Return to Spinner's Inlet

by Don Hunter

  Howard and Tony were drawn as a twosome at a shotgun tournament their first week as members, and from there they just seemed to stick, showing up at the same time on Saturdays and Sundays, and Howard arranging to be available at other times when Tony’s schedule was uncertain.

  They had seemed at first to be an unlikely fit. Howard’s demeanour had always been as composed and calm as Tony’s had been uneven. Each seemed to have a quality that balanced the other: Howard had an unparalleled understanding of the etiquette of golf, and knowledge of its often-arcane and sometimes incomprehensible rules; Tony had a generosity of spirit and a wallet to match—his insistence that the next round was always his, and that he was simply rewarding Howard for the instruction he gave Tony, was accepted with grace. So the pairing had worked—until it didn’t.

  Tony was known as a really big hitter of the golf ball, at least as far as distance is concerned. Direction and accuracy were another story. That may have been behind the rift that developed between them.

  It seemed that Sheila Martin was the only witness to the incident that changed things, as she explained to Samson Spinner while they played down the fifth fairway together. “I was playing behind them on number three. Tony hit one of his massive drives, about a mile to the right and into the big stand of firs with all the salal around them. He went in after the ball, shouted, ‘Okay, I’ve got it,’ and played a shot to about a foot from the pin. Howard stood and applauded, then he also hit to the green. He told Tony his putt was good and handed him the ball. Tony took his ball … and that’s when Howard said, ‘Uh, Tony, what ball were you playing off the tee?’

  “Tony looked nonplussed for a second, gazed at the ball in his hand and said, ‘A Top Flite.’ Now as you know, Samson—as everybody knows, because he brags about it—Tony plays nothing but the best—and most expensive: Titleist.”

  “He does,” Samson agreed.

  Sheila said, “Then Howard asked, ‘Not a Titleist?’ Tony looked down at his ball, looked a bit flustered, but answered, ‘That’s the ball I hit out of the trees. So obviously I was hitting a Top Flite.’”

  Samson grunted. “Oh-oh.”

  Under the rules of golf Tony would have been assessed a two-stroke penalty for hitting the wrong ball, and that would have been that.

  “So, two strokes for hitting the wrong ball,” Samson said. “And for—shall we say—making a mistake, about the ball he was playing?”

  Some would have called Tony’s actions cheating; there is no worse label in golf.

  “They played two holes in total silence,” Sheila continued. “Then suddenly Tony pulled out his cellphone, muttered something about an emergency, and left.”

  Samson said, “Christ! Tony was the one who insisted the course bring in a no-phones-at-any-time rule.”

  Versions of the story were passed around, and opinions were offered.

  “You have to make allowances,” Finbar O’Toole declared. “I mean …”

  Finbar’s opinion was given short shrift, knowing his propensity for managing to have a sudden elevation in his handicap in the weeks before any club tournament where money was a prize. (“Managing” being the word often knocked around.) Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, course treasurer, further devalued Finbar’s contribution when she suggested he pay his overdue annual membership fee. “And last year’s,” she added.

  As Sheila was the leader of the women’s golf group, her description of the event was listened to carefully, though she warned each time, “Remember that I was some distance away, so I cannot swear to every detail.”

  Sheila’s title used to be ladies club captain, before Dr. Daisy Chen took over the practice of the departed Dr. Timothy. Daisy turned out to be a very useful nine handicap. And something of a progressive. “I think ‘women’ is more realistic than ‘ladies’—I mean, how many of those do we really have among us!—and more inclusive. And surely ‘group’ rather than the exclusive connotations of ‘club.’ Also, ‘captain’ tends to have an authoritarian ring, don’t we think?” (Daisy would know; she acquired her post-grad and medical qualifications courtesy of the Canadian Armed Forces, in which she finished up herself wearing that rank’s three pips on her shoulder board.) Daisy’s surge of egalitarianism won the day.

