“Stop!” I cried, as the cornucopia emptied at my feet, threatening to engulf me. “What is all this?”
“It’s your Welcome Wagon welcome—” Pixie straightened up and beamed at me. “Don’t you have it in England?”
“No,” I said faintly. Whatever it was, I certainly had seen nothing like it before. “What’s it all about?”
“It’s the welcome from your friendly local merchants to newcomers moving into the area,” Pixie explained. “They all—well, most of them—provide samples of their wares free of charge as an introduction, in the hope that you’ll patronize them when you go shopping.
“Oh, it pays off—” she assured me. “They wouldn’t do it, otherwise. It’s all marked down to goodwill and it works. You may not have it over there, but it’s big business here. This time of the year, it’s practically a full-time job for me, driving around to all the summer cottages and welcoming visitors. You see, there are a lot of summer lets up in the hills that are just for two or three weeks at a time. You’re one of the very few who are going to be here for the whole summer.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I equivocated. I hadn’t thought of it at all. I looked down at the pile at my feet. “Shouldn’t we get this stuff into the freezer before it defrosts?”
“No hurry,” Pixie said casually. “The insulated bags will keep it for another couple of hours yet. Let me foist upon you the rest of the bounty—” She produced a sheaf of envelopes from the bottom of the basket and began pushing them into my unresisting hands.
“Free tickets to the Edgemarsh Movie Palace—they’re running a special Disney Season starting in July. Then—” another envelope—“a free dinner at Gino’s Place. It’s usually for two, but since there’s only one of you and two children who’ll order from the childrens’ menu, you’ll all get a free dinner—”
“But we’ve already been to Gino’s Place,” I protested. “Celia and Patrick took us yesterday.”
“That has nothing to do with it. You’re entitled to a free dinner in your own right. Just give them this voucher as you order.”
“Prr-yee-ow …” Errol staggered out of the shrubbery at the edge of the lawn, wove his way across it, and lurched up the steps to collapse at my feet. His eyes closed and he lay there unmoving.
“Mummy!” Tessa shrieked. “Mummy—he’s dead! He went away where we couldn’t see him—and he came back dead!” She burst into tears.
“Mum—” Timothy was shaken, fighting back tears himself. “Mum, he isn’t really dead—is he?”
“Dead tired,” Pixie said practically. She prodded Errol with the toe of her sandal. He twitched and, after a long moment, sent out a rough perfunctory purr. “The old reprobate!”
“Dead tired—but happy,” I agreed. How very different from the home life of our own dear Esmond. At some point I was going to have to do some explaining to the children—but I didn’t feel up to it right now. I sent Pixie a helpless glance.
“Errol’s fine,” she said. “Just move him into the shade—” She suited the action to the words; he gave one final purr and went silent again. “Now why don’t we have some of this delicious cream soda? We’ll need glasses and lots of ice—”
“I’ll get it!” both children shouted at once. They dived for the kitchen.
I looked after Tessa anxiously. Her reaction had betrayed fears lurking deep in her mind. I could understand, but how could I teach her that people—or pets—could not be shut up in little boxes and stored away in a safe place until their presence was required? That they must be allowed to live their own lives—even though they might encounter danger? Had I learned the lesson yet myself? Why was I fighting the idea of enrolling the children as day campers at Camp Mohigonquin? Hadn’t we all learned that there was no real safety anywhere? In the midst of life …
“You’re right,” Pixie said shrewdly, diagnosing—correctly—that I needed distraction myself. “It’s time we got all this frozen stuff into the freezer.” She stooped and began gathering it up. “This is no weather to leave it lying around.”
I picked up the remaining items when her arms were full and led the way into the kitchen. The children had already filled four tumblers to the brim with ice and pounced on the bottle of cream soda, although the glasses seemed too full of ice to allow room for much liquid to be added.
“I like Welcome Wagons—” Timothy wrestled with the bottle cap. “Why don’t we have them in England?”
