Return to Spinner's Inlet

by Don Hunter

  Jack determined that as well as reducing the risk of fatalities, the refreshment stops would provide each runner with a numbered disk—one, two, and three—on a string to be hung around the neck and checked at the end, thus assuring that every runner had actually run the full course. He cut the disks himself, from several lengths of half-inch dowel, and centre-drilled them for a string. He numbered them for the different stages.

  Meanwhile, Samson wrote a letter to the editor, decrying the growing wimpiness of society, especially as demonstrated in Jack’s refusal to call the run a race.

  The issue heated up in more letters, and it rankled Silas, who wrote increasingly volatile editorials favouring the competitive element. He had been a decent miler at school in Chilliwack, winning the Fraser Valley Secondary School event one memorable year, and still had the cup to prove it. As an anonymous (“Notes from Boz”) school sports correspondent for the Vancouver Province, he had also reported on the event, lavishing praise on the winner in terms that elevated the eyebrows of the usually blasé sports editor.

  The memories of his track triumph glowed brighter as the pro and con letters poured in to The Tidal Times, and spurred Silas into unusually charitable action. He announced there would be five hundred dollars in winnings—two hundred and fifty each for the kids and the “others” category—the money to be donated to a good cause of each winner’s choice.

  Jack Steele said he might cancel the event, but Samson called him a poor loser and a disgrace to the Commonwealth, whose games were replete with winners and losers, and things went ahead.

  The start, before a large and noisy crowd, went well. Constable Ravina Sidhu commanded the entrants into an orderly line. (“Tallest on the left, shortest on the right. Attenshun!” Then, “Stand easy.”) And Dr. Daisy Chen checked the pulses of each of the runners and gave them an encouraging hug and a sound pat on the back.

  Ravina examined the sleek and astonishingly complex GPS systems being worn by the Bell-Atkinson geeks and decided there was no rule to prevent their use. It didn’t matter, as the pair got into a positioning squabble at the intersection of Keswick Road and Derwent Way, and went their separate routes. They were not seen again until late in the evening.

  Finbar O’Toole joined the race late, but in front. He joined partway through, suddenly appearing from behind the refreshment table at the final stop, next to the seniors complex, breathing dramatically hard and chugging from one of the free bottles of water. He grabbed one of the final-stop stringed disks, added it to the two already around his neck, the designs of which he had copied from a detailed diagram in the Times, and ran on to the finish line, apparently the first to be done, panting after his run and with clasped hands raised in triumph, just like in the Olympics.

  The Clements kids were close behind him. They were well ahead of the remaining runners, having been dragged at speed by Marathon who, on daily jaunts, had become used to the sustaining bowl of water and snacks left out by Hyacinth.

  Constable Ravina was in charge of collecting the disks. She checked Finbar’s three, offered a hand in congratulation, and nodded to Dr. Daisy, who came forward. Daisy smiled at Finbar, took his arm, and turned him around so his back was to her.

  There was no sign on Finbar’s neck of the red maple leaf that she had applied to the nape of all starters with a small, rubber, pre-inked stamp.

  “Arrest him?” Ravina queried.

  “No. Just tell him that if he’s going to wear shorts, he’ll look better with matching socks.”

  The Clements and Marathon were declared the winners of the kids group.

  The “others” group was being led by the two recent arrivals to the Inlet—the young Sam Spinner and Erik Karlsson. They were shoulder to shoulder, pushing hard, lengthening their already-long strides, eyes on the finishing tape about two hundred metres ahead, and the two hundred and fifty dollar prize.

  Behind them, Jack Steele loped easily along, smiling at the pair battling ahead, arms flailing, heads flopping around, panting. It looked like they were drowning on dry land. Jack laughed. Then he didn’t. One of this convulsive pair was going to take the honours?

  Images of legendary New Zealand runners leaped to mind: Sir Peter Snell … Sir Murray Halberg … Sir Jack Walker.

