by Don Hunter
Erik Karlsson, great-great-nephew of the late Svensen and “Second Swede,” as he had become known, hurried forward, took a stance with the five-string banjo he had recently purchased on Amazon along with an Earl Scruggs instruction book, and broke into the first bars of “Dueling Banjos.” He paused, head cocked, and waited, apparently expecting the opposing duelling bit to start up from somewhere else, and when it didn’t, played the opening riffs again … and again … and waiting …
At this point an exodus from the big house began, a line of people headed toward the ferry terminal. Two climbed into the giant helicopter—which was when things went awry. The expensive chopper had landed on a particularly soggy area on the sodded lawn, and had already begun to lean a tad to port. The addition of passengers finished the job; one wheel and its strut supports were suddenly below the surface.
A conference among the big bird’s three pilots concluded that they were grounded for the immediate future.
“Shoot!” remarked someone in the remaining lineup. “I can’t be late. Toronto connection!”
Connie Wilson pointed to the speaker. “That looks like Ryan Jackson! He’s in that new series, Coast Mysteries or something. I’m sure that’s him.”
“He’s in everything,” Annabelle Bell-Atkinson grunted, apparently still affronted over her rock buns and not impressed by the renowned actor—if indeed that’s who it was, though she had to admit it looked like him, as he turned a warm smile on Connie, who was helping Jillian hold up the rescued, though now dampish, sign.
The possible actor took a quick look. “Want to come for a ride?”
Connie grabbed Jillian’s hand. “Let’s go!”
“All aboard,” said Mark Clements.
Gone and Back
“G’morning, Bernie,” said Constable Ravina Sidhu, nodding at the items that were lined up on Bernie’s lawn and driveway.
“Morning, Constable,” Bernie Baranski replied. Then, “What?” at the smile that Ravina was failing to contain.
“Well, I’ve been getting complaints about someone living on his front lawn—hahahaha!”
“Gimme strength,” Bernie said. “Know how many people have delivered that line this morning?”
Ravina sighed, sympathetic. “Well, it was a funny movie—Everything Must Go—and you do look a bit like Will Ferrell.”
“I think I preferred Kicking and Screaming, the soccer thing with him and Robert Duvall,” Bernie said. “And I’m sure I look more like Duvall. And apparently I can be as much of a dick.”
Ravina nodded what seemed to be agreement as she watched Lennie Wilson examine the collection of stuff on the two gate-leg tables on Bernie Baranski’s driveway and spilling over onto the lawn: hand tools, handbags, two laptops, an ancient LP record player, which anyone would consider a steal at fifteen dollars. Lennie offered ten dollars for the player and Bernie shrugged and said, “Take it.”
“So, really? Everything, this time?” Ravina asked.
“This time” indicated her familiarity with the frequent disruptions in the relationship between Bernie and his wife, Barbara, disruptions that had led to previous announcements of separation, and driveway and lawn sales similar to this one, but never so comprehensive. Up to now there had been resolutions, usually involving tears and mutual self-recriminations. But this one seemed to have “the end” writ large on it for the couple who had endeared themselves to the Inlet population since they had set up house in an old cabin on the west side of the Inlet about four years before. Bernie dabbled in “financials” on the internet. Barbara painted abstracts (“Abstract 1,” “Abstract 2,” and so on)—which happened to be participants in the present conflict.
Since their arrival they had been the first to volunteer at community events, the last to leave the Summer Fiesta after cleaning up. They were the crossing guards at the elementary school when asked, and they organized and officiated at the seniors weekly bingo. It could be said that no one wanted to see them leave.
“Everything,” Bernie said, nodding confirmation at the sign, which was attracting more interest by the minute, with people tut-tutting—“a shame” and other insincerities—but grabbing at the goods and checking the suggested prices.
Cameron Girard walked around and listened and made notes of the proceedings, which drew the attention of Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, whose name had not appeared in the local paper’s pages for several weeks. “The media. Vultures. Picking people’s bones.” She then hovered over a set of two abacuses that seemed to be made of jade, asking price fourteen dollars. She looked around and pushed them to the back of the table, out of sight behind two ageing copies of the Oxford English Dictionary.
“Seven bucks,” Randolph Champion said, holding up an almost-new Ryobi leaf blower with a label of forty-five dollars.
The Reverend Amber Rawlings, observing the action and apparently with nothing better to do and feeling the moment, murmured, “Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves,” with a nod to an empty and rusting bird cage. “Matthew 21:12.”
“Doves?” Bernie queried.
“What did Barbara say about this?” a just-arrived Anwen Brannigan enquired, while Randolph upped his offer by a buck, and a distracted Bernie shocked him by accepting. Anwen had become particularly close to Barbara and had suggested that Barbara start giving art classes for seniors such as herself and indeed had offered to pose “any way you like.”
In fact it was Barbara’s art that had sparked the present squabble and split. Bernie had in a moment of pique repeated the words of a fellow who sold occasional freelance pieces to the Victoria Times Colonist under the byline “Traveller” and who specialized in finding “remote and unrecognized artists.” The critic had suggested, unkindly, that Barbara would for some time continue unrecognized unless someone like himself (“an acknowledged expert”) developed an improbable fondness for her works, which he described as “resembling Rorschach ink blots, but without the latter’s essential subtlety and charm.”