  Sheila did not offer an opinion on the matter of Tony and Howard and the golf balls. She simply said, “We must all respect the rules of golf.”

  At the same time, she was not about to let the matter fester. And it bothered her that the situation was creating an ugly mood, both in the clubhouse and on the course.

  People had started taking sides, some claiming that they had heard from Tony that the incident had been exaggerated and that he had genuinely mistaken a ball lying under a leaf for his own, and that Howard had rudely refused to accept an explanation and an apology.

  Tony had made no such claim, but when Howard declined to offer his own version, knowing it would just add to the divisions, his silence was taken by some to confirm the false rumour.

  Both men dropped their names from the senior men’s team that played other local clubs once a month. This meant a scramble for replacements and, when that failed, complaints from the other clubs about their schedules being messed about.

  Both Tony and Howard were suffering from the event more than anyone should, which was remarked on by Daisy Chen, among others. Tony had almost stopped showing up, and if he did, it would be around twilight, when he would tee off on his own, a lonely, bulky figure with drooping shoulders, which, given that posture is critical, did nothing for his golf swing, as was attested to by his observations when balls flew in myriad directions.

  Howard continued playing but avoided Tony’s tee times—and Tony. If they happened to be in the parking lot at the same time, each would let his gaze move to the ground and go his own way. Both stopped going to the bar.

  “They’re both in danger of becoming depressed,” Daisy diagnosed.

  They’re not alone, Sheila thought, and decided that they’d all had enough.

  “It’s only a bloody game when all is said and done,” she told Samson.

  She advised Tony and Howard that in her role as head of the course discipline committee (until then, nobody had known there was such a body), she demanded a meeting with them in the bar. She ordered the drinks. A glass of his favourite Okanagan red blend for Tony, a pint of Granville Island pale ale for Howard, and a large chardonnay for herself.

  “You’re making everybody miserable,” she told them. “And we’re going to stop it.”

  Rarely had two faces shown such a blend of curiosity and, clearly, relief.

  Sheila placed a sleeve of balls on the table in front of each of them. She handed a blue Sharpie to Tony, a red one to Howard. “Mark them,” she said. “Every one, and all your others. It’s too easy to make a mistake if you don’t. I have you booked as a twosome for ten o’clock Saturday morning.”

  As the drinks were delivered, she said, “Tony’s round, this one.” And in the words of golf announcers everywhere, she added, “Play away, gentlemen.” And of golfers to each other, “Play well.”

  Not in This Stocking

  It was Christmas Eve and the Spinner clan was gathered at Rachel’s place.

  Rachel listened as young Jillian Clements declared that Finbar O’Toole had told his kids they were going to get nothing but coal in their stockings this year.

  “Hah!” Rachel said. She shared a smile with Samson, her nephew, who nodded and indicated, let the kid continue, for now.

  “Liam forgot to feed the chickens for two days in a row. Siobhan left the pasture gate open again and the pony got out and they’re still looking for it. And little Paddy told his dad to eff-off.”

  Everyone busied themselves with their Christmas drinks.

  “So that’s it. Coal in their stocking. No Santa,” Jillian concluded.

&nbs
p; Her brother Alun snorted at ‘Santa,’ and Jillian said, “Shut up, you.” Then, “The same as the prime minister, at least.” She referred to the morning’s headlines in which the black mineral gift had been proposed for the PM by the leader of the opposition in Ottawa.

  Rachel stirred. “They should all think themselves blessed,” she said. “Including that fool back east.”

  Samson considered that most anyone holding the highest office, regardless of party, would have been thus labelled by his aunt, but he knew better than to note this.

  “What do you mean, ‘blessed’?” Jillian asked.

  “Well,” Rachel began. Samson grinned and waited for another generation of Spinners to be re-educated on the common misapprehension.

  “Let me tell you about coal,” Rachel continued. “Samson Spinner, your …”

  “Greatgreatgreatgreatgrandad,” rattled off Alun.

