The Birthday Lunch

by Joan Clark

  Where is your backbone and common sense? Lily said to Emma and scribbled foolish woman in the margin.

  III

  Wakened by piping voices below the porch windows, Matt crawls out of bed and, peering outside, he sees the little next-door girls on the narrow strip of grass between the houses. The oldest, the bossy one, is trying to teach her sisters to sing “O Canada” in French, waving a small Maple Leaf flag to conduct. But her sisters are not cooperating and run to the front of their house where red and white balloons are tied to the veranda railing.

  It is Dominion Day. This afternoon people will stream into town from surrounding villages and farms to buy ice cream and attend the lobster boil and rock festival in O’Connell Park. Three hours from now in Alberta, Matt’s daughter will be organizing the next-door children in a parade while Trish stays inside with Dougie who, given the opportunity, will run away. Matt’s family lives in the heavily wooded area of Bragg Creek and whenever his son escapes, he either heads for the river or the woods where there have been occasional sightings of cougar and bear.

  Matt is exhausted. With the help of temazepam, he fell asleep soon after his head touched the pillow but in less than an hour he was yanked awake by three or four cars roaring past the porch windows. The cars raced uphill toward the Knoll where there was a short reprieve as the roars were swallowed by the countryside. Before long the cars were back, mufflers blasting as they raced downhill and past the house. The brakes squealed as the cars turned onto Main Street and gunned away, toward Sussex Corner. During those wakeful hours, tears of anger and frustration dampened the lumpy, mildewed mattress that wasn’t replaced after the house was reroofed. Balanced on the cusp of sleep, Matt heard the freight train clattering through town, its mournful wail receding as it was swallowed by the valley.

  The spare room doors are closed and Matt makes his silent way down the hall to the bathroom where he scrapes off his two day shadow, pulls on his clothes and drinks a glass of water. No time for coffee; it is almost ten o’clock and he wants to see Carl Reidle before people from nearby villages and farms stream into town for the holiday celebrations. Matt remembers when he worked at the Creamery, Carl told him that he sold more ice cream on Dominion Day than he did during the rest of summer.

  The morning is cool and beneath the cloudy sky, kite tails of sea fog trail over lawns and sidewalks. Matt parks at the Creamery without noticing the man walking a black Labrador along the sidewalk, or Corrie Spears watching from her picture window.

  Carl Reidle is a tall, angular man with an easy smile, but he isn’t smiling when Darlene tells him there is someone here to see him and he recognizes Hal and Lily’s son. It has been years since Matt worked for Carl but he still remembers him as a cocky teenager and a hard worker who wouldn’t leave after his shift was over until the counter and floor were clean. Carl shakes Matt’s hand and says, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Matt. Terrible, what happened to your mother.”

  Once again Matt ignores the sympathy and asks Carl what he knows about the accident.

  “I’ll tell you what I can,” Carl says. Leading the way to the office, he tells him to sit down and shuts the door. Matt holds up the notebook.

  “Good idea,” Carl says. “You should write everything down.”

  “Corrie Spears told me that you called the ambulance and the police.”

  “I did. The accident happened shortly after two-thirty. I called the paramedics and the police a few minutes after that. The paramedics said they would come right away but no one at the police station picked up the telephone. When I called ten minutes later, the constable answered. I told him your mother had been hit by a truck in front of the Creamery and the police should come right away. The constable said his orders were not to leave the station until Deputy Carruthers returned from his noon break.”

  “A noon break lasts until two-thirty?”

  “If you are the deputy chief, it lasts longer than that. The man is … Well, I won’t say the word. Unfortunately the chief is on holiday.” Carl pauses. “Chief Currie isn’t much better, but he doesn’t take a noon break lasting three hours.”

  “Corrie Spears told me the police still weren’t here when she took my father and aunt home. What time did the deputy chief arrive?”

  “Three-thirty. By then the ambulance had taken your mother to the hospital.”

