Still Life
Page 5
“I... can’t.”
She pressed the pannier into his hands. “Think of all the hauling you could do with her! All the parts you need for that radio station of yours. Not to mention, it’ll save you the walk back to York.”
He nodded slowly, agreeing. “You never told me how you got Betsy, you know.”
“No?” Gunny answered, brightly. “Huh. Well, I took her from the nutbars, of course. Along with the fuel converter and all the camping gear.”
“I figured as much.” He was at a loss. The makeshift harbour smelled of old fish and rotten seaweed, but the wind that blew off the ocean came clean and crisp. “But... Peppa and George were from the old landlord. Who owned the land.”
Gunny tilted her head confused, then burst out laughing. “You named the guns?”
He gave a shrug.
“Speaking of, you might as well take the long shotgun too,” she said. Then: “George?”
“Peppa,” Oliver corrected. “You take George with you.”
She winked as she patted her poncho and drawled out: “Way ahead of you, partner.”
They both smiled at that.
He parked the ATV on the beach, staring out over the sea. Low clouds blew along the dark line of the horizon, fast and puffy, like sheep bolting. He’d watched until the boat was over the horizon, destined for Normandy.
From there, a few of the other passengers—Gunny included—were bound for Paris. One of others was an electrical engineer by trade; she was very excited to hear about the potential beacon. They’d swapped frequencies, and she’d promised to try and get in touch once she got her own repeater station working. France was farther away than it had been when his grandparents were children, but with a bit of hard work and some luck they’d get the radio working and bring the rest of the world closer.
All he could do was hope that Gunny would arrive back in her own Scarborough (“sometimes life is ironic like that”) safe and sound. It would be months of hard journeying and her fake cowboy routine wouldn’t impress anyone back in North America. He still couldn’t believe it had impressed anyone in Britain. But maybe she’d be all right just talking to other people, Canadian to Canadian.
He wasn’t sure whether that would work. But Betsy and her three newer bolts reminded him that there were still good people left in the world, even if he wasn’t among them any more, and that would have to be enough.
Oliver dusted the settling sand from his bartered jeans. He should head home before the approaching rain blew inland.
There were still good people in the world; that’s what that mattered.
Better to pretend that was enough.
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Copyright 2018 Victoria Feistner
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Victoria Feistner is a writer, a graphic designer, and an artisan in equal parts, although some of those parts are more equal than others. She resides in Toronto with her partner and their two cats. Read more of her writing at www.victoriafeistner.com
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Giganotosaurus is published monthly by Late Cretaceous and edited by Rashida J. Smith.
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http://giganotosaurus.org
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editor@giganotosaurus.org