“So we just call Eastern Oil and say, can we see him?” says Isora.
“You won’t get past his assistants, and anyway you’d sound too young.”
Isora gestures, arms out, palms up. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“I’ll make an appointment for you, if you like. I’ll say you’re a deputation from Back River and you’d like to meet with him to discuss how you can work with Eastern Oil in order to benefit local amenities.”
Isora looks at the boys and back at Lully. “Would you? Thanks, Dex.”
“We’ll give you a name, something like ‘The Concerned Citizens for the Amenities of Back River,’” says Lully. “But there’s a problem. Mr. Anderson’s office is in Saint-Leonard.”
“We can get the bus.”
“But what about school?”
“What about it?” says Drumgold.
8
As the bus skirts the Saint-Leonard docks, Isora gazes across the harbour, her eyes searching for the head offices of Eastern Oil. Lully said they’d find it easily, because it was the tallest building in the city centre, and it was pink, with lots of blue-tinted windows.
“There it is,” she says.
Drumgold, beside her, and Harper, across the aisle, follow her pointing finger.
They leave the bus at the city centre. It’s nine-thirty, after the morning rush and before midmorning breaks send hundreds of workers out in search of coffee. They walk past the Atlantic Mall, where stores are preparing to open, and stop in front of the Eastern Oil building. Anderson’s car, with the licence plate AA1, is parked in front of the wide glass doors. At Lully’s suggestion, the boys are to wait outside until Isora waves them in, because the three of them entering at once might be seen as a threat. They’re also afraid Anderson will recognize them from the encounter at the cottage. If he does, they will apologize for their action.
The boys hang back as Isora approaches the glass doors. The commissionaire standing just inside opens them with a little bow and says, “Good morning, miss.”
She nods and smiles. She hopes she looks businesslike, as Lully had suggested. She’s wearing a white linen jacket over a light blue blouse and pleated navy skirt, and carries a briefcase, borrowed from Lully. It’s empty. She makes her way across the lobby, which is high and light and airy, and seems to have more windows than walls, to where a receptionist sits behind a counter. She’s talking into a headset and doesn’t notice Isora’s arrival. Isora waits while the receptionist talks about her plans for the evening. Isora drums her fingers on the counter. The receptionist looks up and lifts a finger, admonishing, teacher style.
When she finishes her conversation, she says, “Can I help you?”
Isora starts, “I have an appointment–”
Something buzzes beneath the counter and the receptionist holds up her finger again. She speaks into the headset. “Reception...Yes, Mr. Anderson.” She presses a switch and says, “Mr. Anderson will see you now.” She looks up.
Isora starts again. “We represent the Concerned Citizens for the Amenities of Back River, and we have an appointment with Mr. Anderson.”
When Isora says “we,” the receptionist looks to each side of her, and Isora says, “My colleagues will be joining me in a moment.”
The receptionist says, “Your name?”
“Isora Lee.”
The receptionist speaks into her headset. “Marcia? I have an Isora Lee asking to see Mr. Anderson.” She tells Isora, “Mr. Anderson’s executive assistant will be with you momentarily.”
Marcia, in a stunningly white blouse and a close-fitting black skirt falling just below her knees, appears through a door at the side of the lobby and says, “Ms. Lee?”
Isora turns and waves to Drumgold and Harper.
As they enter, the commissionaire stops them and demands, “State your business, please.”
Drumgold says, “What’s our business got to do with you?”
Isora says quickly, “They’re with me. They’re the rest of the deputation.”
Marcia says, “Let them come.”
The commissionaire stares at Drumgold before stepping aside. Drumgold nods and smiles at him as he and Harper join Isora.
Marcia leads them through the door off the lobby and to the end of a hallway. She knocks at a door and a man’s voice calls, “Come.”
Marcia says, “Mr. Turnbull will see you.”
Isora says, “But our appointment is with Mr. Anderson.”
“Mr. Anderson is away this morning.”
