I’m running out of leads. I have only one more place to check out: the cemetery. The old man gave me directions for that too, so I fish the paper I wrote them on from my pocket and head back to my car.
Still reeling from the condition of the abandoned housing development, I expect the cemetery to be neglected and overgrown, but it’s actually picturesque. There is no church beside it nor any sort of administration building — not even a maintenance shed. All that sets it apart from its rustic surroundings is a freshly painted white picket fence. There is no sign to identify it, no gate either, just a modest opening wide enough to accommodate pallbearers and a coffin. There isn’t even a walkway, just grass and graves. The cemetery has no pretensions. It is what it has always been, what it was intended to be: a final resting place for the people of Farrow.
The headstones are arranged in orderly rows, so I walk their length, looking for John and Hannah Swan. I find them in the fifth row. They are buried side by side. Their places are marked by simple stone crosses engraved with their names and pertinent dates. John died first; Hannah followed three months later. Though I write down the dates, I doubt they will be much help.
But there is something that might. The graves share a vase of flowers. They aren’t fresh, but they aren’t wilted either, which means they were placed here recently. The question is, by whom? If someone cares enough about these people to place flowers on their thirty-year-old graves, that person might also know about Sam. A spark of hope flares inside me.
And that’s when I hear a loud whirring. I glance around. Across the cemetery, I see a young woman trimming the grass around the headstones. I didn’t notice her before, so she must have arrived after me. I peer towards the road. Sure enough, there’s an old, beat-up truck parked behind my car.
I jog across the graveyard.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” I yell and wave my arms.
The young woman shuts off the weed whacker, lifts the safety muffs from her ears, and frowns in my direction.
“Can you help me?” I ask.
She shrugs. “What do you want?”
I point to the other end of the cemetery. “A couple of graves over there — John and Hannah Swan — have flowers. Do you know who put them there?”
She shakes her head. “I just do maintenance. I’m not the cemetery’s social convener.”
Her unfriendly manner sets me back on my heels. I try again. “Have flowers been left there before?”
She pulls off her protective glasses and glares at me, and I realize she’s probably not much older than I am. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m looking for someone, and the person who put the flowers there might be able to help me.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Like I already said, I don’t poke my nose into other people’s business. A woman changes the flowers every Saturday afternoon. That’s all I know.”
“Saturday afternoon. You’re sure?”
“No, I made it up. Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said so if I wasn’t.” She puts her protective glasses and earmuffs back on. Our conversation is clearly over.
I thank her, but she doesn’t hear. Saturday. That’s only two days from now. If I can talk with that woman, I might learn something. I could go back to the motel in Merritt for a couple more nights, but I’d rather stay in Farrow and do more digging. I know there’s no motel here, but maybe there’s a bed and breakfast.
The girl has gone back to her weed whacking, so I wave my arms wildly to draw her attention again.
There’s no mistaking the annoyance on her face as she once more shuts down her machine and removes her ear muffs. “What now?”
I refuse to let her surly attitude deter me. “Is there anywhere in town to rent a room?”
“The Apple Tree,” she offers impatiently. It’s on Fourth Avenue off Main.” And without another word, she slips her earmuffs back on and resumes her work.
Thank God Farrow is small. I know where Main Street is, and if Fourth Avenue runs off it, I can find it. But I don’t head there right away. Instead I drive around, checking out the various roads. Most of the shops on Main Street are run-down and closed, but the parts of town that still have a pulse are well cared for. Like Webb’s River, there is more to Farrow than first meets the eye. It’s layered, and you have to peel away those layers to get to its heart.
I find that heart at the crossroad of Second Avenue and another unnamed street that winds into the trees in one direction and into open fields in the other. According to the sign, it’s the Farrow Community Hall. The building is old, but its wooden siding is painted a cheerful blue trimmed with white, and it immediately draws me in, so I stop for a closer look.
