The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  “Good afternoon, Sarge. Didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “I didn’t expect to have to see you again, Constable,” the sergeant said. The disdain in his voice was clear. “Disappointed in you, Irish. Matron tells me you can’t even watch the children get back from school without letting them get into trouble.”

  Flanagan said, “What trouble would that be, Sarge?”

  “Apparently there’s a woman a few streets from the dormitory who keeps contraband for the children, and you’ve done nothing about it.”

  “I know nothing about it, sir. Is she breaking a law?”

  The sergeant stood closer. “The same problem, Irish. Wherever you go, you don’t know what bloody side you’re on. You’re here for less than two weeks and already I have complaints. Come with me. We’ll see about the bloody laws being broken.”

  The two men walked in silence, west toward Third Avenue and the house of the Green Witch.

  * * *

  Outside the single-storey house they stopped. “Is this the house?” asked the sergeant.

  “I don’t know, Sarge. I’ve never been here.”

  The sergeant looked askance at Flanagan and knocked on the door.

  A woman opened the door and said, “What’s your business here?” Her face, pale and wrinkled with the wisdom of years, moved little in the greeting. She held a .22-calibre rifle in both hands.

  “I’m Sergeant Benson of the RCMP, and this is Constable Flanagan.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We have reports that you’re hiding contraband for the children of the dormitory.”

  “Contraband?”

  “Yes, contraband. Food and other things that the children are not intended to have.”

  “They’re not intended to have food?”

  “No, they’re not. Not that sort of food.”

  “What sort of food are you talking about?”

  The sergeant paused and said, “Madam, we haven’t been introduced.”

  “That’s right, we haven’t.”

  “Perhaps you would tell us your name.”

  “Perhaps you can get off my step.”

  “I won’t be leaving until we clear this matter up.” Benson stood undaunted in front of the Green Witch.

  She said, “Suit yourself,” stepped backwards and closed the door.

  “Sarge, I think we should step away from the door.” The two men moved off the step.

  “You talk with the old girl.” Benson gestured at Flanagan to go to the door again. Standing to the side and knocking gently, he waited.

  The door opened. The rifle was still in hand. “So, I had the organ grinder, now what?”

  “May I speak with you, please?”

  “If you have a tongue in your head and can be civil with it.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on here. The sergeant tells me you let the children keep food here. The matron’s complained about it. That’s all I know.”

  “Let that one complain all she likes. She takes her share of what the children get.”

  Flanagan said, “It’s true, then, what she says. The children do keep food here.”

  “It’s true they steal things from the children. What will you do about that? Nothing, I expect.” Flanagan remained silent and still until the woman relented. “I give them cookies when they come. What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s none of my business, but if I stand here long enough, the sergeant will think you’re co-operating with us and then we can leave you alone, and we can tell the matron there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Something changed in the woman’s face. “So, you’re not just a monkey.”

  “No, I’m not. Would you mind setting the rifle down? It makes me nervous.”

  Her body relaxed and she set the butt of the rifle beside her foot, as soldiers stand at ease.

  Over her shoulder Flanagan saw pictures of family. Black and white, formal poses, military. “I see you have family in the army. They’re proud-looking men.”

  “You’re too young to have served,” she said.

  “Too young to make my mother proud,” said Flanagan, smiling.

  “I’d rather still be a mother than proud of dead sons.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Lost them both in the North Atlantic, on the way to fight. Didn’t fire a shot. Pointless.”

  “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

  “I expect you can’t.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I think we’ve been here long enough. Good day to you.” Flanagan turned to go.

  “Young man!” she said, causing him to turn toward her again. “You’re about the age of my boys when they left me. The last time I saw them they were in uniform too.” She paused. “I’ll tell you what’s going on and then you can tell me what you’re going to do. We’ll see if what they died for counts for anything.” She fixed her eyes on him. “In my cellar, I have boxes of food for the children. Each one has a child’s initials on it. It’s their secret and I keep it for them. They get food from parents and they buy candy from the store. If they didn’t keep it here, the staff would take it or the mean boys would have it off them. On the way home from school and on the weekends they come round and treat themselves. Sometimes, if a box is empty, I put a cookie or two in it. Now, what are you going to do? Arrest me?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  “He wants to arrest me,” she said, pointing at the sergeant, now thirty feet away. “I could tell by the knock he reckons he can do whatever he likes.”

  “He thinks he’s doing his job, that’s all.”

  “Tell him these children should have the freedom my boys died for, and neither of you should be helping to keep them locked up for no good reason.”

  “I will.”

  “If he knocks on my door again, there’ll be more trouble than he wants.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, and I’m sorry about your two boys.”

  “Perhaps you are. We’ll see,” she said.

  “Sorry, I still don’t know your name.”

  “Don’t you?” Her face broke into a grin. “I’m the Green Witch. Tell him that too.”

  Flanagan returned to his sergeant, who asked, “What was that about?”

