William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

He went out into the mist feeling disloyal, misunderstood. Somehow he must get up the gumption to tell her he’s afraid for her. The heartbreak, the humiliation and depression she will suffer. The Greens got trounced in this riding in the last election, ran a dismal fourth, just beat out the Marijuana Party.

The winner was the justice minister in the Conservative government, Jack Boynton, a large man with large appetites for food and drink who died of a stroke at a wedding banquet. Hence the by-election. The date for that had yet to be set, and the Greens’ nomination meeting was just a few weeks off.

Arthur expected Margaret to be a shoo-in. Her main competitor, a charisma-deprived nursery operator, was the fellow who fared so poorly in the general election last year. Margaret Blake had been on the front pages and in the supper news for eighty straight days, guarding the gates to Gwendolyn Valley from fifty feet up an ancient fir. Now the valley was parkland, she had rescued Gwendolyn from a quick-buck developer.

After Margaret and Cudworth Brown were chosen by lot to do the sit-in, the regulars at the general store teased him cruelly about Cud’s priapic prowess, recounting-or making up-stories of his conquests. He’s humped about half the island women, wouldn’t you say, Barney? Well, he screwed my wife, and she ain’t nowhere as good-looking as Arthur’s. Arthur joined in the merriment with a false grin and a palpitating heart.

Margaret’s version, however, had been reassuringly credible. After two weeks, she’d decided she could no longer endure his company and had him replaced by an unthreatening female anarchist. Somewhere buried in this history was substantial reason for not getting involved in the murder trial of Cudworth Brown. There were many small, subtle ways in which Arthur didn’t like the man, more reasons being discovered on each encounter.

He made out no sign of Nick outside, but he could barely see his own footfall in the heavy mist. Only the house and barn rose above it, and the milking shed up the hill. Arthur found his way to the root cellar-the door was closed, a bag of turnips set outside. When a breeze stirred the fog, he spotted Nick up at the milking shed.

A closer view, from the corral fence, might well have inspired Vermeer. In the glow of yellow rays slicing through the mist, Nick sat beside Lavinia, raptly watching her pull milk from Bess, their Jersey cow. Lavinia was sure-handed, in rhythm with Bess-but suddenly, a Chaplinesque moment, she gave Nick a squirt in the eye. He jumped, but Lavinia’s infectious laughter made him grin. The kid was loosening up.

“I show you how.” She extended him a teat.

Arthur would find another moment to talk to Nick, he had no desire to spoil this pastoral scene with its gentle touch of Eros. He retreated quietly, took the turnips to the house, slung his day pack over his shoulder, and headed briskly up the driveway.

He trod up Centre Road, where bungalows decked out in lights and tinsel glowed through the mist. Once again, as they had for time immemorial, Jack and Ida Shewfelt had celebrated the divine miracle of Christ’s coming with the engineering miracle of hoisting Santa, his sleigh, and his entire team of reindeer onto their split-level roof.

Next door to them resided Bob Stonewell, target of their many complaints under the Unsightly Premises Bylaw. A sign advertising his car parts business was by Stoney’s rusted gate, behind it a ramshackle house and an old barn converted to a garage. Everywhere, relics poking from the mist, a jungle of them, a whole hillside, Chevies and Fords, Datsuns and Skodas. Arthur’s ailing 1969 Fargo pickup, his pet, his baby, was sitting by the garage on blocks, under a tarp.

There was the great mechanic himself, newly risen from bed, packing out yesterday’s beer bottles, a cigarette aglow between his lips. He waved. “If it ain’t the town tonsil, out getting his morning exercise. If you can’t do it easy, do it hard, that’s what I always say.” The merry clink of empties going into boxes.

Arthur asked after the health of the Fargo.

“I got a line on a rebuilt transmission. I can get a real sweet deal for cash up front.”

“What happened to the cash I already fronted?”

“Right. Well, it sort of got used on startup costs. I got a new business, limousine rental, I call it Loco Motion. Check out these beauties.” Indicating a pair of shiny fin-tails from the 1970s, a Chrysler and a Buick. “I’m restricting operations to Garibaldi, so normal car rental laws don’t apply, right?”

“Merry Christmas, Stoney.” Arthur carried on down the road.

Baking powder, silver wrap, and…yes, lemons, eight lemons. He mustn’t forget the mail. Above the fog was glorious sun, so despite his lack of sleep, he will adhere to his plan of huffing up Mount Norbert.

He found his way to Hopeless Bay, small-boat dock and a warehouse, century-old general store, a false-front structure with an enclosed porch serving as a coffee lounge. Here, several regulars were enjoying alcohol-enriched coffees. As a sideline, the proprietor, skeletal, dour Abraham Makepeace, sold brown-bagged bottles of rum or whisky to tippling locals. Hapless Constable Pound, wary of upsetting the community, turned a blind eye to the evils perpetrated here.

A couple of the lads were celebrating the season with Bacchus-like determination. Gomer Goulet, whose crab boat was tied up below, was standing, swaying as if in heavy seas, proclaiming his love of mankind. Gomer tended to get drunkenly soppy, especially at Christmas. Emily LeMay, the sultry ex-barmaid and untiring vamp, told him, “Sit down before you fall on your kazoo.”

Lemons, silver foil, and…yes, baking powder. Or was it soda? He mined the lemon bin, excavated a dozen fat ones. At the next bin, bagging up oranges, was Al Noggins, a spry, short, bearded Welshman, Garibaldi’s Anglican minister.

“Lemons? Fish for Christmas, Arthur?”

“Margaret has invited a dozen major contributors to the Granola Party, many of whom don’t eat warm-blooded life forms. I am to be on my best behaviour.”

“Firing up the troops, is she? Good luck to her; she’s a fresh voice in politics. While I have your ear, old boy,” Noggins moved close, “Cudworth came by for a spot of spiritual counselling. He’s pretty messed up. Carried on about this lawyer fellow, Pomeroy. Couldn’t understand why you recommended him, instead of…Well, he feels abandoned , Arthur.”

“Reverend Al, I do not defend bad poets. It is a long-standing policy.”

“Told him I’d speak to you. Merry Christmas.” He walked stiffly off. An awkward moment regretted-Noggins was a close friend.

Lemons, foil, baking powder, and, just in case, baking soda. Arthur bought a packet of pipe tobacco as well, then waited patiently while Makepeace sorted through the Blunder Bay mail. “Mostly Christmas cards-this one came open, it’s from that doctor you got off, the one who poisoned his wife. This here letter has no return address; I always get suspicious when I see that. Your Literary Gazette , your Guardian , and your Island Bleat , special holiday edition. And some stuff, I think from your accountant, about your retirement funds. Didn’t know you were sixty-nine, Arthur.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Abraham.”

Arthur was about to go but couldn’t pretend not to hear Emily LeMay calling him. “Hey, handsome, I got you something for Christmas.”

It would be uncivil to run off without an exchange of yuletide greetings, so he made his way to the porch. “Merry Christmas,” Gomer cried. “Very merry Christmas, it’s a time of joy, the cup of love is brimming over. Hey, you look like Santa.” That irked Arthur-he had the white beard and the pack on his back, but he didn’t have the legendary hero’s paunch.