by Liz Graham
She smiled and glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove. The green numbers said 9:45.
‘I’m almost finished,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head and feeling a crackle run up her spine. God that felt good. ‘I want to get this in the mail tomorrow morning, so we’ll have at least one concrete thing accomplished.’
She turned back to the application and proposal. Seamus drummed his fingers against the counter top as he stood with his back to her, gazing out into the darkness.
She lifted her head.
‘That’s not making me work any faster,’ she pointed out. ‘What’s up with you?’
Conor didn‘t expect an answer. Seamus was restless, as if waiting for something.
She stretched her neck from side to side and ran her fingers through her brown hair. Flicking through the pile of papers, she nodded with satisfaction.
‘I think that‘s it,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll just run these past Doc Oster for her okay.’
He turned quickly to face her, a crestfallen look on his face.
‘You’re not going out at this time of night.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
She regarded him with tired irritation.
‘What if I am, why do you care?’ she asked, suspicion rising.
‘You’re up to something,’ she added warily.
‘No, no,’ Seamus said, his eyes rounding in innocence as his glance slid to the floor. I-le was such a bad liar.
‘What’s on the go?’ she asked flatly, after a pause. Her heart was growing heavy with the weight of her suspicion.
‘There’s naught on the go,’ he said, the Irish brogue getting thicker as he grew more upset. ‘Well, a wee party down the cove…’
‘Well?’ she said, shuffling the papers and thumping them loudly against the table to straighten out the pile. ‘Go. I’m not your mother.’
‘Aw, now you’re bothered,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to make ye mad.’
‘So you thought you’d wait till I’d gone to bed before you snuck out of the house like a teenager?’ Conor couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She stood up end faced him, her brown eyes glinting gold in the overhead light.
‘Go, I said. I don’t care,’ she repeated harshly. But she did care. Especially with Devon in town. ‘Just - go!’
He paused, already half-way to the door.
‘But l don’t want to be woken up by your singing when you come home. Or by the cops,’ she continued viciously. ‘And don’t even think of finishing the party here when you all get kicked out of wherever it is you’re going.’
She looked up at him bitterly, then regretted every word she’d spat out of her mouth. Seamus look back at her, abashed. He hesitated in the doorway, then came and sat at the table. Conor sat with him, heavily slumping back into her chair.
She rubbed her eyes, almost ready to cry.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she said, pleading with him, anything to wipe the shame off his face. ‘I’m under pressure with all this.’
‘I thought you loved it,’ he said softly.
‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘You know I do. But I’m worrying about the funding. It’s no use getting title to the land if we haven’t got the money to develop it properly. And where is the money going to come from? Church bazaars and jumble sales?’
Conor sighed, pushing herself away from the wooden table.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking,’ Seamus began, then paused.
‘That’s always dangerous,’ she said making a small joke in apology for her outburst. ‘Remember the last idea you had.’
The apology was accepted, she saw from the light shining in her father’s eyes.
‘No, there’ll be no more curragh journeys across the ocean, l promise you,’ he said. His last great idea had involved her Dad and two other fellows climbing into a handmade curragh, a model of the tiny skin and wood Irish boat which St. Brendan was said to have used for his journey across the seas long ago, way before the Vikings. Their trip had lasted all of two hours when an unreckoned-for storm had arisen from the north and the Coast Guard had had to come out and rescue the lot of them.
‘No, serious, lass,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve been thinking about this exhibition in Corner Brook.’
He leaned back in his chair, delighted by this latest idea. All thoughts of the party awaiting him had fled his mind, if only for the moment.
‘We’ve got enough money to live on, wouldn’t you say?’ he asked.
The bakery was doing well, and Conor was easily supporting the two of them through her hard work. Seamus didn’t contribute financially, but he did most of the housework in his slipshod fashion.
Conor nodded slowly.
‘How about if I donate any proceeds from the exhibit to your fund?’ he said, very excited now.
‘You mean, you’d give the money you earn from the sale of your work?’ Conor could hardly believe her ears. ‘But Dad, you’ve worked so hard all these years,’ she said, her voice rising in amazement. ‘You can‘t be doing that. This is your life’s work.’
‘Sure, what would l do with money?’ he asked her. ‘I‘d just pour it down my throat, you know that for a fact. It’d be far and away better off in your hands, doing some good.’
He folded his hands in front of him on the table, beaming with pride.
Conor was stupefied. He was right on all counts, she couldn’t argue with his logic. Not only could the project use the infusion of cash his gallery showing would bring in, but also, she knew her Dad. The wheels were turning in her mind now, despite the lateness of the hour for her. If he had a selfless cause to put the money towards, then he would work twice, no, five times as hard at selling the paintings. Seamus would turn on his Irish charm and get every single one of the works sold with a lineup for his future works, through the force of his personality alone.
She began to laugh, picturing him at his most persuasive, dealing and haggling with the poor innocents who had the misfortune to attend his opening.
‘I’ve really been putting a bit of thought into it,’ he said earnestly, leaning forward towards her. ‘You know, I believe the Premier himself will be in town that day. I’ll make sure everyone gets invitations, from the oil people down Stephenville way to the merchants in St. John’s.’