“English shopkeepers hate to give anything away,” Pixie answered for me. “I’ve heard Celia say so often enough. They either figure they’ve got a captive clientele or they just don’t care. Patrick says they’ve never heard of merchandising or salesmanship.”
“They may have heard of them—they just don’t believe in them.” Now that I was getting a demonstration of American methods, I could understand Patrick’s point of view.
“Thank you, honey.” Pixie accepted the glass Tessa held out to her. “That will sure hit the spot. I must admit I’m beginning to feel the heat.” She sighed wearily. “It’s been going on for weeks—and the nights aren’t cooling down the way they used to. Even when we had a couple of thunderstorms, they didn’t clear the air.”
“I’m hot, too,” Tessa said.
“Everybody is.” Pixie held the icy glass up against one temple and rolled it slowly across her forehead, then back again.
Tessa watched with fascination and, a moment later, casually copied the gesture. Her fringe was in the way, though, and the water beads on the outside of the glass combined with her perspiration to leave damp tendrils straggling down into her eyes.
“You ought to be wearing your hair off your face in this weather,” Pixie advised. “It’s too hot for bangs.”
I kept silent; it was something I had not dared suggest to Tessa. However, she was willing to accept it from a stranger. She nodded agreement and swept her fringe to one side; it still covered half her forehead.
“Here, this is what you need—” Pixie removed her headband. “It may not be quite your style, but it will hold your hair back until you can get something you like better.” She tucked Tessa’s fringe under the headband and adjusted it. Mercifully she didn’t comment on the unveiled widow’s peak.
“We can snap off the thingamabobs, if you want—” she offered.
“No, thank you, I like them.” Tessa turned to me, eyes shining. “May I wear it tonight, Mummy? Please?”
“Of course,” I said and, to Pixie, “Thank you.”
“Tonight …” Pixie gazed out of the window thoughtfully. “You’re going to the cookout at camp, Celia tells me.”
“That’s right.” For the first time, there had been a certain reserve in her tone. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I suppose Greg knows what he’s doing, but I’m surprised he’s still having cookouts. I wouldn’t think it was quite safe with the woods so dry. He’ll have to watch where every spark flies—”
“Perhaps we ought not to go—”
The children immediately chorused protest.
“Oh, I’m sure it will be all right,” Pixie said. “Greg’s careful. In fact, you’d better go, if you want to see a proper cookout. By this time next week, the Park Rangers may have outlawed camp fires in the woods. I’m surprised they haven’t already, but I suppose they’re trying to hold off until after the Fourth of July. It wouldn’t be the same without the big bonfire and fireworks.”
“There seem to be a lot of fires around,” I said uneasily. “I was watching television last night and—”
“Oh, it’s turning into a major industry.” Pixie laughed cheerfully. “The one boom industry the recession has produced. It’s saved a lot of small businesses.”
“Saved?”
“Sure. They all carry fire insurance, perhaps more than they need. Then, if the business looks like failing, they have a quiet talk with their friendly neighbourhood Torch and then make arrangements to be far, far away—preferably in the company of a dozen unimpeac
hable witnesses—on the night the business goes up. Everybody knows it’s going on. It’s just awfully hard to prove—unless you can catch the Torch in the act.”
“That’s appalling!”
“Depends on how you look at it.” She shrugged. “It’s been worse. In the nineteen-thirties Depression a lot of men committed suicide so that their families would get the insurance money and be able to survive. I can sympathize with the ones who’d rather cash in on their fire insurance—even it does mean gaol if they’re caught.”
“Is that what it’s all about? I mean, ARSONLINE and the appeals from the police—?”
“Well, sure. Even without the insurance angle, it’s dangerous. Your Torch is a professional, starting fires for money. The problem is, he can set off the carbon copy nuts, the firebugs, who do it because they like to see the fire engines or—” She glanced at the children and lowered her voice meaningfully. “Or for kicks. They’re the dangerous ones. They don’t care what they set alight. An empty building, an automobile, somebody’s home—it’s all one to them. They aren’t fussy, either, about making sure the place is unoccupied.”
