by Liz Graham
It was really a self-portrait of Seamus as a younger man. Her Dad‘s eyes glared wildly at the viewer with wicked glee, and the red hair streamed beneath the leather helmet. He had drawn the Viking so true to life, the viewer could almost smell the odors rising from his unwashed body and filthy woolen rags and see the lice crawling in his matted hair. Even his hands were blackened with dirt permanently encrusted beneath the cracked nails.
‘This was how the Vikings really looked,’ he had loudly protested when questioned at the unveiling. ‘None of your clean-scrubbed namby-pambies. These were vicious marauders and adventurers. They shared their houses with their cows and sheep, for God’s sake!’
She had since found out that this story, like many of her Dad’s tales, was colored with Seamus’s own imagination, depending on his mood. The Vikings had in fact been known for their excessive cleanliness, and only on the coldest winter nights were livestock allowed into the large, one-roomed homes.
Conor stared at the portrait with dismay. It showed Seamus at his artistic finest, and also at his personal worst, and abruptly reminded her of the impossibility of a future between Devon and herself. If it was just the two of them, yes, she could live in a fairy tale dream of roses and passion. But.
But the real world would step in, she knew, sooner or later.
She thought again of the sneers she’d faced from Devon’s family that horrible afternoon, and knew she could never expose herself or her Dad to that. Never.
‘What’s his name - Seamus?’ Devon asked, bringing her back to the large room and the crowds of people all around. ‘I can’t really make out his signature.’
‘Seamus,’ she agreed, mumbling, while she ducked her head, blindly pushing past the crowds to the exit, leaving Devon no choice but to follow.
THEY SAID LITTLE ON THE DRIVE back to St. Anthony. Devon attempted to hold her hand and she could feel his questioning glances come her way, but she folded her hands beneath her arms and stared at the road ahead. Inside the warmth of the car her hunger re-awoke, and she knew it would soon start to protest loudly. Conor dug her hands into her pockets and came up with two blueberry candies, the hard sugar rocks she made for the bakery. She always kept a few in her pockets for occasions like this. They wouldn’t fill the empty hollow, but the sugar might at least trick her tummy into believing it was being fed.
Unfortunately, they’d been in her pocket for a while. The twist of plastic wrap she placed them in when she put them in the jacket sometime last fall was gone. Oh well, it was this or nothing, and she withdrew one and quickly dusted the lint off. She pretended to cough as she popped it in her mouth, glancing at Devon.
He caught her action, and his eyebrows rose in question.
‘Got any more?’ he asked.
She reluctantly withdrew the other blue candy from the depths of her pocket, and held it out before her, offering it to him to take it if he dared.
One look at the fluff stuck to the surface made him draw back in disgust.
‘Eeurgh,’ he grunted as he tuned his eyes back on the road. ‘No thanks.’
She silently picked off the worst of the lint and placed that one in her mouth too, trying not to crunch.
‘If you're that hungry, we can stop for something to eat,’ he suggested, and turned the car towards the town. His suggestion was soon forgotten as their attention was drawn by some unexpected action in the heart of the town.
Just around the corner from the RCMP building, a large crowd of local people were gathering in front of the town hall, waving placards and yelling as if in protest. The ones in the center were dressed in dark dull colours, looking ominous against the bright blue sky.
‘What’s happening’? Devon asked, a look of concern on his face as he slowed the car.
Conor shook her head, puzzled. Who would be protesting on a Sunday, and why? The town hall was closed for the weekend.
‘There’s Enoch on the stairs,’ she said. ‘Looks like the Lambs are protesting something.’
‘I thought they were really strict,’ he said. ‘Isn't this their Sabbath?’
‘No doubt they’re doing the Lord’s protesting for him,’ Conor murmured.
As the car pulled closer, the words on the placards became clear.
‘Morality versus Depravity‘, read one sign. Another proclaimed that ‘Artists are Satan's pawns’.
‘They’re protesting against the artists’ retreat!’ she gasped in disbelief. Devon rolled down his window to better hear the crowd.
‘And God shall scourge the sinners from our midst!’ Enoch cried from his moral high ground. ‘Speak out, good people of this town, speak out against allowing hippies and other devils into our peaceful community. For they will taint our youth with drugs, and with alcohol, and draw them into promiscuity.’
Enoch was rousing his flock, along with a large number of townsfolk who had paused on their Sunday strolls to take in the spectacle. Conor glanced around the crowd looking for familiar faces.
‘Oh, no,’ she groaned as she spied a TV crew and various reporters, all thrusting microphones into Sol Glovers face to get his reaction. The MHA and Minister had probably been hoping to spend a quiet weekend with his family for a change. She shrank down into the passenger seat, silently giving thanks that she wasn’t in the bakery van which would be sure to draw Enoch‘s attention.
The crowd was talking excitedly as Enoch spewed forth his venom, warning that allowing an artists’ retreat in the area would he inviting disaster to the morality of the town.
‘Just drive me home,’ Conor said, almost on the floor of the car. The sugar had worn off, and she couldn’t think straight. She needed to refuel.