  Sir Peter seemed to look at him: Well? And faded away, humming “God Defend New Zealand.”

  Jack flew past the struggling pair and broke the tape.

  Alun and Jillian said that their two hundred and fifty dollars was going to the Victoria SPCA, ASAP.

  Jack said he would match his winning amount for a worthy cause, as he shoved the cheque and the blue ribbon into his shorts pocket.

  Two weeks later the Spinner’s Inlet Secondary School boys rugby sevens team appeared at a mainland tournament dressed in replica kit of the New Zealand All Blacks. They faced the competition, then formed the famous wedge and moved into the grunting and snarling haka—a ceremonial dance or challenge in Māori culture, performed by New Zealand and many other rugby teams, which Jack had learned from his Māori grandfather. It involves vigorous, threatening movements and stamping of the feet. Jack’s team’s performance sent several small children running to their mothers.

  Jack paraded the winners’ trophy all around the Gulf Queen on the way home.

  Ravina and Grace

  Constable Ravina Sidhu waved at Grace as her friend made her way up among a stream of passengers from the ferry.

  Three high-school boys Ravina knew were behind Grace, and the idiot of the trio, Gerry something or other, started imitating the young woman’s awkward stride—until Ravina fixed him with a look that would have etched marble. Gerry tried a phony ingratiating smile as the group came abreast of Ravina, but the Mountie wasn’t having any of it. He lowered his head and went on.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Grace Kin said as she saw the interaction. “Not anymore.”

  Ravina wondered, and worried about, just what didn’t matter anymore. Sounded like more than mockery from another fool.

  The crash had happened off the exit from Highway 1 to McCallum Road in Abbotsford, when an old pickup with a driver over the drink limit had T-boned the Kin family’s Ford Taurus. The pickup driver was awaiting trial on several charges while his defence lawyer conjured up every trick he knew to delay court action.

  The Kin family, meanwhile, mourned the death of Jung-jin, husband and father. Grace’s left leg had been severed at the knee. Her mother, Ji-woo, and younger brother, Tae, were in hospital for three months recovering from numerous injuries.

  Ravina had been onto the ferry and up the Trans-Canada at top speed when she’d heard the names of the crash victims. Grace was her closest friend and confidante as a woman and had been since they attended Abbotsford Senior Secondary School through to graduation.

  The injury to Grace had stopped short the professional golf career she had been dedicated to—earning a place on the Ladies Professional Golf Association (LPGA) tour—as were thousands of other young women in high schools, colleges, and universities across North America, and most of the rest of the world. Grace had begun and shaped her game at Ledgeview Golf and Country Club, the site known for producing such golfers as Ray Stewart and Adam Hadwin, both champions on the Professional Golfers’ Association (PGA) Tour, the men’s version of the LPGA TOUR.

  Ravina had caddied for and cheered Grace on through qualifying and mini-tours, and she had wept for her and with her after the crash. She had tried humour as a therapy when the local newspaper reported that the War Amps had stepped in to help Grace with a prosthetic leg.

  “‘Stepped in!’” she had groaned. “Can you believe they said that?” Grace had managed a smile. Ravina had continued, “I mean, how lame was that?” Then, “Oh, no! Tell me I didn’t just say lame!”

  Grace said, “LOL,” and laughed.

  But there was no laughter in Grace now, R
avina thought. She knew that Grace had stubbornly refused the therapist who suggested that she use a cane while trying to manage the prosthesis, and her struggle was clear. The sympathetic nods and smiles that came her way seemed only to deepen a dark mood. The Grace that Ravina knew and loved was not a “doesn’t matter anymore” person.

  After the crash, while her mother and brother were recovering, Grace had taken charge of the family’s small herb farm—“and try our organic honey!”—with the help of two cousins from Richmond who ran a similar operation there. The business was surviving.

  Ravina had had her own share of finger pointing as a child, growing up where skin colour had still been a subject for some for derision. She had listened to and absorbed her father’s suggestion that she “Get over it. Those few don’t matter. They’re idiots.”

