The gathering applauded after the last cracked word fell. Their respect was apparent as James circulated shaking every hand, and touching shoulders with a firmness that contradicted the trembling within. Then he and Helena, arm in arm, climbed the one hundred and twenty two steps to the sail that had lost its ship.
“I want to write a reference for every employee,” he said. “Can you print me a list with their start date and promotions, and anything else, like names of wives and children? Then ask Betty to take dictation for me.”
“OK, Dad.”
“And give everyone a week’s pay for each year of service to the mill in addition to their other entitlements. That should tide them over, I hope, and you and Michael too, and the office girls.”
“OK, so long as you understand it will wipe out our contingency account.”
“It doesn’t matter, Helena. We have no employees. It’s just us for now, just the two of us, until the mill is rebuilt and that might be six months…or longer.”
“We still have bills to pay, Dad. All the machinery we bought last year came with a hefty mortgage. We’ll have to keep making the repayments. I hope the insurance claim is paid soon.”
“There should be enough in the operating account for that…shouldn’t there?”
“If we asked everyone who owes us money to pay up, there would be.”
“You know my position on that, Helena. People will pay when they can. That’s how it’s always been done around here.”
“This is the sixties, Dad, not the thirties. No one runs a business on goodwill anymore. If people buy, they should expect to pay, and in a reasonable time or no more credit.”
“I don’t want to operate like that.”
“We might have no choice. Money has to come in from somewhere or we can’t pay our bills.”
“If you think it’s necessary, I’ll go and see Mr. Chase about increasing our overdraft, but I don’t want you calling people begging for money.”
Helena nodded, accepting for now. When she assumed control of the mill, things would be different with strict application of the business textbooks and without qualms.
Chapter Nine
July 1967
THREE weeks had passed since the fire, and the last time Helena had spoken to, or heard from, Charles Baker. Desperation was rising: the operating account was still in black ink, but only just with an immutable balance of two dollars and a maxed-out overdraft. The paneling in the exposed coffers confirmed that there was no silver lining, but the apparition of their insurance agent, standing now inside the doorway, brought an allayment and perhaps survival.
A dissertation on the weather fulfilled the requirement for pleasantries. Helena hurried the discussion along, agreeing to Charles’ assessment of more rain, anxious for her hands to grip a rectangular piece of paper.
“Anything yet from the insurer?” she asked.
“I’m afraid there is, Helena…and the news is not good.”
“What do you mean, Charles?”
“Your premium was due on 4 January and they say they never received your payment.”
“No, no, no. That can’t be right. I wrote the check myself, and dad co-signed it. There must be a mistake.”
Helena reached for the insurance file and sifted through its bound pages. “Yes, here,” she said, “paid 28 December. See?” She handed Charles the invoice, stamped with payment details hand-written on the four lines.
“Hmm. Interesting,” he replied. “Can you check your bank statement and tell me when the check was presented? Maybe there has been a mistake, and maybe they credited the wrong account.”
Helena moved to the bookkeeper’s station, and extracted the gray board with statements clipped at the top in monthly order. She flicked to January and ran a pen up and down the page in search of check number 0216. She glanced up at Charles with an awkward smile before repeating the procedure for February, March, and so on until June, then returned to January once more. Her agitated movements and mumbling foretold the truth. “That’s odd,” she said, with labored breath. “It hasn’t been presented.” She looked up, her face drained of color.
“What’s wrong?” James asked, standing at the entrance to his office.
Charles explained the situation in a straightforward and conclusive manner, leaving no doubt as to significance.
“What say we write you another check, now?” James suggested. “We’ve only had four small claims in decades, from memory. Surely they’ll grant us some leniency?”
Charles shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know, James. The premium is overdue by six months. If it had been just two or three months, then maybe…but half the policy year has passed. I honestly don’t think much can be done now, but I will try. You shouldn’t get your hopes up though.”
“You’re telling me we have nothing left? No mill, no money? Just mortgages for new equipment destroyed in an uninsured fire?”
“I’m sorry, James,” he said before disappearing through the sliding glass door.
“How did this happen?” James asked, sitting down on a swivel chair beside Helena.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“The check would have shown up in the monthly bank reconciliation as outstanding…you didn’t notice?”
Helena shook her head and closed her eyes tightly. “We follow up on unpresented checks after three months, but—” She paused to blow her nose. “With the wedding, and leaving home, and the house and everything…I just—”
“Come on, Lena, don’t cry. No one was hurt.” He hugged her and wiped her tears. “We’ll sort this out, and deal with it together like we always do.”
“I’m going to have a baby,” she cried.
James held her tighter, and checked his own tears. He had failed his life’s mission to keep his daughters safe and happy.
“Come on, don’t cry, love. Your mother and I had already worked that one out for ourselves. We knew you’d tell us when you were ready.”
“I wanted to tell you, but I knew you’d be disappointed in me.”