  Rachel recounted the greats in her head. “Good lad,” she said.

  “Was a coal miner,” Jillian instructed. “Back in England. In the county of Cumberland, where life was hard. So they came here and he never went down the pits again.”

  Rachel was pleased. “That’s right. But he and his wife, Maud …”

  “Our greatgreatgreatgreat …”

  “Right, Jillian. Now let me continue.”

  Everybody settled, including the dozen or so who had heard the lesson before, but never tired of it. (Or if they did, they never showed it.)

  “They never forgot that the mines had given them a living, hard as it had been. The mines had made it possible for them to get themselves here and buy land on which to raise a family. If they hadn’t done that, none of us would be here today.”

  She paused, sipped on her single malt. “Let me tell you about coal.”

  Try to stop her, Samson thought.

  “Samson and Maud left a lot of people behind who kept working in the mines. Some of the Spinners became active in the miners’ union, which eventually improved their working conditions and their lives,” she nodded. “But that’s another story. At the time that Samson and Maud arrived here, other colliers from their home and the rest of Britain came out to a place not far from here …”

  “Nanaimo!” Alun declared.

  “You’re starting to get it,” Rachel said, with a smile. “We have a bit to go yet.”

  “Mom’s taking us there next week for the Boxing Week sales. I need new shoes,” Jillian said.

  Rachel continued. “There’s a story—a real one—about how there came to be coal mines at Nanaimo.”

  Samson always enjoyed this one.

  “A chief one of the Nanaimo First Nations—the Snuneymuxw in their own language—had gone by canoe to Victoria to see the blacksmith and get his rifle repaired. He noticed that the forge was fuelled by coal and asked the smith where the coal came from. The other side of the world, the smith replied, and it took at least three months to get here. The Snuneymuxw man laughed and said they had lots of the black stuff on the beaches where he lived. The smith laughed, too, and said, ‘Yeah, right.’”

  “Or words to that effect,” Jillian said.

  “Shut up, you,” her brother said. “You’re spoiling it.”

  Rachel carried on. “The Snuneymuxw man went home, but a few months later he returned, with his canoe filled with coal.”

  “And, ‘There you go, buddy!’” Alun said. “Or words to that effect.”

  Rachel explained. “The chief became known as ‘Coal Tyee.’ There is a bronze bust memorial of him near the lighthouse. That was the start of an industry that built the city of Nanaimo and brought people from all over the world, not just Britain, to work the pits. The pits provided a better living. Prosperity, even.”

  Jillian said, “Okay, but what does this have to do with stockings and Christmas?”

  “Well, your great-great-great-great grandfather, Samson, brought with him a custom …”

  “First footing!” Triumphant, from Alun.

  “On New Year’s Eve in coal-mining villages, you have to have a tall, dark-haired person be the first to enter the house, and you give them a large glass of whisky for good wishes in the New Year …”

  “I knew that!” Jillian.

  “But there’s still the most important part,” Rachel said. “What does the first footer carry into the house?”

  “A lump of coal!” several voices echoed.

  “Exactly. A lump of coal—and not because anyone had been bad, but because coal was the source of all their livelihood. A suggestion that it would continue to be just that. A sign of prosperity. Good wishes and hope for the future.”

  Nods and smiles all around.

  Mostly.

  “But burning coal causes global warming,” Jillian said. “Which is going to drown us all.”

  “Or possibly fry us,” Samson shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Jillian made a face. “I’ve been reading about coal. Even Queen Elizabeth was ‘grieved and annoyed’ by the smell of coal smoke.”

  “What about Philip?” Samson asked. “What did he think?”

  “Elizabeth the First. Sheesh …”

  Samson said, “In the 1660s the College of Physicians in London advocated the burning of coal to combat the bubonic plague.”

  Jillian snorted. “How do you know?”

  “Read it in that book of yours. What’s it called again?”

  “Coal.”