“The receptionist was talking to him just now,” Isora points out.
“And his car’s outside,” Drumgold adds.
Marcia purses her lips and opens the door. Mr. Turnbull is sitting at a desk filled with papers, files, picture frames, and three telephones. He has thinning sandy hair and his face is jowly and florid. He wears a dark blue suit. He stands as Isora enters and says, “Well...who do we have here?” His eyes flicker over her. Drumgold and Harper appear and he sits abruptly with, “You didn’t say you were bringing me a crèche, Marcia.”
“The party grew after I called.”
“You’d better bring my ten o’clock right up.”
“Don’t forget you have the strategic planning executive at ten-thirty.”
“Lord, yes. Do you think Carter will budge on the pensions issue?”
Marcia shakes her head. “You’ll have to do an end run round him or get him off the executive. Why don’t you find him something else to busy himself with, like workplace equality?”
“Or positive working environment. Right.”
“Are we still on for lunch today?”
Mr. Turnbull grins. “That depends on where you’re offering to take me.”
“We could try the bistro again.”
“Why don’t you call and make a reservation?” He looks at Isora, sighs, and says, “Sorry. There’s always so much to do first thing in the morning. I can only give you a few minutes, I’m afraid.”
Drumgold says, “Thank you, Mr. Turnbull, but we’re here to see Mr. Anderson.”
Mr. Turnbull takes his eyes from Isora and looks at Drumgold. “May I ask what about?”
“It’s personal.”
Mr. Turnbull leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and says, “I can assure you Mr. Anderson is not going to see three students claiming to have personal business with him, and I can also assure you that no-one sees Mr. Anderson without first seeing me.”
“So...we’ve seen you,” says Drumgold. “Now we’ll see Mr. Anderson.”
Marcia is hovering in the hallway. She walks away, talking quietly into a cellphone.
Mr. Turnbull starts, “My young friends–”
Drumgold interrupts. “We’re not your young friends.”
Mr. Turnbull presses on. “I’m trying to be helpful, but being rude will get you nowhere–”
“Being polite wasn’t doing much good either, was it?” says Drumgold.
The door from the lobby opens and the commissionaire walks smartly to Marcia, who nods at the door of Mr. Turnbull’s office.
Mr. Turnbull stands. “I don’t think I like your tone, young man.”
“Tough shit,” says Drumgold.
Isora puts her hand on his arm.
Mr. Turnbull, seeing Isora’s gesture, tells Drumgold, “I suggest you take the advice your sensible friend is trying to give you – and calm down. I’m going to ask you and your silent companion to leave, but you, young lady...” He smiles at Isora. “...are welcome to stay and talk.” His eyes are scuttling over her again. “I’ll be happy to discuss whatever’s on your mind, and if appropriate, I promise to bring it to Mr. Anderson’s attention.”
Isora shakes her head. “We want to see Mr. Anderson.”
“It isn’t going to happen. Sorry.” He takes a business card from a holder on his desk and offers it to Isora. “Why don’t you take my card and give me a call?”
Isora says, “You know what you can do with your
fucking card.”
The commissionaire strides forward. “Hey now. You can’t use language like that around here. Shall I put them out, Mr. Turnbull?”
Drumgold turns on the commissionaire. Isora takes his arm and catches Harper’s eye. He takes Drumgold’s other arm, muttering, “Let’s just go, Drumgold.” They start down the hallway, passing Marcia, who looks away. Drumgold is walking deliberately slowly. The commissionaire puts a hand on his back to hurry him. Drumgold goes to turn but Isora tightens her grip and propels him forward. She’s afraid he’ll kick open the door to the lobby and reaches for it before he can do so. Two men and a woman, business suited and carrying briefcases, are at the counter in the lobby, and there are now two receptionists. They all watch as the friends set off across the lobby with the commissionaire close behind them. Halfway across they stop and Isora says quietly to Drumgold, “All right?”