“Don’t be silly. You could never disappoint me. All we can do is move forward, and besides, it can’t get any worse than this.” He smiled.
A knock on an inside wall interrupted their discussion, the glass door still open from Charles Baker’s hasty exit.
“Morning, James, Helena. I’m sorry to disturb you.” The fire chief stepped inside with his hat in his hands.
“Come in, Arthur, come in,” said James, standing to offer a seat.
Arthur waved his hand to indicate his preference. “I’m fine, James, thanks. This won’t take long.” He sighed. “I just wanted to let you know first…before I send in my report.”
“What’s the problem, Arthur?” James asked.
“The fire…it was deliberately lit.”
“You can’t be serious?”
Arthur stood still with his lips pinched.
“How, Arthur? Why?”
“I don’t know why, but I do know how. We found remnants of beer bottles and cigarette butts down near the wood chip pile. That was the point of ignition.”
“So you think it was arson?”
“We do, I’m sorry, although it might have been accidental, but there’s no way to know for sure. It’s going to affect your insurance, I’m afraid. The insurers will want to do a full investigation before they pay out, to make sure you didn’t light the fire intentionally.”
James laughed. “Burn down my own mill? You don’t think that, Arthur, do you?”
“Of course not, James—I’ve known you for forty years, but that’s what the city insurers might think. It’ll help that you still have your records so you can prove the mill was doing well before the fire.”
“It’s not going to matter,” said James, collapsing back into the swivel chair. “We don’t have insurance.”
“Oh?” said Arthur. “I thought—”
“It’s a short and painful story. I won’t go into it.”
&
nbsp; “Maybe you should have locked the gates, James.”
“We’ve never locked the gates, Arthur. We don’t even lock our doors at home. No one does, you know that. It’s a very sad day if this is what our town has become.”
“Bob Dylan says times are a changing. Maybe he’s right.”
“But who would want to burn down the mill, Arthur? Who?”
Chapter Ten
December 1967
WILLIAM arrived 25 August 1967, inconceivably premature as suggested, since he weighed a healthy 7lbs, but Helena had given up caring about arithmetic and who in Maine had concluded theirs. William was everything: the sum of all goodness, the winter of her discontent, and the herald of a new beginning—those were the even days. On the odd days, anxiety, self-doubt, and delirium prevailed, neutralized to an extent by the omnipresent Dorothy. Despite her advanced years, she was a godsend, with a calm control that came from extensive, practical experience. It was enough for Helena to put aside regret: the house on the range was no longer a thing to covet while Helena had Dorothy by her side.
Michael had also undergone a miracle metamorphosis following the birth of his first son. He was employed at last, which lightened Helena’s odd days immensely. His appointment though was a perplexing subject for all the tongues in Maine given that he had completed just two years of high school, and was ill equipped for the position with regard to knowledge and experience. Intervention was the only explanation, divine possibly, but most likely James Wallin since Peter McMurtrie, General Manager of the Maine Shire Council, was to James Wallin as CS Lewis was to JRR Tolkien.
The prime real estate that had landed the mill for generations earned a mere pittance from its sale, driven by the microeconomic concept of supply and demand, and a complete absence of the latter. Maine had one speculative entrepreneur who did so as a hobbyist, complementing his career as a criminal lawyer. Richard Keith applied to rezone the land as residential to construct a number of lakeside bungalows for a yet unidentified market. The endeavor would one day pay huge dividends and be declared lawless given the purchase price, which was a steal arising from a literal fire sale.
James divided the proceeds three ways. Grace had no need for her share, but accepted it anyway as of right while James invested his third in the stock market hoping to generate a flow of cash sufficient for the term of their natural lives. Helena and Michael purchased a piece of land one small step up from Park Lane, and akin to moving from Old Kent Road to Whitechapel Road. It was also like decamping to the countryside since the parcel was a good twelve minutes out of town.
A market gardener no longer able to compete with the conglomerated farmers association had subdivided the tree-less area and christened it Woodlands. He retained a manageable slice of land for himself to prolong his only known subsistence.
The agent who sold the plot to Helena and Michael assured them, with his hand placed firmly across his heart, that the cabbage patch adjoining the rear boundary of their property would be re-developed before the paint had dried on their new home. In any event, he claimed, the sewered, mustardy essence that rose from the plot would not infiltrate their new home due to the propensity of the wind to blow a more favorable course. He also assured them, extending his logic, that the nettlesome bush flies would similarly not invade their home due to some implied inability to travel against prevailing breezes.
Helena kept Dorothy apprised of the land purchase and construction in progress, hoping to hear her confirm at some point that she would relocate with them to Orchard Road. When this did not happen, Helena shared her concerns with Michael who was confident Dorothy would budge at the appropriate time. Dorothy loved William, and her son, but Helena feared it would not be enough to incise roots that had coursed through the earth at Park Lane for nigh on fifty years. There was nothing more Helena could do. With another baby on the way, her family came first and that meant a new life away from Park Lane and Michael’s stigmata, which seemed inextricably linked to his childhood home.