  “That’s the one.”

  A week later the same gathering raised their glasses and sang “Auld Lang Syne” as midnight approached, and shouted “Happy New Year!” as the clock chimed midnight.

  A banging on the door quieted things. Rachel went to answer it.

  Edward Plummer, the youngest of Evelyn’s brothers, six-foot-two with raven hair, stood grinning. He winked at Alun across the room.

  “Happy New Year,” he said. He reached out and placed a lump of coal in Rachel’s hand.

  Samson said, “Where …?” Rachel embraced Edward. “That’s how it’s done,” she said. She led him to the food and drinks and poured him a large Scotch.

  Two days later, across the water, a volunteer at the Nanaimo Museum gift shop studied the display of lumps of coal with their $1.99 price tags. She said to a colleague, “I’m sure there was another piece at the end of that row.”

  Con Job?

  Rachel held the phone away from her for a moment.

  The woman’s voice, a youngish one, had shaken her.

  “I’m looking for a Rachel Spinner who was engaged to my great-uncle during the Second World War.”

  Rachel’s heart sped.

  She looked at a framed photograph on the wall over her fireplace. A young Rachel in a blue uniform—skirt, tunic, and cap—with the two thin stripes of a second officer in the British Air Transport Auxiliary, and a pilot’s wings. One of the hundreds of young women who ferried every type of new and repaired military aircraft between assembly plants, transatlantic delivery points, and active service squadrons and airfields across the UK. Beside Rachel, a slim young man in Royal Air Force blues with flying officer’s rings on his sleeves. Jack Thomas.

  “Hello … do I have the right …?

  “What was his name?”

  “Jack Thomas,” the young voice replied. “My father was his nephew.”

  Jack. Rachel’s Jack. A Welsh farm boy who had answered the call as soon as war was declared. In a pub, she laughed when Jack brought her a pint of bitter instead of the gin and orange she had requested. “More for your money,” he’d said, with that smile. The smile she fell for—and forever stayed in love with.

  “Where was he stationed?” Rachel asked.

  “Biggin Hill. Near London.”

  Rachel’s eyes welled. Memories. All she had, along w
ith a picture on the wall.

  “Where are you?” Rachel asked.

  “Vancouver.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sally. Sally Thomas.” There was a wait of a few seconds, then, “I really need some help.”

  Rachel had known little of Jack’s family in the brief time they had been given, and in the chaos of war had met none of them. She did know that she would not be the first senior to be called by someone they had never met, claiming to have a family connection and requiring help.

  “What kind of help?”

  “Well, like, some money …?”

  Of course.

  The young woman hurried on. “My dad always said that if I ever got into trouble while I was travelling, he was sure I could call you for help. His name is Philip. He was Jack’s nephew.”

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “It was in the free paper, the one in the boxes. It said, ‘Reprinted from The Tidal Times.’ It was quite a coincidence, eh?”

  Quite.

  “So, I wonder if you could see your way …?”

  It would have been the profile.

  Times owner Silas Cotswold had been running a series titled “Prominent Personality Profiles” and Rachel had agreed, after much beseeching, to talk with the young reporter Cameron Girard who was writing the series. (Cameron had told all his subjects that Silas had an arrangement with other newspapers that paid him a modest fee to run any of his features they found attractive.)

  Cameron had dubbed Rachel “Matriarch of the Clan.”

  “Like ‘Monarch of the Glen,’” Samson had quipped, but not to Rachel. “Without the antlers.”

  Cameron had produced several other profiles before managing to corral Rachel, and had failed with other possible subjects. Finbar O’Toole had demanded a hundred dollars for an interview. “The British tabloids all pay for exclusives.” Constable Ravina Sidhu demurred on the grounds a profile might “out” her and expose any undercover work she might undertake in the Inlet. And the Bell-Atkinson geeks had both begun to talk at the same time, and the resulting chaos and confusion had persuaded Cameron to leave them be.