He nods. Isora and Harper release him. The commission-aire says, “Move.” They walk to the door and Drumgold opens it. He and Harper step back while Isora sweeps through. Harper follows. Drumgold turns. The commissionaire eyes him warily. Drumgold looks at him and at the business people and the receptionists still staring. He smiles at them as he raises his finger before joining Isora and Harper on the sidewalk.
They walk in front of Anderson’s car in order to cross the street. They wait while a bus passes. Drumgold reaches into his pocket. When they continue, he walks close beside the car, holding a coin hard against the side so that it scores a jagged line through the paint.
Harper mutters, “Why d’you do that?”
Drumgold says, “Why not?”
9
Harper slows as he nears the camp, hearing the murmur of voices. He slips his backpack from his shoulder and peers through the trees. Drumgold and Isora are sitting on the wooden chest, holding hands. Harper imagines Isora’s hand would be cool and smooth, like a new bar of soap. He grabs a thin branch and shakes it to announce his presence.
Drumgold says, “We hear you, Harp.”
He marches into the camp and announces, “I got today’s homework. I’ve even done it. Brought it in case you want to copy it off me.”
When they got back from Saint-Leonard, Drumgold and Isora said it wasn’t worth going to school just for the afternoon, but Harper had hurried there anyway.
Isora says, “Good old Harp.”
George scurries from the undergrowth, circles the camp once, sniffs at Harper’s feet, and disappears in the woods.
Harper, watching the dachshund, says, “Is Dex away again?”
Isora nods. “I went over to tell him about this morning’s trip and found the ceramic dog with a note under it saying he’s been called in by Cousins Without Borders. You know – where he helps kids waiting to go to court for serious stuff.”
Drumgold looks through the trees towards the beach and says, “So what are we going to do about Anderson?”
“Try and see him again, I guess,” says Harper.
Drumgold scoffs, “If you want another meeting with a junior sleazebag pen pusher who treats us like we’re ten years old and then throws us out of his office, then go right ahead.”
“We could try and see him at the cottage,” Harper suggests. “That way we wouldn’t have to get past that Mr. Turnbull.”
“I’m sure Anderson would love to see us all arrive at his cottage,” says Drumgold. “I can see Diamond Head and Droopy in the welcoming party.”
“We should make at least one more personal appeal,” says Harper.
Drumgold turns to Isora. “What do you think, Is?”
“I think we have to move on. What did Dex say to do for the second wave?”
“Legitimate and responsible political action,” says Drumgold.
“That’s demonstrations and petitions and stuff,” says Harper uneasily.
“A protest march!” says Isora.
“I can’t see us having a protest march,” says Harper.
“Why not?” Drumgold demands.
“You can’t have a protest march with just three people.”
“We’ll put posters up and get people to join in,” Isora suggests. “That way it won’t be just us, because if it’s just us Anderson will have the police all over us again. But he can’t do that if there’s a crowd.”
“You reckon?” says Harper.
“Same thing if we do a petition,” she says. “Then it won’t be just us.”
“We need posters then, about the march and the petition,” says Drumgold.
“Whoa,” says Harper. “Does that mean? Are we...have we agreed?”
“It means we’ve tried the personal appeal shit and got nowhere,” says Drumgold. “That means now we try legitimate and responsible political action. So are you with us? Or what?”
Isora and Drumgold look at Harper.
“’Course I’m with you,” he says. “I just like to be sure – you know – where we are.”
“Then get with the programme,” says Drumgold. “You do the writing. You’ve got paper and stuff. We’ll do the petition first.” He starts to dictate, “Sign below if–”
Harper shakes his head. “You don’t say it like that.”
“First you don’t want to do the petition. Now you’re the fucking expert,” says Drumgold. “What do you mean, you don’t say it like that?”
“You say: ‘We, the undersigned,’” says Harper. “I know ’cos Dad’s done petitions.”
“Okay. ‘We, the undersigned, want to go on Back River beach–’”
“‘Want access to Back River beach...’ Sounds better.”