When the review was published, Bernie had risen in fury and organized a petition to ban the capital city newspaper from the Inlet and “Traveller” from the BC Ferries system. Willie Whittle, who embodied the ferries in the Inlet, in a demonstration of the “us-against-them” spirit typical of the community, said that while nothing official could be done, people could be assured that the workers’ grapevine would see that any future ferry ride that insulting sonofabitch took would not be a happy one. It was believed that the man had taken to wearing disguises to get around.
“She’s gone,” Bernie told Anwen. “Long gone.”
“How long?”
Bernie turned to deal with the Clements kids, who were holding tight to an ancient Smith-Corona portable typewriter and a box of four hard-to-find new ribbons. Alun had read of a rising interest in old typewriters and had persuaded Jillian that they could start a used-goods business if they could knock Bernie down to fifteen dollars from his asking price of forty.
“Get him while he’s distracted,” Alun said. “I’ve read that that works in bargaining.”
“Morning ferry,” Bernie replied to Anwen.
“He’s right, I seen her get aboard,” said Willie Whittle, who had shut down the ferry ticket office (“back in ten or so”) to take a look at Bernie’s clear-out sale and had his eyes on a newish-looking electric hedge clipper at a giveaway seven-fifty.
“Take it,” Bernie said to the kids, and indifferently accepted a ten and a five from Jillian.
“Going where?” Anwen asked. “I mean after
Tsawwassen.”
Bernie shrugged. “It’s a very big world out there. She has a sister in Burnaby and a cousin way out in Mission. So who knows?”
Sheila Martin had wandered up as the k
ids were doing their deal. “Take that right home, and keep it there. No craigslist or eBay. Do we understand?” In the tone that grandmas use that isn’t really a question. A nearby Rachel Spinner nodded her approval of Sheila’s order, and she and Sheila continued on their way to catch the Gulf Queen to Tsawwassen. Cameron Girard exchanged a nod and a smile with her as she passed.
Anwen Brannigan said, “So you’re getting rid of everything of hers.”
“Everything that reminds me of her,” Bernie said.
“Like the grass trimmer?” Almost new but offered at twenty dollars and being fondled by Jackson Spinner, who had let the grass around the B & B get long enough to conceal dogs, cats, and small children.
“We had a deal that she did the edges and I mowed the lawn. It can go.”
“So it’s worse than last time, then,” Anwen said.
Last time was a spat after Bernie had overstayed a visit to the Cedars pub and arrived in the early hours bellowing out the Polish national anthem. “Poland is not yet lost,” he yodelled. The neighbours turned on their lights, Hyacinth Jakes led a panicked exodus from the seniors complex, and Constable Ravina turned up and issued a stern warning against disturbing the peace, while keeping a straight face.
This time Bernie had moved Barbara’s easel to make room in her studio for a new table saw. He knocked over the easel, punched a hole in the canvas that had been on it, picked up the untitled painting, held it at arm’s length, and laughed, just as Barbara entered the room.
When Barbara chastised him, Bernie muttered, “Ink blots.” And that was it.
Bernie sighed. “Yes, worse.”
He turned and accepted the ten dollars offered by Jackson, who had the grace to look embarrassed as he took off with the trimmer.
Anwen shrugged and hurried away to catch up with Sheila Martin and Rachel Spinner on their way to the ferry.
Bernie’s tables were soon bare.
The following evening, after the Gulf Queen’s last arrival, there was a meeting at Rachel Spinner’s house, and then they began the rounds.
Lennie Wilson came to his door. He listened and frowned, then, “But it was twenty bucks.”
Rachel cocked an eyebrow at Cameron Girard. The reporter checked his notebook. “Ten dollars. At 1:26 PM.” And “Thank you,” holding out his hand with the ten-spot. Lennie pouted, then went and retrieved the player.
Cameron confirmed prices at each stop—or corrected for those with a short memory of events such as Randolph Champion who insisted he had forked over eighteen dollars for Bernie’s new leaf blower and complained, “A deal should be a deal between people with principles.” Rachel handed him his eight dollars and told him to get the tool and stop whining.
Willie Whittle handed over the hedge clipper, saying he would be glad to get his conscience clear.
Alun Clements wanted to negotiate, but his sister said there would be other opportunities, especially if some other couples she could mention might decide to untie the knot and clear out, and they should consider it part of the learning curve of starting a business in today’s world of cut and thrust and dog eat dog. She had been talking with her dad, who was struggling with his float-plane charter venture. She handed over the typewriter and accepted fifteen dollars.
Rachel piled all the items into her pickup, said, “Right, then,” to the other three who had joined her in “Exercise Fix-it,” and they left, accompanied by Barbara, whom they had tracked the previous day to her cousin up the Fraser Valley and persuaded to return with them on the Gulf Queen.
Bernie Baranski listened closely as Barbara explained the conditions of her return—no table saw in her studio, not one negative comment about her art, no singing of the Polish national anthem outdoors—and pointed out those he had to thank for it.