The front doors of the building are locked, but there’s a glass-covered bulletin board and I read the notices on it. Everything from children’s play groups and badminton clubs to yoga classes and line dancing are offered. The community hall is a busy place. But it’s the poster advertising the upcoming Spring Bazaar that catches my eye. It’s this Saturday. That means a gathering of the locals — people who might know something about Sam. It’s exactly what I need, and since I’m going to stay to talk to the flower lady anyway, I can kill two birds with one stone.
Invigorated at the prospect of making a breakthrough, I practically skip around the outside of the building. Behind the hall is a playing field outfitted with bleachers, a backstop, and goal posts. On the far side is a swing set, slide, and sandbox, and beyond that a large fenced corral, though it looks like it’s been a while since it’s seen any activity.
The girl at the cemetery didn’t give me an exact address, but I have no problem locating The Apple Tree. It’s nestled between two larger homes on Fourth Avenue and has a lone apple tree in the front yard. A carved sign swinging from a post confirms it’s the place, though I’m not sure if the sign is intended to identify the tree or the pretty little cottage cozied in behind it.
There is no driveway, so I park on the grassy verge and follow a path of stepping stones to the front door.
It opens even before I knock, and a round, elderly woman steps into the opening. She’s wearing a bib apron over a house dress, and her white hair is tied back in a stubby ponytail. As she stands there, a swarm of wonderful cooking smells rushes past her, and my stomach, not having seen food for several hours, growls ferociously. I gasp and slap my hand over it.
“Come for lunch, have you?” the woman says, and though she doesn’t crack a smile, her eyes are twinkling.
I grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know my stomach was going to do that. I’m so embarrassed.”
The woman chuckles. “Embarrassed because you’re hungry? Fiddle-faddle. Save that for when your knickers fall around your ankles at a busy bus stop.”
We both grin.
“Thank you,” I say.
“So what can I do you for, young lady?”
“I was told I could find a room to rent for a few days.”
She smiles. “And so you can. I charge seventy-five dollars a night. Cash only. That includes breakfast and supper. You’re on your own for lunch.” She glances at my stomach. “Except today. Come in.” She tugs me inside.
“I’m George Washington,” she says, leading me through to the kitchen. She pulls a chair out from the table and gestures for me to sit. “It’s actually Georgina, but the only one who ever called me that was my grandmother. To everyone else, I’ve always been George.” She puts a hand to her heart. “I cannot tell a lie.” Then she doubles over with laughter.
I nod and smile. “I get it. That’s why the apple tree.”
She dabs her eyes with the corner of her apron and allows herself a few more chuckles. “If you have a moniker like mine, you have to make the most of it. It should have been a cherry tree,” she shrugs, “but you have to work with what you’ve got. So who might you be?”
“Nobody so interesting as you,” I say. “Just plain Dani Lancaster.”
“Well, plain Dani Lancaster, what br
ings you to Farrow?”
I tell her. When I’m done, I say, “Did you know Sam?”
Her eyes get misty. “I did,” she nods. “He was such a sweet little boy. And with those black eyes and dark curly hair, he was a real cutie-pie too. It broke Hannah’s heart to cut those curls. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more thoughtful child — certainly never one as curious. Sam was always asking questions. Would the grass grow forever if you didn’t cut it? How high is up? Where does the sun go at night? He needed to know everything. God bless me, but that boy could drive a body to distraction with all his questions. Not John and Hannah, though. They had the patience of Job. When Sam asked a question, they answered it. For them the sun rose and set on that child.”
“The Swans never told anyone the truth about how Sam came to live with them?”
George shakes her head. “Not a word. As far as anybody knew, Sam was their niece’s son.”
“George,” I say, “were there any pregnant girls in Farrow at that time?”
She nods. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there was. One.”
I lean forward hopefully. “There was? Who?”
She stirs a pot on the stove. “Me.” Then she adds quickly, “But I’m not Sam’s mother. I had a son when Sam was about a month old. And I kept him. Biggest mistake of my life. His name is Sebastien, and let me tell you, his name is the only good thing about him. He cleaned out my bank account two years ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Here’s hoping my luck holds.”