‘No,’ Devon said with a determined set to his face. ‘This is crazy. Enoch is crazy. We’re going to take advantage of Glover being in town to explain our side of the story.’
He drove past the crowds and over to his own apartment, intent on calling an impromptu meeting of Conor’s friends. While he made the phone calls, Conor busied herself in the kitchen under the pretext of arranging tea, coffees and nibbles for the group. Devon had very little in his fridge, aside from milk, pesto sauce and some kind of stuffed fresh pasta bought at the supermarket. There were salad ingredients on the bottom shelf but she needed something quick, preferably something sweet. Conor sighed, and began to hunt through his cupboards.
Ah, this was more like it. A half-eaten packet of extra chunky chocolate chip cookies made its way to a serving platter, except for the two which were quietly crammed into her mouth. The loud complaints from her stomach soon stopped as it concentrated on digesting this offering.
Doc Oster, June and a few others showed up relatively quickly, but she was struck by the number of empty chairs. Bringing the mugs and cookies into the living room, Conor sighed as she looked around, knowing the real reasons for the absences. It was too small a town to leave room for controversy with one’s neighbours, especially when religion was involved. She handed out the warm drinks of coffee and tea, then settled herself next to the plate of cookies.
Conor took this opportunity to fill everyone in on the details of what had been happening with the project since the last meeting, and for June’s benefit, about the protest in front of the town hall that afternoon.
She was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Melissa strolled in a fashionable fifteen minutes late, triumphant with Glover by her side. Sandra, the constituency worker and mother of Susan, glumly followed the two, still dressed in her Sunday best frilly-fronted blouse and pencil skirt. The young blonde woman continued a one-sided conversation as she escorted the MHA to a chair, and sat next to him, leaving Susan to find her own seat. So far, Melissa had completely managed to ignore everyone else in the room.
‘She must be looking for a promotion out of here,’ Conor thought with a sneer as she watched, and then stopped with a gulp. If Melissa left, did that mean Devon would follow? She refused to think about it.
’Thanks for coming out, everyone,�
�� Conor said, looking around as she called the meeting to order. ‘Sol, uh sorry, Minister Glover, thank you especially for taking the time to hear us, as l know you were probably looking forward to a quiet weekend at home.
‘We’ve called this meeting in light of the Lamb's protest this afternoon, Mr. Glover,’ she continued, turning to him with a pleading look in her eyes. ‘We’d like to set the record straight, that there are no grounds for Enoch‘s fears. This project will be employing local people. The artists will be invited to stay free of charge in exchange for giving art and craft lessons to tourists. We’re not planning a — a commune!
‘ln addition, some of the local people will also be teaching heritage crafts, such as rug hooking, wood carving... ’
‘It's not even in town,’ June interrupted, indignant now she had heard the story of the afternoon. She had been busy in her B & B out by the airport and missed all the excitement. ‘It's right next door to my property, and l don't have a problem with it!’
Glover cleared his throat to speak as he stood up. He was used to holding the floor, and his head of thinning brown hair bobbed as he made eye contact with each person in the room. He was a young man still, just Conor’s age, but fiercely ambitious. After completing his law degree, he had immediately set up practice in his hometown and run for public office.
‘Look, you all know me. Please call me Sol as you’ve always done. No sense standing on ceremony here,’ he told them, acknowledging Conor with a nod. ‘Now, I’m fully aware of your intentions with the retreat, and personally, I think it’s a grand idea. If done right, this will increase St. Anthony's profile a great deal. Why, we could he the new St. Andrew's-by-the Sea.’
He was referring to a wonderful artistic community which had grown in rural New Brunswick.
Glover sighed.
‘But my hands are tied, I’m afraid,’ he said as he glanced apologetically around the people gathered in Devon’s living room. ‘The thing is, the Lambs have also applied for the use of the land.
‘I don’t suppose the two groups could share it?’ he asked hesitantly, then shook his head at the negativity he saw on everyone‘s faces.
‘No, l didn’t really think so,’ he answered his own question. ‘That was a long shot, but worth a try.’
‘What do they want the land and buildings for, anyway?’ Doc Oster spoke up for the first time, her voice hoarse as if she had a cold coming on. ‘They’re building the temple in the cove, how on earth will they be able to sustain two places?’
Glover placed his hand together in from of him.
‘Now, I'm afraid that’s confidential information,’ he began. ‘I can’t discuss their application with you, just as I wouldn’t discuss yours with Enoch. But I can tell you that they‘ve indicated they want to have some kind of wilderness retreat there.’
‘Nonsense, Sol,’ Doc Oster said brusquely. ‘As you said, we’re all friends here. You will tell us what you can, if you really want the artists’ retreat to happen.’
He opened his mouth to automatically deny her, but one look from the woman silenced him. She had been present at his birth and at the births of all of his siblings. She had set his broken arm when he’d fallen during an illegal raid on a crab apple tree at ten years of age, and later she’d quietly diagnosed and cured a nasty problem he’d picked up during a high school band camp without saying a word to his mother. The doctor continued to stare at him, grey eyes steely beneath her short silver hair. The effect was ruined by a violent sneezing attack which took hold of her.