“‘Demand access to Back River beach.’”
Harper pauses his writing. “That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?”
“Do you want it to sound weak? Read what we’ve got so far.”
Harper reads, “‘We, the undersigned, hereby demand–’”
“Where did ‘hereby’ come from?”
“You always say ‘hereby.’”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You just do.” Harper starts again. “‘We, the undersigned, hereby demand access to Back River beach.’”
He looks up at Drumgold.
Drumgold looks at Isora, who has taken paper and markers from Harper’s backpack and is working on a poster. “Is?”
“No-one’s going to know who’s doing the petition.”
“That’s the idea,” says Drumgold. “Then the police won’t be coming after us.”
“But Isora’s right,” says Harper. “There’s always something on the petition to say who’s doing it – the union, or the welfare committee, or whoever.”
“We need a name for ourselves,” says Isora. “Like...the Society to Free the Beach!”
“The Society for the Liberation of the Beach,” Harper suggests.
“‘Society’ makes us sound like a bunch of old ladies,” says Drumgold. “How ’bout the Organisation for the Liberation of the Beach?”
“Too business-y,” says Isora.
“The Front for the Liberation of the Beach,” says Harper triumphantly.
Drumgold and Isora stare at him.
“Brilliant,” says Drumgold. “Where d’you get ‘Front’ from?”
“Must be something I read for social studies,” says Harper.
Drumgold proclaims, “The Front for the Liberation of the Beach. Put that at the top of the page. No. Put it underneath where you sign, and write it as an acronym at the top.”
“As a what?”
“Just the initials. Put them at the top of the page. Now read what we’ve got.”
Harper starts, “T-F-F-T-L-O-T-B.”
“What the hell’s that?” says Drumgold.
“What the hell’s what?”
“T-F-F-T-L... and all that.”
“It’s the ac...acro...the initials.”
“You use just the main words for an acronym, dummy. ‘Front’ and ‘Liberation’ and ‘Beach.’ Try again.”
Harper grumbles, “How am
I supposed to know that?” He reads, “‘We, the FLB, hereby–’”
Isora interrupts, “Wait.”
“Now what?” says Harper.
“FLB is boring. Let’s be just the Back River Front, and we’ll write the acronym using the ‘B’ and the ‘A’ from ‘Back,’ as well as the ‘R’ and the ‘F.’”
Drumgold grins. “BARF! Perfect! And it says how we feel about Anderson taking over the beach. Go on then, Harp.”
Harper starts again. “‘BARF. We, the undersigned, hereby demand access to Back River beach.’” He looks up from his paper and adds, “I’ve left space for people to sign. Then at the bottom I’ve got Back River Front.”
Isora holds up her work. There’s a sketch of the beach at the bottom of the page, with shaded lettering stating Back River Front, as if it’s written in the sand. Above it there’s an invitation to join a march to protest the closing of Back River beach.
“When shall we hold the march?” she says.
“Next Saturday,” says Drumgold. “Two o’clock.”
Isora adds the date and time to her poster and says, “It’s getting too dark to see. I’ll do a few more at home tonight.”
“We’ll put them around town, with the petitions, tomorrow night,” says Drumgold.
“We’ll have to be careful,” says Harper. “We don’t want people to know it’s us doing the–” He stops. He’s heard something. He doesn’t know what. He cocks his head, listening.
Isora says, “Where’s George?”
She’s about to call, but Drumgold, peering through the trees towards the beach, puts his finger to his lips. He motions for Isora and Harper to get close to the ground. Staying low, he works his way through the brush towards the beach. Isora and Harper follow. They are close to where the woods give way to sand, still working their way forwards, when there’s a shot and something smashes into the woods with a noise like tearing paper.
Harper says, “Jesus.”
Isora gasps, “George.”
Drumgold holds his hand back to her. She takes it and moves beside him.
Harper lies still. He’s afraid he’s wet himself.
A voice from somewhere on the beach says, “Did I get it?”
Footprints Page 5