Bernie took a vinyl disk out of its paper cover, touched it to his lips, and reverently placed it on the record player.
Barbara explained when the music started that it was a Polish wedding anniversary song that said in part, “You are my heart’s reflection, and no one could ever take your place. Not one out of 7.5 billion.”
“So romantic,” she said. “Time for an abstract, I think.”
Pressing the Matter
The British Columbia Press Council announced it would hold its next hearing in Spinner’s Inlet. The council had been idle for some years but recently had decided to resurrect itself following a number of complaints concerning The Tidal Times and its publisher/editor/owner Silas Cotswold.
The hearing began in the community hall, which was packed.
Council chair Ms. Alice Buchanan, a prominent businessperson in Vancouver, said, “Let us establish that the council’s code of practice states that a newspaper’s first duty is to provide the public with accurate information, and that newspapers should correct inaccuracies promptly.”
Heads turned toward Silas, who had parked himself on a seat in the front row. He smiled.
“We are confident that reasonable people generally are able to reach a resolution.” She added that given that Silas Cotswold was himself a former professional member of the press council, representing the print journalism element, she expected that he would lend a particular level of professionalism to the event.
She announced the first complainant and read the details. “Annabelle Bell-Atkinson”—Annabelle stood and waved to a flurry of applause, and a few jeers, which brought a frown and a no-no wagged finger from the chair—“alleges that The Tidal Times in an editorial slandered her and her two nephews by describing the nephews as ‘hazards to society’ and herself as ‘a newly minted Lady Macbeth.’” She turned to Silas. “Mr. Cotswold?”
Silas stood and stretched tall. He could be imposing when he wore his best Harris tweeds complete with Francis waistcoat and sturdy, laced Oxford brogues, which raised him a couple of centimetres, and half-glasses of the type that you look over the top of and appear intelligent.
He shook his head, apparently at such foolishness. “When the woman does not know the difference between slander and libel, how can we take her seriously? If it’s in print, it’s libel.”
Annabelle seethed. The geeks Henry and Harvey pointed what seemed to be threatening fingers at Silas and the stage area in general, which caused the chair to take two steps back from the mic.
The geeks for years had memberships in Mensa, were rightly considered by their aunt to be geniuses, but were bereft of the simplest of social skills and, “They excite very easily,” Annabelle explained.
Ms. Buchanan recovered and asked Silas, “So was it in print and did you therefore libel them?”
Silas sighed. “If it was, there was a good reason for it, and we all know what that is.”
All waited.
Finally, “What?” from the chair.
“The basis of all good journalism, and known as the best defence against such scurrilous claims: the truth.”
“He also called me a buffoon!” Annabelle roared.
“I rest my case,” Silas said, and returned to his chair.
Buchanan turned and conferred in whispers with one of her two press council colleagues.
“The case will be considered,” she said, “and the council will announce a ruling in due course.”
She introduced a new issue. “Now, a further complaint, from,” she checked her notes, “actually it is anonymous, but we are inclined to consider it, given the serious nature of the allegation. The person says that while they were never specifically named in a particular column by the editor, the whole community knew that they were being targeted when the said column criticized ‘a number of layabouts who need not be identified and who give the community a bad reputation.’ It said, ‘One of them pretends to be the people’s saviour and boasts of a history of civil disobedience and violence against the establishment, from whom he gladly accepts pogey
and subsidized ferry fares.’”
Randolph Champion jumped to his feet. “Objection! I have never been given a break on the ferries! I didn’t even know that was available.”
Ms. Buchanan smiled. “There appears to be a need for clarification on the matter of fee structure by the BC Ferries Corporation.”
“Guilty,” said Silas. “And withdrawn.”
“Now,” the chair said, ominously, “a question of phone hacking by a member of The Tidal Times staff. The complaint is vague, the staff member is not named, and by normal standards we would pass on it, but given the history of such things in the UK, where one newspaper, the News of the World, was shut down because of it …”
Cameron Girard, the only member of the staff, other than Anwen Brannigan who dusted and cleaned up, looked up, startled. Moi? His lips formed.
Silas stepped in. “What exactly was gleaned from this supposed hacking? Allegedly.”
Ms. Buchanan studied her notes. “Apparently, a conversation between your mayor, Sheila Martin, and a company in Victoria from which she had purchased an office desk to be paid for COD, and that she was threatening to refuse to accept until a new price could be agreed on, because the desk had a chip out of one corner, for which she was blaming the truck driver …”
Silas laughed.
The chair continued. “This conversation, a private conversation, was printed verbatim in The Tidal Times, an act, the mayor claims, that brought into ridicule her office and the position of mayor.”
At that point a cellphone rang out loudly—The Beatles’ “Yesterday”—and kept ringing. All eyes went to the mayor, who was madly pressing the buttons on her phone, from which the tone was rising.
As the sound persisted, and Sheila failed to quell it, the Clements twins raced up to their grandma and between them, shut the sound off. “No, this one. We’ve told you, over and over,” Jillian said, while Alun stood back, shook his head, and muttered, “What will it take?”