  “She told me she makes cookies and gives them to the children.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, Sarge. That’s it.”

  “Waste of bloody time.”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “You better tell the matron.”

  “Will do, Sarge.”

  April 21, 1957

  Arina sat across the dinner table from her friends, and on each side they clustered. Spoons stirred idly in bowls, pushing lumps aside for fear it was not edible or, worse, meat. It smelled old and unwelcome. All the children had been raised vegetarian, but it meant nothing here if pennies could be saved by the addition of cheap meat not suited for market. At the head table matrons and staff openly ate the food prepared by the parents for their children. It was often like this and children learned to allow the injustice to pass, but there was something different about today. It could not be dismissed so readily in the light shone by resistance. This had found its way into focus and allowed resentment to simmer again.

  Nina arrived at the table to be with Arina. The younger girls buzzed and shuffled to make room for the newest celebrity of New Denver Dormitory.

  “The food smells worse than normal,” said one girl.

  “We could refuse to eat it,” said another.

  “We tried that years ago. There’s always someone who eats it. They can’t help it.”

  “And they stop our visits until we start eating again.”

  “What do you think we should do?” Arina asked Nina. />
  The girls would hang on Nina’s words, if only she could think of some to offer.

  “I don’t think we should ask people not to eat. It’s hard enough here for all of us,” Nina said, stirring her bowl. “Anyway, there’s no point doing it if we can’t get everyone to do it.” She brought her spoon to her mouth, allowed a little in and returned the rest.

  Another voice leapt in excitement. “What was it like when Matron strapped her own leg?” They all giggled. “It was so brave.”

  “I wish I’d seen it.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m not sure, really. It happened so quickly. I thought it was unfair,” said Nina. “They shouldn’t just beat us when they like.”

  “But you stole the flag and put it in the lake.”

  “They stole all of us from our families, take our food and clothes from home.” Nina surprised herself with the sudden burn of emotion. “Maybe we should all have straps and whack their hands.” The children laughed anxiously, peeking at the head table, hoping not to attract attention.

  “At least you’ve done something,” said Arina. The others listened. “What can we do?”

  Nina had not meant to be in the middle of this excitement, but there was nothing to be done but accept it. She searched for something harmless they could do and something came to her. The young faces waited as she struggled to string the idea together. The matrons would threaten to make it worse for everyone. Matron would strap the whole group, blocking visits, preventing the children from doing things they wanted to do. Every protest, including her own, added more hardship but, she thought, it did not have to be a show of defiance.

  “They take our clothes and give different stuff, don’t they? Where do they get the clothes they give us?”

  “I don’t know. Never thought of it. They just give us shoes and things when we grow out of them.”

  “Well, if you lost a shoe, what would they do?” Nina grinned at them, pleased with her idea.

  “They wouldn’t send us to school without shoes; the school wouldn’t let them.”

  “We’d have to have coats in winter.”

  Nina watched the understanding of her scheme grow on the faces of her younger friends.

  “It would cost a lot to keep us all in shoes.”

  Nina said in English, with wide eyes, “We had better not lose our shoes.”

  Other children were leaving the dining room. The bustle of making ready for the day had begun. Nina put a finger to her mouth and whispered in Russian, “Share the secret, but only with the friends you trust.” They stood together and headed for the door.

  Nina stopped. Pavel was there among the boys leaving the dining room in a clatter. He stepped away from them and came to her.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asked.

  “The little ones wanted to do something to fight back, and we came up with a plan to lose bits of clothing they would have to replace.”

  “Like what?”

  “Shoes and socks. The things they have to replace.”

  “Be careful,” said Pavel. “I didn’t like seeing Matron strap you.”

  “I don’t care. It’ll be all right. If lots of people do it a little, we can say the town children are taking things. We won’t be blamed.”

  Pavel knew this to be true. They would never punish their own children, but the risk to everyone in the dormitory was real.

  “Would you tell the boys? Just the ones you trust.”

  “Okay.” They had found each other long enough to renew the connection, but Pavel was uncomfortable.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Well, we don’t waste things. We shouldn’t, should we?”

  “But they’re not our things,” said Nina. “They take our things.”

  “I know, but still, it’s not the Doukhobor way. I don’t want … I don’t want us to be … like them.”

  “You’ll never be like them. I won’t be like them. Promise.” She could see he was still not right with it. “We must fight not to be like them.”

  A voice came from outside. “Pavel! Come on. We’ve got time for soccer.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell them.” Then he was gone.

  April 23, 1957

  The light stayed longer and the warmth of the day now lingered until the evening chill. Constable Flanagan waited at the gate as the children came scrambling out of the school at the end of the day. He began walking along with them, near the back of the group.

  Up ahead groups of children chatted and cavorted. Boys pushed each other and then began kicking something along the street. They cheered the final thump of the object to the side of the road as if a winning goal had been scored. Only ten years before, Flanagan had been one of the boys playing to exhaustion with his school friends, arriving home gasping of thirst. Now he was amused to watch himself in these boys competing down Union Street on the way to the dormitory.