Sol waited until the doctor blew her nose, then sighed and nodded.
‘Okay, but not a word of this gets out.’
The whole room murmured their agreement.
‘I'm not quite sure why they want the base,’ he confessed, his voice lowered. ‘They mention a mishmash of uses for it on the application. They want a place for their — brethren, I guess, fellow worshippers from away to come to be closer to God. Enoch mentioned a camp for underprivileged youths, and also they may rent it out to other groups, as a way of raising funds to continue their missionary work overseas.’
‘Rent it out?’ Oster asked crankily as she attempted to avert another sneeze. ‘I don't like the sound of that. To whom?’
Sol shrugged.
‘I'll be frank, I don’t quite know,’ he answered.
The room was abuzz with comments.
‘But I'd like to assure you all,’ he said, speaking in a stronger tone as he turned to make eye contact with each member of the group. His sincerity was almost palpable.
‘I realize the reason behind today's protest,’ he continued. ‘They are trying to rouse the town against your project because they want the base for themselves, and I'm told that Enoch will do anything to get his own way.’
‘So you don't believe we'll be bringing in Satan worshippers?’ Doc Oster asked him wryly.
Sol smiled and shook his head.
‘They're just protesting because they want the land and buildings for their own purposes,’ he replied. ‘I can see through the smokescreen. However, because of their protest today, it is becoming a delicate issue. I don't have to remind you there's an election coming up, it’s possible that Enoch could rouse the whole of the provincial Christian community if...’
Conor almost groaned aloud as she thought of the fun the press would have with this whole issue. She knew Enoch well enough to know that he could wear a sane face for the cameras, and would speak in heartfelt tones to the world about the depraved artists of loose morals which would taint their town, and hold up her own father as an example. He would paint himself and his flock as simple people concerned for community and family, and he would talk of the good his group planned with the base. She stuffed a couple more cookies into her mouth.
They had a long fight ahead of them.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, nothing much practical had been accomplished at the meeting except that Sol knew where they stood, and the group also knew that he was on their side as much as his position allowed him to be.
‘I‘d like to thank you, Sol, and everyone, for coming at such short notice,’ Conor said as she clued up the meeting. ‘Besides sending press releases to the media to explain our side, there's not a lot we do at this moment. Just keep on doing what we were doing before, and cross our fingers.’
As the general movement toward the door began, Devon drew her aside.
‘Would you mind staying behind?’ he asked in a low voice.
Conor frowned. She was in a rush to get out and get herself fed. The cookies had managed to keep her hunger at bay, but she had to eat. Very soon.
Melissa, her arm on Sol Glover's, was chattering her charm at him, and glanced back at Devon to say good-bye. Seeing the two together, a slight frown appeared on her face, followed by hesitation. The blonde woman paused, but ambition won out. Without another word she resumed her place at Sol's side.
‘She’s probably telling him how much she loves the place, but how her talents could be better used in the city,’ Conor thought spitefully to herself. ‘Well, good riddance to her.’
And if she left the town, then Devon surely would too. Good. Then her life could get back to its even keel.
Only Devon and Conor were left in the room. She turned to face him, determined to make this quick. His blue eyes were on her face and their intensity threatened to sear her. Conor broke the contact and turned away to perch on the arms of a comfy chair, ensuring he couldn’t sit next to her.
He followed suit and opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out, a large thunderous rumble was heard in the silent room. Conor closed her eyes in embarrassment. It went on and on as if it would never stop. Oh, traitorous stomach!
He erupted with laughter and Conor hung her head.
‘Let’s make this quick,’ she said tersely. ‘As you can hear, I’m starving.’
‘Let me cook supper, then,’ he exclaimed jumping out of the chair.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I'll just st
op in to Chang‘s. They have a buffet on Sunday nights. That will be a lot faster.’
She hadn’t seen much of Seamus over the past few days, and hoped that this disappearance meant he was engrossed in his artwork. He would wander in and snack whenever he got hungry, so she didn‘t have to worry about cooking for him. She also planned to take him something back from Chang’s because when he immersed in his work, he wouldn’t notice if the food he ate was hot or cold. Besides, she was so hungry right now she couldn’t even think about cooking and it didn't seem as though Devon had much in his fridge.
Devon returned from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hand.
‘Too late, I’ve already got the wine uncorked,’ he observed with a smile. ‘I promise the food will be on the table within twenty minutes.’
Conor slumped back into the chair. The hunger was making her weak. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But give me a crust of bread to snack on before I pass out.’
‘Not worried about ruining your appetite?’ Devon said lightly as he passed her the wine glass two thirds full. He tore off an end of a baguette from the breadbox, which she hadn't noticed earlier in the afternoon in her hasty scan of his kitchen for a bite to eat.
‘Oh, right, I remember. You don't eat a lot, but you —’
‘Eat constantly,’ Conor nodded as she finished the sentence for him. She swallowed a large gulp of wine to wash down the dry bread before she realized what she was doing. The rich red wine filled her palate, almost burning as it leapt down her throat. It left her a little dizzy, but at least her stomach was satisfied momentarily as it soaked in the alcohol. Conor carefully placed the glass on the coffee table.