Michael was pleased with himself having secured a clerical position at the local council in spite of the naysayers so many in number a wiser person would not have ignored their words. For the first time in his life, he wore a white collared shirt, tie, and long socks to his Terylene shorts, and as the exclusive generator of domestic funds, he was entitled to an occasional after-work visit to The Royal without notice. While unemployed after the mill burned to the ground, his plight at home had fluctuated from nail bed to briar patch, and while Helena was opposed to all Royal sojourns for financial reasons, she simultaneously insisted that he remove himself from under either sole of her fatigued feet.
An additional issue arose with regard to cigarettes, which drew nicotine into Michael’s lungs and precious sums out of the domestic purse. They were responsible for the stained tongue and groove walls at Park Lane, which were now tinted orange with no evidence of the military green beneath. To protect the fibro and furniture at Orchard Road from similar mistreatment, Helena had outlawed smoking in the house. In support of her argument she had reverted to The Marriage Book, which had merely reported that although for grown-ups smoking had undoubted advantages, there was an almost unanimous medical opinion against smoking for children. There was no mention of any alleged pernicious effect on chattels, and Michael retorted that he had no plans to share his Marlboros with William, and so the case closed in his favor. It was not however, a closing of all arguments related to money, which would settle on the marriage like nicotine on timber.
They scheduled William’s christening for the third week in December to accommodate the godmother who was otherwise too busy to attend, which brought the selection process into question. The role of godparent was a serious one, their priest had said, and was not suitable for one with a frivolous heart or mind. The appointee must be one who can positively affect the child’s life in the areas of faith and morals, be responsible for religious gifts at appropriate celebrations, and make constant attempts to discuss and influence the godchild on ecclesiastical matters. Given the absence of anyone who met the criteria, Michael and Helena settled on Grace due to her experience with celebrations, albeit of the unreligious kind, and her undeniable mastery of influence.
When Grace first cast eyes on William, Michael recognized the twinge, well acquainted as he was with envy, and pleased for once, to be the beneficiary rather than the benefactor. He had not known pride before, and had never understood its controlling until he possessed it, the most enlightening aspect being the way self-importance could devour guilt. He was contrite about the mill, and while he had been incensed earlier on the night in question, by the time he had left The Royal at closing, he had only sought a refuge and a place to drink his beer in peace. He had been careful, he thought, to extinguish the butts, but retrospect told a different story. There was no intent: it was just another unfortunate incident to add to his private collection.
Pride had by-products also, Michael learned, including drive and ambition. The new year of 1968 would be an extraordinary one filled with firsts and seconds: a new house, a first; another child, the second; and night school, another first. Michael was destined now for life as an educated, landowning father of two boys, fingers crossed, since women were inordinately more troublesome.
The pre-christening Wallin-Baden dinner hosted by Millie at Waterloo Street came to an abrupt end when Grace changed to go out. It was Saturday night, and she made no effort to mask her contempt for the sedate nature of the evening, and the exclusionary chitchat about babies. Michael braved consternation from James, volunteering to escort his sister-in-law, and for the benefit of James, implored Helena to join them, her response predictable. The charade failed to settle James, and his unease rose further when Helena endorsed her husband’s plans instead of the censure he expected. Still, James could understand why Helena would want to be free of the man even if it was just for one night.
The similarities between this December eve and the last time Michael and Grace were together, bri
dged the years in between as if mere days had passed. After the dance at the town hall, they strolled in the tepid air, stopping under a lamppost to gather Honeysuckle flowers. Michael placed one behind Grace’s right ear, and she placed one behind his left, and they laughed like smitten teenagers. They passed by the neat row of timber shops that were an informal end marker for the misnomer, Central Business District, and Grace pulled Michael into the shadows between the post office and haberdashery. He kissed her neck and earlobes displacing the over-sized sequined earrings that fell like chandeliers. At the top of her chocolate brown dress at the back, above the diamond-shaped cutout, one ornamental button unlocked it all. He released the two parts pulling the fabric down her arms to her elbows then reached inside the exposed black lace. They waited for the passing voices to fade, then consummated what could have been theirs years before.
They leaned against the tar coated siding of the haberdashery to share a cigarette. Grace’s back had lacerated from its splintered planks drawing blood. Michael dabbed at it with a handkerchief, and stroked her long hair that had fallen from its gathering at her crown. He had always loved her hair, so much unlike Helena’s sensible short bob that did not work with her fuller face. He re-buttoned her dress, and his shirt, tucking it back into his trousers.
They strolled hand in hand down Waterloo Street, stopping once more to collect Honeysuckle flowers to decorate Grace’s unkempt waves. Outside the Wallin residence, Michael searched the windows for indicia of life, the blackness not surrendering the silhouette of James Wallin. They kissed at the front door, and with reluctance, Michael turned in the direction of Orchard Road while Grace stepped quietly inside.
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