  Grace was staying for a week with Ravina. The next day she accompanied Ravina to a weekly drop-in, everybody-welcome session at the high school. It was open subjects: anything to do with the community, especially the youth in the community. Characters like Gerry and his buddies usually looked in, and especially now with pot being legal, to see what the local cop was going to go on about.

  Ravina introduced Grace to the group of a dozen or so. “One of the best women golfers this country has ever seen.”

  “Was, maybe.” Possibly Gerry.

  Ravina pointed a finger at Gerry and a couple of his followers. “With me.” She led them outside and pointed them into her minivan.

  When they arrived at the driving range—an unfenced hayfield next to the golf course, with a raggedy mesh net about two hundred and forty yards from the practice mats to stop any golf balls that managed to get that far—Jack Steele was busy, and making heavy weather of it, trying to put into practice the suggestions and tips being offered by Harry Dyson, the former soldier and almost-member of the Hanif family. Jack’s swing was no threat to the mesh net. He had been explaining to Harry that he thought his main problem was with his takeaway. Harry was an excellent golfer and had won the club championship with ease ever since he had arrived in the Inlet. His expression seemed to suggest that Jack’s takeaway problem was his very least.

  Grace Kin watched Jack’s efforts and grimaced. To Ravina it seemed like either pity or wonder. Maybe both.

  Ravina looked at Grace and cocked an eyebrow. Grace shook her head, negative. Ravina decided on shock tactics. “To quote the old English proverb my father always used …”

  “From Bradford, right?”

  “Don’t be an arsehole. The world does not spin around you.”

  “Revolve?”

  “Get a club.”

  Grace sighed, then shrugged. “Whatever.”

  On the practice mat, Harry said, “Jack—and I say this as a friend—you’re not getting it. You’re going to have to start paying for lessons.”

  “But, mate, there isn’t a …”

  “Sorry, my boy. I can’t take you any further.”

  The discussion halted when, “’Scuse me. Borrow your driver for a sec?” Jack Steele looked down at the diminutive Grace Kin, who smiled politely up at him. Way up.

  “Well,” as he fondled his brand new Cobra King F9 Speedback that had set him back $449.50. “Watch it, new jumbo grips …” He glanced down at Grace’s hands, which, for a small woman, seemed especially well developed. “Go on, then. And be careful. It’s my only driver, now …” This alluded to the fact that earlier, in a moment of incompetence-induced rage, he had deconstructed a new Ping G400 Max Driver ($649) against the sharp edge of one of the ten-by-ten posts that supported the range’s new retractable canopy. This addition had enabled the club to advertise the range as “all weather”—part of a general improvement drive directed by a select committee.

  There had been fundraising whist drives, bingo nights (with a permit), and putting contests on the member-volunteer-built new green behind the clubhouse. The geeks had won three successive putting contests and there was some conjecture concerning the connection between a hand-held gadget and the unerring roll of their ball to the cup, but the healthy result of the growing numbers turning up to pay to watch had discouraged any questions.

  The improvement committee comprised Dr. Daisy Chen, her uncle Gilbert, Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, and Matthew Blacklock, owner of the Cedars pub. Matthew had played his part by adding ten percent to a dozen drinks and snacks on his menu and placing a logo of a soaring golf ball beside each item. Gilbert, who was a non-playing (tried once and walked away, shaking his head) social member was hauling all his shop’s returned deposit items to the bottle and electronics recycling depot. The operation had recently been opened near the ferry dock by a young couple new to the community. Gilbert donated the cash to the golf club’s improvement fund.

  Blacklock was an erratic golfer, with a handicap sliding between thirteen and twenty-four. On the stillest of days, following another errant shot, he would shake his head as though mystified, spit-wet a finger, and raise it to test whichever non-existent breeze might be culpable. He now watched Grace Kin, with a contemplative expression.