He was really flying with the idea now.
‘I‘ll drag out every contact I‘ve ever made,’ he said, his arm in the air pointing towards the heavens ‘They’ll all come to this show. It’ll be the event of the year.’
Conor chuckled. Seamus had never been particular about his drinking companions, and apart from the crowd in the cove, he could boast of having raised a glass with bishops and movie stars, famous people from all walks of life, even a past-President of the largest corporation in the US. He was ready to shine his charisma on anybody who had the price of a drink and looked the slightest bit interesting.
‘You know, Dad.’ she told him, her heart lightened. ‘If anyone can pull this off, you can.’
He stood up, his eyes gleaming.
‘I’ll go work on the invitations.’ he said. ‘I’ll do a lino cut and print each one by hand.’
Seamus paused.
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ he said, remembering his plans for the evening and looking at her questioningly.
She laughed again.
‘Go, I already told you,’ she scolded him with a smile. ‘But stay in the cove, would you?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll do m’best,’ he answered solemnly, and disappeared through the back door into the night.
Chapter 6
S he lifted her head slightly from the large oven and sighed, face flushed with the heat. Susan was a great help around the shop, but why couldn’t she simply step around the curtain and ask her question in a quieter voice? It wasn’t as if Conor had never mentioned this to her.
‘Conor!’ Susan’s voice yelled again through the headed curtain. And then yet again, but even louder this time. ‘Conor!’
> She stopped herself from calling back.
‘The way to teach is by example,’ she told herself. ‘And endless patience, in Susan’s case.’
Whatever she wanted it was going to have to wait until these muffins were taken out to cool. She slid the tray into the tall metal cooling rack, then removed the huge silvery oven mitts from her hands.
‘Conor!’
Oh, the heck with it, she thought.
‘What?’ she yelled back with more force than she intended in the direction of the store front.
‘Jeez, you don‘t have to bawl at me.’ Susan peeked through the curtain, a hurt expression clouding her young features.
Conor looked over at the girl, a rueful smile on her face.
‘What is it, Susan?’ she asked in a kinder voice.
‘The phone’s for you,’ the girl answered.
‘Who is it?’ Conor asked, wiping her face with her sleeve. The bell over the shop door chimed as the outer door opened.
‘My mother,’ Susan said as she disappeared back behind the curtain to serve the new customer.
Conor pushed through the beads and lifted the receiver from the counter, giving a quick smile of greeting to the customers in the shop as she did. She retreated back into the kitchen with the phone cord stretched around the corner.
‘Hello?’ she said into the phone. Conor had met Sharon, Susan’s mother, once or twice, but couldn’t think why the woman would need to speak with her. Susan was more than capable of taking any bakery orders.
‘Conor? It’s Sharon,’ the voice on the other end of the line said. ‘How you doing?’
Oh, God, Conor sighed. Not a social call at this hour of the morning. She glanced back at the cake ingredients lined up on the bakery counter. That wedding cake had to get in the oven soon, it had to cool completely before the icing went on.
‘I’m good,’ she replied and decided to cut the preliminary chatter. ‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t know why they’re sending me this work, it’s really departmental rather than constituency,’ Sharon began in a complaining voice, making no sense whatsoever to Conor. ‘I mean, it‘s happening here, but it’s got no relation to me, if you know what I mean?’
‘No,’ Conor said flatly. ‘I don’t. What are you talking about?’
One of Susan’s greatest assets in the shop was the way she took a little time to chat with each customer, and Conor was quickly realizing where the girl had inherited her talkativeness from.
‘The base!’ the other woman cried. ‘What else do you think I’d be phoning you for?’
‘What do you mean?’ Conor was flummoxed now, but any mention of her project caught her attention.
‘Oh you poor soul, you don‘t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?’ Sharon laughed. ‘I work for Glover, the MHA, at his constituency office.’
The light dawned. Sol Glover, the provincial elected representative for their area, was also the Minister responsible for Crown Lands. He had a local office to deal with regular matters arising from the area, and he would also have the Departmental office in St. John’s for his ministerial work. It was this department which controlled the dispersal of Crown Lands.
‘I’m supposed to write you a letter,’ Sharon continued, her voice growing more serious. ‘But seeing as how I know you, with Susan being at the bakery and all, I thought l should talk to you about this.’
‘Sure,’ Conor said, all ears now. ‘Go ahead.’
‘They got no business shoving their dirty work onto me,’ Sharon complained. ‘So I don’t mind bending the rules once in a while. But I’d rather not do it over the phone, if you know what l mean.’
‘You want me to come in?’
‘I take my coffee break at 10:30 sharp,’ the other woman replied. ‘At the coffee shop next door to the office.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you then,’ Conor said, and brought the receiver back to the shop.
‘What was Mom wanting?’ Susan asked in innocent curiosity. ‘She wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ Conor murmured in reply, and looked around for something with which to distract the girl. ‘Susan, do you think you could wipe out the bottom of the display case? Crumbs tend to gather there, and they get all wet and soggy. Next thing you know, the drain is plugged and the pastries are ruined. It should be done at least once a week, but I never get around to it.’