Chapter Ten
On Friday morning, I drive to Merritt. I need money to pay for my room at The Apple Tree, and I also need some cash in case I want to buy something at Saturday’s bazaar. As I wait in line for my turn at the ATM, a poster tacked to a bulletin board catches my eye. It’s the same as the one at the community hall — the one advertising the bazaar. I’m surprised. I didn’t realize Farrow’s reach extended beyond the town’s borders.
It’s nearing noon when I finish my business, so I decide to grab something to eat before heading back. As I push open the door to a coffee shop, I spy another poster in the front window. When I pop into a drugstore for shampoo, there’s one there too.
On my return drive, I see a huge sign that says 64th Annual Spring Bazaar in Farrow, Saturday, March 22nd. Don’t miss it! That certainly wasn’t there before. I start to get the feeling that the spring bazaar is a big deal.
I know George is at the community hall setting up, so I drop in to see if she needs help. From the look of it, every last resident of Farrow is there. I’m tempted to make inquiries about Sam, but everyone is so busy, they probably wouldn’t welcome the interruption. According to the diagram on the wall, there is a carefully laid out plan for all the booths and exhibits, but you wouldn’t know it from the chaos. The place is a giant mishmash of boxes, tables, electrical cords, balloons, banners, props, merchandise, and bodies.
I hear George before I see her. She whistles to get my attention. Her table is on the fringes, so I dodge some little kids playing tag and slide around a couple of men carting what looks like a miniature swimming pool, and make my way over.
“It’s crazy busy in here,” I say. “Do you need a hand?”
“That would be wonderful.” She smiles wearily and drags the back of her hand across her forehead. Then she takes a deep breath and shakes the folds out of a big blue gingham cloth.
I catch an end of the billowing fabric and between us we spread it over the table.
“Looks good.” I nod. “Very homey.”
George waves away the compliment. “Hopefully it will be when we’re done.” She lifts a chicken-wire crate onto the table and angles it on its side near one end. Then she pushes a bulging green garbage bag toward me.
“What’s this?”
“Hay,” she says. “We want to stuff some into the crate — decorative-like, if you know what I mean. You can spill a little onto the table too. Makes a nice display for the jams and jellies.”
“What’s your best seller?” I ask.
She gestures to a long cardboard sign on the wall behind the table. George’s Fruit Jars: Sweet & Savoury Preserves. Best Apple Butter in B.C.
“Do you offer samples?”
She blinks in surprise. “In all the years I’ve been doing this, the thought never crossed my mind. What a good idea!” Suddenly rejuvenated, her eyes sparkle with genuine excitement. “Let’s get this finished. I have to get home and bake some bread.”
That night I sleep like I’ve been drugged, and when I wake up the next morning, George is gone. There’s a key and a note on the kitchen table.
I’m at the bazaar. Fresh baked muffins in the basket on the counter.
Orange juice in the fridge. If you want something else, help yourself. Please lock up when you go out.
— George
I check the time. It’s already nearly ten o’clock! The bazaar started an hour ago. I quickly down a glass of juice and grab a muffin to go.
Two blocks from the community hall, the road is already lined with vehicles on both sides. It’s even more congested at the hall. Luckily for me, a car pulls out just as I approach, and I snag a spot directly across the street from the front door.
In the foyer, there’s a table manned by two elderly women. Between them is a very large glass bowl and a sign that says, Admission by donation. Inside the bowl there’s a healthy assortment of coins and bills. I fish a five from my wallet and drop it in.
“Thank you, dear,” smiles one of the old ladies. She tears twin tickets off a roll, drops one into a decorated metal wastebasket, and hands me the other. “Keep this safe now,” she says. “You could win a prize.” She gestures to an impressive display of items behind her. “The draws will be made at three o’clock, so be sure you’re here.”