  “But it’s against the law to move anyone or anything from an accident scene until the police have checked it out.”

  “I know, but the paramedics had an emergency call, a heart attack in Penobsquis, so they had no choice but to take your mother to the hospital.”

  “What about witnesses?”

  “Well, besides Corrie there was an American tourist who saw it all. He told me that your mother was crossing the road when she was caught under the front wheel and dragged three or four feet beyond the crosswalk. As I said, I didn’t see the accident but before the ambulance took your mother away, I checked the distance and three or four feet beyond the crosswalk seems about right.”

  “She was on the Creamery side of the crosswalk.”

  “Right. The American waited an hour for the deputy to arrive and when he didn’t show up, he was apologetic and explained that he and his wife were expected in Quebec City by eight o’clock and they couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “Did you ask for his name?”

  “I did.” Carl opens the top drawer of his desk and hands Matt a piece of paper on which he has written: Stanley Price. 19 Fairview Street, Quincy, Massachusetts. Telephone: 617-793-1231. “He told me that he and his wife would be travelling and would be out of reach for a month.”

  “The truck driver, do you know who he was?”

  “I couldn’t say. To tell you the truth, Spurrell’s gravel trucks go past here so often I don’t pay them much attention. But after the ambulance left, I walked over to the truck to see who the driver was, but he had skedaddled so I never got a look at him. He might have been around but I didn’t see him.”

  “A hit-and-run driver.”

  “You could say that except that when I left for home, the truck was still in front of Millie Keirstead’s, so the driver might have been hiding close by. No doubt he was a kid, most of the Spurrell drivers are kids.”

  “Did the deputy chief show up?”

  “Eventually. I was locking up for the night when he pulled into the parking lot. He asked me where your mother was located before the ambulance took her away and I showed him. He asked who was around when the accident happened and I told him that a tourist from Massachusetts had seen the accident and that he had waited over an hour for the police to show up. I told him that Corrie Spears saw the accident from her veranda and he should to talk to her. I watched him leave the parking lot but he never crossed the street and Corrie tells me the deputy chief has yet to darken her door.”

  “Did he measure the tire tracks?”

  “Not while I was here. He may have come back later but I doubt it,” Carl says and leans across the desk. “Last year I was nearly hit by one of these young guys who race around town at all hours of the day and night. I managed to get the driver’s licence plate number and took it to the police. They did nothing, so I filed a complaint against them at the town council office. I also signed the petition recommending that the town police be replaced by the RCMP.”

  “It seems that can’t happen soon enough,” Matt says.

  “You’re right about that,” Carl says.

  Because her bedroom is on the other side of the house, Laverne slept through the little girls’ rendition of “O Canada,” but now, an hour later, she is awakened by a loud knocking on her door and waits for whoever it is to go away. The knocking persists and when Laverne doesn’t answer, the door opens and a familiar voice calls, “Hello Laverne! It’s me! I’m coming in now!” Footsteps approach the bedroom and a small woman with piercing eyes appears in the doorway. A moment passes before Laverne recognizes Jan Pronk’s mother. “I thought you were in Holland,” she
says.

  “I got back yesterday,” Hennie Pronk says, “and now I am here to help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what happened to your sister.”

  “My sister is dead.”

  “But you are alive,” Hennie says briskly. “And I came to see you. How are you?”

  An unanswerable question.

  Hennie pats Laverne’s bundled body. “You do not know how you are. It is the shock. It was the same with Henrik.” When Laverne does not respond, Hennie says, “Henrik died four years ago. Four years. And now I will make us some tea.”