  Grace took a couple of rehearsal swings. (“Don’t call them practice,” her father had always urged. “Make them real.”)

  She swung softly and the scarred and bruised, yellow driving-range ball sailed off and snuggled into the mesh net.

  “Christ,” observed Samson Spinner, who had joined the group, which was expanding as others left the clubhouse to watch. “Here,” he said, handing Grace one of his shiny new Callaway Chrome Soft balls straight out of the package.

  Studies have proven that driving-range balls—battered and beaten by repeated use from hackers such as Jack Steele—will lose from ten to twenty percent in distance compared with regular balls. Grace placed the new ball on the tee, laid into it with a rhythm and power rarely—no, never before—seen at the Spinner’s Inlet Golf Course. The ball was last seen flying about twenty feet higher than, and a very long way past, the mesh net and over a stand of aged alder trees.

  “Jeezers!” cried Gerry. Then to Ravina, “I’m really sorry, Rav … er … Miss … er … Constable.”

  “How’s your iron play?” Samson asked Grace.

  She picked a couple of clubs from Jack’s golf bag and showed them how her iron play was. “And of course, anyone can putt,” she said.

  A month later Dr. Daisy, her own game having gone south, waited her turn at the new rehearsal tees, where solid, three-quarter-inch-plywood panels had been installed between the mats, a blessing for anyone practising next to the likes of Jack Steele, or Samson Spinner for that matter.

  The Kiwi was improving under the tutelage of the improved Spinner’s Inlet Golf Course’s recently hired—and first—golf professional, Grace Kin. She was taking a week off to shoot a TV commercial in Monterey for the internationally known golf-equipment manufacturer PlayFair Golf, whose scouts had accepted pressing invitations to “Check out this Abbotsford kid.” Grace was to be the company’s TV and magazine presence, introducing its new lines of footwear, clubs, and bags.

  Constable Ravina Sidhu was taking some owed leave to make the trip with her best friend, and maybe to caddy a couple of rounds at Pebble Beach after the shoot.

  Post Office Blues

  The front-page headline in The Tidal Times was only slightly smaller than would have served the declaration of another world war: “POST OFFICE DEEMED DOOMED!”

  Beneath it, in a slightly less strident font: “We have been speaking to an undisclosed but usually impeccable source and we believe that Canada Post is about to announce the change of our beloved post office from a public operation to a private one.”

  After running the story, The Tidal Times’ owner/publisher, Silas Cotswold, handed Cameron Girard a clumsily written note. “There’s a rumour that Canada Post is going to close down our post office and put it out to private tender.”

 
“Where’s this from?” Cameron asked.

  “Just a source.”

  “So, anonymous then.” And probably nothing to it. But he knew better than to suggest that to Silas, after the last time.

  Silas had advised him, “I learned long ago, Cameron, that the secret in this business is making something out of nothing. My first city editor was told by a new reporter that there was no story in a particular assignment, that nothing was happening. The city editor said, ‘Why was there nothing happening? Who was it not happening to? Where and when was it not happening?’ All the basic Ws.”

  “But …”

  “Get a comment, Cameron. Do a streeter,” Silas said.

  A streeter, of course.

  Cameron hated them. Stop anyone and everyone you can and ask them their opinion about an issue, watch them preen as you note their answer and ask, “Will I be in the paper tomorrow?” And, “Are you going to take my picture.” And, “My name’s an odd spelling so …” And fairly often, “Slow day, eh? Bugger off.”

  Silas said, “Get to Sarah Flynn at the post office. She’s the supervisor.”

  Cameron frowned. “She’s the only person who works there.”

  “Are you still here?” Silas asked.

  “What about this impeccable source, though? That’s going to raise questions.”

  “We never give up a source. Say you would go to jail before you would disclose that.”

  “But I don’t know …”

  “Go, before the TV people get to her.”

  “The ferry has been and gone. They’d have to come in by boat or chopper. Do you think the story is that big?”