  At the point on the road where the goal had been scored, Flanagan stopped to look at the object being treated as a soccer ball. It was a black shoe. Strange, he thought. Who would leave one shoe at the side of the road? He began walking toward the dormitory. Across the Union Street bridge another shoe lay, and he went to inspect it. It was brown, not the other of the pair. He began walking again and caught up with the children as they clustered together to get into the dormitory compound. A girl at the back waited for others to enter. Flanagan noticed she wore only one black shoe.

  “Hello,” he said, tapping her on the arm. “I think I found your shoe.” She turned, scowling at him, and spoke in Russian. “Sorry, I don’t understand. I found your shoe. It’s on the road,” he said, pointing at her foot and directing her attention toward the bridge. She turned her back to him. He touched her again. “Your shoe, it’s on the road.” She spoke again in Russian, this time a torrent of impossible syllables, and then turned away.

  He spoke to an older girl. “Would you tell her that I found her shoe on the road by the bridge?” But the girl turned away and pushed to get into the compound.

  Flanagan stepped back, not understanding what was happening. There was another child without a shoe, and another one.

  7

  Vancouver, December 30, 2017

  “Dennis?” said William into his iPhone. “It’s William … I know it’s Saturday morning. We have to talk … there’s been a development … we did come to an understanding, but there’s something else … I wouldn’t be talking to you if it wasn’t important … not on the phone. We have to meet … today … I’ll come to you … this afternoon … I know it’s the weekend but it can’t wait … we all have other things to do but this is in your interest as much as mine. Okay … I’ll come to your house at three. See you then.”

  The swagger in Dennis’s voice made William angry. He turned off the phone and remembered he had not been to Dennis’s house and did not have the address. His anger had not yet subsided and the prospect of letting Dennis know he had forgotten to ask for it was too much to contemplate. The address would be in his employment records at the office but Cathy would have it, he was sure. She never minded being phoned on the weekend. Any distraction seemed welcome to her.

  The heat of anger eased and William exhaled. It might be that Cathy was with Dennis at this moment. Images streamed suddenly through his head. Clothes being tugged and pushed, thick hands pulling and kneading soft flesh, bodies moving, yielding, offering … William shook off the intrusion. It was unfamiliar. It seemed more difficult to concentrate these days and perhaps, he thought, it would take time to get back to normal. Lifting the phone again, he started to call Cathy and then changed his mind. He would leave it a few minutes until his body and mind settled.

  3:00 p.m.

  The Tesla rolled off the highway into North Burnaby, just a few minutes before three o’clock. Snow fell lightly on the wind
shield. The satellite navigation spoke gently. William tried to imagine how this would go. He had the advantage at the last meeting with Dennis just by imposing himself, but on this occasion he was on unfamiliar turf, and as Uri had so clearly suggested, the stakes were higher. The voice told him that he had arrived at the house. From inside the sanctuary of the Tesla, William took stock of the neighbourhood. It was unremarkable. The grey wooden townhouse at the end of a row was distinguishable from the others only for the need of paint. It peeled from the windowsills. Mildew grew at the foot of the step railing.

  One light, upstairs and deep in the house, could be seen through the window. There was another at the back. William stepped out of the Tesla, walked to the door and rang the bell. No one came. He tried again and still nothing. He reached for his phone and called Dennis. It rang until the voice-mail script began. Standing back from the front door, William tried to see through the windows. He stepped farther back to get a better view of upstairs. There was no sound or movement. A passageway to the right separated the house and the next row of townhouses. William walked between tall wooden fences protecting the little backyard. The downstairs light was in the kitchen. He craned his neck to see over the fence, adjusting his position to survey all he could. The back door was slightly open, as was the gate into the yard. He entered and opened the door to the house.

  The house was cold. The countertop and floor were soaked with water, chairs upended and a table knocked askew. William stepped carefully through the water. He made his way to the darkened hallway and saw a staircase on the left, a doorway on the right. He felt his way along the wall for a light switch. A fist emerged from the darkness of the doorway. William saw it momentarily before it connected with the corner of his jaw and crumpled him to the floor.

  * * *

  William woke before his eyes could open. His ears rang and his head throbbed more than before. Through this he could feel his legs were cold and wet. Ideas connected loosely. Perhaps the liquid in his brain had drained out and soaked him. It might be blood, but if the blood was cold, it could not be his. There had been water on the floor and his clothes may have absorbed it. He recalled the punch. There was some stiffness in his limbs from being folded for a time, but he could not detect other damage. The punch, he thought, may have disturbed the site of the operation near his brain. William opened his eyes and tried to move his hand to check if there was clear liquid oozing from his nose. His hands would not move. They were tied behind his back. Dennis sat at the kitchen table, holding a glass and a short, fat bottle of whisky.