure did.’

  I laugh along with them at that. Roger lets go of my head, but he’s still standing close to me. When I look up, his eyes are narrow, his jaw tight.

  ‘You smell like booze, boy.’

  ‘It’s the anaesthetic,’ I say. It’s the only thing that occurs to me.

  Doreen pokes her head in. ‘I gave him a little nip of brandy to stop him squirming.’

  Roger looks at her, hard, and something – maybe everything – seems to be hanging in the balance.

  ‘Where’d you get brandy?’ he asks.

  ‘There’s a flask in our First Aid kit. Must be as old as the barge itself.’

  Roger glances once around the room. It’s as if he senses something’s amiss. His gaze lingers on his chair, which is still laid flat. I forgot to set it right. Then he turns back to me.

  ‘I take it the rakes didn’t get finished, either?’

  ‘I figured we could do them together, tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re leaving tomorrow.’

  It sounds harsh, the way he says it. Like I’ve committed a crime.

  ‘Not until evening. We got the whole day, if we want it.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he says. Then, raising his voice, he asks, ‘So he was squirming, was he?’

  He’s talking to Doreen, but still peering at me.

  ‘He went a little green around the gills when I started stitching.’

  ‘It hurt like a son of a gun,’ I say.

  He grunts. ‘I’ll bet it did. I got you something by way of compensation. I guess it’s a little redundant, now.’

  He reaches into the paper bag. Doreen is still hovering in the doorway, looking as anxious as I feel. It’s as if there could be anything in that bag. Anything at all. He unfurls the top, rolling it up real slow, and shoves one of his big bear-paws inside. Then he tugs the bag away from the bottom, like a magician performing a trick, and there in his hand is a six-pack of Labatt, in bottles. Doreen actually squeaks.

  ‘Well, Roger Laramie. I never thought I’d see it.’

  ‘It’s the boy’s last night, Dorie. And what with his head and all, I figured he could use a brew or two.’ Then he scowls at me – part mocking, part serious. ‘Didn’t know he’d already gotten into the brandy, of course. I guess this ain’t much compared to brandy.’

  ‘No – that’s great, Roger. That’s really something.’

  ‘Might even have one myself, if my old lady looks the other way.’

  Doreen tuts with her tongue, playing the part he wants her to play. She comes over to take the beers from him, holding them protectively. ‘I best be in charge of these.’

  In passing the table, she deposits two beers – one at the head, where Roger will sit, and one off to the side, by my seat.

  ‘You men take a load off, now,’ she says, disappearing into the kitchen. ‘It’ll be awhile before dinner’s ready. I got to put the steaks on and prepare the salad, yet.’

  I shuffle over there. Roger takes the time to adjust his chair, raising the back, and puts a new CD on the stereo. He chooses Johnny Cash. Johnny one-note, he calls him. Good old Johnny one-note.

  Once we sit down, Roger caps his bottle of Labatt, and passes me his Swiss Army knife so I can do the same. In the process, I tilt my head forward, and Roger starts chuckling. Without meaning to, I’ve shown him my stitches again.

  ‘It’s like your scalp is smiling at me,’ he says. ‘That’s gonna scar, all right.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Does a chicken have lips?’

  Through the door to the kitchen, I can see Doreen laying out steaks on a skillet. Each one hisses as it hits the pan, sending up a brief burst of grease-smoke. She glances over. ‘Now he’s got something to re
member us by.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Roger agrees. He waggles the stump of his finger at me. It got lopped off at the second knuckle. ‘You got yourself a battle scar. Every fisherman needs one, see?’

  ‘Even if I did it to myself.’

  ‘That’s mostly the case, unfortunately.’

  He raises his beer, and I do the same. We don’t clink bottles – we just raise them like that, in a kind of toast across the table.

  ‘No matter where you go – Wales or wherever the heck it is – and no matter how big you get for your britches, you’ll always have that there scar on your scalp. You’re marked.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I say, as if professing a vow, ‘I guess I am.’

  And once I’ve said it, I imagine I can feel the burning scar beginning to cool, like molten metal, settling into something more solid and more permanent.

  Acknowledgements

  Earlier versions of these stories first appeared in the following magazines and anthologies: Ascent Aspirations (‘The Art of Shipbuilding’); Brace, by Comma Press (‘Tokes From the Wild’); CFUK (‘Edges’); Cottonwood (‘Scalped’); Dream Catcher (‘Fishhook’); The Lampeter Review (‘Scrap Iron’ and ‘There’s a War Coming’); New Orphic Review (‘Sealskin’); Nu: Fiction and Stuff, by Parthian (‘Carving Through Woods on a Snowy Evening’); and Transmission (‘Shooting Fish in a Stream’).

  ‘Mangleface’ won first prize in the annual Frome Festival Short Story Competition, and was subsequently published in the Parthian anthology, Rarebit. ‘Reaching Out’ won the Cinnamon Press Short Story Award, and was published in the winner’s anthology of that title. ‘Snares’ was a finalist in the Carve Magazine Esoteric Short Story Contest, and an extract of the story appeared in Cheval 6.

  Thanks are due to those editors and judges, as well as the various readers who have helped select and edit these stories along the way: Becky, Claire, Dave, Jim, Marilyn, Martin, Matty, Mike, Naomi, and Richard.