I thank her and move into the main room of the hall. It is totally transformed from what it was yesterday. Now the tables, booths, and other displays are arranged in orderly rows, decked with colourful signs and mountains of sale items. The aisles between are brimming with shoppers. There are easily three hundred people.
I ease my way into the crowd and am instantly swallowed up. I smell fresh-brewed coffee and suddenly remember that I haven’t had mine yet. I spy the coffee urn a few tables away, but the crowd is moving at a snail’s pace, and there’s no way to push through, so I busy myself examining the wares until coffee is within reach. In no time I’m so absorbed with what I’m looking at and the people I’m talking to that I completely forget about coffee.
The bazaar has something for everyone. For culinary types there are spices, recipe books, aprons, fridge magnets, and pot holders. For those who are more interested in eating there’s a popcorn machine and a doughnut-making machine, as well as several tables selling fudge and baked goods. There’s stained glass, handmade quilts, homemade soap, candles of every shape, size, and colour, garden sculptures, paintings, stuffed toys, baby clothes, stationery, and puppets. Several tables are selling jewellery, so I buy a bracelet for my mother and earrings for myself. I can’t leave Reed out, so I buy him some of George’s preserves. Apple butter for sure, as well as blackberry jam, strawberry compote, and red pepper jelly. The old man I met the day I arrived in Farrow is selling intricately carved walking sticks. They are so beautiful I wish I had a reason to buy one. In addition to the items for sale, there are displays strategically placed among the tables: a photo history of the village, a collection of town artifacts, and a diorama of a long-ago mining operation.
There is so much to see, I can barely take it all in. The people manning the tables all have a story to tell, and I quickly realize how close everyone in the community is. The town may not be much to look at, and it may not have a large population, but its roots run deep and its residents are like a large family.
A pottery table is last, which is a good thing, because if I’d seen it when I first came in, I might have spent half my inheritance at it. Even though the morning isn’t over, most of the pieces remaining have “sold�
�� stickers.
“Oh, my god,” I gush. “Everything is so beautiful.” Different than anything I’ve seen before. “Is it all done on a wheel?”
The young woman behind the table nods. “Mostly. There are a few pieces of slab work, though nothing here right now.” She shrugs. “Sorry. We had no idea the pottery would be so popular. We didn’t bring enough, but we’ll be restocking for the afternoon.”
“Really? I’d love to buy a piece. Do you have any more bowls like this one?” I run my fingers around the rim, thinking of my mom. She could use some of these pieces in her interior design business.
“Similar, yes. Each piece is individually crafted, so no two are exactly the same, but I’m sure we have something you’ll like. The new stock should be here by one o’clock.” I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven thirty. I have to leave in half an hour if I want to catch up with the flower lady at the cemetery.
I bite my lip. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment, and I don’t know how long it’ll take. Do you have a business card? Your work is gorgeous, and if I can’t get something today, maybe I could get hold of you after the bazaar.”
“Oh, I’m not the potter,” she says quickly. “I’m just helping out. But I’ll pass your compliments along.” She ducks down under the table, and when she pops up again, she hands me a green embossed card. “Here you go,” she smiles, “in case you don’t get back.”
“Thanks very much.” According to the card, Alex Burke is the potter. I stuff the card into my pocket.
Exit Here, reads a huge sign over a set of open double doors at the back of the hall, so I head toward them. On the way I see a fishing pool for kids. There’s no water in it, just plastic pellets and tiny toys encased in bags sealed with metal clips. The children are armed with fishing rods dangling magnetic bait. If squeals and giggles are any indication, they’re all having a good time and even catching a few toys.
As I step outside I pass a dunk tank just as a young man wings a baseball at the target, sending the pretty girl perched on the platform plunging into the water. The mini playground is in full use, and a half-dozen kids are kicking a soccer ball around the field. The bazaar organizers clearly planned for kids. They also thought about lunch. Several barbecues are set up, churning out mouth-watering smells of hotdogs and hamburgers.
In Search of Sam Page 6