I shivered. Last night’s nightmare suddenly had deeper import than I had thought.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry here,” Pixie said lightly. “Those things are just happening down in the cities. This is really a very law-abiding neck of the woods.”
Chapter 7
Celia picked us up and drove us to Camp Mohigonquin, but dropped us at the gate.
“Luke’s already there,” she said. “I won’t come in. I can’t stay. I’ve made arrangements with Greg, either he or Lois will drive you home.”
“But—”
“I can’t stay,” she repeated peevishly. “You’ve seen Patrick. He needs a quiet evening, just the two of us. That’s why I sent Luke on ahead—with permission to stay overnight.”
“Celia—” The children had tumbled out of the car and were walking up the path. “Celia, what is the matter with Patrick? Is it … serious?”
“Serious enough.” She laughed shortly. “But not in the way you mean. They call it Executive Burnout. He went too far, too fast. He sort of … couldn’t keep up with himself. And he couldn’t slow down, because the pressure never let up. The younger people are crowding along, pushing, trying to take over. It’s not quite a nervous breakdown—but it’s not far off. It happens to a lot of them. That’s why they’ve got a name for the syndrome now.”
She studied the sandy path between the pine trees, avoiding my eyes. “Even the Indians knew about it. They had better ways of handling it than we have. In the old days, after an Indian made a long journey, he retired to a hogan for a few days when he reached his destination. Just to sit quietly and wait for his soul to catch up with him. That’s what Patrick needs now. Time for his soul to catch up with him.”
“Yes,” I said. Patrick looked as though he needed a lot more than that.
“We’ve saved you seats in front.” Luke led us through a triple circle of children of assorted ages who were sitting cross-legged around the fire and signing some incomprehensible song about the joys of Camp Mohigonquin. “The cushion is yours,” he told me thoughtfully.
I perched sidesaddle on the cushion and steadied Tessa as she lowered herself to the ground. The boys promptly dropped into the obligatory cross-legged position and gazed fervently at the two adults who were occupied in opening large packets of frankfurters.
“Here’s yours—” Luke shook out three long willowy sticks sharpened to a stake-point at the thin end, from a pile by his side. I had assumed that they were being kept there to replenish the campfire when needed, but apparently I was wrong. I noticed now that each child was hopefully clutching a similar stick or thin bough.
“Mrs. Blake—” Greg materialized before me. “Since you’re sort of the Guest of Honor tonight—” he began threading frankfurters on to my stick—“you get first whack over the campfire.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “If I’m supposed to eat all those, I can’t possibly—”
“Oh?” He looked surprised; obviously he was accustomed to more robust appetites. “But there’s only three.”
“Don’t worry—” Dexter leaned close and whispered. “I’ll eat anything you can’t manage.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“Well, all right,” I said weakly to Greg. “But three is quite enough.” Dexter nudged me reprovingly.
“Lois is doing the rolls,” Greg explained. “We coat them with a low-cal spread. And Luke will go round with the mustard and relish. You don’t have to cook the hot dogs all at once,” he added, “But it’s better to get them and hold on to them before the ravening hordes—” he indicated the children behind us with a sweep of his hand—“descend.”
“Ah yes.” I could appreciate that. Already I seemed to feel hot eager eyes greedily devouring the sausages at the end of my stick.
“And here’s yours—” Greg lavished three hot dogs each on Tessa’s and Timothy’s sticks before turning to Dexter.
“And you, ol’ buddy—just to keep us company, huh?”
I began to feel a sneaking sympathy for Dexter. Greg placed a single hot dog on the end of his stick. It must have been the smallest thinnest hot dog in the entire package. Even Errol would have sneered at it.
“Sure, Greg,” Dexter said complacently. “Whatever you say.”
Greg glanced at him sharply, with justifiable suspicion, but was sidetracked when the young woman strolled over to join us. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with a message emblazoned in green across the front: “You’ve got to kiss a lot of ugly frogs before you find a Prince.” Greg looked at her with approval.