  Author Bio

  Tyler Keevil was born in Edmonton and grew up in Vancouver, Canada. His short fiction has won several awards and appeared in a wide range of magazines and anthologies. His first novel, Fireball, was longlisted for Wales Book of the Year, shortlisted for the Guardian’s Not the Booker Prize, and received the Media Wales People’s Prize 2011. His second novel, The Drive, was published in 2013. He has worked as a tree planter and ice barge deckhand, as well as in factories, restaurants, video stores, and shipyards; he now lectures in creative writing at the University of Gloucestershire.

  Praise for Burrard Inlet

  ‘Beneath the deceptively calm surface of these spare and beautiful stories, mad passions boil. There is a transatlantic tradition of studying the interaction between men and nature, in such figures as Hemingway, Carver, McGuane; now Keevil extends and enriches that lineage. He truly is that good.’

  – Niall Griffiths (author of Grits, Runt, and Kelly & Victor)

  ‘Keevil’s “Tokes from the Wild” is an assured story of a city boy who follows his friend into the countryside to spend a summer tree planting, which soon degenerates into a mess of weed smoke and recriminations.’

  – The Short Review

  ‘Tyler Keevil’s “Carving Through Woods on a Snowy Evening” tells of a snowboarder, missing on a mountainside not long after an accident, being tracked by hopeful rescuers. “Carving” has…storytelling rich in symbolism; subtle plot devices; and an ending that opens and sings.’

  – New Welsh Review

  ‘There’s real quality in Tyler Keevil’s gripping tale of mountain rescue, “Carving Through Woods on a Snowy Evening”.’

  – The Western Mail

  Praise for Fireball

  ‘Fireball pushes beyond the bounds of its genre, capturing the dynamics of friendship, seduction, and loss to impressive effect...confirming Keevil’s flair for evoking empathy with the extreme in this breathlessly readable and confident debut.’

  – New Welsh Review

  ‘This is a truly accomplished novel: funny, gripping and touching in turns, with a conclusion that continues to resonate long after the book is over. Keevil’s skill as an author is everywhere evident: in the quirky dialogue, the lucid prose, and the skillful interweaving of multiple and non-linear narrative strands. This is clearly a novelist to be reckoned with.’

  – Planet Magazine

  ‘The author stretches time and builds his story in layers, achieving a sort of restrained tension. It’s absorbing, moving, tragic and sometimes funny. Fireball, one of four novels that heralds Parthian’s new Bright New Things series, is a brilliant and memorable first novel from a writer who grew up in Vancouver and now lives in mid Wales.’

  – The Western Mail

  ‘[A] fragmented narrative technique that circles and worries around the events of that summer...effectively rendering Razor’s troubled, obsessive state of mind and the gradual process by which he attempts to make sense of the death of his friend. There’s also a real sense of loneliness and loss behind this story, and the insecure, virginal Razor speaks to the troubled teenager in all of us.’

  – The Guardian

  ‘Sylishly written and immensely readable, Fireball gives notice of an impressive new talent.’

  – Jem Poster

  ‘This book deserves to be a cult hit.’

  – David Christopher

  Praise for The Drive

  ‘Along the way, [Trevor] survives scrapes with mescal-swilling bikers and cannibalistic chefs, gets high on peyote and inadvertently shoots a bald eagle...the narrative is packed with with so many quirky diversions and oddballs that, by the end, you’re happy to have joined him for the ride.

  – The Financial Times

  ‘Keevil’s prose is blisteringly honest and, despite the novel’s length, spare. This is an epic journey by anyone’s standards but the short chapters, snappy dialogue and pure and simple crazy situations keep you firmly gripped to the back seat.’

  – We Love This Book

  ‘His journey into the American West is hilarious, his journey into himself revelatory, and you’ll be glad to have gone along with him for the ride...Enjoy.’

  – Nye Wright, Waterstones Blog

  ‘The heightened cartoon touch drives the action along at a snappy pace and the humour and vim with which each scene is setup helps illuminate this half-innocent, half-demented take on the world.’

  – Litro

  ‘Keevil is such an accomplished and confident stylist – inventive, engaging, casually hilarious – he never loses the reader for a second. When he wants to, Keevil can set his charm to stun...From postmodern doubt to full-on emotional commitment, not least in terms of literary miles on the clock, Keevil’s second novel is quite a trip.’

  – New Welsh Review

  ‘If you’re up for a coming-of-age-finding-yourself tale with a heavy dose of booze, weed, endless stretches of road and a smidge of magic, give The Drive a read. I thought it was better than Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and that’s saying something!’

  – The London Diaries

  Copyright Information

  Parthian

  The Old Surgery

  Napier Street

  Cardigan

  SA43 1ED

  www.parthianbooks.com

  This ebook edition first published by Parthian in 2014

  © Tyler Keevil

  All Rights Reserved

  Epub ISBN 978-1-909844-52-0

  Mobi ISBN 978-1-910409-05-3

  The publisher acknowledges the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.

  Edited by Claire Houguez

  Cover design by theundercard.co.uk

  Cover image: Burrard Inlet shipyard © Tyler Keevil

  Ebook created by Claire Houguez

  The right of Tyler Keevil to be identified as author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.