‘I’ll get right on that,’ Susan said with enthusiasm. The girl had an abundance of energy, and was happier with things to keep her occupied between customers.
‘WE HAVE A SITUATION on our hands,’ Sharon said, leaning over the small table and speaking in a low voice. Her permed blonde hair bobbed up and down as she emphasized each word.
She looked around as if to see who was within listening distance, but the coast was clear. Most people were taking their coffees out of the doughnut shop to sit in the new spring warmth of late May.
‘I really shouldn’t be talking to you,’ the woman warned. ‘But like I said, screw that crowd in St. John’s, they’re too lazy to do their own work. Shouldn’t be passing it on to me, I’ve got enough to do. This really isn’t my job so I don’t mind talking about it with you, as long as this doesn’t get any further.’
Conor waited patiently. The other woman would soon get to the point, after all her coffee break was only fifteen minutes long.
‘The problem, and this is confidential mind - the problem is that there‘s another group who have applied to have title for the logging base,’ Sharon continued, her pale blue eyes rounded behind the large old-fashioned frames of her glasses. She sat her tall frame back in the molded plastic chair, expectantly awaiting Conor’s reaction.
She wasn’t disappointed. Conor couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her jaw dropped with surprise.
‘What’?’ she said, and was immediately shushed by the woman across the table. She continued in an impassioned whisper. ‘That base has sat empty for the past twenty years. Nobody has ever wanted it, it was just going to rot away.
‘You’re telling me that all of a sudden, someone else has decided they have a use for it?’ Conor shook her head. This couldn’t be happening. Not after all her carefully laid plans.
‘Well, someone wants it now,’ the woman replied, looking down at her mug.
‘Who?’ Conor demanded, feeling her temper start to simmer. After all her work she had believed her dream was beginning to take concrete form, but nobody had anticipated a fight for permission to use the base.
‘I don’t know if I should say.’ Sharon said, seeing the anger on Conor’s face and perhaps wishing she hadn‘t set this in motion. ‘I haven‘t actually seen the application forms.’
If Sharon was reluctant to name the other party, that could only mean it was a local group. She wouldn’t be so hesitant if Conor didn’t know the people involved. But who? It wouldn’t be the Lions Club, they already had a lodge. Likewise the Masons and the Kinsmen. The Rotarians rented the hotel ballroom once a month for their luncheons, so it wouldn’t be them. Conor quickly cast her mind over all the people she knew in the area and their affiliated groups, but couldn’t for the life of her come up with a suspect.
She stared at Sharon, the gold in her eyes glinting with a dangerous light.
‘You have to tell me,’ she whispered, furious.
Sharon‘s eyes would not meet her own.
‘I don‘t know,’ she replied, meaning that she didn’t know if she should.
Conor caught herself, fixing her face into a calmer expression. Of course Sharon wouldn’t tell her who the culprit was while she was foaming at the mouth. The townspeople had lived with Seamus for thirty years and knew what the McLowrie temper was like when roused. She breathed in deeply.
‘It won‘t go any further,’ she assured Sharon, in a much calmer manner. ‘But I have to know what I’m up against.’
Sharon nodded.
‘I’ve told you this much,’ she said. ‘Might as well finish it.’
She looked across the table at the petite brunette.
‘It‘s the Lambs,’ she said, finally.
Conor sagged back into her seat. This could be trouble. But why on earth would they want the base?
‘That‘s nuts,’ Conor said, thinking aloud. ‘They’re still raising funds to build their temple.’
She looked at the other woman doubtfully. ‘You don’t think they want to use the base for their temple, do you?’ she asked. ‘Most of them live in the cove, down by my house. That’d be too far for them to go every day.’
Sharon shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘As I told you, I haven’t seen the applications, but from what I gather they want some sort of religious retreat.’
Conor’s calm facade stared to slip.
‘They’re stealing my idea!’ she said. ‘Enoch has had years to do this, why does he all of a sudden want the base now?’
‘Both the applications arrived on the same day,’ Sharon said apologetically. ‘But do you see Mr. Glover’s dilemma?’
She certainly did. Both applications came from his constituents, the people who had just barely voted him into the provincial House of Assembly in the last election in a close race with his opponent. Never mind his political bent, Glover was a well-respected man locally which had helped him win. It was hard to hide your political allegiance in a small place like this, and most of Conor’s group leaned to the left, to the New Democrats.
On the other hand, Enoch’s sect was fast growing in popularity, attracting the fringe element of society, the displaced and the poor. They voted as Enoch told them God wanted them to vote, and Enoch’s God was a blood red Conservative if ever there was one.
She groaned. She could see it all now, or thought she could. She had made no secret of her plans as she plastered posters over the town advertising the meeting. Enoch had gotten wind of the project and was doing this out of maliciousness cloaked in his strange form of religiosity. The man had had several run ins over the years with Seamus, for his unbending severity was a perfect target for her father’s wicked sense of humour, and he now made a point of sermonizing each week against the evils of drink and sinners and especially Godless artists.