“You haven’t met Lois yet, have you, Mrs. Blake?” Greg presented her to me. “Lois is our Registered Nurse, Camp Counsellor, Crafts Instructor and—”
“And I also double at cooking on cookout nights,” Lois finished for him. “Hi there, I’m glad to meet you.” She shook hands all around. “Welcome to Camp Mohigonquin—I know you’re going to like it here.”
“I already do!” Timothy said unreservedly. He and Luke had settled down to a whispered conversation interrupted by asides to some of the other boys. It looked as though Timothy would settle in well.
Tessa was silent. She shrank back against me when Lois released her hand. She gazed thoughtfully into the campfire, while the fingers of her freed hand scrabbled at the plaster cast making little scratching noises.
“Itching means it’s getting better,” Lois said sympathetically, “but it’s awful, I know. Wait a minute—” She disappeared into one of the buildings and re-emerged with a long steel knitting needle.
“Here.” She leaned over to give it to Tessa. A green jade frog swung from a chain around her neck, further reinforcing the sentiment of her T-shirt, as she did so. “That ought to slide into your cast and let you have a good scratch. Don’t overdo it, though, you don’t want to break the skin.”
“Thank you,” Tessa murmured shyly. She slid the knitting needle between her arm and the cast and moved it around tentatively. A slow smile spread across her face.
“That’s better,” Lois said. “You keep that until the cast comes off. It will make you a bit more comfortable.”
“They’re waiting for you, Mrs. Blake,” Greg reminded me. “If you’d like to kick off now. Just hold your hot dogs over the fire—not too low.”
I duly crouched forward and held my hot dogs above the flames at what I judged to be a suitable distance. I was aware that Lois had moved away and begun splitting and spreading the long soft rolls in readiness to receive the hot dogs. After a moment, urged by Greg, Tessa crept forward and held her stick over the fire, then Timothy did the same. We all concentrated, turning the hot dogs occasionally, trying to ensure that they didn’t drop off the sticks and into the fire.
The skins of the hot dogs began to char, a delicious odour filled the air. Abruptly, the skin split on one of mine, releasing a stream of sizzling fat into the
campfire, sending a shower of sparks leaping upwards.
“Okay, you’re done,” Greg said. “Move back and sit down and let the next shift take over.”
We got out of the way quickly as the children behind us surged forward, thrusting sticks over the fire, some of them deliberately knocking against other sticks as though jousting to knock each other’s frankfurters into the flames.
“Okay, you kids, settle down!” Greg called out. “No wasting food, you know the rules. If you can’t behave, you can go straight to bed without supper.”
A chorus of jeers and catcalls answered him, but it was noticeable that the pushing stopped and the hot dogs were held at reasonable distances from each other.
“Here you are.” Lois appeared with the rolls and paper plates. Luke heaped mustard and piccalilli on one side of the plates and dispensed plastic knives before moving off.
As soon as Lois disappeared, so did two of the hot dogs on my plate. Dexter’s cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s at harvest time and he was already eyeing Tessa’s surplus hot dogs.
I was more worried about all those sparks I had caused. They still seemed to be moving about in the woods. I watched anxiously lest they ignite some of the dry pine needles and cones covering the ground.
“What’s the matter?” Greg’s eyes had followed my anxious gaze.
“The sparks—they don’t seem to be dying down. They might start a fire—”
“No way!” Greg’s hearty laugh was at my expense. “Those aren’t sparks—they’re fireflies. The woods are full of them. They can’t do any harm. Most people think they’re kind of pretty.”
“So they are.” Reassured, I could admire them myself. “I’m afraid I was over-reacting. The television last night—” I could not mention the dream.
“’S’aw’ri’—” Dexter swallowed and tried again. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Blake. You think this could start a forest fire? Just wait until you see our Fourth of July celebrations!”
The last marshmallows were toasted and the sticky glutinous mass consumed; the fire died to embers; the final hymn of praise to Camp Mohigonquin rang out on the still night air and the children dispersed to their dormitories.
Whiskers & Smoke Page 6