  Laverne does not drink tea in the morning but lacking the energy to correct her friend, she resigns herself to the sounds of running water, a whistling kettle, the smack of pottery on the kitchen counter. Soon after, Hennie appears in the bedroom doorway, a pottery mug in either hand. She places one mug on the nightstand and instructs Laverne to sit up and drink her tea. But Laverne will not sit up and drink her tea. She refuses to be instructed and those who make the attempt are given short shrift. Undeterred, Hennie parks herself at the foot of the bed. Resisting the urge to kick her off, Laverne closes her eyes and waits her out, grimacing at the sound of slurping tea, the denture clicking against the rim. Hennie tells her that as soon as she heard the news, she telephoned Jan. Once again, Laverne does not respond and Hennie says, “Jan asked me to tell you that he and Lucas are thinking of you.”

  Laverne does not ask about Lucas and Jan or how Hennie spent her holiday. She wants Hennie to leave but Hennie will not leave until she finishes her tea and Laverne must endure more slurping and clicking until she feels the weight lifting from the bed. “I am leaving now,” Hennie says, “but I will come back.” And she will come back: there is no escaping Hennie Pronk’s relentless goodwill.

  The moment Laverne hears the click of the closing door, she is on her feet. Through the living room window she watches her friend pedalling away, back ramrod straight, a small Maple Leaf flag fluttering on the handlebars. Laverne locks the door. She usually locks the door and it upsets her that she forgot to lock it last night. And she’d forgotten about Henrik. Laverne was fond of Henrik. And she is fond of Jan, fonder of him than she is of Hennie, who always insists on taking charge.

  Hennie walks her bicycle to the end of the gravel driveway and, mounting the seat, she pedals along Church Avenue. The low grey sky reminds her of the rainy weather she left behind in Holland. It is not bad weather but not good weather either, and she hopes the rain will hold off until the Dominion Day celebrations are over. The bicycle jiggles across the railroad tracks and past the cenotaph where Hennie always lays a Remembrance Day wreath in gratitude for the soldiers who liberated Holland. At the town hall, she rings her bell to warn the Murphy boy to stand back while she turns into the packed earth lane leading to the red-brick house and the pottery she and Henrik built when they first came to Canada. Hennie chains the bike to the stoop railing and as soon as she is inside the house, she locks the door, a habit acquired after Henrik died and Jan moved to Amsterdam. Back then she did not need to lock the door, but with hoodlums racing around the streets at night and she an eighty-year-old woman living alone, it is necessary to take precautions. Jan worries about her and each time they speak on the telephone, she reminds him that she knows how to look after herself. She also tells him she is safer in Sussex than she is in Amsterdam, where her change purse was stolen from her backpack while she was walking along Vijzelstraat wearing a long skirt, sandals and a straw hat. If she had been wearing overalls and boots, her change purse would have been safe inside a front pocket and she would not have been robbed.

  If Henrik saw her now he would cluck like a chicken. He did not like her wearing overalls and boots and insisted she wear long flowery skirts although it meant she had to hitch them up to her thighs while turning the wheel with her feet. Henrik wore a shirt, tie and vest while working at his jeweller’s bench, softening rods of silver with the blowtorch before he bent them into loops with pliers, or flattened them with a mallet. Every second day a clean, ironed shirt, every day polished shoes. The shoes Henrik polished himself.

  Henrik’s death changed Jan’s life. After the shock of finding his father slumped onto the workbench, the magnifying monocle jammed into his eye, Jan took to his bed and Laverne stepped in to help. Taking a two-week leave from school, she bought groceries, prepared meals and kept the house in order. His father’s death had triggered what the doctor called a nervous breakdown and Jan never returned to school. Hennie did not encourage him to return. Years before Henrik died, she knew that it was not in Jan’s nature to be a schoolmaster. He could not keep students in order and until Laverne Pritchard joined the staff, he had kept to himself in the staff room. Laverne brought a coffee grinder to school and she and Jan made their own coffee; she brought homemade cookies for them to share. She was a good friend to Jan and now it is Hennie’s turn to be a good friend to Laverne.

  Claudia is making breakfast. She isn’t much of a cook but she can make French toast.

  Hal’s appetite is coming back and he says, “Your mother called French toast an excuse to soak up maple syrup, but I wouldn’t turn down another helping.”

  Claudia slides a slice onto Hal’s plate and another on her own. When they finish eating, they light up, blowing smoke through the window screen. From where she sits, Claudia can see the red and white balloons tied to the neighbours’ veranda railing. “It must be Dominion Day,” she says.

  “Dominion Day.” Frowning, Hal asks, “What day of the week is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  The living-room clock pings eleven o’clock and seconds later the kitchen clock warbles the hour. Claudia has never seen the clock before and asks where it came from.

  “Lily bought it from a catalogue,” Hal says. “You know your mother. She loved birds and we could never go for a drive in the country without having to stop so she could look at one. She took great delight in seeing a hawk on a fence post or even a crow.”

  “Well, neither of them is on the clock,” Claudia says crossly, “and I wish my brother would get himself home.”

  Hal hears thumping on the stairs, “Speak of the devil,” he says.

  “Well, well, the hunter home from the hills,” Claudia says when Matt appears in the doorway.

  “Meant to be funny, I suppose.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “The Creamery, talking to Carl Reidle about the accident. I wanted to get there before Dominion Day celebrations begin.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  While Claudia pours Matt coffee and makes him French toast, Matt asks about the Honda in the driveway. “Do we have a visitor or is somebody visiting Laverne?”

  “The car is mine,” Claudia says. Last night she was almost asleep when she heard the crunch of tires and an idling engine in the driveway; she waited until she heard a closing door and receding footsteps before she got out of bed and looked out the window, but there was no sign of Leonard. She crept down the stairs in her nightgown to retrieve the Honda key and there it was behind the visor inside a folded note—I will phone you tomorrow night—written in Leonard’s calligraphic hand. Claudia does not want Leonard to phone, she wants him to leave her alone. “A friend drove it here,” she says and plunking a plate of French toast in front of her brother, she tells him that when he finishes eating, they have to decide on the arrangements.

  “Why not decide while I’m eating?” Matt says. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Okay. The burial. Alan Harrington suggested burying the ashes after church on Sunday,” Claudia says. “He offered to say a few words at the grave.”

  Matt had missed that part of the conversation. Either he had tuned out or was in the kitchen pouring more wine. “Does he know Mom was an atheist?”

  “I couldn’t say but it wouldn’t matter to Alan if he knew,” Hal says.

  Claudia consults her list. “Laverne said we should have a reception wher
e people can pay their respects. She suggested Adair’s.”

  “I agree,” Hal says. “For Lily Adair’s is a better choice than the church hall, but they are often busy and we should reserve a time today.”

  While her brother does the dishes, Claudia picks up the telephone and dials Adair’s. When a young woman answers, she asks if she is Tanya Adair. Claudia was in high school with Tanya and Paul Adair who took over the business after their father died. “Yes, I’m Tanya. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s me, Claudia McNab. Remember me?”

  “Of course I remember you and I heard the terrible news about your mother. I’m so sorry …”

  “Thanks. I’m calling to ask if we can book a reception on Sunday afternoon. Would that be possible?”

  “Sunday afternoon is wide open. What time do you have in mind?”

  “Between two and four.”

  “You’ve got it. Have you thought about what you would like to serve in the way of refreshments?”

  Claudia hasn’t given a thought to refreshments and Tanya tells her that on these occasions she recommends a selection of finger sandwiches and a selection of sweets. Tea, coffee, juice, wine if it is requested.

  “All of that sounds fine,” Claudia says, and remembering that her mother drank sherry, she adds, “we’ll have sherry, too.” She hangs up the telephone and turns to her father, “There. That’s done. The reception will be at Adair’s on Sunday between two and four. We’ll have to put a notice in the paper. Auntie told me that it should be dropped off at the Record office no later than Thursday.”

  “That’s right,” Hal says. From time to time he places an ad in the Kings County Record.